by G A Chase
Not very subtle. She ran her fingers along the edge of the card as she read his name. Lincoln Laroque.
* * *
Myles had to work. She felt relief at not having him with her but also guilt that, had he been available, she might have tried to come up with some excuse to have the evening alone. Fabricated stories, even if they carried grains of truth or were for the good of the listener, weren’t how she wanted to start out their relationship. It wasn’t even that she didn’t want him to know that she was visiting Madam de Galpion. They’d talked about her sessions. But his concern for her was like the look in Cheesecake’s trusting brown eyes. How was she to dive back into that dark energy with either of them expressing such concern? I’ll apologize later.
She took her customary seat in the voodoo library of Scratch and Sniff perfumery. The more time she spent in the small room, the more of a connection she felt toward the books that lined the walls. If only she had a year with nothing else to do but study every practitioner’s attempts at casting curses. Most were probably failures, but with her lust for truth, she’d be able to separate the useful information from the senseless ramblings.
The lines on the dark woman’s face weren’t as pronounced as they had been during the sessions. Her eyes seemed sharper, and the dark bags under them were gone.
“Looks like the couple of days off did us both some good,” Kendell said.
Madam de Galpion spread the familiar book between them. “Yes, but activities like we’re attempting are best done as quickly as possible. Every delay gives the dark magic a chance to regroup. Are you still intent on modifying the curse to these remaining items?”
Kendell knew the question was part formality and part challenge. “I am. But first I’d like to hear what you know about the faction of the Laroque family that wants these things. I had a very odd conversation with Lincoln Laroque this morning.”
“They’re politicians. If they’re offering to be your friends, you can be sure they’re stealing from you. I’ve always thought they have more respect for enemies, though knowing which camp you’re in is often a matter of looking at how covert they are with their offers. Enemies make for more circuitous negotiations.”
She still wasn’t sure of her relation to them. “What about partners?”
“Unless someone’s a blood relative, they don’t have any. Have they offered you the world?”
She pulled out the baron’s tiepin and set it on the book. “Pretty much. I just wanted someone to confirm I was being conned.”
Madam de Galpion began filling the room with the scents of wildflowers. “His offer was genuine. Politicians know better than to outright lie without a grain of truth. Just know that while he’s giving you candy with one hand, he’s stealing your lunch money with the other.”
“You make it sound like a deal with the devil.”
Her face began the wavering, an indication that the smoke was performing its duty. “And who would know more about that than I?”
As Kendell experienced the dreaded black river, she wondered what other souls might be in the vicinity. Every book that surrounded her screamed of the torment locked between its pages.
Each trip down the curse carried new currents, whirlpools, and eddies. She needed to know them all, and Madam de Galpion was the only guide who understood the topography. But as the river rapids continued in the deepening canyon, she realized there was no escape from the adventure she’d begun.
Though each trip down involved greater stripping of her soul, on returning to consciousness, Kendell experienced a renewed and growing power. She was physically exhausted, it was true, but she had the inner confidence to combat even the powerful Laroque family.
She waited until Madam de Galpion sat up from the floor before making her way back to her apartment. The dynamic that had begun as Kendell being the weaker of the two was quickly flipping positions.
* * *
The power that infected her needed release. Sex with Myles eased the tension but not the desire to command that emanated from the baron’s possessions. She wasn’t ready to turn over the objects. There were still a few left to be modified. She hoped once she handed them to Lincoln, she might be free of the energy that radiated through her like electricity. In the meantime, those tingly fingers needed satisfaction.
The Mutants at Table Nine were a decent enough band, and good guys offstage, but they’d never hold a candle to Polly Urethane and the Strippers. The collaborative group effort continued, but Kendell found it more of a hindrance than an inspiration. Not that the other girls agreed, especially Lynn, who made no secret of her growing romance with Lars.
Kendell set up her mobile amplifier at the gates of Jackson Square. She’d never played a public solo performance, but she couldn’t sit around until the end of the week, waiting for her band’s usual gig at the Scratchy Dog. She didn’t give a damn about the tips. She just needed to play where others could hear her.
The screeching guitar sounded like a bad imitation of Jimmy Hendrix. The feedback from the amplifier scattered the crowd back to their business. But Kendell picked out the individual voices from the black box. They sounded like a swarm of banshees. By angling her guitar to the small black box, she gained control of the discordant sounds. Within ten minutes, she had all the screaming notes she needed. She’d also managed the nearly impossible task of clearing the area in front of Jackson Square of people and horse-drawn carriages.
Using the amplifier’s feedback as band members, she broke into Fleetwood Mac’s “Green Manalishi” with such passion that she could almost see the spirit of Peter Green tossing coins into her case. And like a true blues band, she couldn’t let the song end until she’d explored every improvisation that her fingers could pull from the strings. Her vocals carried a darker, more sinister tone than usual. It wasn’t the type of playing she’d ever be able to do at home in front of Cheesecake or even Myles. This was raw, gut-wrenching, primal soul music.
