Gone to Lagos

Gone to Lagos

By A. D. Langston

Contents

Chapter 1: Worst Party Ever

Chapter 2: The Crossroads

Chapter 3: A Waking Nightmare

Chapter 4: Lucien's Outburst

Chapter 5: A Midnight Intruder

Chapter 6: An Early Grave

Chapter 7: A Message from the Orisha

Chapter 8: Intervention

Chapter 9: Friends in Strange Places

Chapter 10: Apparitions

Chapter 11: Out of Body Experience

Chapter 12: Fugitive

Chapter 13: Kalidasa Runs the Show

Chapter 14: Uncle Parle and the Skeptic

Chapter 15: You Can Never Go Home Again

Chapter 16: When Baron Samedi Speaks

Chapter 17: A Deadly Encounter

Chapter 18: His Brother's Keeper

Glossary

Acknowledgement

Special thanks to all the members of the Lawrenceville Sci-Fi & Fantasy Critique Group for their support and encouragement, and for their inspiration, and friendship, special thanks to Katherine, David, Gary, Dora, Jamie, Todd, Jim and John, Pat, St. Nick, and the King himself, Mr. Elvis Presley.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Published by A.D. Langston at Smashwords

Cover Illustration includes stock image by Bloo Dove Stock (Deviant Art)

Copyright © 2015 A.D. Langston

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Chapter 1

Worst Party Ever

IT WAS midnight when a long, pained yowl ripped from the guts of a rundown little shack on the edge of the swamp. Two men got out of a car and hesitated, not entering the little hovel until the caterwauling had died off on the wind. They eyed one another without emotion as they closed the car doors loudly enough to ensure they’d be heard, but not too loud. It didn’t take much to set the old man off, and he had ears like a cat. He saw everything too, in spite of eyes so milky white and red-rimmed that they could not possibly be of any use to him. The old bokor never missed a thing, nor did he overlook the slightest offense.

A putrid stench billowed forth from the roiling cauldron in fire pit in the middle of the dirt floor. The taller of the two men tipped his hat forward as he entered to disguise his reaction to the smell. The short, stocky man that followed hid behind his partner and brushed the bridge of his nose with his sleeve as he crinkled up his nose in disgust. Clumps of black fur floated on the oily foam dancing to the surface of the boiling water; the old man watched it intently.

He motioned the men over to a stained work surface across which was strewn bowls full of bone dry herbs, and tins of black gunpowder. There was a mason jar glutted with a tangle of rusty pins and needles, murky liquids in a variety of dingy red-glass bottles, Jimson weed root, dried Calabar beans, a wooden mortar and pestle, and various other tools of the trade. Canvas sacks containing goopher dust, dirt taken at midnight from a graveyard, lay open under the weathered table. The bokor instructed the men as they mixed, pounded, and crushed together the ingredients; never once tearing his milky gaze from the surface of the wildly boiling water.

His initiates dutifully filling small flannel pouches with a fine black mixture, the bokor watched the boiling water for hours before a single, perfect white bone popped to the surface. With withered claws he plucked his prize from the scalding water, holding it up for all to admire. A wicked grin stole across his wizened features. The preparations were complete.

THIS IS bullshit, Lucien thought to himself. What the hell am I still doing here? Why’d I let him drag me down to the damn basement? I don’t like these people, it stinks like hell down here. This has gotta be the filthiest sofa in creation. I can’t see shit through all the damn smoke. My head is killing me.

Lucien turned to his brother.

I’m going outside, he announced.

A’ight, Denman answered without looking up from the magazine in his lap as he carefully peeled layers of cellophane from a small bundle. All eyes in the room were on him.

Any one of them would suck his dick if it’d get them the first hit. God I hate these idiots.

Lucien rolled his eyes and left. He took the stairs two at a time, a haughty display designed to shame everyone in the room, designed to make him seem superior. One of a lifetime of minor temper tantrums that only his twin brother ever noticed. Denman smirked, shook his head, and went back to breaking up the rock in his lap.

Damn its worse up here, Luc winced, staring across the crowded room. I’ve gotta get out of here before I hit someone. Why the hell is the door all the way over there? I can’t move without rubbing right up against these idiots.

Lucien complained to himself as he worked his way through the crowded living room, trying to squeeze past couples gyrating on the makeshift dance floor. For Lucien, the day seemed to move from one torment to the next. Hanging out with his brother was the last thing he’d wanted to do, this or any other evening.

Deep breaths Lucien, deep breaths. One more year of school, and you never have to see these assholes again. Graduate and get the hell out of Wilkens! I’ll move away, and people will ask me, Where you from?

"Wilkens Georgia".

"Where the fuck’s that?"

"Nowhere, just like it sounds."

Lucien took a deep breath and tried to fight his way through the pulsating crowd unnoticed. Everyone here knew ‘Luc’, even if they hadn’t met him. If the dreadlock-Mohawk and trip pants weren’t enough to warrant their attention, his brother’s popularity was. Just about everyone at school knew Lucien. His brother enjoyed near celebrity status at school, and kids would do anything to be part of his crowd: even if it meant trying to befriend his weird brother. Denman’s circle of friends were under strict orders to, be nice to my brother.

