So, a while back, the fantastic Lauren Dane contacted me to be a part of a group project called Snippet Saturday.  Each Saturday, for the duration of the summer we’ll be posting snippets from our shiz that fit into that week’s topic.

This week is outtakes.  Lovin’ it.

So, I give you a chunk of Amanda from Road Trip of the Living Dead, I just couldn’t fit into that book, no matter how hard I tried.  It includes one of my favorite characters.  Beth Liebowitz, voodoo priestess.  She’ll be showing up in future books, but really didn’t work for Road.

So here you go…

*******************************

            With four hours of daylight left before Gil woke, Wendy and I decided to replenish our wardrobe.  Well, replenish would be an exaggeration, since all we had were the clothes on our backs and those were rags at that point.[1]  A more accurate statement would be: get a wardrobe.  I’d never been to Spokane, but it looked like a city that might have some fashion, or a reasonable facsimile.  In situations like these there’s only one thing to do.

            “There’s one.”  Wendy pointed at a grungy little coffee shop with a “Hemp Products Sold Here” sign hanging in the window.  There was one in every city, a hippy hold-out piggy-backing on a cultural caffeine addiction.  But, we weren’t after coffee.

            I pulled up to the front door.  Wendy darted out, poked her head inside, and snatched a free paper sitting within arms reach of the entry.  She waved a middle finger at the barista as she hopped back in the Winnie and flopped down at the table, flipping through the paper.[2]

            “Here it is,” she said, folding the paper back and giving it a shake to pop out the crease.  “The ad is squeezed in after the guy that loves to have low hanging balls shoved up his ass and Cecelia, the hot pre-op masseuse, with fingers of steel and a cock to match.”

            “Gross.  What king of person would do that to old man balls?”

            Wendy giggled.  “Maybe the old man has a personal investment in the scenario.”

            “Now you’re just trying to make me throw up.”

            “Okay.  Shut up.”  Wendy cleared her throat, dramatically.  “Spokane Mambo open to exploring other worlds with style.”

            “How do you know that’s it?” I asked.

            Mambo is the voodoo term for high priestess, plus it’s in with the man on man action.  That’s part of the code, who’d look for it there?  And the guys that would aren’t looking for a dance coach.”

            “Unless he’s got a stretched out sack o’ nuts, apparently.” 

            Fifteen minutes later we sat in front of a brick three-story with blacked out windows and awnings that sagged like tired eyelids.  A homeless woman rolled her shopping cart underneath, overflowing with clothing, books, and a tremendous potted palm strung with white Christmas lights.

            “Oh shit.  Remind me to call Marithé.  She needs to water my plants.”

            A shingle hung from a scroll of black iron over the door.  The winding filigreed lettering managed to blend several crosses in its design.  The name of the shop was enigmatic, yet practical like me.

            Fixes.

The massive door was affixed with black metal bolts and a small caged window cut into the upper half served as a peephole.  I almost looked up to check if someone were about to pour boiling oil from the roof.  Still, medieval or no, it worked with the brick.

“We could just go to the mall,” I said.

“And pay full price?  Forget it.” Wendy knocked.

“Come in, ladies,” a woman’s voice called from inside.

The store was dark from the exposed brick and the black painted ceiling.  Bones strung on twine dangled from curtain rods, candles burned everywhere, in a variety of colors, yet refreshingly unscented.  The display tables were lined with bowls filled with chicken feet, miniature wax, rag and husk dolls and stones of various sizes and colors.

I ran my fingers around the eye holes in a fairly realistic plastic skull while Wendy disregarded the bizarre inventory and marched straight to the counter bobbing her head and leaning past the cash register to look for the body that went with the voice, the Mambo, assumably.

“You’d better quit them nosy ways, girl.  I’m comin’.”  The voice clipped the air, in a distinctive Haitian twang.  Wendy straightened out and backed away from the counter.  Maybe there were two women, the first voice had none of the island flavor.

Behind the counter a doorway draped in dense black velvet swept open with a whip.  The Mambo of Spokane emerged, all one hundred pounds of her, bespectacled, and topped with a coppery Brillo-pad of curls.

