"I probably look better than I feel." Claude Baribeau shut the study door and dropped into the armchair opposite Professor Eugene Rhinehart. "Thank God Maurice and Claire can take over and give me a breather for a couple hours. I'm sure I'll feel sufficiently refreshed by nine o'clock."

      Rhinehart held out a snifter of brandy. "Here. This will do wonders."

      Baribeau contemplated the glass of amber liquor. What could it hurt? He accepted the brandy and took a small sip. "Aaahh." He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the cozy alcoholic kick.

      "Is your initiate running you ragged?"

      If he didn't open his eyes, he would fall fast asleep. Baribeau blinked and sat up straight in his chair. "I think I've created a monster."

      Rhinehart chuckled and stopped when he saw Baribeau wasn't kidding. "Isn't it a little unusual to try to complete a kanzo in less than two weeks? The initiation process seems to last for months in Haiti."

      Baribeau nodded. "By all rights, the kanzo should be a long, expensive hardship designed to discourage all but the most devout. But we have a special case with Joey. He's in imminent danger. The most important thing right now is to earn him some protection, as quickly as possible."

      Rhinehart fiddled with his briar pipe, scraping unburned tobacco from the bowl with a penknife. "And Joey is able to keep pace with you? He understands everything you tell him?"

      "That's the scary part. Sometimes he seems to know things without having to be told. He spends a lot of time bitching and moaning about minor unpleasantries, but he eventually knuckles down and performs his part unerringly."

      "Is he a genuine vodoun prodigy, or just a white boy with a lot of soul?"

      Baribeau laughed and took another sip of his drink. "Oh, it is very clear that the loa have some special purpose in mind for Mr. Spelvin." His smile inverted itself. "And frankly, that's what has me worried. There's no denying Joey's a quick study. But does he have the necessary emotional maturity to handle his newfound abilities?"

      Rhinehart filled his pipe and lighted it with a wooden match. He blew a ring of sweet smoke. "Have you figured out what Concasseur wants with Joey?"

      "I have a pretty good idea. Certainly not, as he claims, because he wants an apprentice to carry on his work after he dies. A bokor like Concasseur doesn't share information freely; he hoards it and guards it jealously. Besides, Concasseur isn't planning on dying anytime soon. No, Concasseur's intentions toward Joey are far more sinister.

      "You don't become a bokor of Concasseur's stature without first making a virtual pact with the devil. In exchange for the most closely-guarded secrets of black magic, Concasseur has undoubtedly entered into a `hot point,' a commitment that binds him to a powerful petro demon. From time to time, Concasseur must feed his baka, give it a special human sacrifice. Otherwise, according to the agreement, the baka will feed on Concasseur's own mortal flesh and immortal soul."

      Rhinehart said, "Then why not just kidnap Joey and kill him? Why go to all the trouble of playing cat-and-mouse, alternately seducing and frightening him half to death?"

      "Concasseur's baka won't be appeased by just any simple offering. It has probably been waiting decades for its promised sacrifice. It wants something satisfying and well-prepared.

      "If Papa Legba had not intervened that night in the park, Concasseur would have forced Joey to join his secret society of sorcerors. Joey would then have undergone an initiation similar to the one I've put him through and then been trained as an apprentice bokor. But once Joey gained a sufficient degree of proficiency at magic, Concasseur would have offered him up to his hot-point demon. The stronger the `horse,' the more pleasure for the baka who takes him."

      Rhinehart said, "Then aren't you afraid of doing Concasseur's work for him? Shouldn't Joey be kept away from anything that has to do with vodoun?"

      "I wish it was that easy. But the loa definitely want him to be initiated. To flout their will would be disastrous. All we can do is hope that, with their aid, Joey and I can beat Concasseur at his own game, find a way to bring the bokor to at least a stalemate."

      Rhinehart gave him a penetrating look. "Have you told Joey just how dangerous his kanzo could prove to be? That he may be putting himself in more danger by going through with it?"

      Baribeau set his glass down, sighed heavily and rubbed his gritty eyes. "No, I haven't. The kanzo must be done. There's no choice involved in the matter. I'll explain things to Joey afterwards, when I can be sure that his concentration won't be affected."

      Rhinehart said, "That doesn't seem exactly fair."

      "Perhaps not. But Joey hasn't been completely forthcoming with me, either. He's hiding something, something about his family. Every time I mention his parents or his brothers, he clams right up on me. Nothing I do or say will make him talk about them."

      "Do you think that part of his past is truly important? We all have skeletons we're not eager to haul out of the closet."

      "With anyone else, I might agree with you. But I have a strong feeling that whatever tragedy befell Joey's family has a direct, causal relationship with what's happening to him now."

      Rhinehart, seeing Baribeau's empty snifter, held out the brandy bottle, offering a refill. The hungan shook his head. Professor Rhinehart said, "Have you tried talking to Alison again? Maybe she knows more about the situation than she first told you."