Lucien, Denman’s identical twin, was younger than his brother by about five minutes. The boys hated each other, which brought Lucien a lot of unwelcome questions from kids trying to gain Denman’s friendship by proxy.

Aren’t twins supposed to be close, like, psychic close? Aren’t y’all supposed to like, finish each other’s sentences and trade places just to mess with peoples’ heads?

None of this was true for the Nathan boys. They were like night and day, oil and water, vampires and sparkle. On the best days they could barely stand the sight of each other, and it had been that way since they could toddle away from each other unaided. Although the twins had been indistinguishable as children, the more they aged, the more they had grown apart in both appearance and personality. Lucien was slightly taller than his brother, considerably thinner, and more athletically built despite a strong aversion to any kind of physical activity. He was quiet, shy, and studious, had few friends and was, frankly, not particularly enamored of any of them. Denman, on the other hand, was gregarious, good natured, eternally optimistic and famous for his sense of humor. Not a particularly good student, he was popular at school on a grand scale.

Lucien smarmily applied the pejorative ghetto-functional to Denman’s fashion-sense, which consisted of nothing less than the coolest shoes, the sickest outfit, the most southwardly mobile trousers, and the most gangsta bling. Lucien, conversely, preferred combat boots, military surplus trousers, and an assortment of band T-shirts and plain tank tops. His only accessories were a studded belt, red suspenders left to fall to his sides, and a wallet clipped to his belt by a sturdy chain. He kept his hair shaved, apart from a Mohawk of neatly styled dreadlocks, which he allowed to grow long enough in front to partially cover his left eye. Denman had commented on several occasions that Lucien’s hairstyle reminded him of a certain short, irritable, yellow, foam-rubber puppet of children’s television fame.

This brother’s do is brought to you by the letter W; for what-the-fuck-is-that-on-your-head?!

Despite their mutual animosity, Lucien had wanted to accompany his brother to the party tonight. Inviting him along had been an uncharacteristic gesture of solidarity on Denman’s part; but some things, after all, transcend even the worst of sibling rivalry.

BY THE time Luc finally squeezed out the door and was standing on the front porch, the can of lager in each fist had been bumped and battered beyond safety regulations. Luc pondered the shaken beer cans in each fist. He started to tap the first can with his fingertip. Tap, tap, tap.

The sudden transition from intense dubstep to near country quiet was causing fluid to expand in his ears. His eardrums felt like he’d been underwater too long.

Not too many people were outside, just a few, leaning against the cars that littered every inch of the lawn. Most were crowded around a pimped out Cadillac that was pumping up and down in a manner that looked vaguely obscene to Lucien, casting its high beams all over the distant line of trees.

Stop humpin’ the lawn dumbfuck. Lucien rolled his eyes again.

The porch was dark; Lucien figured that if he was quiet enough, no one would notice him. No one would try to talk to him. He could lay low there until it was time to leave. He cracked open the first can of beer and plopped down on an old rocking chair under the porch light. He gazed off into the distance, over the line of trees silhouetted against the star glutted sky. The night was sticky hot and full of flying things, a squadron of which swarmed around the flickering bulb, sending out scouting parties to dive-bomb the eminent threat to their southern border. Lucien cupped a hand over his drink and moved along to a seat deeper in shadow. Closing his eyes and concentrating, he focused on the cacophonous skree and chirrup of insects in the long grass, barely audible through the ringing in his ears.

Much better…

THE AFTERNOON before the party, Lucien had been stretched out on a hammock in his own front yard, relaxing in the shade of two ancient oak trees and reading a book when a loud noise broke his concentration. The source of the disturbance was an ancient, pea green Seville easing its way down the road. In the driver’s seat was a bandana-decked head, sporting a sparse juvenile mustache and a stupid, friendly grin.

No. No- don’t turn into the driveway… shit. Maybe if I ignore him… where was I… no, no just keep goin, don’t stop, don’t roll down the window… a face Luc despised leaned out of the car window.

Hey yo, Luc! Whaddup dawg?

Steve why do you pretend to be nice to me? You know I hate your white ass. Nothing much, just doing some reading, Lucien glanced at him meaningfully then pretended to go back to reading. That idiotic grin- stop staring at me before I knock all the teeth out of your ugly head. Sigh, Ok, I’ll go get him.

A’ight homes.

It's all right you slack-jawed mongoloid, and I ain’t your homes, he muttered under his breath, hoping Steve had heard him. Luc turned around and gave him a fake smile.

Oh Denman, Lucien called out before walking into the house, it’s your girlfriend. He wants to know if you can come out and spoon him, or something like that.

Ssssssssssssshh!

Sssssh yourself asshole…shit, how’d I forget Espin is home? Ok Steve, now I’m actually glad you’re here.

A’ight! called Denman from upstairs.

Yeah, fuck you too Denman, that joke is getting old, I know your ass knows how to speak English. Don’t think I don’t know you’re doing that on purpose just to annoy me.

