by Anne Stuart
“Have you seen Wendell?” she shouted in Francene’s ear. The noise was deafening out on the streets. It was wall to wall people, with competing brass bands almost drowning the exuberant crowds, and any attempt at quiet conversation was doomed to failure.
Francene shook her head, holding fast to their choice positions on the corner despite the jostling of the brightly costumed crowds around them. “He’s probably already in the parade,” she shrieked back. “We’ll watch for him. Did he tell you what to yell?”
“I’m not going to do it.”
“Certainly you are. You shout, ‘Throw me something, mister,’ and grab for it. If you’re lucky you’ll get a doubloon. Otherwise it’ll be beads, and a Louisiana girl can’t have too many beads.”
“I’m not a Louisiana girl,” she protested automatically.
“Honey, you don’t have any choice”. Francine said caustically. “The moment Grandmere Delacroix found out Dexter had fathered a child you were doomed.”
“But . . .”. Margaret began, but Francine shut her off.
“It’s too noisy to argue. Besides, I hear them coming. Hush, now, until I tell you.”
It was wasted advice. There was no way Margaret could possibly make herself heard over the din, which had risen to painful levels with the scream of motorcycle sirens. A horde of motorcycle police appeared first, stretched across the street, moving slowly, the headlights of their vehicles spearing the darkness. Behind were half a dozen or so mounted creatures, vampires, most of them, who were busy urging people back against the sidewalk, out of the way of the first elaborate float.
“That’s the king,” Francene yelled in her ear as an enthroned vampire was pulled into view. He was a cheery enough ghoul, waving his scepter and acknowledging the cheers of his subjects. The torchlight illuminated the silver-and-gold fairyland of his float.
“Is it Wendell?” Margaret shouted back.
Francene shook her head. “You’re not allowed to ask. He might be any one of them.”
Indeed, seated below the king were a handful of lesser vampires, tossing trinkets into the clamoring crowd. Margaret watched in silence as the float passed by, then marveled as the second one approached. It was even more fanciful; looking like an enchanted forest, and the vampires on it were interspersed with more fantastical creatures, unicorns and werewolves and medieval knights. Francene gave her a sharp jab in the ribs, saying something, but whatever it was, was lost beneath the frenzy as people reached for the flying doubloons.
It wasn’t until the fourth float went by that Margaret found her voice. She’d begun to see why the house was so crammed with Jaffreys and Delacroix—this parade was only one of a score or more held during the last few days before Lent, and it seemed to involve half of New Orleans. The final float was just as crowded with the obligatory vampires and dragons, but Margaret’s gaze was drawn inexorably to someone different.
He was sitting in King Neptune’s lap, a King Neptune made of paper-mache and gilt. He was dressed in a simple cape and half mask, and it took Margaret a moment to recognize the Phantom of the Opera. He held a silver basket of trinkets and was tossing them toward the straining crowd, when suddenly, through the white leather mask, his eyes caught hers.
Once more Francene jabbed her, and this time the poke took her unawares, sending her spinning into the street, dangerously near the float, her back robes swirling around her.
“Throw me something, mister,” she heard her voice call out as her eyes remained trapped within the mesmerizing gaze of the phantom.
He didn’t throw her a doubloon from his basket, or a cheap plastic trinket. Reaching inside his cloak, he took a tiny square of tissue paper and tossed it directly to her.
Hands reached out around her, trying to snatch the package out of the air before she could grasp it. But Margaret could leap, too, and she did, landing on the pavement and stumbling. By the time she looked up the float had passed by, the phantom gone from sight. And in her hand was the tiny square of tissue paper, shining silver in the flickering flames of the torches.
Chapter Ten
“WHO WAS HE?” Margaret and Francene had stepped back from the remainder of the parade, finding momentary quiet, or at least a lessening of the din, in a narrow alley just off Bourbon Street. Margaret still clutched her tiny square of tissue paper, waiting for her question to be answered.
“I already told you, we don’t ask such things,” Francene replied, looking obscurely pleased.
“Who was he?” Margaret repeated. “I notice you don’t bother to ask me who I mean.”
“You mean the phantom, of course. I couldn’t even begin to identify all the various vampires out tonight, and I wouldn’t even want to try. Curse Anne Rice and her damned books.” She pulled her own cape around her sturdy shoulders. “Maybe it was Wendell.”
“It wasn’t Wendell. Wendell already told me he was going to be a vampire, and he’s not one for impulsive changes. Besides, he didn’t have Wendell’s eyes.”
“How could you have seen his eyes from that far away?” Francene scoffed. “In the dark, no less.”
“I could see. And he could see me.”
“There aren’t too many nuns out tonight. If you wanted to be inconspicuous, and my guess is that you did, you couldn’t have picked a worse costume. Mardi Gras is a time for indulgence, not chastity.”
Margaret ignored the sudden tension in her stomach. “There’s no one here I’m interested in being unchaste with.” No, not in New Orleans, she thought. He’s in some hospital undergoing hideous torture . . . no, they didn’t do that anymore. Shock treatments and straitjackets were out of style. They’d probably just drug him into insensibility. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“What makes you think I know the answer?”
