Souls Collide: Book 1 of The Soul Wars

by J. D. Blackrose

  “Why, yes,” Miss Alva said, fluttering her hand as if this was a trifle. “My family goes back generations.”

  “It certainly does. Wasn’t much of your family’s property burned down in the Great Fire of 1788?”

  “It was, but it turned out to be a blessing as my family was able to rebuild and support the construction of our dear St. Louis Cathedral. There is a plaque to the Alva family’s generosity in the rectory to this day. The Bishop has us in once a year to commemorate.”

  Adelaide gave her a thin smile. “How lovely for you. It is best that history be remembered.”

  “Yes, on that we can agree.”

  “Which is why I am so thrilled to have your promise to restore and preserve this wonderful home after my death,” Adelaide said, drawing the conversation toward the most important topic. She offered a tray of canapés.

  “Well,” harrumphed Mr. Landry, “we will agree to preserve, but to restore,” he said, waving his chubby index finger in the air, “that is what we have to see. There is a limit to our funds, you know.”

  “Why don’t we take a tour of the house, Mrs. Beauchamp? Then we can discuss our next steps,” said Miss Alva. “Drafty, isn’t it?”

  Adelaide’s heart sank because she knew that they wouldn’t like what they saw, and the ghosts were making things more difficult. It wasn’t her fault that she and her husband had never had children. Or, maybe it was, but Louis never had children with any of his other companions either, and she was sure that if one of them could have conceived a child, they would have done so, if only to snare Louis for themselves and flaunt it in her face. Of course, she knew about his dalliances, but as any wife of the time, she turned a blind eye. Men would be men, and the women in their lives simply had to live with it.

  She shepherded her visitors through the upstairs bedrooms where the paint was peeling, revealing water stains on the walls, and ushered them past a hall bath whose faucets had rusted right off. She waved away the comments about the broken wall tiles and the listing chandelier in the dining room and prayed they didn’t trip on the uneven flooring. She kept up a steady flow of chatter as she escorted them room to room.

  “And here,” she said, gesturing to the scarred oak desk in the study, “is the very desk where Nathan Beauchamp signed freedom papers for all of his slaves. Many of them stayed on as help.”

  “That was generous of him to keep them on,” remarked Miss Alva.

  “Not really. They moved from slavery to indentured servants. It was a shameful time in our history. Tell me,” said Adelaide, struggling to hold back her unladylike snark, “when did your family finally free their slaves?”

  “After the Battle of Forts Jackson and St. Philip, of course. Like you said, it was a shameful time in our history.”

  By this time even Mr. Landry was blowing on his fingertips to keep them warm. He motioned to hurry things along.

  Adelaide led them back to the sitting room, adding, “Luckily, the city itself was spared a battle, so we have many historic buildings to protect, isn’t that true?”

  “It is! And that is why we are here, though I am afraid, Mrs. Beauchamp, that though we would like to hold this building, it will require that you invest in some restoration. We had no idea the extent of the damage. The walls are cracking, and the floors seem warped. There is a shocking current of cold air even with the windows closed. The furniture is gorgeous, but what has happened to the house structure? It must be fixed, and I am afraid the Society cannot manage this all by ourselves.”

  Adelaide grimaced. She had a backup plan, but it would require selling her jewelry, a process she didn’t want to do. But there was no choice, and anyway, she thought to herself, who would she give it all to?

  Mr. Landry gazed at Adelaide and said, somewhat more kindly that he had spoken before, “Mrs. Beauchamp, I am a sincere admirer of your husband’s family and their influence on the sugar industry in New Orleans, but it is true. We cannot shoulder this burden. Please think about what you can do, and we will revisit the subject.”

  After the Society people left, Adelaide wept, a ghostly hand holding her own. The Rochons and Beauchamps didn’t give in; they survived. They had made it through the Civil War, yellow fever, massive floods, early frosts, sugar mill fires, and intense negotiations with the DeBore family over land rights for sugar cane crops. She’d been childless at a time when fertility was a measurement of a woman’s worth. More recently, she and her home had survived Katrina. She straightened her shoulders. She would do what she had to do and be glad it was an option.

