by G A Chase
He swung around on the bed and took her in his arms. “Give it a minute. Don’t force your thoughts. Think about Cheesecake.”
She put her arms around his. “I can’t imagine how you survived that as a little boy. I saw him, you know—you as a little boy. I think I was him for a minute.”
“I know. I should have expected you’d become a part of me, but it wasn’t intentional.”
Her tears wet his cheek. “Oh, God. You became a part of me too.”
“Now, that I couldn’t have foreseen. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you got to see me as a little boy. And though you didn’t invite me in, I’m honored to have had the experience of getting to know you better.”
She pulled away to face him. “But I did invite you. I was the one who took us from Marilyn’s death to my memory of that afternoon. You couldn’t have known the way, and the pipe tool wasn’t even there. I did that. I wanted you in me even more than that cursed tool wanted to be bathed in blood. But I still don’t see how you survived taking that trip as a young boy.”
“Well, I didn’t try and enter an object back then. My early experiences of leaving my self behind were mostly no deeper than that ocean of consciousness you saw. I shouldn’t have overloaded you on your first time out.”
She snuggled back against him. “It wasn’t your fault. I asked you to take me along. How did we get back to seeing Serephine’s death?”
“I think that was your doing. Typically, I stay unfocused on these trips. That way, I can experience when the object has seen the most human energy. I think your spirit has a lot more direction than mine.”
She put a hand to his heart. “I remember those picnics, but not that particular one. I never paid much attention to what my grandpapas argued about. Usually Grammy would play some game with me or ask me about the stick figures I made. She was the only one in my family who really understood me. I miss her something terrible at times.”
He could still feel the warmth in his heart as she talked about the woman. “I’ve never inhabited someone who’s still alive.”
“I’m glad you were there.”
* * *
Myles was relieved when they left the bed and returned to the living room. The only experience he could come up with that had been so intimate was sex, and that wasn’t a comparison he wanted to make. She trusted him. They were partners. Danger still hung around them like the growing humidity of spring in New Orleans. This was not the time to introduce romantic notions into their relationship.
She brought a couple of beers from the kitchen. “Now are you convinced that the pipe tool is cursed?”
He’d forgotten that had been the whole point of their afternoon away from their bodies. “Your grandpapas sure sounded like they believed it, even Grandpapa Milton. I think he was just arguing it didn’t exist so he wouldn’t have to worry about every member of the family. And being the knife while it cut into Marilyn’s neck and Serephine’s wrist felt pretty convincing. Usually, I get the person’s impression of the event, not the object’s. I suspect that had to do with your unique connection to the tool.”
“You used to talk about your experiences reading energy like you were reading a book. I get lost in a good book. Reading for me is like becoming one of the characters. But not like you and how you use psychometry. I think I understand what Madam de Galpion said about feeling a weight on my heart when I’m around someone under the curse. I have a duty to save them. That must have been what Anthony Laurette meant by his grand obligation.”
Much as he wanted to hold her in his arms, they had work to do. “Then we’d better figure out who knows about this curse and stop them. I don’t know if Marilyn’s murder was an isolated crime or if there’s more to come. But either way, we need to find the person responsible.”
“Agreed. Do you remember Samantha talking about how her grandfather collected the genealogical record of the family? If we’re right about this person learning about the curse from one of Antoine’s diaries, and they are a part of the Laurette family who were originally the Malveaux family, we might be able to at least have a list of people to investigate.”
The cold beer helped him return fully to the life he knew. “We should also check out what Marilyn was writing. I know Samantha said she just did fluff pieces, but if she was onto some family secret, she might have left notes. That could also be why she was killed.”
“I hope you’re right. One premeditated act of murder is a lot easier for me to deal with than some deranged individual out to kill off all of his relations. But I’ll be keeping an eye on the dark-web forum just in case.”
16
Where to keep the pipe tool continued to plague Kendell. Even though Cheesecake no longer displayed any unusual behavior, leaving the cursed item in the apartment when Kendell wasn’t there left her in a continual state of worry. She removed her gloss-black electric guitar from its black alligator case and secured the tool in a pocket of the case’s lining. At least having it on stage would alleviate the possibility of someone walking off with it unnoticed.
The Scratchy Dog was just beginning to fill with the usual Friday night customers. She performed better when the crowd started out small. Like the music itself, energy should build to a crescendo as the night progressed. Polly disagreed, but as the band’s leader, she was always more concerned about the bottom line than the artistry.
From the first chord of “Born Under a Bad Sign,” Kendell knew the night was going to be epic. Her fingers clawed at the strings like a cat ripping at its prey. The music she produced was raw and untamed. Her guitar absorbed her energy and screamed out for more. As the song ran out, her fingers instinctually moved to the opening riff of “Got My Mojo Working.” She tried not to pluck the stings, but it was no use.
Polly would be pissed. The band’s leader loved the crowd’s adulation between each number. It let her shine. But that night, she’d just have to suck it up.
On stage, Minerva Wax was always a caged animal behind her drum kit. That woman could bash out a rhythm that spoke to Kendell’s soul. Most nights, it was Minerva’s hard-driving beat that carried the rest of the band. But not tonight.
