She hated snakes.

She felt she'd been traveling forever. Then, up ahead, there was the sign: Old Blind Joe's Reptile Emporium, and beyond it, the place to turn. Allison pulled off the main highway and onto a dirt road. She drove five miles, checking her odometer often in fear she'd driven too far. It wasn't a road for tourists. This was back woods Florida. Her tire fell in a rut, her teeth clanked together, and the coppery tang of blood filled her mouth.

Finally, she reached the clearing. The road had no shoulder, so she pulled to a stop and left the Jeep in the middle of the dirt's cratered surface. Allison climbed from the Liberty and scrutinized the area. Dusk had arrived, painting the sky purple and orange, outlining the clouds with the sun's last rays. The heavy scent of decayed vegetation clung to her nostrils.

As darkness descended, they began to arrive. People came from all walks of life, driving all manners of vehicle, with some on foot. Allison wondered why anyone would want to live within walking distance in this forbidding madscape of foliage. Thinking of the vermin dwelling in such a habitat made her skin crawl. No Hollywood movie, this, but chills were already creeping up her spine. And the ritual was yet to come.

Torches set in a circle enclosed the clearing like the bars of a cage. A tall, dignified black man lit one, then used it to fire the others. Flames ate at the wood. People gathered with an air of anticipation. Everyone was ready, but the houngan had yet to arrive.

Apprehension clawed at her stomach. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea. Voodoo was a mystery, and she'd never been good at delving into the unknown. Simon had always complained about her lack of adventure; in the end it was her banality that drove him away.

A car whispered to a stop behind her Jeep. Large and black, with tinted windows to hide the secrets within. The door opened. The priest climbed out.

Allison stepped forward to greet him. "Father Michael, how nice of you to come. You must have realized how nervous I'd be. You must have known I'd need your support."

He smiled, patting her hand like an indulgent parent. "Do you remember what I told you? That voodoo is a marriage of African faith and holy mother church?" At her nod he said, "Then it shouldn't surprise you when I say I am the houngan."

Adrenaline sparked her bloodstream and she pulled her hand from his grasp. Panic filled her at the knowledge that Father Michael practiced both Catholicism and Voodoo. She'd been willing to try the ritual, but to know the priest would perform it felt wrong, blasphemous.

The priest . . . the houngan said, "Mary, bring the maize."

A comely woman of mixed race brought an earthenware bowl filled with ground corn. She curtseyed, then fell to her knees before the priest and kissed the ground, laying the pottery at his feet. She rose and backed away.