by Sara Clancy
While she didn’t fully relax, she did offer him a slight smile. “Let’s give you a challenge. See how you go off the cuff.”
Louis hopped off his seat. He had a dozen boxes piled against one wall, stacked like if they were neat they wouldn’t be ugly. It took him two boxes to find the book he was looking for. Resting the highly polished cover on his forearm, he flipped through it until he found the page he was looking for. He presented it to Marigold and leaned against the back of the couch.
“I’ve seen him.” Her eyebrows rose when she saw his expression. “Not like ghostly seen. He’s in one of the creepy portraits Delilah has hanging in the sitting room.”
“That’s Philip La Roux. He was a slave breaker and actually managed to make a decent career of it. Have you heard of slave breakers?”
Resting the book on her lap, she shook her head.
“It’s pretty much what the name suggests. They specialized in breaking a slave’s will to do things like escape or talk back. As he would often boast, he could break them so thoroughly that their children came out of the womb ready to work, although he used far more colorful language. Philip cultivated quite a reputation for himself, in part because of his results and partly because his methods were deemed ‘excessively’ brutal.”
“What exactly is ‘excessive brutality?” she asked weakly.
“I asked that same question when I was first told of Philip La Roux.”
“And?”
“I still have nightmares.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his head. “He was a strong advocate that there shouldn’t be any limitations on what an owner was allowed to do to his property. At his core, he was a sadist.”
Marigold’s eyes drifted down to the picture. In her silence, he was unable to read what she was thinking and how she might handle what he revealed next. To buy some time, he searched through the boxes. Marigold drifted closer, sat on the very edge of the coffee table, and peeked into the box.
“Is all that stuff about my family?”
“This box is and so are those two. The others are different people of interest.” He glanced up when she hooked one finger around the rim of the box and tilted it for a better look. “We pride ourselves on the accuracy of our tours.”
All too soon, he found the photographs he was looking for. It had faded with age and deep cracks interrupted the image, but the La Roux family was still clear. Philip stood between his adult children. Age hadn’t weakened his imposing stance or the air of cruelty that clung to him like a natural appendage. His children stood next to him, grown and just as stern. He hated that damn photograph. Even though he knew each one of them was long dead, he still felt like they were looking at him. Marigold gently took the photograph and listened with a calm but heightened interest.
“That was taken in 1830, about three years before Philip was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
He cringed. “Very few of your relatives had gentle deaths.”
“I should have seen that one coming,” she tapped her finger against the picture. “He looks familiar, too.”
“That’s Beauford La Roux, Philip’s son. He inherited the family business when Philip died but didn’t hold onto it for long. As the story goes, about five years after he gained control, he was hosting a large dinner party. Two of his guests, attempting to find a place with a bit more privacy, had entered the attic to find a malnourished child chained to the wall.”
“The attic?”
He nodded but didn’t want to meet her gaze. “Naturally, the presence of a dying child dampened the festivities. When confronted, Beauford commanded his slaves to help him kill everyone in attendance, and then kill each other. The neighbours alerted the police and they arrived to find Beauford alive, but his twenty-three guests, eighteen slaves and the boy in the attic all slaughtered. He was put to death.”
Marigold hugged herself with one arm but didn’t look away from the photo.
“This all happened in my house?”
“Yes.” He reached out and tapped the woman that stood next to the men. “That is Philip’s daughter, Fleur. She never got along with her father.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Actually, she belittled him for being too lenient.”
“Of course,” she mumbled.
“It was never proven, but I believe that she killed Philip after he tried to write her out of his will.”
“She killed her own father?”
“Murdering family might not have been entirely out of character for her. Philip had a habit of using his female slaves for his personal entertainment. He fathered more than one illegitimate child but none of them survived to adulthood. Not unnatural for the time, but word amongst the slaves was that little Fleur was killing them. Of course, back then, you didn’t think such things about children, especially girls, so she was never officially investigated.”
He sat down on the rug as he continued, “When Beauford took control, he pretty much let Fleur run the business. She made a practice of illegally selling slaves to those whom the government had decided were unfit to own them. When Beauford was executed, she took full control of the business using her husband as a front and implemented the changes she had wanted. Her ‘modern methods’ resulted in the business taking a major financial hit.”
“Is it too much to ask that it was because people started realizing that slavery is bad?” When he didn’t respond, she lowered her eyes back to the photo and sighed, “Thought so.”
“People wanted their slaves nice and docile, but they still needed them to work. After Fleur’s treatment, the slaves were either dead or permanently deformed. To compensate for the loss, she began a breeding program and sold the offspring.”
“So, going by just two generations, there is already a few hundred reasons a ticked off ghost would be coming after me.” She put the photo aside, face down, and refused to look at it again. “Any other heavy-hitters?”
Louis opened the second box and rifled through the papers inside. “Well, it is open to personal tastes exactly who the worst offenders are, but there are a few that haunt me.”
He pulled out a folder and once again handed it to her.