Together with Scraper on bass, the rhythm section was the first to catch on to Kendell’s energy. There would be no breaks between songs. This set would be one long, continuous driving force to be reckoned with by any who set foot in the club. Newcomers would have to get on the train or end up splat on the tracks.
By “Little Red Rooster,” Lynn Seed had given up on her keyboards and joined Kendell, now in full Olympia Stain persona, to belt out the numbers on her blues harmonica. Polly did her best to keep up, but every song transitioned to instrumental improvisations under Kendell’s unrelenting force.
The crowd was going wild. Kendell hadn’t looked up since the music had taken possession of her, but halfway through the night, the screams and cheers from the teeming, dancing mass of humanity drowned out every diminished riff. In response to the energy they poured at the stage, her body felt like it became one with her instrument.
Covered in sweat and doing her best to control the saliva that threatened to leak out the corners of her mouth, she spotted Myles standing front and center in the audience. From deep within, she knew she should feel some inkling of embarrassment. But that night, she was raw feminine power, and he needed to succumb to her like the music that she continued to make her bitch.
As the band’s three-hour set failed to adequately express Kendell’s longing, the next band, The Mutants at Table Nine, joined Polly Urethane and the Strippers on stage. The raw, uncoordinated energy of multiple guitars, keyboards, and rhythm sections only drove the madness harder in Kendell. By the end of “Killing Floor,” she had the cacophony rounded up like a border collie working a herd of sheep.
When she finally set her black guitar down after four hours of continual music, her fingertips were bleeding worse than they had during her earliest music classes. Looking down at the instrument, she realized she’d need new
strings before their next gig.
Minerva hugged her tight. “Damn, girl, you were on fire up there.”
Even Polly sounded ramped up. “Whatever shots of espresso you took before showing up tonight you need to bring for all of us next time. You were like a demon on stage.”
The energy that had swept through her all night slowly receded like the shadows running from the first rays of dawn. “I may have overdone it just a bit.”
Lynn was still knocking the spit out of her harp. “Did you see those Mutants waiting to get on stage? I swear every one of those dudes had raging hard-ons. They weren’t trying to take the stage from us. They just wanted in on the action.”
Minerva hip-checked Kendell. “They weren’t the only ones with erections. Did you see Myles trying to dance? That poor boy will be walking stiff-legged all night.”
Scraper had been wiping the sweat off her axe. “You shouldn’t tease him so hard. He seems like a decent person, for a guy.”
As the adrenaline drained from Kendell’s veins her muscles began to ache from the intense activity. “It’s either drink until dawn or call it a night for me. Since I’ll need to perfect that espresso recipe for Polly at work in a couple of hours, I think I’ll head home.”
Each of her bandmates gave her a bear hug before heading out. As Kendell secured her guitar back in its case, she felt heat coming from the small, zippered-shut side pocket. Next time, you’re staying at home. If the tool had been the driving force of her playing, it wasn’t a power she could control.
* * *
She knew the investigation had to continue, but after the Scratchy Dog session, she was grateful to have a few days of simple tasks like serving coffee at work and walking Cheesecake when she got home. The tool was locked up with her important papers. And like her passport and health records, she didn’t expect to pull it out again anytime soon.
She sat on her couch with both Cecile and her electric guitar out of their cases. Lovingly, she replaced all twelve stings. The black instrument never sounded as good as with a fresh set, but it would only take Cecile a few songs before the sound had mellowed to Kendell’s liking. Cheesecake brought her fresh rawhide to the ottoman and began working it into the soft, disgusting kind of chew toy she preferred.
“I think I know how you felt in that warehouse, girl. I could have conquered the world last night, but I fear it would not have been to do good. No matter how hard the girls push me, don’t let me pull it out for another gig, okay?”
Cheesecake continued chewing on her stick, but Kendell knew all she’d have to do was look at her dog and she’d remember. Neither of them needed to be further infected by that dark energy.
And as always, there was Myles. He’d attended nearly every gig she’d played that didn’t conflict with his work schedule. But that night was different. She’d wanted him to see her in all her sexual power. He kept acting like some older brother intent on keeping her safe. She thought he would have to be gay for that to still be the case. Physical attraction, however, wasn’t the same as wanting a romantic connection. She couldn’t even answer the question of what she wanted. Partners, sex, romance, love—why did he have to be so damn confusing? She’d laid it all out on stage. If he wanted something more, he could damn well broach the subject like any horny male. As far as she was concerned, she would refocus her attention on the investigation. There was still work to be done.
Having come to grips with her emotions, she repacked her guitars in their cases. “I shouldn’t be too late. You’ve got your stick to keep you busy.”
In spite of the warming weather of late spring, she kept her coat with her as she and Myles silently walked the couple of blocks from the streetcar stop to the Laurette mansion. It might not be cold outside, but the house put a chill down her back. That was her reasoning, anyway. The coat was for warmth only, and the fact that it covered her body, which she’d so longed to show him under the power of the curse, was a side benefit. Why am I feeling so embarrassed? We’ve shared so much.