“Beth Liebowitz.”  She extended her hand.  “Which one’s Wendy?”

“That’s me.”  Wendy stepped forward and reached toward the woman.

“Uh…” I searched for the words to stop her.  Didn’t find them.

The two shook.

“Oh.”  Beth released Wendy’s hand with a start.  “You’re terribly chilly, Wendy.  Deathly cold.”

“Well, it is chilly outside.”  I broke in.  “Hello, Ms. Liebowitz. I’m Amanda Feral.”

“Hello, Amanda.”  She slid her glasses down the bridge of her nose and looked across them, Wendy in her sights.  To Wendy she said, “Do I look like a fool?”

“No.”

“Do I appear to be someone who can be lied to?”  She took the glasses off completely and narrowed her gaze.

“Of course not.”  Wendy glanced in my direction, clearly unnerved.

I shrugged.  Then noticed the deadly stare of the voodoo priestess had transferred to me.

The woman laughed.  “I’m just fucking with you.  Just let me lock up and I’ll take you into the temple.”  She stomped to the front of the store and turned the latch.  When she turned back I noticed the thick set of robes that covered her frame.  She seemed to notice.  “Oh.  These?  Window dressing.”  She whipped them off, revealing a cream bouclé Chanel suit with matching skirt.  Thank God, I thought.  A recognizable designer, maybe this wasn’t a wasteland of synthetic fabrics, and sack dresses.

We followed the woman through the draped hall and up a flight of dimly lit stairs.  At the top, a door opened on its own to reveal a modern loft space in white, white and more white.  Everything but the floor, which was a slick honey stained maple, was devoid of color.  Someone had been reading a little too much Necropolitan Home; the place screamed decorator.  Beth seemed to notice my glare.

“Mr. Liebowitz does love his white.  Something about his Heaven Can Wait fixation.  I try not to notice.  Do you think it’s unhealthy?”

“Not at all.  It’s just a little Starck,” I said, but no one laughed.[3]

Beth stopped by the wall opposite the windows and clapped twice.  A panel in the wall slid open to reveal a modern Voodoo altar from the good people at Crate and Barrel, or it could have been.  In contrast to the minimalist furnishings of the Liebowitz home, the altar was an assault on the senses, draped with clashing fabrics, stacked with small paintings of saints, candles, and scattered business cards.  There were bowls of withered fruit, a cup of coffee, and skulls with candles sticking from the mouths.  Statues cluttered the space.  And not particularly spooky or religious looking statues, either.  There was a miniature leprechaun, and a toy soldier standing guard at the base of the Empire State Building. 

“So you girls are having some kind of fashion emergency.”  She looked us up and down, while she rifled through the cabinet underneath.  She pulled out two framed photographs, Ralph Lauren was the subject of the first one, Coco Chanel the other.  These she sat next to a cocktail shaker, martini glass and a black horsehair flogger.  “This kind of trouble calls for Erzulie.”

“What’s that?” I asked.  She motioned for us to sit down on the leather couch behind us.

“Who’s that,” she corrected.  “Erzulie is a Loa, a spirit.  She reigns over beauty.  You’re going to love her.  Now, go open those windows, would ya?   The white loas like fresh air.”

The Mambo poured some cornmeal on the floor and drew what looked like a crucified heart into it, but lovely scrolling and somehow familiar. “This is Erzulie Frieda’s veve,” she said, and blew the residue from her palm.

She crossed the room to the kitchen area, gathered a mango, a box of Red Hots, and a bottle of white rum in the curl of her arm, and slipped into a doorway, briefly, emerging with a bottle of perfume.  Chanel #5.  She placed these on the altar, picked up a remote that started the sounds of drumming from hidden speakers and began to chant in a deep imploring tone.  “Legba Atibon, Guardian of the cross—Oops.  Forgot the main ingredient.”  She snapped her fingers at me.  “Credit Card.  She prefers platinum but she’ll accept gold.”

I dug for my wallet and emerged with an American Express Platinum.  If that didn’t appease the Goddess, what would?

The Mambo began the incantation from the beginning.