      Baribeau frowned. "I called three times this week and had to leave messages. She hasn't called back. I hope she's all right."

      "She's supposed to attend tomorrow's celebration, isn't she?"

      "As far as I know. I let Joey use the phone this afternoon, just before I took this break. I don't know whether he got through to her or not."

      Someone rapped lightly on the study door. Rhinehart called, "Come in." Chantal Depardieu, the mambo from Los Angeles, entered.

      "There's a bowl of homemade chili waiting for each of you in the kitchen," she said. "Get it while the getting's good. It's going to be a long night."

      Rhinehart stood and stretched. "Sounds perfect." Banging his pipe in an ashtray, he said, "I don't know whether Claude told you, Chantal, but I've arranged for some student observers to attend tonight's ceremony. They'll be bringing videotape equipment. I hope you don't mind."

      Looking directly at Baribeau, Chantal said, "Claude and I have discussed it. I have certain reservations, but I'm willing to accede to the wishes of my host."

      Actually, she and Baribeau had argued at length about the proposal during their initial telephone call. At one point, the mambo refused to come to the Bay Area unless Claude guaranteed that no meddling outsiders would be present at the bule'-zin, the ceremony of the burning pots, the penultimate rite of Joey's initiation process. Assuring her that Rhinehart understood the risks involved and promising to take full responsibility for the safety of the professor's crew, Baribeau had finally won her over.

      "Well, how about it, Claude?" said Rhinehart. "Shall we get some food?"

      Baribeau shook his head. "I'm going to lie down for an hour or so. I'll warm my chili in the microwave after my nap." He stood and followed both out of the study. As the mambo and the anthropologist headed for the kitchen, he split away and went upstairs to the back bedroom.

      Stripping down to his jockey shorts and pulling back the covers on the twin bed, Claude Baribeau thought about Chantal Depardieu, how lovely she was, how intelligent and well-versed in vodoun lore. It was kind and brave of her to travel from Los Angeles to help him. But she, too, had been born in Port-au-Prince and knew first-hand what a monster Henri Concasseur was. She understood that the bokor had to be dealt with before he gained too firm a foothold in America.

      He thought of Serena, his ex-wife. Had she finally found satisfaction in her life without him? A professional photographer from a middle-class Oakland family, Serena never made the necessary leap of faith that would have allowed her to understand her husband's vocation. She found vodoun alternately baffling and frightening. After three years of marriage, she had had enough of his "superstitious nonsense" and moved away.

      Lying in bed between crisp sheets, waiting for sleep to come and wash away the day's exhaustion, Baribeau let himself imagine what it would be like to be married to a woman like Chantal. The young mambo was attractive enough to be desirable to any man, but Claude wondered how it would feel to love someone who fathomed the mysteries of vodoun at least as deeply as he did.

      Now was certainly not the time to pursue these thoughts. But maybe later, after they had all found a way to defeat Concasseur...

      He awoke to a knock on the door and Rhinehart's call of, "Last chance to get something to eat!" Baribeau grabbed his watch from the nightstand. 8:15. He had slept slightly more than two hours. He did not feel any less exhausted.

      The dream had come to him again, the dream of being rooted in the center of a crossroads, cars bearing down on him from two directions.

      He muttered a short prayer and put on his clothes. His stomach growled. He went down to the kitchen to reheat his bowl of chili.

      Rhinehart's student assistants had arrived. Baribeau ate with them, leaning against the counter while they chatted with Chantal and the others. To Baribeau, the boy and the girl both looked very young, barely out of their teens, fresh-faced kids eager to learn about exotic cultures that worshipped gods and demons instead of BMWs and six-figure incomes. Baribeau hoped that, for their own good, they would stay out of the way tonight.

      His meal finished and the hour of the bule'-zin drawing close, Baribeau went out to the djevo to check on Joey. The hungan found him dressed in his sacramental white sheet, furiously pacing the length of the shack. Despite the sedative tea Baribeau had given him a few hours earlier, Joey moved like a wind-up toy given one turn too many. Baribeau clasped his shoulders, brought him to a stop and said, "Relax. You'll wear yourself out before the night's half over."

      Joey sighed and some of the nervous tension went out of him. "Let's get this show on the road." He scratched at the mouldering poultice on his head, and Baribeau allowed himself to feel slightly sorry for him.

      Outside, the drummers began to warm up, pounding out a rolling rhythm designed to lure worshippers into the humfo.

      Baribeau had a good idea of what was bothering his initiate. "Did you get ahold of Alison?"

      Joey shook his head. "I called, but she was out. I left a long message, told her to meet us up here tomorrow morning at ten for the grand finale."

      Before Baribeau can say anything more, Maurice popped his head into the shack. "Chantal says she's about to begin."

      The hungan said to Joey, "I must go now. Maurice will stay with you until you are needed. Good luck, and try to remember all I've taught you."

      "Got it, teach."

