Joey sighed and some of the nervous tension went out of him. "Let's get this show on the road." He scratched at the moldering 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 worshipers into the humfo.

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

      Joey shook his head. "Maurice called, but she was out. He 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."

      "Thanks."

      Baribeau walked into the torch-lit barnyard. A crowd of approximately twenty vodoun worshipers, from both his and Chantal's humfos, greeted him. Rhinehart and his young 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 armed guards at the front gate to stop intruders and 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 began drawing veves in the dirt in front of the drums and the center post. 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 the hunsi 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 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, oriented 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 worshipers 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. 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 signaled Maurice to take Joey back to the shack.

      Automatic gunfire suddenly erupted outside the compound. Someone, probably one of the guards, screamed in pain. More shots exploded. The drums fell abruptly silent.

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

      Joey heard something big and noisy heading their way. Tires crunched along the gravel driveway at the front of Rhinehart's house, followed by the sound of splintering wood as the intruders hit the gate that barred the dirt path leading to the barn.

      From holsters hidden beneath their robes, three of Chantal's acolytes removed pistols, big weapons that still looked puny in light of whatever was headed their way.

      Baribeau shouted to Maurice, "Get him in the house! Call the police!"

      The hunsi tugged at Joey's hand, and they were off, sprinting across the yard. Joey's heart hammered in his mouth as he raced for the back door of the house, about fifty feet away.

      A black van roared into the backyard, headlights blazing.

      Halfway to the door, Joey caught his foot on the bottom of his robe. The white sheet ripped, and Joey tumbled to the ground, dragging Maurice with him.

      Before he could pick himself up, the van squealed to a stop in front of the back porch, cutting off his escape. Somebody -- it sounded like Rhinehart -- shouted, "Everybody, stay down!"

      The van doors popped open and four men, each clutching an Uzi, sprang out. Two were strangers to Joey. One he had seen that night at the Crossroads Center, a pock-faced guy with a handlebar mustache.

      The fourth gunman was the Walkman. He wore his customary sunglasses and a big smile.

      Their feet barely touched the ground before Chantal's people opened fire. Handlebar Mustache took a bullet in the face, his nose exploding like a rotten, crimson fruit. He went down without firing a shot.

      The van sparked with ricochets. The Walkman pulled his Uzi's trigger. So did the two other gunmen.

      The bullets slammed into two of Chantal's gun-toting followers, ripping them apart and killing them instantly. The third got off a few more shots, hitting one of the intruders in the shoulder and knocking him to the ground. Then a blast from the Walkman's gun ended the humfo's armed defense.

      His white tee-shirt spattered with his companions' blood, the Walkman held his fire. His remaining associate did likewise. From inside the van, someone activated a public-address system. "Let us take Spelvin," said a voice. Joey recognized it as that of the biker who had ransacked his apartment. "If you do that, you'll live. If not, you'll all die. Choose."

      The Walkman, his Uzi held carelessly by his side, took a step forward. "I see you there, Joey," he said. "Come with us. It won't be what you think. You'll learn to love it." The monster giggled. "I did."

      A woman, her voice choked with tears, screamed, "Take him! For God's sake, take --!" Her voice cut off abruptly, as if someone had clamped a hand over her mouth.

      Something tickled the base of Joey's brain. It began as a feather-touch and grew in intensity, pushing harder and harder at his cranium. He fought back, trying to stop the stubby finger poking into his mind. He felt in his bones, rather than heard, a phalanx of celestial drummers begin to play.

      Ogu was trying to get in.

      How do you stop a god from possessing you? Joey gave up and prepared for the psychic blast that would shoot him out of his own skull and into the past or some other place. Anything was better than having to witness any more carnage.

      The blast never came, and he went nowhere. Suddenly, there was another being within him, sharing his body and brain, an ancient and fierce personality that crowded his own consciousness into a corner but did not expel it.

      "Stand!" commanded Ogu. His voice was like thunder, rich and terrible.

      "Please," Joey begged. "Take me away. Legba did it. You can, too!"

      The loa said, "No! I will help, but I cannot do your work for you. You must be a man and stand on your own feet. Do it!"

