Sinners All

Prologue

In the last moments of November 2, 1808 in a cemetery bordering the Graham Plantation which lay several miles from New Orleans, a woman with mocha skin hurried to her destination just as she had the previous night. Unlike the midnight before, her pace was unusually rapid, mostly due to fact that the world fostered a hostile and unnatural feeling. Cursing herself for indulging in both the need to appease her departed mama and the uneasiness gripping her insides. She had long ago abandoned her mama's beliefs and religion, however it was unwise to fail to pay tribute on this night. Only a fool would ignore the importance of the lunar eclipse on the Feast Day of one so powerful her mambo mama would have told her and that same mama did not raise a fool.

Her age was difficult to determine; she could have been anywhere from a couple decades to twice that. Whilst her face concealed any indication of her true age, her exquisiteness was obvious. Hers was that rare combination of beauty and grace that poets and painters struggle to capture, but her hands and clothes proclaimed a much harsher existence. Both were rough though clean and bespoke of a life lacking in many luxuries.

Drawing in a deep breath to calm her unfamiliar dark fears, the usually comforting air clawed at her throat, threatening to choke her. There were tales that the air other places was different than New Orleans. Some places had air that was crisp like the first bite of an autumn apple or sweet like a taste of honey. Some places it could sting like a slap across the face or even be without form or substance at all. Nowhere else was like New Orleans.

The air in New Orleans was as complex as the city itself. It caressed the face, the skin, the lungs. Strong with the melodies, aromas, and flavors carousing through the city; a person doesn't draw in a breath in New Orleans – they draw in New Orleans with each breath. Every inhalation imbeds the city deeper and deeper into the soul.

The previously consoling and perfumed air was now acting as a vice, preventing her from being able to think clearly or to tamp down the rising terror. Tripping along the well-worn path, one she knew so well, the beautiful woman refused to slow her pace, not even when the burden she carried in her arms threatened to fall. Just ahead she spied a dark outline on the ground. Only now did she pause her journey.

"It's just another gravestone," she reassured herself even though she was neither reassured nor appeased by the lie.

She knew this cemetery too well. She traveled its paths daily. This irregularly shaped form was not a gravestone. It was not an inanimate object although it was immobile now. Its stillness frightened her more than anything else ever had.

Her once sweet friend, the night, always calm and comforting had betrayed her. Its secret soon to be unmasked and that truth would cut her heart from her chest. She knew that the moment she moved forward, the cruel night would rob her of everything precious, but still hope burned in her heart and she could not prevent herself from reaching out. One touch revealed all and the offerings she had brought fell scattered around the silent figure; the black snuffed out her hope where it resided and left a burning sliver of ice.

Her cherished daughter was dead, murdered. The beloved face that she knew better than her own looked different now that its animation was forever stilled. As she pulled her child against her breast, she felt her coolness. How many times in the last 16 years had she held her close? She could not count them, but this was now the last. Somewhere nearby, a terrible keening could be heard, only when it stopped did she realize that it was her.

Suddenly, hoodoo words and prayers, long forgotten, poured from between her lips. The longer she prayed, the easier it became to find the words. It was as if her dearly departed mama was aiding her in her time of need. The words continued unbroken for a long time; she didn't know how long. She just knew she couldn't stop yet.

In the corner of the cemetery, unseen by the distraught mother stood a beautiful, fiery-haired woman. Her pale arm was entwined with an equally beautiful ebony skinned man. While their attention was captivated by the scene unfolding before them, their connection and subconscious awareness of each other was so natural and powerful, it was almost a physical thing.

"We should help her," said the woman. It was neither a plea nor a demand. It was simply a statement.

"Are you certain?"

A small smile played upon her crimson lips and she tipped her head slightly as her husky voice responded, "Just think of the fun we will have."

Penetrating dark eyes pierced into determined emerald ones, "It is not frivolity you are interested in; it is retribution."

Her smile deepened and took on a decidedly predatory quality. Her delicate brow lifted as she continued to look into the eyes of the one who knew her best and loved her unconditionally. It was his turn to smile.

"For you, my love, I would do anything. She, however, may not thank us for our interference," his deep, rich voice was smoky from eons of cigars.

Folding herself into his embrace, she murmured, "She may not thank you, but I will, my husband." Just before kissing his beloved lips, she continued, "I do thank you."

Deepening the kiss, they co-mingled their powerful individual magic into an energy of unmatched force. In that moment, the moon's face disappeared from the sky making the already eerie night even more sinister. An expectant hush fell over the world as the magic took hold. Time briefly stood still, then began to stretch until it was so taut it nearly fractured before snapping back causing a cacophony of noise. Then the world took a breath and all fell back into place.

"On this night, I pledge that the House Durant shall have no peace until the murderer is brought before me to face justice for what they have done," with that, the mother collapsed next to her precious child.