  The contractors blamed the unprecedented foundation damage on the shifting, swampy grounds native to Louisiana. Adelaide and staff needed to leave the property for a month while the experts lifted the house and rebuilt the foundation. Moving specialists arrived to package breakables and secure furniture.

  While the contractors fussed over the soil on her plot, checking its acidity and debating whether it was more or less loamy than the neighboring land, Noel took Adelaide eighty miles away to Baton Rouge.

  They arrived at an elegant storefront with discreet lettering announcing the location as Southern Estate Jewelry. The owner of the establishment was a man older than Adelaide herself and was someone she known since childhood.

  “Paul, it is so nice for you to receive me,” said Adelaide as the wizened man kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Adelaide, you are still a beauty.”

  “Hush. We all know that isn’t true,” Adelaide said with a small smile.

  “It is true, my dear. Allow me to introduce you to my son and grandson,” Paul said, gesturing in a genteel manner toward the younger versions of himself that hovered nearby. The son clasped Adelaide’s hand and brought it to his lips. The grandson nodded to her, wiggling back and forth in what appeared to be too tight shoes.

  Paul locked the door and took Adelaide’s arm. “Let’s move to a private room in the back where we will be more comfortable.”

  As she walked across the floor, Adelaide was taken back to an earlier time and for a moment imagined she was once again the debutante of old. She gazed at the diamonds, gold, and other precious gems that lined the cases on either side of her, admiring their beauty, although some of the modern settings were not to her taste. Once, she would have been in here to buy, happily flitting from one case to another as Paul and Louis chatted, Louis prepared to indulge her every whim. Those were good times, she thought, but times change.

  Paul gestured to a chair at a small table and sat in an opposite one, the son and grandson lingering in the background. He pulled out an artfully hidden drawer and withdrew a black velvet square, which he placed in front of Adelaide.

  “Show me what you’ve brought, my dear,” he said, sympathy in his eyes.

  Adelaide wouldn’t have tolerated sympathy from anyone else, but Paul had been a part of her life forever, a best friend to Louis and her close companion when Louis died, visiting on weekends, until both decided that the trip was too long for either of them.

  Adelaide extracted a silk bag from her purse and handed it to Paul, who unwrapped it with care and placed the items on the black velvet. When he saw what was inside, he caught his breath.

  “The star sapphire broach, Adelaide! And your wedding ring? Are you sure?”

  “I have no one to give them to, Paul.”

  “I was there when Louis chose each of these pieces for you.”

  Adelaide reached up and touched Paul’s face. “We both know you picked this ring out for me, Paul. Louis had terrible taste in jewelry.”

  Paul cracked a wide smile. “That is true. He thought bigger was better.”

  “Remember that ruby?” Adelaide said, letting forth a girlish giggle that would have shocked Gaspard.

  “I never thought I’d say a ruby was ugly, but the cut was all wrong,” Paul responded. “But Louis wanted you to have it.”

  “I’m glad you talked him out of it.”

  “He bought the gold bangle bracelets instead.”
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  “I love them. I’m not ready to part with those yet.”

  “And yet, we have your diamond engagement and wedding ring here, the star sapphire from Burma, and your father’s Elgin pocket watch.”

  “The chain is the original.”

  “I can tell,” Paul said softly. “The gemstones have increased in value, especially since the rings are set in platinum. The pocket watch will sell for a few hundred.”

  “Whatever you can do, Paul, and thank you.”

  The son and grandson stared at the sapphire broach, eyes wide.

  “How big is that?” asked the grandson.

  His father estimated, “Fifty carats?”

  Paul replied, “Forty carats, about eighteen carats smaller than the Rockefeller sapphire.”

  “What’s the Rockefeller sapphire?” asked the grandson, leaning over his grandfather’s shoulder, hand outstretched but floating mid-air as if he were struggling to restrain himself from feeling the jewel’s glistening surface.

