By Adrian Phoenix

“An eye for an eye fixed isn't enough.” Kallie Rivière, a Cajun hoodoo apprentice with a tendency for hassle, realized the which means of these ominous phrases whilst hoodoo bogeyman surgeon Heron designated her family members for revenge. Now, whereas trying to find her still-missing bayou pirate cousin, Kallie unearths out the demanding means that somebody is undoing strong gris gris, which means operating magic has turn into as unpredictable as rolling a handful of cube. The wards woven to guard the Gulf coast are unraveling, leaving New Orleans and the encircling bayous susceptible simply as an unnatural storm—the deadliest in a century—is born. because the storm powers towards the guts of all she loves, Kallie desperately searches for the reason for the demanding randomness, in simple terms to benefit a deeply unsettling fact: the perpetrator should be herself. to guard her friends and family, together with the horny nomad Layne Vallin, Kallie steps into the jaws of hazard . . . and reveals a loup garou designed to scouse borrow her heart—literally.

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Kallie drew upon a deep well of relief when she thought of the hard-drinking root doctor and how he’d survived Doctor Heron’s murderous attack—a knife across the throat—thanks to the skill of the Hecatean Alliance surgeons and healers who’d saved his life. He was currently hospitalized at the medical center on the twentieth floor of the Prestige, fresh out of surgery, and hopefully drugged to the gills. Oh, and let’s not forget Belladonna—poppet-bound and kidnapped. And speaking of whom … Belladonna Brown, mambo-in-training and Kallie’s best friend, sat straight-backed on the floral-patterned sofa Kallie was kneeling beside, her face with its flawless chocolate-colored skin composed despite the worry flickering in her startling hazel eyes.

But she slows to a stop beside the pile of dirt, muzzle lifted as she sniffs the air. The mingled odors of roots and green things, slugs and wriggling worms, decaying vegetation, and the cold metal tang of a shovel blade dance into her nostrils. Cielo goes still. Inhales deeply. She catches a whiff of the pungent sweat and adrenaline from the bad men. And Daddy. She breathes in blood-smell, and not just Daddy’s. Breathes in sweaty, heart-pounding desperation. Here, girl. Like words from a shadow person now, threadbare and shot through with light.

Layne could get me to Chacahoula in less than an hour,” Kallie said. “I can call him and—” Divinity gave a soft sigh, one laced with regret. “No, Kallie-girl, let dat boy be. Let him return to his clan. He’s got burdens enough, him. ” She shook her head. “Been years and years since I met a Vessel for de dead. ” A Vessel for the dead. Layne was a living, breathing spirit cabinet and, at the moment, he was carrying a ghost inside as passenger and copilot—the shade of the murdered Lord Basil Augustine, the man who’d taken a bullet intended for her.

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