The Laughing Corpse - Laurell K. Hamilton [18]
She smiled and held out her hands. Manny stepped forward and took the offering, brushing his lips on her knuckles. “It is good to see you, Manuel.” Her voice was rich, a contralto with the velvet brush of an accent.
“And you, Dominga.” He released her hands and sat across from her.
Her quick black eyes flicked to me, still standing in the doorway. “So, Anita Blake, you have come to me at last.”
It was a strange thing to say. I glanced at Manny. He gave a shrug with his eyes. He didn’t know what she meant either. Great. “I didn’t know you were eagerly awaiting me, Señora.”
“I have heard stories of you, chica. Wondrous stories.” There was a hint in those black eyes, that smiling face, that was not harmless.
“Manny?” I asked.
“It wasn’t me.”
“No, Manuel does not talk to me anymore. His little wife forbids it.” That last sentence was angry, bitter.
Oh, God. The most powerful voodoo priestess in the Midwest was acting like a scorned lover. Shit.
She turned those angry black eyes to me. “All who deal in vaudun come to Señora Salvador eventually.”
“I do not deal in vaudun.”
She laughed at that. All the lines in her face flowed into the laughter. “You raise the dead, the zombie, and you do not deal in vaudun. Oh, chica, that is funny.” Her voice sparkled with genuine amusement. So glad I could make her day.
“Dominga, I told you why we wished this meeting. I made it very clear . . .” Manny said.
She waved him to silence. “Oh, you were very careful on the phone, Manuel.” She leaned towards me. “He made it very clear that you were not here to participate in any of my pagan rituals.” The bitterness in her voice was sharp enough to choke on.
“Come here, chica,” she said. She held out one hand to me, not both. Was I supposed to kiss it as Manny had done. I didn’t think I’d come to see the pope.
I realized then that I didn’t want to touch her. She had done nothing wrong. Yet, the muscles in my shoulders were screaming with tension. I was afraid, and I didn’t know why.
I stepped forward and took her hand, uncertain what to do with it. Her skin was warm and dry. She sort of lowered me to the chair closest to her, still holding my hand. She said something in her soft, deep voice.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry I don’t understand Spanish.”
She touched my hair with her free hand. “Black hair like the wing of a crow. It does not come from any pale skin.”
“My mother was Mexican.”
“Yet you do not speak her tongue.”
She was still holding my hand, and I wanted it back. “She died when I was young. I was raised by my father’s people.”
“I see.”
I pulled my hand free and instantly felt better. She had done nothing to me. Nothing. Why was I so damn jumpy? The man with the streaked hair had taken up a post behind the Señora. I could see him clearly. His hands were in plain sight. I could see the back door and the entrance to the kitchen. No one was sneaking up behind me. But the hair at the base of my skull was standing at attention.
I glanced at Manny, but he was staring at Dominga. His hands were gripped together on the tabletop so tightly that his knuckles were mottled.
I felt like someone at a foreign film festival without subtitles. I could sort of guess what was going on, but I wasn’t sure I was right. The creeping skin on my neck told me some hocus-pocus was going on. Manny’s reaction said that just maybe the hocus-pocus was meant for him.
Manny’s shoulders slumped. His hands relaxed their awful tension. It was a visible release of some kind. Dominga smiled, a brilliant flash of teeth. “You could have been so powerful, mi corazón.”
“I did not want the power, Dominga,” he said.
I stared from one to the other, not exactly sure what had just happened. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I was willing to believe that ignorance was bliss. It so often is.
She turned her quick black eyes to me. “And you, chica, do you want power?” The creeping sensation at the base of my skull spread over my body. It felt like insects marching on my skin. Shit.
“No.” A nice simple answer. Maybe I should