Page 1 of Voodoo Plantation

Prologue

Ma’dam Austeen

Sitting on my rocking chair, I stare out the window overlooking the busy New Orleans street. Twisting a talisman in my hands, my heart aches at the loss of my lover, Monsieur Clovys.

I shut my eyes in annoyance as a throat clears from the doorway behind me.

“Excuse me, Ma’dam Austeen. I have news of the oracle.”

Looking over my shoulder, my heart races. I never thought this day would come.

The pitiful maiden speaks softly as if she does not want to upset me. Keeping her head bowed, eyes downcast, she curtsies in respect.

Rising to my feet slowly, I say with a heavy accent. “Speak, child. I have no time for your indecision. For what did you interrupt me?”

“Yes, ma’am. The sisters were consulting the scarabs. They have discovered the oracle. The Scorpion is coming.”

“Eskòpyon,” I whisper.Scorpion.

Rising to my feet, I reach the whisp of the girl and lay a hand on her arm. “You have done well, child.”

Removing my hand, the girl falls to the floor. Her sightless eyes looking on.

The Scorpion is the link, and preparations must be made.

Chapter 1

Angevyn

“Angevyn,” pronounced An-Juh-Vin, “comeon.”

My best friend, Brier Stone, glares in my direction as I follow her into the rundown house owned by the Voodoo Warriors Motorcycle Club. Brier met Joseph “Torque” Williams while tending bar at the motorcycle club-owned bar, the Voodoo Saloon, on New Orleans’s outskirts.

Somehow, Brier talked me into attending the MC’s party. Shivering as I take in the room, I wonder if a tetanus shot is needed when this is over. The soles of my shoes stick to the floor with each step.

Bodies move together in various sexual acts. I school my features with a blank face and focus my eyes forward. Following Brier through the house and into the kitchen. Eyes follow myevery move. Men give me lascivious looks, sending chills up my spine.

While not a prude, seeing all of this is a shock to my system. None of these people are shy about others watching them. Averting my gaze as Torque tongue-fucks my best friend, a deep voice calls out from behind me.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Are you jealous? I will be happy to take care of you.”

Turning around and doing my best not to react, I openly stare at the man. He is tall with long, greasy, light brown hair. The color is debatable under the dirt—his scraggly beard hands down to his belly, draping over the waistband of his pants.

Stepping in my direction, another stern voice speaks up, causing his steps to falter. The stern tone brooks no room for argument.

“Hound, leave her alone.”

Hound, the man in front of me, tosses a sideways glance at the guy, having the decency to look contrite, for all of ten seconds. Unsure what he sees, Hound waves me off, leaving the room.

Looking over my shoulder, following Hound’s direction, a man sits in a chair that has been turned sideways. Using the wall for back support, his right arm rests on the back of the chair with an almost empty beer bottle hanging from his fingertips.

He swallows the last dregs of his beer, setting the empty bottle on the table as he stands. I look up and up. Being just over five feet tall, he towers over me. This man has to be at least a foot taller than me, probably more. His shoulders are broad, and the T-shirt he wears pulls tight across his massive chest. Noticing the patch on his vest says President. The patch just below that says “Diesel.”

I keep forgetting some of the biker lingo that Brier constantly reminds me of. Each of these men wears a black leather vest that is referred to as a cut. The front of the cut has a patchshowing their name, whether it be their real name or road name. A secondary patch will be found just above their name if they are officers. On the back of each vest, there is a three-part patch. The center one has a logo. In this case, it’s a voodoo doll, complete with pins, riding a motorcycle. A top patch indicates the motorcycle club’s name, Voodoo Warriors. The bottom patch, or rocker, says New Orleans, Louisiana.

“Are you done checking me out yet?” he asks cockily.

My face heats in embarrassment. Looking up at his face, I find his eyebrow raised in amusement. My nerves take over, feeling overwhelmed and outnumbered.

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