Only The Dead Don't Die | Book 4 | Finding Home Popovich, A.D. (any book recommendations txt) 📖

“Dat’s right. Da Zombification of N’Orleans. Dey was a messin’ with da black magic dat dark day. Hehehe. Dey didn’t count on an old mambo priestess from Haiti a seein’ der evil. Ooh, I took care of dem real good. Now I be marked for life.”

Spellbound by the truth shouting in his mind, Luther was speechless. Had it really happened? He had assumed he had sleep-walked into the middle of one of her over-the-top Voodoo rituals. Aunt Mattie loved the shock and awe of her religion. It would have made for an awesome vaudevillian-horror act, sucking the blood from a chicken or whatever it had been as zombie-like people encircled her in cultish reverence.

Scared shitless, he had spent the rest of the night in a magnolia tree. Uncle Richo had finally found him and told him he must have stumbled upon Aunt Mattie during one of her weekend drunks.

“Mon chérie, we done beat dem dat day. Yep, we sho did.” She slapped her wrinkled hand on the table, flickering the candle’s flame. “Ah, dey be back. And dey want it—all. Da soul of every heartbeat dey cain’t control, dey will destroy! See, ain’t enough good spirits to win dis time.”

It was the first time he detected sadness from her. Her sadness leaped from her throat into his. Choking him. “Mattie, it’s a virus—the Super Summer flu. Not a curse,” Luther insisted.

“Hush,” she spat. “I saw da future. Da war of souls—billions die. But yo Aunt Mattie protected you. Made ya invisible to dem. Ah, now dey be a seein’ the truth. Dey be a wantin’ our DNA.”

Luther didn’t know what the hell to think. Was she a legit psychic or a crackpot?

“Chérie, da whole world’s done gone mad,” she rasped. “Da ancient African blood flows in yo veins.” She held up a mesmerizing piece of iridescent glass to the candlelight. It appeared to both absorb and emit vivid rainbows of light.

“Dis be what dey be a lookin’ for! It’s infused with da untainted Hu dey calls Prima Matra.”

Wondering how an exquisite piece of smelted glass could save the world had him tongue-tied. So, she really is mad.

“Stop talkin’ kaka.” Her Haitian-green eyes sparkled with laughter. “Yo friend, da silly one, waitin’ for ya.” She pointed outside. “What be his name?”

Aunt Matilda had taken him by surprise, for she knew things she shouldn’t. A coincidence or was she up to her usual skullduggery. “That’s Justin—”

She cut him off. “I tried givin’ him dis Andara.” She went into a cackling fit, slapping her hand against her thigh. “Dat boy done flew out of here like a banshee. Ah, but deep down, he know’d his son gonna die. Mebbe t’morrow. Mebbe t-day! Da new seeds be cursed.” She held the crystal-like shard of glass. “Dis, repairs the cursed DNA.”

Luther gazed into the swirly glass etchings. Vivid rays of light danced in the candlelight, but he wouldn’t let himself fall for her trickery. “Aunt Matilda, I want to believe you—”

“Believe . . .” a musical voice whispered in his ear. And it definitely wasn’t his aunt’s. The luminous letters spelling believe circled around his head like stars in a vintage cartoon after the bam of an anvil.

“I be da keeper of dis—Andara, dey calls it—for decades. Yo turn.” She handed him the glass.

“It’s just a pretty shard of glass, Aunt Mattie.”

“Boy, doncha be a lookin’ with yo eyes.” She flicked the center of his forehead with her fingers. “See with da inner sight. Dat’s where ya find truth. Earth’s magma-blood crystalizes into a magic form when it be struck by volcanic lightnin’. Oh, it be a rare event. See, da crystalline glass holds da untainted essence of da first life on Earth.” She cackled. “Only dis be a givin’ da human race a mighty upgrade!”

Like Uncle Richo used to rant, it was useless arguing with a crazy woman. Hell, Luther knew that after two nasty divorces; his exes had taken most of his pro ball income.

Aunt Mattie went into a fit of obnoxious laughter and patted his hand on the table. “Dey be from bad blood.”

She grabbed her leather bag before losing herself in a mumbling chant. She haphazardly tossed the spell bag’s contents onto the table. An odd assortment of small bones seemed to roll across the table in slow motion. He didn’t want to know what animals they were from.

“I see. Dat one had true heart. How she admired mon chérie.” She went into a long mourning wail, trembling. An actual tear dribbled down her craggy, weathered face.

The intense heartbreak he had suffered upon Sheena’s death pierced his heart. “Are you talking about—” Luther choked up. “Sheena?” He had fallen madly in love with the African steampunk warrior babe at first sight. They’d only spent a couple of nights together. The best nights of his life.

“I like her—da tough bitch with dem mischievous green eyes. Dat one was good for ya. Woulda been . . . Mon chérie, time ya be a lettin’ her go. She be at peace. With her sons. Aw, I see a love hidin’ in da veils of time. Just ask for a prenup dis time.” She went into an uncontrollable bout of laughter.

He balked internally. “Thanks, but I didn’t come here for a lowdown of my love life.” He was tempted to throw a coin into the tip jar in spite. “What the hell am I supposed to do with—this glass.”

“Infusions. Charge da Andara in da sun, den brew in a jar of water in moonlight or sunlight. Babes need to be a drinkin’ it like mother’s milk. Or da curse spiraling up der DNA be a turnin’ dem into one of dem deadbloods.” Her words seemed to torture her, coming out in a drawn-out whispering yell. “Zombification!”

“Have you actually tried it on anyone?”