“John La Roux. When I was little, I nailed my window shut because I was so afraid of him.”
“I’ve never heard of him.” The file was spread across her lap but she was trying to pretend it wasn’t there.
“Most know him as the Vampire of New Orleans. In the early 1930s, he murdered eighteen children. He crossed all races, genders, and wasn’t too particular on ages, as long as they were under thirteen-years-old. He would creep in kid’s windows during the night and steal them away, sometimes with their parents in the next room. He got the name because he would kill his victims by draining their blood. What stuck with me is that he would return his victim’s bodies, tuck them into bed, and leave them for their parents to find.”
She closed the file with as much force as the layers of paper were capable of. Like she was facing a firing squad, she lifted her chin and asked if there was anyone else he suspected. Again he looked through the files that brimmed the boxes.
“Poppy La Roux. The Baby Farmer.”
“Oh, good. Another alias.” This time, she looked through the sheets with resolved focus, even as her hands trembled.
“She ran an orphanage out of the La Roux family home. In her time, it was a huge scandal to be an unwed mother. That left a lot of young women very vulnerable and Poppy offered a way out. They could leave the child with her and pay a monthly fee for her to raise it with a proper education. Poppy could give their children a chance to actually build a life for themselves.”
Marigold closed her eyes. “She was killing the babies, wasn’t she?”
“And pocketing the money.”
Her brow furrowed as she read a few lines. “It never occurred to her that the mothers might what to see their kids again?”
“Claiming their child would have been social suicide. Poppy would never ha
ve sacrificed her position for such a reason and assumed that no one else would.”
He could pinpoint the moment when Marigold read how many children Poppy was suspected of killing. The real number was lost to history, but the estimation was enough to rock her to her core. She closed her eyes like it would help her forget what she had just read.
“Well, that would explain the baby I keep hearing.” Adding the file to the growing pile, she motioned to the boxes. “Three of those are about my family? I’d like to read them.”
“Are you sure, cher?” When she nodded, he got to his feet. “I’ll make some more coffee.”
Chapter 11
“Are you ready for lunch?”
Marigold looked up from the thousands of sheets of paper that blanketed the floor around her.
“What?”
“Have you moved since I left?”
“You left?”
He smiled as he rounded the kitchen island. “Yes. I went to my cousin to get you a change of clothes. Remember?”
“Not at all,” she pushed up onto her knees and searched for the sheets she recalled reading. “Have you heard about Violet and Ivy?”
“The Siren Sisters.”
“Must they all have nicknames?” she grumbled and snatched up the papers she wanted. “They would lure men off of Bourbon Street and murder them, did you hear about that? It was in the eighties.”
“Of course, cher. My father still warns me to be careful when I go out.”
“They were my cousins,” the paper crackled as her fingers clenched. “I had cousins. They were insane murderers but my father should have told me I had cousins. And Gardenia and Edwards, they died only ten years ago. I could have known them.”
“You wanted to know The Devil’s Pair?”
“What is with the nicknames?” The papers scattered in the wake of her flailing arms. “I’ve never had a nickname.”
“My family’s taken to calling you ‘Yankee’ if that helps.”
She slumped amongst the ruined piles. “When did you talk to your family?”
“When I got the clothes,” he said slowly. “Okay, that’s it. Get changed, we’re going out for lunch.”
“I have to learn about my family.”
“First thing to learn, your line seems to have an ingrained habit of obsessing. So before you go crazy, you’re taking a break. It’s a beautiful day outside and I know a place with amazing food. We’re going to catch our breath, remember that life is worth living, and then we can go back to slogging through generations of insanity.”
Having crossed the living room, he presented her with a shopping bag. Bright fabrics pressed against the thin layer of plastic and she took it with a mix of apprehension and excitement.
“I just asked Cordelia to pick out an outfit. She’s the only relative I have that has simular measurements.”
“Thank you.”
“Get dressed, Yankee. I’m hungry.”
***
“I probably should have mentioned that Cordelia is a born and raised Southern Belle.”
The heat had swelled into a humid swamp and the restaurant’s sun umbrella offered little relief, although it did protect her bare skin from the unrelenting rays. Louis seemed to relish in the weather and happily sipped at his iced tea. Marigold smoothed down her sundress again, not accustomed to such a short hemline. It had always been too cold back home for dresses of any kind and she couldn’t help but feel a little exposed.
“It’s okay. Could you thank her for me?”
“Write her a thank you note and she’ll love you forever.”
She smiled and took a sip of her drink. The food was on its way and the air brimmed with a thousand scents. Beyond the little fence that marked the perimeter of the restaurant, the street bustled with life. The constant strum of the city, the warmth of the air, and the promise of a full stomach eased the tension from her shoulders. It startled her to realize this was the first time since she had set foot in New Orleans that she wasn’t terrified.
