A/N: First of all, thank you so much for the encouraging comments and being named on so many alert lists! Made my day as you can imagine. Second, my first attempt at a summary probably needed to have more details. This story takes place after the events of season 4, episode 12. But, most of the story was outlined based on events in True Blood up through season 4, episode 10. I also borrow some elements from the books, which I have read. So there will be some artistic license taken.

Also, any mistakes with Haitian history or the minimal French vocabulary I used, are entirely my own. And, as always, these marvelous characters are the property of Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball. I just take them out on play dates and promise to return them (mostly) unharmed. No copyright infringement is intended. Read and enjoy, then review!

Santo Domingue, Island of Hispaniola 1792

The slave Baptiste moved silently over the expanse of lawn that separated the house gardens from the sugar fields and slave shacks of the plantation Montville. He could smell the roses from France that the Mistress nursed with such care. More care, certainly, than she gave to any of her children. By handing them over to slave nursemaids, and then to tutors or governesses, she felt she had done all that was required of her. This limited attention was in turn more than the Master paid to his wife; he preferred to possess the slaves who could not refuse his will and the free mulatto women in town who could not refuse his money. But this was all as it should be among the grand blanc, the European-born white population in France's richest and most profitable Caribbean colony. Nobody thought for a moment that it should be any different.

Except for Baptiste and others like him in the burning hot summer of 1792.

Thousands of escaped slaves had lived on the fringes of the wilderness for years, raiding and stealing to survive. They were known as maroons. Those who were caught were subjected to horrific punishments: hanging, burning, castration, blinding and the rape of both sexes.

Now in the summer of rebellion, slaves on the plantations allied themselves with bands of heavily armed maroons, looting and burning plantation houses, and killing the white occupants-men, women and children. Revolution had come at last to Montville, and Baptiste's torch of freedom flickered as he peered into the window of his Master's house.

The house of the Master was also the house of his father. Baptiste growled silently as he wrapped the tail of his loose shirt around his hand and broke a pane of glass in the double doors leading from the garden terrace to the drawing room. He paused as the glass fell mostly on the deep carpet within but he heard no sounds of alarm so he unlocked the door and stepped inside. He checked the large rooms on the main floor, including his father's study, but found them empty. Baptiste retrieved what he was looking for and sped toward the back of the house.

Father. What an odd word. To Baptiste it meant a tall menacing figure as far above him as Le Bon Dieu in Heaven with a much more immediate way of visiting his wrath. That figure had visited his mother weekly all through his childhood, violating her in the small rope bed that at other times she shared with her son. While he curled up in the corner with a scrap of blanket, hearing everything. Sometimes, Master arrived stinking of drink and his mother sent Baptiste outside to sleep. Baptiste didn't go far, however, and her screams on those nights never left his dreams.

His mother, a Vodoun priestess of the Yoruba people, was African-born. Tall and beautiful, she caught the Master's eye on the auction block. She practiced her religion in secret, but the slaves knew who to go to for healing, for comfort, for telling what the future held. She knew the sacrifices required to invoke the Loa, spirits that occupied the world all around them, and beyond. Although she possessed the herbs that would have washed the Master's seed from her body, she chose to keep the baby because she believed he would have a great destiny. She bore the Master's child and taught her son all she knew. Over time, Baptiste became a skilled and powerful houngan or priest.

On bare feet Baptiste padded silently up the servant staircase from the kitchen. Uncounted times he had run up and down these steep, narrow stairs carrying meals, hauling hot water and firewood; fetching and carrying for the family and their guests. Sometimes he was called upon to service guests in certain other ways, as well. There had been one a few nights ago, whose cool hands and smooth polite voice had commanded the most perverse pleasures, and the marks that were left on his body…Baptiste pushed the thoughts away. The night would be long.

He heard distant cries, and knew the burning sugar mill and outbuildings had been noticed. Some slaves, out of loyalty or fear, rushed to save their Master's property. Baptiste spared a moment of pity for them-but the message of the loa in the sacrifices had been clear, all opposition must be silenced for them to succeed tonight. He continued his dark climb; torch in one hand, stained machete in the other.

He reached the floor with the family sleeping quarters. The nursery door was open and he looked inside. It appeared to be empty. Had the twin girls and the nursemaid sought refuge with their mother? He stepped back into the hall and moved down the silent passageway until reaching the apartments of his Mistress. He passed through her empty sitting room with the damask-covered chairs, the embroidery frame and deep blue carpet. He slowed as he came to the carved double doors leading to the sleeping chamber. He could hear faint whimpering as he leaned closer. The cries grew louder as he slowly opened the doors.

The six-year-old twins, whom Baptiste regarded only as exquisitely dressed but useless dolls, lay motionless on the huge bed. Their nursemaid, named Delphie, was rocking one lifeless girl, tears streaming down her brown face. "She made me poison them; she made me kill my babies!" Delphie wailed. "Why she make me do that, Baptiste? I didn't want to, but she made me! What mama gonna kill her babies?"

