“Do the Catholics have anything like that?” Odin asked Azrael.
“There are holy containers and vials,” Azrael said with a pensive look. “There are ampulla to hold oil, and reliquaries for relics, but I have never heard of a soul vial.”
“If someone were to learn how to collect a soul, it wouldn't matter what the container was,” Blue said. “It could be a mason jar and still work. The issue isn't the vessel but what this man did with the captured souls after he left those homes.”
“He destroyed them,” Azrael said. “That's obvious. If he had released them, they would have returned to their bodies, and if he had enslaved them, Mark and Alan's bodies wouldn't have disintegrated.”
“But how?” Blue persisted. “Killing a soul is not a simple matter. Technically, energy cannot be destroyed. It would be far easier to consume the soul or use it to empower something.”
“Use the energy,” Odin said as he nodded. “That's possible; similar to how we once used the energy in blood sacrifice.”
“Some of us still use it,” Eztli said smugly.
Eztli and her vampires could drink blood as a sacrifice—without killing the donor—and receive the energy that other gods could only get from the dead. It was a convenient loophole that kept me from having to become a vampire hunter.
“We need to investigate how this could be done, and who would know how to do it,” Blue went on with a chiding look at his wife.
Eztli shrugged and smiled at him; she was what she was. But even though her expression was aloof and arrogant, her eyes went soft for her husband. Blue saw past her mask easily—he should have, he had one of his own, after all—and lifted her elegant hand to his lips. His jade green eyes met her chocolate brown ones and spoke volumes; darkly erotic volumes. I looked away quickly before I started to remember when he'd looked at me like that.
“I think this calls for another visit to the Baron,” Re said as he grinned at me.
I sighed deeply but nodded. If anyone could tell us how a soul pot was made, it would be Baron Samedi. And he would too; Sam was very forthcoming. No; getting him to talk wouldn't be the problem. It was his home, or rather who was in it and what they did there that was the issue.
“Isn't that the guy who has a constant orgy going on in his bedroom?” Trevor asked with narrowed eyes. “Or is it his living room?”
“I think it's both,” I muttered.
“Yes; it is.” Re smiled broadly. “Who wants to come along?”
Chapter Eight
Pan took Re up on his offer; no surprise there. Trevor and Kirill decided to come as well because they didn't want me going into the Vodou den of iniquity with only two perverts for backup—that's a Trevor quote—and Azrael came along to represent his father.
We traced into the collective tracing chamber for the Gede. The Gede were, to put it simply; Vodou Death Gods. The tracing room was a round chamber with multiple doors of different sizes and different materials set into its continuous, red velvet wall in a very Alice in Wonderland way. A crystal chandelier hung from the domed ceiling; casting fractured rainbows over the polished ironwood floor. We went straight to the largest door in the room; an ebony mammoth with gold hardware. Re knocked on it politely as the other men checked out the unusual collection of doors. Trevor sniffed at one that looked to be made of stone and then recoiled.
“It's a gravestone,” Trevor whispered.
“They are gods of the graveyard,” Re said and then knocked again; louder.
A flurry of voices filtered through the wood door before us:
“You get it!”
“I got it last time!”
“You're a liar and a thief!”
“What's that got to do with the fucking door?”
“One of you get the damn door?”
“Why? Where'd it go?”
Laughter at that.
“Get the fucking door!”
“It's not my terr'try. You get it, you lazy bastard.”
“Brigitte, ma cher—”
“Fuck off, Sam!” A female voice said. “I'm not your maid.”
“Oh, yes; I remember this,” I muttered.
Finally, the sound of footsteps approached the door along with an angry muttering.
“Drinkin' my rum and eatin' my food but can they open a fucking door? No-ee. Useless drunks and lechers all. Damn; I love 'em.”
The door swung open to reveal Baron Samedi himself. His top hat was set at a cocky angle, his pants were unbuttoned, and he had on a jacket with no shirt beneath it. He was wearing all black today, and I would have expected the color to dull his walnut skin, but instead, it made it seem richer—silkier. His face spread in a brilliant smile—teeth nearly blinding in their whiteness—and he stretched his arms out; one hand holding a silver-tipped walking stick.
“It's the Re-Rider!” Samedi exclaimed before he lifted me off my feet in a hug. “I'm so happy to see you, cher. Byen venu; welcome back to my home.”
“Thank you,” I said with an uncomfortable look toward Kirill, Azrael, and Trevor.
They all lifted their brows at me while Pan laughed his ass off.
“I'm stealing that one,” Pan declared. “Re-Rider!”
“Is that the Pan?” Samedi asked with interest.
“It is I!” Pan declared grandly. “May I join your rowdy celebration, Baron?”
“Indeed, you may, Horned God! You're just what we be needin'.” Then he called back over his shoulder. “The Greek is here!”
“Which Greek?” Someone called back.
“The only one I'd be excited to have here, coo-yon!” Samedi shouted. He looked back at us. “Damn fools; one and all, but what can ya do?”