It turned out that Louis was good company. He knew when to be silent and when to distract her from her mounting thoughts. And his enthusiasm for food was enough to make her laugh. Even as they devoured their vibrant dishes he was talking about what he should get for dinner. As they finished up their gumbo, she felt comfortable enough to ask the question that had been plaguing her.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Helping people is a lot like forgiving them. You do it because someone needs you to, not because you want to.” His eyes lit up. “Let’s get ice-cream. It’s perfect ice-cream weather.”
Marigold smiled, “I should get back to my research.”
“I’ve got a lot of it memorized. We don’t have to choose between working and having good scenery. We can have both, cher, with ice-cream.”
She was grateful when he offered a hand to help her stand up. There was a trick to walking in the high cork wedge sandals that she hadn’t quite mastered yet. With a hand ever at the ready to catch her, Louis led her from the restaurant and into the bustle of the street. They moved at their own pace that so many of the tourists scooted around them in their haste.
The ice-cream store Louis was determined to visit seemed to be strategically placed in the most beautiful street in New Orleans. The Mississippi drifted lazily on the far side of the street while their side was fitted with restaurants and fine boutiques. She wondered if it was the vast menu of novelty flavors that drew him to this particular ice-cream parlour. There was no hesitation when he ordered a double scoop of buttermilk lemon pie and he suggested the lavender honey with such childlike enthusiasm that she had to try it.
With their odd but delicious concoctions in hand, they wandered the streets, looking at everything and nothing. A gentle breeze kept wafting the light fabric of her borrowed skirt against her legs and the ice-cream left a pleasant chill as it slid down her throat. Ahead of them, she spotted the paddle steamer, bright white and perfect, pull up to a dock.
“Do you think they ever let people on that?”
“They do dinner tours,” Louis said with a smile.
“Really? That would be fun.” It was getting harder to ignore that he had very little interest in returning to their work. “Are you trying to distract me? Are you that worried I’ll become obsessed?”
His smile wavered and took on a more sympathetic twist. “Not entirely. Whatever’s chasing you has been going to a great deal of effort to wear you down. It’s what they do. Fear, isolation, and sleep deprivation all work to weaken your resistance.”
“Wait,” she cut in. “What do you mean whatever? I thought we decided it was a ghost.”
A familiar tendril of dread wormed through her stomach as Louis gently cupped her forearm and shuffled them to the side of the walkway and out of the flow of pedestrians.
“Remember, it thrives on fear, so just be try to be calm.”
“Louis, I’ve had bad experiences with people keeping things from me.”
Each second he hesitated ground on her nerves until she was barely able to keep from yelling at him.
“Have you ever heard of a Diab?”
“No.”
He nodded and ran a hand over the back of his head. “Okay. So in the voodoo religion, we believe there is a balance to the universe. What you do is what you receive, and that kind of thing. If a person lives an evil life they can be punished after death by being turned into a Diab. They’re twisted creatures that exist only to harm the living. I still think it’s a member of your family, but if it’s a Diab, then we have to go about things differently.”
A cold chill crept along her spine as she asked, “So they’re not ghosts?”
“No.”
“Are . . . Are Diabs demons?”
He looked over her shoulder and the lack of eye contact only made the eventual words harder to take.
“They can be considered very similar.”
A solid weight crushed down on her chest and she staggered back with th
e blow. Only the railing that divided the Mississippi river from the sidewalk kept her from toppling to the ground. The idea that it had been a ghost had been comforting in an odd way. Like that, if she could just find out what it wanted, it would go towards the light or something and leave her in peace. She had felt like it was possible to take control of her life back. That she might be able to do something other than run and hide and wait for the next attack. But if it was a demon, if all it wanted was to see her tormented and scared, what could she do to appease it?
Chapter 12
The tension in Marigold’s frame was back. It grew as they edged towards his mother’s shop, and by the time they reached the same street, Louis was sure a deep breath would snap her. He tried to calm her as they walked, telling her that this was just the first step. They would put a protection spell on her, something strong enough to keep it from getting physical, and it would buy them some time to organise something more permanent.
“It’s okay, Maggie. It will all be okay.”
“What if your mother refuses to do the spell?”
“She won’t.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“Then we’ll think of something else.” He ducked a little to catch her eyes. “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”
She glanced over her shoulder and for a moment, he was sure she was going to run. But then she turned back to him and forced a smile that was obviously more for his benefit than something truly felt.
“You’ve done this kind of thing before?”
“Never with a Diab, but I have helped quite a few people with hauntings.”
The air had grown thicker with the promise of an encroaching storm. But despite the climb in temperature, she still hugged herself as if an arctic chill were sweeping across her bones.
“I still don’t understand why you would willingly expose yourself to all of this.”
“Why, cher, it allows me to meet so many new and interesting people.”
He offered her a goofy smile and was rewarded with a slight smile and an exaggerated roll of her eyes. Riding on the momentum of the moment, he finally succeeded in getting her through the door. Goosebumps rose on their skin as the air-conditioning pummelled them. Everyone in the store stopped what they were doing to stare at them. They were lucky that they came at a slow time. Marigold smacked into his chest as she attempted to back out of the room.