"Where is she, Delphie?" Baptiste demanded. "Where's that bitch? Our beloved Mistress!" He crossed the distance to the bed and shook Delphie's arm. "Tell me!"

Delphie's raised wild tear-filled eyes to him. "I dunno! She left once the babies stopped breathing!" Baptiste raised his machete to the maid's throat. "I swear, I don't know where she went!" Baptiste was almost persuaded until he saw Delphie's eyes widen slightly at something behind him. He whirled to find his Mistress swinging a heavy iron poker right at his head. He dodged and slashed with his machete. Red blossomed across the Mistress' pristine white embroidered robe as she fell to her knees.

Baptist stepped over to her and looked into china-blue eyes set in the fair skin that was never allowed the kiss of the sun. He remembered the slaps and pinches when he was a child, and when she had his mother whipped out of jealousy for the attention her husband paid to one who could not refuse him. "Better to die quickly than be touched by your unholy black hands, bastard!" the Mistress breathed heavily.

"As always," Baptiste grabbed her golden hair and pulled her head far back. "Your wish is my command." He slid the machete across her throat and gloried in the spray of her blood across his face. He licked his lips and whispered, "Tastes like freedom."

Baptiste turned to Delphie, still whimpering on the bed beside her former charges. "Get out, girl!" He snarled. "Or end up like your devil Mistress." He raised his machete threateningly.

"I won't never leave my girls," Delphie wept. "Never!"

"She made you nurse them and your own baby died when you had no milk left for him!" Baptist raged. "How can they mean anything to you?"

Her loyalty to their oppressors infuriated him. She dishonored the power the loa had lent him tonight to seize the freedom of their people. The black and red ribbons of energy roiled in his belly where he'd ingested the blood of the sacrifice. He put his hands to his stomach and felt the power flow out into his fingers. He didn't know if anyone else saw the strings of energy clinging to him like black molasses. His hands grew hot, and he slowly twisted them together, picturing the maid's throat between them. Delphie began to choke and gasp. He tightened his grip. He heard a sudden crack and Delphie's head hung at an unnatural angle. Still wet with tears, her wide eyes stared back at him, tongue protruding from her lips. He had never touched her.

Baptiste shook his head as if to clear his thoughts of cobwebs. He ran out of the bedroom. He still had work to do.

He slowed his pace so that he could move as quietly as possible. He was approaching his most dangerous prey now. He opened the door to his father's rooms cautiously. The room was dim and he had left his torch behind in the Mistress' apartments. He gripped his machete tightly. There was a single candle burning on a small table next to the lounging couch where his younger half brother lay, apparently sleeping. Baptiste stepped into the room, about to call his brother's name, when the point of a sword dug deeply into the side of his throat.

"Stop right there, mon fils!" whispered his father. "I knew you would be the one to come." The weapon held by his father was the dress sword presented to him as an officer in the French army, by the old King Louis. The only time Baptiste saw his father weep was last year when news came that the French Royal family had been imprisoned in the Tuileries Palace during the Revolution.

"Drop the machete, boy." The sword drew blood from Baptiste's throat. "You know I won't hesitate to save the hangman the trouble of ending your existence," said his Master. "Where are Helene and the girls?"

Baptiste dropped his weapon and sneered at his father. "Your darling Helene poisoned her daughters rather than let them live to see black slaves overrunning her house." He heard his father draw a sharp breath. "And while your dear wife will not be joining us this evening, I can tell you she was a sweet-tasting cunt!"

Expecting the enraged slash of his father's sword, Baptiste twisted toward him, blocking the down stroke with his left arm and sweeping his father's booted feet out from under him. His opponent went down on one knee but the slash of the sword cut Baptiste's arm nearly to the bone and Baptiste swayed as waves of pain crashed against him.

Baptiste stumbled back and with his good hand pulled out of his belt the item he'd retrieved from his father's study earlier, a dueling pistol. He pointed it at his father's chest. "This is fitting, don't you think, mon pere? Your pistol, your house, your son!" Baptiste pulled the trigger and several things seemed to happen at once. His brother who'd been watching them silently, cried out, "Papa, no!" His father tried to dodge to one side but the pistol ball caught him in the shoulder, spinning him and sending him crashing into a delicately carved chair.

Baptiste was not skilled at reloading. He dropped the pistol and grabbed his machete. His younger brother was weeping loudly. "Silence, Anton!" Baptiste cried. "You know he deserves it!"

Baptiste's father clung to Anton's couch and pulled himself upright. One hand clutched his shoulder to try to stop the bleeding. In the other, he held a rough sack, spotted with dark liquid stains. He awkwardly upended the sack and out rolled the severed head of Baptiste's mother. Baptiste recognized her intricately braided hair fastened with the tortoiseshell comb he had carved for her. His world seemed to go black and he forgot how to breathe.

The Master laughed. "That bitch! I knew Therese was part of this uprising." He kicked at the head but missed. "She didn't try to deny it. She even admitted she was the reason Anton has been sickly since he was a little boy! Feeding him devilish potions and such so you could stay close and care for him rather than be sent to the fields where you belonged."

