The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) - By Vicki Pettersson Page 0,43

laughed at Kit’s responding nod. “I suppose that’s why it holds sway over you. Illusion is often stronger than reality.”

Kit didn’t correct the woman. She had long stopped trying to defend her rockabilly lifestyle. She loved things because she loved them, and that was reason enough.

Instead, she glanced over at the carved statues spaced along the top of a multilevel platform. The altar had been behind her when she walked in, so this was the first opportunity to study it openly. If she’d known she’d be visiting the Baptista family, she’d have brushed up on her knowledge of Afro-Cuban religions.

“Ever see a Santerian shrine before?” Josepha asked, catching Kit’s look.

Kit shook her head, studying the lit black candle, the bell and bowls surrounding it, the incense smoking into the statue’s unblinking gaze. “I know that’s your saint, though.”

“Orisha, yes. That’s Chango.”

Chango additionally had bowls of seeds and beads and mirrors scattered at his feet. Kit wanted to ask Josepha about that, but the woman was lighting another candle between them, this one white. Kit would’ve assumed she was just setting the mood, but it was broad daylight in the middle of summer.

Eyeing the silky flame, Kit said, “The Christian religion ascribes meaning and ritual to almost everything, though this seems different somehow. It’s more . . .”

“What?” The word was clipped, defensive. Like Kit’s lifestyle, Josepha had likely been forced to defend her religion more than once. Santeria, after all, was synonymous with voodoo.

“It seems more vibrant. Dense. Almost pregnant with meaning.” The shrine was different from any altar Kit had ever seen. It looked the same as a full belly felt, engorged with flavor, tipping into too much.

Josepha laughed. “Of course! The original priests in Santeria were all women, you know. We founded almost all branches of the religion, led all the major ceremonies, carried out all rituals.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I, for example, was named after one of the most famous and most powerful Cuban priestesses. Of course, once there was power to be had, the men took over.” Josepha shrugged, and gazed at the smooth flame between them as she sipped from her mug. “But we originally started out as a matriarchy. Oh . . . hear that?”

Kit turned to the doorway. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly. They’ll be done soon.” Josepha smiled, yet as they turned back to the table, her smile fell. “Why did you do that?”

Kit stiffened at Josepha’s alarmed tone. “What?”

“Why did you blow it out?”

Kit frowned at the white candle, now curling with black smoke. “I didn’t.”

Josepha’s face drained of color, gaze flicking quickly between Kit and the candle, drawing meaning out of something Kit had never—and probably would never—understand. “Marco!”

Baptista appeared so quickly it was like he’d been waiting outside the doorway. Grif appeared, too, alarm scrambling his features. Josepha and Marco exchanged rapid-fire Spanish and suddenly Kit was being lifted by the arm and dragged to the front door.

“Mr. Baptista,” Kit tried, feeling bruises already forming beneath his grip. “I didn’t mean to offend . . . I don’t know—”

“Hands off her, Baptista.” Grif was suddenly between them, and Kit thought that if she could see his wings, each blade would be drawn sharp. Marco did release Kit, then, but only because they’d reached the end of the hallway. Behind him, Josepha was still ranting in Spanish.

“Sorry, cabron,” Baptista said, holding the door wide. “But you can’t stay for ropa vieja.”

“That’s okay,” Grif countered. “We’ll visit Little Havana once it reopens. Like you said, people do come back more than once.”

Baptista just held open the door, hard gaze fixed on Grif. He didn’t even acknowledge Kit as she passed. Yet she felt better as soon as she stepped outside. Back, she thought, where she knew the meaning of things. Back in her own country.

“Keep walking,” Baptista called as they passed the litter of weeds and men in the concrete yard. “And good luck getting those Russians outta my city.”

“Your city?” Grif half-turned.

Baptista’s outline hardened in the harsh light, and Kit tugged on Grif’s arm. “Like you said. My family has been in Las Vegas a long time.”

Grif returned his hand to the small of Kit’s back, and tipped his hat. “Good-bye, Mr. Baptista.”

“Adios, comemierdas.”

And as the smoky chuckle of a half-dozen dangerous men rose behind them, Grif gave Kit a grim smile. “Remind me to ask Luis what the hell that means.”

What the hell did you say to Baptista’s grandmother?” Grif asked, keeping his pace steady. They were still being watched, and by more