      "I can't."

      "Do it!"

      His knees shook in rebellion and it seemed as if a hundred-pound weight lay on his shoulders, but Joey hauled himself out of the dirt and to his feet. He stood and faced his would-be kidnapers.

      Ogu perched at the back of his skull. The loa's presence afforded him a small amount of cold comfort.

      "That's right, Joey," said the van driver over the loudspeaker. "Come with us before anyone else gets hurt."

      Two voices in unison shouted, "No, Joey, don't move!" He turned and saw Chantal and Baribeau, arms linked, walking forward.

      The gunmen raised their weapons.

      They never got off a shot. The hungan and the mambo simultaneously barked a string of words in Creole. All hell broke loose.

      They must have been preparing this spell since the van arrived. Unleashed, it had the force of a gale wind, a wave of power that rolled out of the night and smashed into the intruders.

      The Walkman's compatriot went down, crushed against the side of the van, bones shattering on impact. The van rocked and bucked on its shocks, came close to toppling over. One side of it buckled, as if hit by a colossal fist.

      The gun flew from the Walkman's hand. The giant tottered for a second but did not fall.

      The camcorders held by Rhinehart's students exploded like twin M80s. The kids hurled the smoking equipment away.

      Joey took Maurice's hand and began walking backwards, closer to Chantal and Baribeau.

      The Walkman tried to follow. He stuck his arms out, reaching for Joey, lurching forward like a drunk in a wind-tunnel. Whatever force Chantal and Baribeau had conjured up drew his skin back across his face so tight that it looked ready to split open. Through clenched teeth, the Walkman growled with rage.

      Joey turned his back on the Walkman, let go of Maurice and trotted toward his friends. The hungan and the mambo stood as if rooted in place, eyes blank but brows furrowed, concentrating on keeping their remaining attackers at bay.

      Low in the sky, a yellowish trail of light headed towards them. It moved amazingly fast, streaking through the night like a tiny comet. Professor Rhinehart pointed up at it and shouted to Baribeau.

      The hungan did not hear. But some of the other celebrants noticed, and their eyes widened with fear and astonishment.

      The yellow light landed soundlessly in the yard and deposited a lumpish, black creature on the ground. For a moment, the thing looked like an obscenely huge cockroach, but it quickly took on a wolfish appearance, its nose and mouth elongated into a muzzle, its body covered with gray fur, its ears pointed and tufted. Hairy breasts jutted from its chest.

      The loup-garou flexed its talon-tipped fingers, and its red eyes blazed with menace. They fixed on Joey, and in that instant, he knew who lurked beneath the werewolf's hide. Carol Hartinger.

      Joey shouted, "Claude! Chantal! Look out!"

      The intensity of the phantom wind lessened abruptly as Baribeau and Chantal turned to face the loup-garou. Shouting an oath, Baribeau reached for a talisman on the altar. Before he could grab it, the creature slashed Chantal across the face with her claws, flung the injured mambo to the ground and wrapped the hungan in a deadly embrace.

      Baribeau screamed. Blood jetted from his mouth, a fountain of gore that soaked his robe, the altar and the grass. The hungan writhed, agony distorting his once-handsome features. The loup-garou squeezed harder and lapped at the fluid that beaded up from Baribeau's pores.

      Joey couldn't watch. He squinched his eyes shut and clapped his hands over his ears.

      "Do something!" he shouted at the loa riding within him. "Stop this!"

      The timbre of voice inside his head bespoke infinite sadness. "There is nothing I can do," Ogu said.

      Thick, strong arms suddenly grabbed Joey around the waist, choking off his breath. "Got you now," said the Walkman.

      Sirens whooped in the distance, headed toward the farm.

      Struggling in the Walkman's grasp, Joey watched as Claude Baribeau died. The hungan, every inch of this tortured body crimson with his own blood, shuddered one final time and went limp.

      With his death came a shockwave that ripped across the lawn like a bomb blast. It knocked the Walkman off his feet and Joey out of his clutches. The black van exploded, sending fiery shrapnel into Rhinehart's house. Within seconds, the house began to burn, flames licking from the door and windows.