As with her experiences in the voodoo shop, she lost track of what was going on around her. She was pure sound. Her body was indistinguishable from her guitar or the amplifier that translated her soul’s anguish to the masses.
By the time she had exorcised the musical demon from her soul, the afternoon had transitioned to night. Cheesecake would be expecting dinner. Myles would wonder why she hadn’t called. Life expected to welcome her back into its embrace. She listened to the last electronic-feedback banshee sing its final note. The screeching was immediately overwhelmed with applause.
The amphitheater across Decatur had filled with listeners. She found it hard to count how many voyeurs had witnessed her display of raw emotion, but as she looked down, she realized there was no way her guitar could go in its case, which was so filled with money a ukulele wouldn’t fit.
Embarrassment had been a hard emotion to overcome as a beginning music student. She’d learned to hide behind the performance. As Olympia Stain, playing with the Strippers, Kendell Summer could safely watch from the mental sidelines. But with the feedback banshees, she hadn’t played as her alter ego.
The truth of her performance demanded the equally powerful reaction of embarrassment at her own exhibitionism. She stashed the money in every available pocket until she could scrunch the guitar back into its case. But she hadn’t moved fast enough to escape the adoration.
“That was quite the performance, young lady.” Lincoln Laroque was most definitely the last person on earth she wanted to see.
“I have my moments.”
His smug demeanor made her feel like a real stripper who was still naked after doing her pole gymnastics. “I’d wager that was more than just a musical moment.”
“Look, I’m not ready to turn over the baron’s items, and I’m still considering your offer. I don’t see how we have anything further to discuss.”
The leer in his eyes made her think he was about to request a lap dance. “Imagine what that raw energy could do on a real stage—or a recording studio. You know th
at’s something I can make happen. Give it some thought while you collect your dollar bills.”
31
Myles had been in enough relationships to know they never went overnight from two individuals living separate lives to a completely open, honest couple spending every minute together. Kendell had her secrets, and so did he. That wasn’t about to change anytime soon, and he didn’t want it to. Getting to know someone was half the fun of a new relationship. As for the other half, well, the sex continued to be mind-blowing.
He chalked up his anxiety to having spent too much time at her apartment. It wasn’t healthy. Time to spend with his friends, or to chill with no expectations, kept him grounded. His loft in the shallow brick structure behind the creole townhouse was smelling a little musty. It got that way if left vacant for too long, as if the ghosts were seeping out of the old clay bricks as moisture. He really was spending too much time with Kendell. Even his thoughts were getting infected with her obsession with the paranormal.
But the problem, of course, wasn’t their time together. What had started out as an investigation into what he could accomplish had become a constant rescue effort—and sometimes even an attempt to save her from herself. She wasn’t the first high-maintenance woman he’d been with, but the risks she took did put her in the top five. And that was what was really keeping him from sleeping.
He gave up on the sagging mattress and headed to the tiny kitchen for a beer. A little alcohol always helped him think. He loved her and had no intention of leaving, despite their relationship’s one-sided focus on her needs. The realization made him feel slightly better about himself. He wasn’t the self-absorbed asshole his past girlfriends claimed him to be.
But staying with Kendell meant rallying the troops. Between the Laroque family wanting to manipulate her, Madam de Galpion infecting her, and Kendell’s own hell-bent desire to save the world, he was going to need some allies. Unfortunately, most of the people he knew had started off as her associates if not friends.
He picked up the pen from the table and started making notes. The members of Polly Urethane and the Strippers were Kendell’s closest friends. They also weren’t about to dissuade her from using the cursed items and dark energy. Their band had never been hotter. The Scratchy Dog was quickly becoming the go-to place on Frenchmen Street. The good news was they would always come to her aid when called. They’d proven their reliability when Cheesecake had been abducted.
Kendell’s extended family had told her that the homeless of the city would always be on the watch should she need help, but as with the ever-present gutter punks, their support wasn’t always reliable. He included them in his inventory in case he and Kendell needed a discreet escape from the city.
Madam de Galpion was still a mystery, and one that would need to be solved soon. Her power over Kendell grew with every session. She’d proven helpful in answering questions about the curse, but even she admitted her skills were no match for her ancestor. He feared Madam de Galpion’s loyalties, and he had too many questions about her. But asking her directly wasn’t likely to ease any of his anxieties.
Which brought him to Professor Cornelius Yates. The professor had recommended Madam de Galpion, but more importantly, he was one of the few people on the list who was more interested in what Myles could do than in the curse. Though he hated revising his snap impression of the old man, Myles was forced to accept that he wasn’t simply a charlatan who’d conned his students out of money without offering a college-sanctioned course. It was past time for Myles to bring him into the loop, even if most of his advice was more theoretical than practical.