“Papa Legba Atibon, Guardian of the Crossroads, Legba, Guardian of the bush, Guardian of the gouse. Ago, Ago, si, Ago la.  By the power of mistress Erzulie, mamou lade, Erzulie Frieda, mamou vodoun.  Ago, Ago si, Ago la.”

Her chants veered off into unintelligible pleading from there.  The drum beats accelerated; I imagined the frenzied hammering of hands.  A chorus rose to match the rhythm.  Mambo Beth passed the rum at one point, for which I was grateful.  The whole thing was a bit much for my frazzled nerves and the hooch really hit the spot, warming me to the skin. 

The scene was a testament to what I’m willing to subject myself to—and/or Wendy—in the name of fashion.

When the clamor settled, Beth stood at the altar dabbing perfume on pressure points and loosing her hair from its tight restraint.  It fell on her Chanel-clad shoulders in curly coiled waves like shavings of chocolate on a…wait a second…that’s a description better suited to Wendy.  It fell on her shoulders in writhing snaky handfuls.

            “You’ll have to excuse my horse, sisters.  She tends to blather.”  Her voice turned coarse and wheezy, as though not her own.  “Good heart, though.”

            “What horse?” I asked.  Beth’s change of tone caught me off guard.

            The priestess looked over her shoulder, sniffed the air; her nose crinkled. “Ah.  A pair of jumbie.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Nzambi.”

            “Is that with an “N”?” I wondered aloud.

            “Jesus Christ, I’m just pointing out that you’re zombies.  Dead.  Spirit people.  What are you new?”

            That’s when it dawned on me.  “Erzulie?”

            “Of course.”  She raised her arms in a decidedly Diva move that would have impressed me had the voodoo spirit not looked exactly like a middle aged Jewish woman in last season’s Lagerfeld.

            “I was expecting something different I guess.”

            “Such as?”

            “Well I thought the ritual would be more exotic, with ululating and chicken blood, or something, more Angel Heart, a little less…um…prerecorded.”

            “Hmmpf.  That movie did nothing for me,” Erzulie said.  “What was with all the window fans?  Crazy.”

            “I know, right?”  Wendy perked up considerably.  This spirit turned out to be good people.

            “Let’s beat it.” She corralled us down the stairs again and into a gorgeous Mercedes that was parked around the corner.  Unlocked.

            “Isn’t Beth worried about car thieves?” I asked.

            “No child.  She put a protection spell around it.  Lookie.”  She pointed at a thin line of white powder that circled the car.  “Beside.  Who want to steal sometin’ ugly as this boxy ting?”

            “You’d be surprised.”  I sat in the passenger seat without considering whether Erzulie knew how to drive.  My question was answered as we tore out of the loop of protection in a cloud of white powder like a ’70s drug deal gone wrong.  She barreled through three red lights and five hairpin turns, one of them on two wheels.[4]  I supposed she knew where she was going, and just had to trust that we’d arrive there safe.  It helped that a goddess or spirit, or whatever was driving; how bad could her karma be?  Pretty bad as it turned out.

            “From the looks of tings, you girls go in for the high fashions.  I’m right, no?”  Erzulie swiveled around to check out Wendy’s wardrobe and within seconds clipped a car in an intersection, it spun into a fire hydrant sending a spray of water twenty feet into the air.  The spirit chortled so hard a snort escaped.  “Damn fools need to watch where they’re goin’.”  Then to me, she said, “Ain’t that right, girl?”

            “Uh…uh.  Sh-sure,” I stammered.

            “Now where’s a spot?”  The spirit woman craned her neck.  “Ah.  There’s one.”

I followed her gaze to a spot fit for only the most economical of vehicles, or a clown car.  I was thinking, it just wasn’t possible to fit in there, when she slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, cramming the car in horizontally between a Jetta and an old Taurus with a dangerous careening slide.  Wendy let out a sharp cry.

“Now, you two just sit still.  I’m goin’ to talk to one of my people.  Designer originals are hard to come by around these parts and easier to lose.”  She slid out of the car and scampered off into the closest doorway, hips swiveling in a way that Beth’s weren’t prepared for.  She was going to be sore tomorrow.