  “John D. Rockefeller bought it from an Indian maharajah in 1934. That sapphire sold for over three million dollars at its most recent Christie’s auction. I think this one, though smaller and missing the glamour of the Rockefeller provenance, will still sell a bit below that price. But I will need to send it New York, Adelaide.”

  “How will you sell it?”

  “It will go on private auction with Christie’s. They have a special list for people who want and can afford these things. They will take their cut and then you will get the rest. I don’t know how long it will take. I’ll sell the rings and watch from here.”

  “What about your cut, Paul?”

  Paul narrowed his eyes. “Adelaide, I do this for you as a friend. After all these years, you think I’m going to charge you money?” The son, standing behind him, recoiled at this statement.

  “Thank you, Paul.”

  “It is my pleasure, beautiful lady.”

  The two walked to the door holding hands. Adelaide spared a glance behind her to see Paul’s son and grandson gaping at their retreating backs. Paul walked Adelaide to her car and opened her door. He leaned in and gave Adelaide a soft kiss on the forehead. “I still love you,” he whispered.

  Adelaide clung to him for a moment, then took her seat in the car. As Noel drove off, Adelaide wiped away a tear. Noel did a good job pretending he didn’t see.

  5

  Adelaide paid Mathilde her wages for the month and waved as the maid set off on a trip to Disney World with her grandchildren.

  “Okay, everybody,” Adelaide said to her family ghosts. “We are out of money at present, and all living residents have to be out in a week. My only choice is the guest house.”

  The ghosts surrounded her, their anxiety bleeding into her body. Her blood ran cold, and she shivered in the warm air. She hadn’t visited the old place in a long time and was afraid of what she would find, or what she would hear.

  Placing one foot in front of the other and balancing with her cane, Adelaide made her way down the stone path to the cottage. She despaired just looking at it. Left to its own devices for years, the cottage tipped to the right. The roof had a sizeable hole, and as she entered, she could smell mildew in the main room. Surprisingly, the bedroom was in better shape, and there were linens in the closet still wrapped in plastic. The running water worked, despite the rust stains on the sink and tub. Once she plugged in the washer and dryer, they turned on, and she ran a load of towels she’d located under the bathroom sink just fine.

  She placed a large bucket under the hole, shook out the bedding in the closet, and cleaned with some old rags she found in the kitchen. It was slow, painful work. Her back and hips screamed in agony. Her knee swelled, and she sneezed because of the thick dust. Using her cane meant one hand was occupied at all times, so she had to clean with the other. Nevertheless, after several painstaking hours, the house was dust free, the bed made, and the old icebox was cooling.

  She stopped at nightfall and walked back to the main house, wanting to avoid staying in the guest house for as long as possible. Besides, she was physically and mentally exhausted and yearned for her own bed.

  Adelaide was in the kitchen the next morning choosing what necessities she would carry to the guest house. She ached all over and was thinking that she might have a rolling cart somewhere when a loud knock on the door caused her to bolt out of her chair.

  She caught her breath, smoothed her hair, and walked to the front door, which she feared would give way with the force of her visitor’s pounding. Adelaide composed her face, as her mother trained her, and opened the door.

  Nothing could have surprised her more.

  A Nordic goddess stood on the step. She was six feet tall with blond hair, almost white, cut close to her head on the sides and back, but long over her eyes. Her eyes were ice blue, and the muscles showing from beneath her racerback T-shirt proved she was in formidable shape. She had a belt slung low around her waist with a knife sheathed on the left side and seven Japanese throwing stars on the right.

  Kara turned her eyes on Adelaide. “You know who I am?”

  Adelaide drew her shoulders up and lifted her chin. “You are Gaspard Bessette’s assistant, Kara something-or-other.”

  “Svarstal. Kara Svarstal. And yes, I am his assistant, his First.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I am his top assistant, second in authority only to him.”

  “Why the weapons?”

  Kara stilled. “I am also his bodyguard.”

