The Baron approached Lilith, a grim smile on his lips, vengeance on his mind. Where he got the bottle of rum and the cigar, no one knew, but they were in his hands all the same.

He spit a mouthful of rum in her face, wafted the cigar smoke around like incense, said the words and sang the songs. The Loa may have deserted him, but The Baron still knew all the tricks. He was a Bokor and this was old-school, down-n-dirty exorcism; pulling out an unwanted rider was like second-nature.

“Come out, little spirit,” The Baron taunted. Lilith turned to run. The Baron was faster; his hand struck swift, like a viper. It sunk into her chest, past flesh and bone, into the deep chasm where a soul should be. There, he found Lilith. And Lilith found him.

The Baron realized too late that he had underestimated Lilith. Which was common enough: everyone from Adam to the Archangels had underestimated her at least once. This knowledge was little comfort to The Baron, of course.

There wasn’t much left of him to appreciate it.