He coughed deeply then continued while Baptiste felt the loa fight within him like caged rats, snarling for release. Their priestess must be avenged. He struggled to contain and channel the power while his father kept talking. "She said you should have been my heir. As if I would let some mixed blood savage carry my name and inherit all I've worked for!"

Baptiste noticed a fine crystal goblet on the mantle next to him. He picked it up and inspected it. His father grabbed his sword. "Are you addled, boy? I'll end you, just like I ended your devil bitch mother. I can do that because I own you, body and soul!"

With great concentration, Baptiste squeezed the delicate crystal in his hand, crushing it. Shards of glass dug into his palm and fingers; blood dripped out of his clenched fist. Black strings of energy spiraled out from his chest and spread down his arm to his bloody hand. A dark light glowed in his palm as he continued to grip the splintered glass. The same dark light began to pulse around his father's torso.

Suddenly the Master screamed in agony. He bent over clutching his belly. Blood began to pour from his mouth. He made choked gargling sounds and dropped his sword, clawing at his throat until something hard and sharp fell from his lips, along with more blood. It glinted slightly in the candlelight. A piece of glass landed on the carpet. Another piece and then another followed, accompanied by more screams and wordless pleading moans as the man fell to his knees. Shards of glass began to work themselves out through the skin on the Master's neck, face, arms and belly, leaving copiously bleeding slashes; his tongue cut to bloody ribbons.

Baptiste watched his father roll on the floor begging unintelligibly for mercy, though the sounds gradually grew less and less. He glanced at his brother. Anton's eyes were so wide only the whites appeared to be showing. The dark pulsing light faded from their father's still body, while blood continued to pour from innumerable wounds, staining the green woven rug. Count Henri Sejour, Master of Montville, was dead.

Baptiste let the glass shards fall from his hand. His own cuts would heal.

He knelt down beside his brother, younger by three years. Baptiste had been his brother's body slave since the boy was two years old. He had carried him, bathed him, dressed him; had sat through lessons with tutors with him. He knew his mother had somehow been responsible for the boy's weakness and recurrent fevers but had not questioned her. Despite everything, the brothers had grown fond of each other. Anton loved the strong, active Baptiste who was his constant companion.

Baptiste gently stroked Anton's hair back from his forehead, as he had through many feverish nights. Anton's green eyes fixed on his brother's black ones, their faces otherwise very similar. "Have you come for me as well, Baptiste?" Anton asked in a soft, shaken voice. "Will it hurt?"

"There will be no pain, I promise, ma petite." Baptiste said. "It will be like falling asleep. You will wake in Heaven with all the other angels."

Anton sighed and a tear slipped down his cheek. "I will see Suzette and Eugenie there, yes? I know you did not like our sisters but they always made me laugh."

"Then they will be there, too. Because you wish it. Le Bon Dieu would refuse you nothing." He kissed Anton on the lips. "Shhh, it is time to rest now. Close your eyes and breathe deeply." Nestling his brother's fair head on his shoulder, Baptiste cupped Anton's chin in his hand, humming softly for several minutes until he felt Anton's breathing become deep and even. Then he gently pinched the boy's nostrils shut and gripped his mouth closed tightly. Anton jerked violently once, twice; then he was still.

Baptiste continued to stroke his brother's face until all the warmth had left it. He gently arranged Anton on the couch, and covered him as if he were only sleeping. He gathered up his mother's head, caressing her smooth face for a moment before wrapping it in a fine shawl once belonging to his Mistress. He would bury his mother come the dawn with the rituals befitting a Vodoun priestess.

He never looked at his father's body again as he left the room.

Baptiste walked slowly down the main stairs gazing at the large rooms filled with beautiful furnishings and art brought at great expense from Paris. Paid for with the blood and torment of hundreds of slaves, it would all burn tonight.

There was a blur of motion and suddenly Baptiste was pinned against the wall by a white hand at his throat. Baptiste's eyes widened and he felt true fear for the first time since he entered the house. He gazed into the pale face of the guest who had commanded his body a few nights before. The man was a little shorter than Baptiste but radiated such a dominating presence of evil, Baptiste quailed before him. The loa in his gut squirmed violently and then stilled, as if even they feared being noticed.

"Well, look who's been a busy boy tonight," drawled the guest. "I knew you had passion and a thirst for taking what is rightfully yours, but you look as though you waded through rivers of blood to do it." He laughed at Baptiste's choked gasp. "That's a rare quality. Well done, Baptiste, well done indeed."

"I like you, dear boy. I really do." The man's breathe smelled sweet, as if he chewed cinnamon cloves. Baptiste struggled but the man held him pinned to the wall like a helpless insect, and with as little effort. "Now don't be rude, Baptiste. I'm trying to proposition you. I think you will enjoy coming home with me and meeting my companion."

Baptiste screamed as he saw fangs appear in the man's mouth. What demon was this? The fangs locked on Baptiste's throat and tore into his jugular vein. For a moment, the man stopped, Baptiste's blood dripping from his mouth. "I suppose I ought to introduce myself because we will get to know each other very, very well," he purred. "My name is Russell Edgington."