  “You don’t seem like the kind of woman who likes being ordered around by a man, or a vampire.”

  A frisson of distaste crossed Kara’s face before she schooled herself. “I’m on loan.”

  Adelaide decided not to pursue that statement. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know who was powerful enough to own this woman and lend her to someone else. Instead she asked, “Are you Swedish? You have a slight accent.”

  “Something like that.”

  Adelaide gestured the woman in, noticing that there was a bronze disc, about the size of a silver dollar, attached to the back of Kara’s belt at the bottom of her spine.

  Kara turned in a circle, taking in the packing boxes and plastic furniture coverings.

  “Mr. Bessette noticed that you had contractors here.”

  “Mr. Bessette should mind his own business.”

  “He is concerned about your well-being. Lifting the foundation of an old house is no simple matter. Where will you stay?”

  “None of your business! It is time for you to leave.”

  “There is a guest cottage on this property, yes? Is that your plan?”

  Adelaide was fuming, but she nodded yes.

  “I shall look at it.”

  “No. You do not need to look at it. Please go and tell Monsieur Bessette that I appreciate his concern, but I am fine.”

  Kara ignored her, walked on past, and exited through the kitchen door and to the back garden, following the stone path to the cottage. Adelaide tried to hurry after her but couldn’t possibly keep up with the younger woman.

  “What are you doing?” she yelled at Kara’s back. “I did not give you permission! You need to leave!”

  Kara whirled on her from several feet away, mouth set. “My employer directed me to ensure your health and safety. I will see this cottage if you mean to stay there.” She strode off like a Spartan to war, without a look back. Adelaide decided to wait in the kitchen. She considered calling the police but shuddered at the thought of making a fuss. No, she could handle this. She fixed a cup of chicory coffee to keep her hands moving and her mind calm.

  Several moments later, Kara burst in through the back door and said, “That house is simply unserviceable. It has a hole in the roof, rickety furniture, and I am certain there are mice in the walls. There was this constant scurrying just at the edge of my hearing. Gaspard will not allow this.”

  “Gaspard has no right or ability to do anything about it. It is my house, not
his. And as far as the sound you heard, those aren’t mice or any other living creature. Those are the daytime sounds of the ghosts who live there.”

  “I would have sensed ghosts,” said Kara, matter-of-factly.

  Adelaide raised one manicured eyebrow. “Is that so?” She flicked a finger to the corner of the room in a beckoning manner, and the ghost that hovered there floated forward and shifted through Kara’s body. The lithe woman straightened to her full height and, in one fluid motion, unsheathed the knife with her right hand, whirling to look behind her and then spun in a full circle to locate the source of her discomfort. Adelaide wasn’t surprised that Kara felt the ghost, nor that she felt it so acutely that she unsheathed a weapon.

  She was surprised to see the knife stretch into a golden sword.

  And she was stunned to watch Kara tug on the disc at her back, snap it open, and twirl it around in one smooth motion. Even the athleticism that it took to do that wasn’t surprising. No, the shocking part was that the small disc expanded into a full bronze and silver shield.

  The woman standing in front of Adelaide was something out of Norse mythology. Her entire body radiated with an ethereal glow. The sword and shield were decorated with runes and polished to a fine shine. Her body moved with the grace of a leopard, and her breathing stayed even and calm as a trained warrior’s would. In the distance, Adelaide heard a horse whinny.

  The two women stood frozen in place, staring at each other with curious eyes. Kara sheathed her sword and replaced the shield, once again a small disc that connected to her belt at the small of her back. She bowed to Adelaide.

  “Well played, Madame.”

  “What are you?”

  “A Valkyrie.”

  Adelaide poured two mugs of coffee, reached under the cabinet, grabbed a bottle of Kahlua, poured a healthy amount into each mug, and handed one to Kara. Both women sank into chairs and leaned their arms on the scarred wooden table.

  “I knew you were something, but with all the fairytale creatures coming to light these days, it is hard to know what is real and what isn’t. I was originally thinking Amazon.”