Papa Legba, guardian of all gates and doors, warden of the crossroad. Beautiful Ezili, in all her many forms. Zombi-Damballah, the Serpent King. Ogu of the sword and the fire January quickly pushed the thought of that burning-eyed warrior from his mind. And the Baron Samedi, the Baron Cemetery, boneyard god grinning white through the darkness..

A hundred feet from the house, trees had been felled. Here new construction would begin with the first frost of autumn. Embers still glowed where a pit had been dug, quenched now with dirt.

From his pocket January took a box of lucifers, and scratched one on the paper. It showed him the rucked earth where the veves had been drawn, the dark spatters of spilt rum and the darker dribblings of blood. Near the pit a headless black chicken lay, feet still twitching, ringed by fragmented silver Spanish bits. Two plates also lay on the ground, each likewise surrounded by silver. One was heaped with rice and chickpeas. The other held a cigar and a glass of rum.

Those whose aid had been sought were known for liking tobacco, rum, and blood.

January lit another match and stepped closer, careful where he put his feet. The plates were white German porcelain, painted with yellow flowers. Around them, inside the ring of silver, dark against the paler dust of the ground, a line had been drawn in sprinkled earth.

If it had been salt, January knew, it would have been bad enough. Salt was the mark of curses and ill. But this wasn't salt.

It was graveyard dust, a cursing to the death.

There was nothing else, no sign to tell him who might have been here, who had done the rite.

She's probably home in bed. Nothing to do with this at all.

January crossed himself and walked swiftly back to the house. Though the drums had ceased, he seemed to hear them, knocking in the growl of the thunder, in the darkness at his back.