      "Walk into the house," Ogu said.

      Bruised and stunned, Joey shook his head and said aloud, "No. That's impossible."

      "Walk into the house. I will protect you."

      "Like you protected Claude?"

      "Baribeau did not belong to me. You do. Walk into the house."

      Against his will, Joey's arms and legs began to move, pushing him upright and making him shuffle towards the house. Joey fought the loa every step of the way, seeking a means of expelling the spirit from his body. "Get out of me, goddamn you! Get out!"

      Ogu moved his limbs like a puppet-master, and Joey knew of no way to cut the strings. Hot wind washed over him, blowing ashes into his eyes. "No! Stop it!" He climbed the cement porch steps to the screen door, off its hinges and aflame, and pulled it aside.

      Ogu said, "Stop and turn. Make certain that they see you."

      Carol Hartinger and the Walkman watched as he stood in the burning doorway. Both looked incredulous at his seemingly suicidal action. Police sirens screamed, only seconds away. The loup-garou and the giant fled, she as a blob of light hurtling into the sky, he clumsily vaulting a fence and heading off into the neighboring vineyard.

      "Stop!" Joey yelled at Ogu. "It's over!"

      "There is still more that must be done." The loa pulled him into the inferno.

      There was no oxygen. He tried to breathe, and all he took in was thick, strangling smoke. The heat and panic built inside him until he thought his lungs were about to ignite.

      "Do not fight me anymore," Ogu said.

      Seeing no choice, Joey surrendered, let the loa move to the front of his mind, allowed himself be pushed to the back. Everything became cool and quiet. Ogu took over and steered his body through the blaze.

      Joey watched in detached amazement as sheets of flame rippled across his arms and legs, singeing his clothes but not injuring the flesh beneath. Ogu walked him barefoot across smoldering linoleum, and it was like tripping through a creek in summertime. The only thing that hurt was the memory of what he had left outside.

      In Rhinehart's study, he stopped in front of the desk. He grabbed the locked drawer and, with strength supplied by Ogu, yanked it open with one mighty tug. The case containing the bottle of zombie power lay at the bottom. Joey opened it, removed the glass vial and tossed the case aside.

      Ogu began heading him toward the front windows. Joey asked, "Shouldn't we see if anyone else is trapped in the house?"

      The god replied, "They are dead. Come."

      The fire was worst at the rear of the house, so Joey had little trouble moving the rest of the way. He looked out and saw the front yard and driveway packed with patrol cars and emergency equipment.

      Alison stood on the lawn, beside her battered car. Tears streaked her cheeks as she watched the blaze.

      Ogu said, "She is here. Good."

      Joey wanted to pitch a chair through the window, climb out and run into her arms.

      Ogu stopped him. "Your enemies believe that you are dead. That gives you the advantage."

      In a way, being dragged from that window, with safety and comfort just inches away, was worse than going into the burning house in the first place. As Ogu pulled him through the living room, Joey fought him again. "Help! Alison! Help!"

      Awesome heat washed over him, and every nerve ending in his skin screamed with fiery pain. In his skull, Ogu shouted, "Submit and live! Or fight and die!"

      It was too much. The last of his resistance dissolved. Joey bent to Ogu's will. The blessed, healing coolness returned.

      The loa led him to the basement and made him lift a small slab of concrete set in the floor. Beneath the slab was a circular hole approximately four feet across and five feet deep, ending in another slab of concrete. Joey guess that it was the sealed top of an abandoned well.

      "You will wait in there," Ogu said. "When the fire is out, you will slip away without being seen. If you are lucky, the gas mains will explode, covering your trail even more effectively. Do not worry. I will protect you no matter what happens."

      He had no strength left to argue. He crawled into the damp, dirty hole and dragged the cover back into place. Huddled in the dark space, blind and deaf to the mayhem that raged above him, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, to forget for just a few hours.

      Nightmare images flashed through his mind. The werewolf's claws raking across Chantal's face. Claude spewing blood. Alison crying on the lawn.

      As the house burned around him and the Loa of Fire and Thunder watched over him, Joey Spelvin dreamed of how he would kill Henri Concasseur.