“I protect your honor,” Samedi huffed.
“When?” Brigitte grimaced. “When you protect me?”
“When...” Samedi's eyes rolled in thought. “When Papa said he wanted to lick rum from your golden pussy, and I told him that if he ever touch you, the only pussy he'd be lickin' would be his own because I'd punch his dick so hard that it'd make him into a woman.”
Re chuckled but then Brigitte glared at him, and he shut up.
“Oh; you so romantic,” Brigitte said caustically. “How lucky I be to have you for a husband; my sweet dick-puncher.”
“Please, boo.” Sam pouted. “You know I'd kill for you; stop your chirpin' and put that mouth to better use.”
Sam pulled Brigitte into a passionate kiss, and when the couple finally parted, they both were smiling. Kirill and Trevor were gaping at them, but I shook my head with a grin. It was kind of adorable once you got past all of the rampant sexuality.
“Can I get you all a drink or something to eat?” Brigitte offered sweetly.
“Pan! Wi! Right dere!”
“Sweetheart, I will wi, wi, wi all the way there,” Pan declared.
“Vhy did I come here?” Kirill asked as he made the mistake of looking up at the ceiling. He blinked, squinted, and then brought his gaze firmly back down. “Vhy?”
“No, thank you; we're fine,” I answered Brigitte for us. “Is there somewhere a little more quiet where we can have a conversation?”
“Sure, sure,” Sam said as he took Brigitte's arm and wrapped it around his. “Come with us.”
The couple sauntered through a doorway and led us down a corridor paneled in dark wood and hung with old photographs. Black and white pictures of serious-faced people progressed into modern, color photographs of smiling men and women. The older ones were only of African Americans and Haitians, but the newer photos included a few Caucasian people. I lifted a brow at Re.
“Their followers,” he said to me. “Prominent members of their human families.”
I transferred my smile from Re to Sam and Brigitte; it was always nice to find gods who truly cared about the people who worshiped them. Brigitte glanced at me over her shoulder and winked a robin's egg-blue eye at me. Then Sam opened a simple wooden door and brought us out onto a wide porch.
Faded wood planks stretched out to a sturdy railing, and rocking chairs were lined up against the house casually. Beyond the railing was a small yard hemmed in by huge trees. Spanish moss hung from the tree branches and mist snaked across the ground. Just beyond the trees, I could see the stark outlines of gravestones, and overhead, a full moon shone brightly.
“Lovely,” I said with a forced smile.
It was lovely; in a backwoods, horror movie kind of way.
Brigitte laughed. “It's our thing, child.” She said “child” more like chial. “We rule the graveyard. This be peaceful for us. When we need a break from all that life”—she waved her hand back at the house—“we come out here to be wit the dead.”
“Now, tell me why you've come,” Sam said as he leaned against the rail. He set his hands atop his cane and cocked his head at Azrael. “Why you think I can help you with your dying friends? You need someone raised from the dead?”
“You can do that?” Azrael asked in surprise.
“If the body is fresh enough.” Sam nodded. “No longer than an hour.”
Azrael's face fell. “It's far past an hour and there are no bodies left, I'm afraid.”
“No bodies?” Sam asked with interest.
“Sam, Azrael's the Angel of Death and his father is Lucifer Morningstar,” I started to explain.
“I knew you felt familiar!” Samedi jerked up and strode over to Azrael. “Brother!” He declared as he gave Azrael a big man-hug. “Welcome again. You should have announced yourself immediately.”
“I'm sorry; I'm not thinking straight,” Azrael murmured; sounding just like his father. “And I'm recently retired.”
“Bullshit,” Sam said. “Death can't retire; we in it for life.” He chuckled at his own joke.
Azrael just stared at him.
“True? You retire?” Sam asked in shock. “Well ain't dat de shit.”
“My friends are demons,” Azrael said. “They were killed while possessing a human.”
“Someone kill dem when they gone for a ride?” Samedi asked in horror. “How dat happen?”
“We're not sure,” I said. “But we've heard about a man who supposedly exorcised the humans using a vial. He forced the demon souls into this vial and then we believe he destroyed them.”
“Like a govi?” Samedi asked with interest. “A soul pot?”
“That's what Odin thought,” I said. “We were hoping you could tell us what a govi could be made of, and if someone's soul be forced into it?”
Samedi frowned pensively and then looked at his wife. Brigitte shook her head.
“I can't see how it be made without the person's permission,” Samedi said. “A pot tet is first created during a vodouisant's initiation. There are things put inside that connect dem to the pot; hair, fingernail clippings—dat sort of thing. It's human belief combined wit the physical link dat give a houngan or mambo power to call a soul into the pot. Without dat, I don't see how it be done; especially not to a demon.”
“Let's say that someone was able to collect a soul without establishing a connection,” Azrael said. “Could a vial be used to house that soul?”
“Anything could be used,” Samedi said. “A soul doesn't have substance like a rock or a bird. It can be infinite or minuscule.”
“They be demons, you say?” Brigitte asked.
“That's right.” Azrael swiveled his head toward her eagerly. “Does that make a difference?”
“We know about Catholic rules, don't we, lover?” She asked Samedi.