“She’s going to kill us with that driving.”  Wendy jutted her butt off the seat, tugging at her underwear.  “Bitch gave me a wedgy from all the sliding.”

“I thought you’d done this before?”

“No.  I just knew it was an option.  What choice do we have, really?”

I considered darting from the car, going to the mall and stocking up on Liz Claiborne and Anne Klein, but then gagged.  That would be ridiculous.  I mean, honestly, can you imagine us in matching coordinates or soccer mom sweaters?  We had no choice at all.

Across the street, I noticed a man lighting up a cigarette.  He was tall and sandy-haired with tight jeans and running shoes.  He wore sunglasses that caught the waning light just enough to obscure his face.  There was something familiar about him, though.  Something about the confident lean against the brick building, and that he was definitely returning my attention.  I looked up and down the street for the orange mustang.

“Do you remember that car that cut us off?”

“Yeah.  I guess.”

“I think that guy over there is the driver.”

“What?”  Wendy tried to examine the man, squinting in the glare.

“That’s the guy.  I’m pretty sure.”

“I don’t know.  I can’t get a good look at him.  Plus, I don’t really remember if I saw him when he passed us.  You think he’s one of Markham’s wolves?”

Come to think of it, yeah, I did.  Why else would he show up here, wherever here was?  I nodded.  “I’m going to go confront him.  Maybe I can get him to stop hounding us.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I reached for the handle at the same time Erzulie threw open the door and slunk into the driver’s seat.  “Ready to go?” she asked.

Across the street, the man had disappeared.  I looked at Wendy, who shrugged.

“I guess so.”

Another fifteen minutes of irresponsible driving and we were tossed out onto the sidewalk in front of a glass office tower.  Seriously.  Wendy and I couldn’t get out fast enough; I nearly broke a heel stumbling from the Mercedes.  But we managed to regain composure on the curb, smiled and pretended to be polite young ladies, lest we incur Erzulie’s wrath or internal injuries.[5]  She didn’t seem to notice, either way.  She plucked her matching handbag from the back seat and marched up to the glass doors.

“Come now girls.  Did you come to shop, or stare?” She held my credit card in our faces and we followed her in like a pair of dogs after a bone.

Our destination was the 6^th floor and an office space with a bold bronze placard: Ear Candles Ltd.  Wendy and I glanced at each other, a mirror image in sneers.  What the hell were we doing here?  Did Erzulie know something about our ear canals we didn’t?

Then the door opened and it was like she’d thrown open the pearly gates.  Rack upon rack of designer clothing glistened like the sweat off a hot college lifeguard.  I found myself licking my lips.  If I’d been alive those wouldn’t have been the only lips wet, either.  I’d never seen so many must-haves in my life.  My stock was about to plummet.  I looked over at Wendy, her mouth hung agog as a blow-up doll.  She mouthed ‘a wall of shoes’.  I followed her gaze to a floor to ceiling rack of stilettos, boots, and the occasional flat.

Erzulie sashayed Beth’s body through the space, calling, “Anabel!  Girl, you’ve got customers.  Best get you’re butt out here.”

Anabel was a petite and pretty black girl that didn’t look a day over twelve.  That said, she was probably forty-two and under some kind of anti-aging spell, or another voodoo possession.  Hard to say.

“Greetings, ladies!  Welcome.  Anything specific you’re looking for?”

“New wardrobes,” Wendy said.

Dollar signs sparked in the shopgirl’s dark eyes.  “I think we can provide.”

An hour later and we’d replenished the necessities.[6]  I even extended some credit to our favorite fugitive vampire, filling a man bag with a close cut Prada suit and trench, a couple of Gucci shirts, and some snazzy shoes to set it off.  Anything more and he’d be spoiled—after getting a load of his bank account, that wasn’t going to happen.

*******************************

So that’s that. Unedited. Super long for a snippet.  Hope you had fun.  If you want to have some more fun, go read some more snippets!

Cynthia Eden
Victoria Janssen
Lauren Dane
Leah Braemel
McKenna Jeffries
Moira Rogers
Sylvia Day
Vivian Arend
Shelley Munro
Jaci Burton
Mandy Roth
Eliza Gayle