She shouldn’t be standing in a noisy alleyway in nighttime New Orleans, the crazy world that was Mardi Gras flowing around her, arguing with a dubious cousin she’d just met. She should find her way back to that overcrowded town house, curl up on her uncomfortable-looking cot and sleep until Wendell could be persuaded to return her to Maison Delacroix. Maybe one of those myriad cousins would be heading in that direction soon. Someone must have to get to work in the morning—she’d never heard that Ash Wednesday was a bank holiday.
She stayed where she was. “I can’t get rid of the feeling that you took me to that corner on purpose. Who was he, Francene?”
Francene laughed. “You’re getting paranoid—you’ve been out in the bayou too long. He must have been another cousin—most of that parade consisted of Delacroix and Jaffreys. He was some distant relation. That’s all I can tell you.”
“That’s all you will tell me,” Margaret said shrewdly.
“For now,” Francene agreed. “Let’s go find an icy bottle of champagne. This is no night for serious drinking. Well celebrate your escape from Grandmère Gertrude’s prison and you can show me what your phantom tossed you.”
She’d almost forgotten the square of paper. She didn’t want to open it in front of Francene, but she still couldn’t rid herself of the notion that she’d been set up, and that her companion knew very well what the stranger had thrown her from the side of the float.
“All right,” she said, fumbling with the silver tissue paper. It was easy enough to tell what lay beneath the thin paper—a ring shape was hard to miss. But she was unprepared for what she unveiled.
It wasn’t gaudy, or impressive, or large, or ornate. It certainly wasn’t worth a great deal of money—the green stones were very small and had to be quartz. But the setting, the twisted filigree of the silver, shaped like tiny branches, was breathtakingly delicate, and the stones winked at her with just the color of her own eyes. And Peter’s, she thought distantly.
“It’s very pretty,” Francene said flatly, holding out her hand. “May I see it?”
&nbs
p; For some reason Margaret was loath to place it in Francene’s square, broad hand, but to refuse would have been childish and silly. She dropped it in Francene’s palm. “Is this the sort of thing they throw for trinkets?”
Francene was turning it over, staring at it, an odd expression on her face. “Yes,” she said slowly. “This is what they used to throw for trinkets. A hundred years ago.”
Margaret stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Don’t try and convince me that the phantom is just that!” she begged. “Some apparition out of the past, with ancient treasures to lure me to my destruction.”
“It’s a nice thought,” Francene murmured. “One even Anne Rice would like. He probably went for you because he thought you were a real nun.”
For a moment Margaret was caught up in the eerie image, until Francene grinned at her, looking very twenty-first century and very mischievous. “Damn it,” Margaret said, annoyed. “You almost had me believing you.”
“Don’t worry about it. The moment your phantom hears you curse he’ll know you’re not a real nun. Let’s go find that champagne. I have the feeling we’re going to need it.” She started to close her hand around the ring, but Margaret snatched it away from her, slipping it on her hand.
“My treasure, Francene,” she murmured. “Not yours.” The weight of it was unaccustomed on her left hand, but she hadn’t even considered putting it on her right. It fitted perfectly—she had slender fingers for someone of her height—and it settled at the base of her ring finger as if it had been made for her. Francene was right; it looked very old, but it had to be a cunning replica of an older piece. If she had time to get out and do some souvenir shopping she’d doubtless find baskets of the same ring, selling three for five dollars to gullible tourists.
It didn’t matter. She wasn’t used to wearing rings—Dexter had sold the engagement ring he’d given her and lost the proceeds gambling, and he’d never bothered to get her a wedding ring. This gift from a stranger, casually tossed from a raucous parade float, was different. This ring belonged to her, and she had no intention of letting go.
She followed Francene’s tortuous path through the crowded streets docilely enough. They were walking parallel to the parade, and the noise filtered back to them. Even those streets were crowded—and it seemed as if all the world had decided to come to New Orleans for Mardi Gras.
“Where are we going?” she demanded as she struggled to keep up with her guide. Francene didn’t bother to answer, heading up the street with a determined gait that told Margaret she knew exactly where she had a destination in mind, and she had no choice but to trust her. In this chaos she was beginning to harbor doubts that she’d ever find the town house on Dumaine Street, but as long as she kept a Delacroix in sight she could be reasonably assured of making it home safely.
They came to a halt on a side street. On foot they’d managed to move faster than the slow-moving parade, and they were at the very end of it, watching as the king descended from his float with a ponderous grace that told Margaret he wasn’t Wendell. She peered at each vampire closely, but while the family resemblance was strong, she couldn’t find her supposed escort.
She found more than enough offers to take his place. “Chère,” a deep voice said as a vampire wrapped his arms around her and breathed rum on her upturned face. “I’ve never ravished a nun before.”
“And you’re not about to start, Phillipe Jaffrey,” Francene said tartly. “Take your hands off her.”
To Margaret’s relief he did so immediately. “You’re a real killjoy, Francene,” he grumbled, casting a last, longing look at Margaret. “This is supposed to be a night for fun.”
“She’s taken, Phillipe. By someone you wouldn’t want to mess with. Trust me.”