      Baribeau walked into the torch-lit barnyard. A crowd of approximately twenty vodoun worshippers, from both his and Chantal's humfos, greeted him. Rhinehart and his assistants hovered at the edge of the yard, video cameras recording the spectacle.

      Baribeau hoped that the sounds of drums and singing would not attract many nosy neighbors. Rhinehart's farm was fairly isolated, sitting well off the road, abutting a vineyard on one side and the lower reaches of Jack London State Park on the other. It wasn't likely that anyone's sleep would be greatly disturbed. Still, Baribeau had posted guards at the front gate to answer any questions the local police might have.

      Chantal stood at the center post and invoked Legba, entreating him to open the door. She looked so wild and beautiful, her long hair floating in the night wind, the firelight playing across her skin, that Baribeau almost gasped aloud. The hungan joined her, twirled her in salutation and then began drawing veves in the dirt in front of the drums and the center post.

      Despite Baribeau's misgivings, the early part of the ceremony went smoothly. He and Chantal worked well together, each doing his or her part to keep the elaborately choreographed ritual on track.

      Chantal sang the tune that called the hunsi, Claire and two men from the Los Angeles humfo, to fetch from the altar the zin, the globular clay pots that served as the centerpiece for the night's service. The hunsi obediently brought the chalk-marked pottery, along with an assortment of other necessary articles, including pinewood pegs and sticks, plates, dishes, corn meal, bottles of oil and wine, and two live, bound chickens. Claude instructed them to lay the items on the appropriate veves and then sit down on chairs and mats placed nearby. When they were seated, he began to recite The Prayer of Africa, the centuries-old litany of vodoun saints.

      A few terse drumbeats signaled the end of the African prayer. On cue, Baribeau, Chantal and the hunsi removed their shoes. They then each took three wooden pegs and drove them into the ground in a triangle, singing "Hey! Knock in the nails, Papa Legba, oh!" Under each tripod they placed a lighted candle. Using their bare feet, they raised the zin onto the tripods.

      Claire came by and filled some of the pots with water dosed with a concoction of wine, syrup, peanuts and bits of biscuit. In others she poured hot oil, dropping in balls of corn meal. She put kindling beneath each tripod and lighted it. As the water in the pots began to bubble, Chantal took the chickens, orientated them to the cardinal points, broke their legs and wings and finally yanked their heads off with two efficient twists. When the birds were plucked and cut up, Baribeau and the other "servants of the zin" plunged the pieces into the boiling water.

      Baribeau looked over at the djevo and saw its door open. Led by Maurice, Joey emerged, wrapped in his white sheet so that not even his eyes were visible. He looked like some kind of giant, ambulatory cocoon. Maurice brought him to the center post. From the crowd, four worshippers brought sheets and blankets, stretching them across the group in the center of the yard, building a kind of improvised tent around them.

      Cut off from curious eyes and inquisitive cameras, one of Chantal's hunsi unwrapped Joey's sheeting so that he could see and move more easily. Maurice dipped Joey's hands in a mixture of oil and wine. With a pair of tongs, Baribeau removed a fritter from one oil-filled pot.

      Baribeau dropped the ball of sizzling dough into Joey's wet, outstretched hands. Joey's eyes widened, and he made a move to pitch the fritter away. The hungan clamped Joey's hands together with his own, so that Joey could not drop the deep-fried bread.

      Joey made a kind of squeaking noise and began to struggle. Baribeau held him tight. The fight suddenly went out of Joey. His brown furrowed in puzzlement. Baribeau allowed him to slowly open his hands.

      Joey stared at his palms. "It didn't burn me!"

      Baribeau gingerly took the dough from him, tossing it from hand to hand, letting it cool. "The oil and wine offers a small amount of insulation. But more than that, Ogu is looking after you. You must learn to trust your loa."

      Chantal led Joey to one of the burning pots. She said, "Run your left hand and foot through the fire."

      Joey looked back at Baribeau. Claude nodded. Joey stuck his hand into the fire, took it out, did the same with his bare foot. A huge grin spread across his face, like a kid at Christmas.

      Baribeau warned, "Do not treat this as a party trick, Joey. Tonight is special. Try it tomorrow, and you will discover just how hot the flame really is."

      Joey's part of the bule'-zin was finished. It was time for him to return to the djevo for one final night, while others danced and prayed for him. Chantal wrapped him up tight again and, before pulling the sheet over his face, kissed him on the forehead.

      Baribeau was pleased. Within a matter of hours, Joey's initiation would come to a close. He signalled Maurice to take Joey back to the shack.

      Automatic gunfire chattered closeby, loud enough to be heard over the drums, which fell abruptly silent.

      Baribeau and Joey locked gazes. They said simultaneously, "Concasseur."

      Celebrants screamed. Panicked, those who held the concealing sheets let them fall to the dirt.

      Without stopping to think about it, Baribeau, Chantal, Claire and Maurice formed a tight circle around Joey, trying to protect him. Then they turned to face whatever horror was about to swoop down on them.