Samantha, in her Florence and the Machine 2012 concert-series T-shirt and ripped jeans, answered the door, looking happier than Kendell thought possible considering the recent death of Marilyn. “I’m glad you guys caught me. Come on in.”
The last time they’d visited the old mansion Myles seemed reluctant to enter the house any farther than strictly necessary. After their psychic adventure she had a better understanding of why. To her the place looked like a mysterious building filled with hidden treasures and secret rooms, but to him it would be loaded up with generations of human energy. “The place looks considerably better than the last time we were here.”
Samantha led them into the same office they’d visited before. “It’s all for show. I gave up on the upstairs and attics. By focusing my energy on the downstairs, I’m hoping to make this dump look appealing enough to sell. First impressions can do a lot to make prospective buyers overlook the skeletons in the closets, so long as that’s only figuratively speaking.”
Kendell had an urge to go wandering the upper rooms in search of the family’s history. “Have you found anything of interest?”
“No more diaries, but I do have my grandfather’s genealogical research ready for you.” She pulled a stack of loose pages from the old desk. “I can’t imagine what good they’ll do you, but you’re welcome to hang onto them for as long as you need. On the off chance that one day I do have kids and they want to know something about their family’s history I guess I should ask for the family tree back when you’re done. But I’m in no rush.”
Kendell unfolded the first sheet of large graph paper. Names with connecting lines and dates were scribbled in every direction. Hoping for something more legible, she turned to the notepad. Under the heading Joseph Fouche were sections for physical description, occupation, dates of birth and death, and personal observations. That last heading made Kendell laugh. Under it, Samantha’s grandfather had written, “Asshole wouldn’t even let me past his secretary. Thinks a lot of himself for a public servant.”
She tried to match up the name with the graph. “Your grandfather was quite thorough.”
“Thoroughly disorganized. I spent a couple of hours last night trying to put the pieces together. He only put that standardized list of attributes together ten years before his death. The early pages are impossible to understand. His rambling observations were not complimentary.”
Myles edged out toward the hallway. For a moment, Kendell thought he was looking to leave, but he pointed to the dining room. “Any chance we could use your dining table to lay all this stuff out? Neither of our apartments are big enough to really see this puzzle in its full glory.”
“Not at all. I’d welcome the company. I doubt I’ll be much use, but if you could use the help, I’d love a little distraction.”
Kendell pulled her phone from her coat. “I’ll order us some pizzas.”
* * *
Myles sat on top of the six-foot ladder with a slice of pepperoni and mushroom pizza. His vantage point gave him a good view of the interlacing sheets of yellow legal pad and white graph paper that covered the ten-foot dining room table. “It’s like a combination of a maze and modern art. I know I’m supposed to get something out of the installation, but it just looks like gibberish.”
Kendell frowned up at him. “If you’re not going to be helpful up there, you can come down and clean up the pizza boxes.”
“Sorry, I was just making an observation.” If he started on the long side of the table where Kendell was standing, the variety of last names and number of people was overwhelming. But at the other end was only the stack of pages describing the baron Archibald Batiste Malveaux. Next to his information, where the paperwork for his wife should have been, was a lone sheet of blank yellow paper with a question mark on it. “How is it nothing is known about Mrs. Malveaux?”
Kendell turned back to the stack of pages. “I don’t know. Even when we were looking up information on Serephine’s death in the old ne
wspapers, they didn’t give her maiden name.”
Samantha picked up the diary off the section of material about Antoine Caliste Malveaux. “As Anthony Laurette, Antoine mentioned that he wrote her frequently from the battlefield.” She flipped to a section midway through the journal. “Here it is. ‘Wrote Mother again today, but still unsure if nurses are giving her my letters. I try to assure her that I’m healthy if not safe, but with so much death around me, it might be better if my correspondences were kept from her. The poor old lady has suffered enough. I fear for what’s left of her mind.’”
Myles pointed at a dividing line on the pages that ran through Antoine’s name. “If the Civil War started in 1861, Antoine would have been about nineteen. It looks like the baron was in his fifties. Kendell, didn’t your mother say something about Louis Broussard’s daughter being your great-great-grandmother? That union must have been around the same time.”
Kendell grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote what little was known about Serephine Malveaux. Birth: 1852, Death: 1860. “I know there’s no way to be certain, but I believe she died right after the curse was cast. So that gives us a starting date for this nightmare of 1860. Mom said that after the baron lost his family, he spent all of his time in the brothels. Mrs. Malveaux had lost a daughter to suicide. Not long after that, her son joined the Confederate army. And her husband was so devious he sent his adversaries’ families to work in his whorehouses. I’d guess she might not want to face those realities.”
“What if when Antoine changed his name he took his mother’s maiden name?” Myles asked. “He must have known that the baron’s illegitimate children took their mothers’ names. Perhaps he saw it as the ultimate insult.”
Kendell wrote down Laurette on a small piece of paper and set it on the blank page reserved for the baron’s wife. “If Anthony did, though, it wouldn’t be a very good disguise from his father.”