Myles drew a line across the page. He could at least assume the people on the top half to be on their side. But those below the line, whose allegiances were unknown, might prove the most useful.
Luther Noire was likely the most knowledgeable though least helpful person on the list. His unnamed mysterious organization supposedly went back to the dawn of man. Only the Catholic Church knew more about enchanted objects, but the nuns of Our Lady of Mercy convent weren’t any more forthcoming with information than Mr. Noire. Of the two organizations, Mr. Noire’s seemed a better pick. At least he’d let Myles in the door of the abandoned World Trade Center. That was considerably better than the nuns only acknowledging him through the gate. But he needed a way back into the man’s office. Objects were coming at Kendell fast and furious, and as a protector of such things, Mr. Noire might be interested in hearing of her and Myles’s progress. Hopefully, Myles would be able to read in his expression how much danger Kendell was truly getting into.
Lieutenant Joseph Cazenave had provided the introduction to Mr. Noire. In Myles’s opinion, that put the two of them in the same category, although whether that was friend or foe was still to be determined. At least the lieutenant didn’t report his paranormal findings to Chief of Police Gerald Laroque. Any separation from that family had to be a good thing.
Myles scratched the name Lance Laroque in slashing movements of his pen against the paper. The snot-nosed, arrogant, self-entitled worm had hooked Myles and Kendell up with Our Lady of Mercy convent. Without that lead, they wouldn’t have gained possession of the baron’s cursed objects. Though having the baron’s trunk should have been a good thing, Myles couldn’t stop the nagging thought that Lance had manipulated them into taking possession of it. For what end, he couldn’t imagine.
Myles put the pen down and looked over the list. He had some visits to make, and not all of them were going to be pleasant.
* * *
The biggest question, as Myles saw it, was where Madam de Galpion’s loyalties lay. If she wasn’t truly on their side, Kendell was in real danger. But finding out meant working his back channels. Luther Noire would be the most likely to know of her activities, but he wasn’t someone whose office Myles could simply approach.
He ran his fingers along the edge of the envelope as he stood in front of the grand police station on Chartres Street. Somewhere on the top floor would be Chief of Police Laroque’s office. Hopefully, Myles was still below his family’s radar.
Still, he was hesitant to enter. Myles had done his best to stay on the good side of the law, but stepping into any police station felt like entering a church confessional. He knew he was being foolish. All he was asking for was a meeting, and he didn’t even need to go past the front desk. The receptionist would take his letter and see that it was delivered to the lieutenant, and that would be that. Simple enough.
With the plan firmly in mind, he walked past the lineup of police motor scooters and through the main doors. The bustle of activity was as he remembered. He doubted the officers working the always-active French Quarter ever saw much of a break. As casually as he could manage, he approached the attractive woman in the blue uniform and handed her the envelope. He felt like an elementary school student who’d just forged a get-out-of-class note from his mother.
“Wait here. I’ll get him for you.”
Before he could protest that there was no need, she’d darted down the hallway beyond the metal detector. He felt more than saw all of the cameras recording every visitor. Running out the front door probably wouldn’t be the best way to stay inconspicuous.
To his relief, she quickly returned with the man in the overly correct business suit. Even without the uniform, no one would mistake him for anything other than a cop. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Garrison. I’m heading out for a cup of coffee. Care to join me?”
Myles did his best not to look suspicious as he smiled at the camera. Now was as good a time as any for the meeting. “Love to.”
As they exited the marble building, the lieutenant handed him back the envelope. “The fewer physical items that connect us, the better. I heard from Luther of your donation to his institution. We’re both grateful for the support.”
Myles knew there would be more than just cameras around the old building. But unlike last time, Lieutenant Cazenave didn’t seem to be hiding his connection to the paranormal, at lea
st not from Myles.
“He was most kind,” Myles said, continuing the game of deception. “I was hoping another meeting might be possible.”
“There’s a lovely little coffee shop in Spanish Plaza that I frequent. It’s a bit more of a walk, but if you’re not busy, perhaps we could impose on him after a latte.”
The busy plaza was as close to a family-friendly locale as the Quarter could manage. At that time of day, the abandoned World Trade Center would be casting its shadow over the main fountain. “Lead the way.”
The lieutenant kept the conversation casual until they’d crossed Canal Street. “Most of the Quarter is littered with cameras and listening devices. Once we’re in the old building, we can talk more freely. Just answer me—are you or your friend in immediate trouble?”
That wasn’t a question Myles had anticipated. To the best of his knowledge, Kendell was at work. But their relationship was still new enough that knowing each other’s location every moment of every day wasn’t a thing. “I don’t think so.”
“Good. Then we can get our coffees first.”
* * *
Like the police station, Mr. Noire’s office was much as Myles remembered—an out-of-place, elegant room filled with books befitting someone’s rich grandfather in an otherwise abandoned thirty-three-story structure from the 1960s. The disconnect between the office and the building made Myles’s head spin.
