The Seventh Night Read Free

zombies really exist. By using poisons and black magic and…evil spirits, some people here have the power to capture another living human’s soul. That’s what makes a zombie—someone alive, but without a soul. A body without a will. Mary Alice said you have to be very careful about traveling the back roads and that you must never, under any circumstances, leave your car after dark.” Patsy’s voice lowered dramatically. “They move by night.”
    A hand touched my arm, and I jumped violently. The customs official looked at me without smiling as he bent and lifted my suitcase, heaving it onto the sturdy table. In spite of the sweltering heat in the terminal, goose flesh prickled the hair at the back of my neck as the man flipped the locks and raised the lid.
    “Will you be staying in Columbé long?” the official asked in the lilting cadence of the islands. The dark look he gave me was in direct contradiction to the lyrical sound of his voice.
    I met his gaze and threw him what I hoped was an engaging smile. “A few days. A couple of weeks at the most. I’m not sure yet.”
    “You have a return airline ticket?”
    “Yes, but the date’s open. Is there some problem with that?”
    He answered my question with another. “Where will you be staying?”
    Something in his expression made me stare at him for a moment. “I’m…not sure.”
    A definite look of suspicion crept into his eyes as his gaze flickered over me, taking in my conservative navy suit, my low-heeled pumps. All in all, my nondescript appearance probably looked very much like that of the missionary ladies behind me, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps that was the reason for the man’s wariness.
    Foreigners, particularly those peddling their own ideals, were not always welcome in Columbé, I’d read.
    “My father lives here,” I rushed to inform him. “What I meant was that I’m not sure whether I’ll be staying at his home or at the hotel. He owns the St. Pierre in Port Royale.”
    A shadow passed across the man’s face, so swiftly I couldn’t be sure I’d seen it at all. Then his gaze lowered as he continued to rummage through my things. It seemed to me he was taking an inordinate amount of time, and I suddenly remembered a movie of the week I’d seen recently where a customs official had planted cocaine in a woman’s suitcase. For what reason I couldn’t remember, but nervously, I stood on tiptoes and peered over the lid.
    “Is there a problem?” I asked again.
    Without removing his gaze from mine, he closed my suitcase and snapped the locks, then thrust the case across the table toward me. Light sparked the gold of his ring and drew my gaze to his hands. The metal had been molded into the shape of a snake, and as I stared at it, I suddenly had the strangest sensation of déjà vu.
    And then I knew why, as a new memory stirred to life.
    We were sitting in the restaurant that first night of father’s and Reid’s visit in Chicago and my father had just made a toast.
    Reid lifted the crystal flute to his lips, and I watchedin fascination as the millions of bubbles spiraled upward to the top of his glass. Like flame to a moth, the motion of his large hand captured my gaze, held me in thrall.
    He stared back at me, his smile knowing. “I see you’re admiring my ring.”
    He set the glass back on the table, and I noticed for the first time the heavy gold ring he wore on his right hand. An S was carved into the metal and entwined with the image of a snake. “My father gave it to me years ago,” he said, twisting his hand to stare down at the ring. “The emblem is supposed to have magical properties for those who believe. Do you believe, Christine?” he asked softly.
    I lifted my gaze to meet his. “In magic? Of course not.”
    “There’s magic…and there’s magic,” he murmured, raising his glass once again. “
Damballah Wedo,
the most revered
loa
in the vodun religion, assumes the form of a snake. When the spirit