Father had succumbed to cancer when the boys were still young and they now shared the house with their mother, Delora and step-father, Espin. Delora Nathan was a short, meek woman, enamored of simple floral-print housedresses that made her look older than she was. She was sweet natured and quite pretty, or at least she had been in her youth. Her grey-flecked hair fell in loose, frayed curls just above her shoulders. Delora worked at the library off the town square, and she was also an active church member and Sunday-school arts and crafts teacher. The Nathan family refrigerator often hung thick with construction paper cutouts of angels with heavy, broken macaroni halos, and cardboard shepherds watching over flocks of itinerant cotton balls.

Then there was Espin. Lucien couldn’t remember how his mother had met him. It seemed like he’d just shown up one day, like a stray, and never left. A long haul CDL driver, Espin was an odd replacement for their father, who had been a history teacher at the local junior high school.

In the beginning the boys had liked Espin well enough. He showed moderate interest in them, sometimes bringing them little souvenirs from his trips, and when he was not on the road he would sometimes take them out for ice cream. As time wore on, however, the boys came to dread Espin’s presence. The more secure his status in the Nathan household, the less mindful he became of his behavior, and before long, from sunrise to sundown, he would slouch in front of the television with a bottle of cheap beer wedged between his thighs, and a volcano of smoldering cigarette butts forming new continents on the coffee table.

Espin was seldom worse than curt with their mother, but when she began to trust him alone with her sons, even the slightest disruption would cause him to fly off the handle. No matter if they laughed too loud or argued too much, Espin would leap roaring from the sofa, drag the belt from his waist and beat them until their cries became inaudible gasps. If they played too loudly, their toys would be smashed under his heel, and Espin would threaten them with more heinous punishment if they dared tattle to anyone- especially their mother. But the threats were unnecessary, for he was careful to put on a good face in front of their mother, always insisting that the boys’ complaints were lies; that they had inflicted the bruises upon one another; that he had simply tried to separate them, that they just didn’t want to get in trouble.

Their mother learned to explain away the bumps, bruises, and even the minor fractures without Espin’s prompting. Eventually, he even had her trained to lie to the emergency room doctors. Eventually, Espin didn’t have to hide it from her.

Denman learned to cope through humor. Living well is the best revenge. This is probably why Denman came to bear the brunt of most of the abuse. When he grew old enough, he avoided the house as much as possible. Lucien, on the other hand, spent as much of his time in his garden or with his nose in a book as possible, growing shy, introverted, and bitter, always choosing his words and actions carefully, and walking on eggshells whenever Espin was around.

LUCIEN STEPPED inside the house, careful not to let the screen door slam shut, moments before Denman descended the stairs in saggy drawers, a flannel shirt buttoned all the way to the top, and a nebula of designer cologne.

Ghetto-fabulous, you never cease to bore me to death bro. Uh oh, here it comes. Espin’s got that look.

Damn you stink boy, Espin barked. Where you think you goin?

Out.

Like hell you goin’ out lookin’ like some damn gang-banger.

I’ll go out lookin’ however I please, Denman muttered aloud.

Espin was on his feet so fast he almost did it without moving.

What you say to me boy? He demanded in earnest disbelief. No one talks back to me in my house.

At this Denman, who had not stopped walking towards the door, turned on his heel, strode right up, and stood before Espin with a challenge in his eyes. They were so close their noses were nearly touching.

You heard me, and it ain’t yo’ damn house.

Lucien didn’t know whether to run, cheer, or help. The king and his challenger stood and stared each other down for what seemed to Lucien an eternity, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Then suddenly Espin thrust out his arm above Denman’s shoulder and screamed, flecks of spit flying onto the young man’s face.

You march right back up those stairs an-

Make me!

Espin’s raised arm trembled with sheer fury, then dropped and smacked down on the brim of Denman’s hat, knocking it to the floor. Luc flinched. No matter what, it was on now. The lucky hat, as it was known, had not left Denman’s head from the day his father gave it to him. Now there it was, lying on the floor. Denman eased his cool gaze down to the cap, then eased it slowly, and deliberately back up to meet Espin’s half crazed expression. Denman’s expression was rock solid, cool, and still as a pool of water- right up until the moment he gritted his teeth and lunged.

Espin’s body flew backwards and hit the wall so hard it sent shock waves through the house. When the mental dust cleared, Lucien saw that Denman had their step-father pinned against the wall by his throat, his arm bored hard up under the man’s Adam’s apple. Espin’s feet were dangling just a hair’s breadth above the floorboards. The clamor had sent their mother rushing in from the kitchen. She stood in the entrance wide-eyed, a trembling hand to her lips. Lucien was dumbstruck.

You best pick that up motha fucka! You best pick it up! Go on, pick it up! What’s the matter? Cain’t can you?

Denman screamed a never ending stream of profanities at Espin, foamy clumps of spittle wetting the suffocating man’s face. Espin, feet dangling in the air, managed to bring his knee up hard in his assailant’s groin. Espin dropped to his feet, gasping for air and, as Denman was doubled over from the pain, he