Phillipe shook his head. “There’s always tomorrow.” Another celebrant, this one more scantily dressed, drifted by, and his attention immediately followed. “Chère!” he called, once more using the slurred Louisiana term of affection, following after her without a backward glance.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t tell him we were looking for Wendell,” Margaret said with a laugh, twisting the ring on her finger. “I can’t imagine he’d manage to scare anyone off.”
“Are we looking for Wendell?” Francene murmured. “Aren’t we?”
“I thought we were looking for a bottle of champagne. Preferably French.”
“Definitely French,” Margaret said, feeling oddly reckless. “This is Mardi Gras, for heaven’s sake. We can’t drink California wines.”
Another pair of strong male arms encircled her, this time from behind, and she was lifted up against a sturdy male body. “I’ve found my prize,” he trumpeted in a voice similar, but not identical to Wendell’s.
“Put her down, Charlie,” Francene said crossly as Margaret began to struggle. “She’s taken.”
“I saw her with Wendell. I’m better looking.” Cousin Charlie announced modestly, swinging the indignant Margaret around in his arms to face a laughing vampire. “Tell me, chère, who would you prefer? Staid old Wendell or the flower of New Orleans manhood?”
“She’s not waiting for Wendell, Cousin Charlie,” a slow, deep voice interrupted. “She’s waiting for me.”
Beneath Charlie’s ashen makeup he seemed to turn even paler, and he practically dropped her on the street. “Cousin,” he stammered. “I hadn’t realized . . .”
Margaret didn’t need to turn around to know who had rescued her this time. She knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that when she turned she wouldn’t face another of the legion of vampires that cluttered the streets around them.
“Francene,” Charlie said, his voice shaken.
“Don’t worry about it, Charlie. Go find another cousin to ravish.”
But Margaret was hardly aware of the byplay. She saw only the startled, troubled expression beneath Charlie’s makeup, and she wondered if fear was a part of that expression. She couldn’t really tell. She turned slowly, to face the phantom with a white leather half mask and hypnotic eyes. In one white gloved hand he held a bottle of champagne.
He wasn’t one of the dozen or so Wendell clones she’d run into that night. This was a Peter clone, with dark eyes and a thin, sensuous mouth. He even had Peter’s elegant hands beneath the white gloves, and for a moment Margaret panicked.
But Peter was locked away somewhere, beyond reach. He wasn’t out on the streets of New Orleans, celebrating carnival with his extended family. He wasn’t staring down into the eyes of a frightened nun, offering her champagne and danger. No matter how much a crazy part of her wanted it to be.
“Cousin Margaret, this is your cousin Andrew Delacroix. He’s from the Baton Rouge branch of the family.”
Margaret barely noticed Francene’s introduction. He had the most hypnotic eyes. It was probably just a trick of the mask he was wearing, but she felt caught in them, drawn out of herself. “Cousin Andrew,” she acknowledged faintly.
“Soeur Marguerite,” he murmured in return.
Even his voice was like Peter’s. Subtly different, a little rougher, a little harsher, but just as mesmerizing. He was taller than Peter, or Wendell, though that might just be an illusion caused by his sweeping black cape.
“You like your trinket?” he asked.
She glanced down at the ring on her finger. “It’s very pretty.”
“You sold yourself to the devil with it, chère,” he said. “Once you put it on you became mine.”
“I can take it off.” She tugged at it, but the ring that had slipped on so easily now refused to budge.
“Don’t fight it,” he murmured. “Just for tonight you belong to a higher power. You have no worries, no responsibilities, nothing to think about but your own pleasure.”
She should be frightened, Margaret told herself, staring up into his masked face. She k
new nothing of him, she knew little more of Francene, the guide who’d brought her here. If she had any sense at all she’d run screaming into the night, or at least start hollering for Wendell to come and save her.
She didn’t want Wendell to rescue her. She didn’t want to be sensible, or careful, or responsible tonight. She wanted to wander the streets of New Orleans with a phantom, drinking champagne and enjoying life.
She made one last attempt at showing sense. “I would be crazy to go with you,” she said, knowing it was true, knowing that it didn’t matter.
He smiled then, and his eyes lit up with his own private amusement. “Crazy,” he agreed.
And suddenly Margaret knew she had nothing to worry about. This man wouldn’t do her any harm. He might bewitch her, confuse her, take her to places she’d never dreamed existed. He might even frighten her, just a tiny bit. But he wouldn’t hurt her.
“It’s carnival, Sister Marguerite,” he said, his voice deep and seductive. “Laissez les bon temps rouler.” He held out a hand to her, waiting for her decision. “Let the good times roll.”
She looked back toward Francene, but her protector had already melted into the crowds. It didn’t matter. She had already decided. “Laissez les bon temps rouler,” she agreed, and put her hand in his.
“HAVE YOU SEEN Margaret anywhere?” Wendell finally caught up with his detested cousin Francene sometime around midnight, to find her in the middle of a disagreement with one of his Delacroix cousins. The parade was long over, the revelry had spilled over into the streets and beautiful women were everywhere. But nowhere in sight was a tall, black-garbed figure.
