Creole Curse (A Jason Brand Western Book 11)

by Hunter, Neil

  As they became totally embroiled in Lacroix's offerings, becoming more under his control, he invited them to his out of town home, where they were able to let themselves go completely. They were also naïve when it came to indulging in the vices Lacroix could offer. From the young woman, and young men where Dalton was concerned, to liquor and beyond, to the baser indulgences they took to them with voracious appetites. Lacroix indulged them, encouraged them, promising discretion and urging them on to even greater excesses. The visits became regular, allowing the three to experience delights they never knew existed. And when they were fully immersed in the wanton fulfillments provided by Lacroix, before any kind of guilt began to creep in, they were enmeshed in the dark pleasures the man was offering them.

  It was Lacroix’s sister who was instrumental in wielding the power that entrapped Buckman and his friends. Her natural beauty, coupled with the sensual attraction of the mesmerizing voodoo power she displayed. In the shadowy, enshrouded displays of her skills, she held Buckman and his friends under her spell. In the shadowed labyrinth beneath the house Seraphina played them with her dark magic, assisted by her acolytes who followed her every word and gesture. Buckman and his friends, lulled by the wafting swirls of misty smoke issuing from the vessels placed around them and the cigarettes that were freely distributed - in fact opium - were taken from normality into the stupor induced states that fogged their minds and allowed Seraphina to do what she wanted with them

  ~*~

  Buckman dimly remembered the sweet smell of the cigarettes. The pleasing feeling that enveloped him as he inhaled. And the similar scent that rose from the smoldering dishes placed around the room. It was only later he realized the soporific sensation that enveloped him came from opium. It washed over him like a warm tide, gently distancing him from reality and spiraling away from the real world into …

  … a place where troubles and worries vanished, leaving him drowsy, his will to resist vanishing. The room lost its harshness and he was cocooned in a gentling glow where he reclined in an enticing atmosphere and he saw Seraphina standing next to him, her lithe body naked, glistening as she came closer, the soft ripple of a drum beat echoing in rhythm to her teasing movements … Buckman retained enough of his senses to know this was not real…that the visions were in his mind … affected by the power of the drug…and the hands stroking his exposed flesh were part of his imagining … the fear flickered in the deeper recesses of his mind … the whole thing some fantasy conjured by Lacroix and his sister … and he had to break out from it before …

  ‘No,’ he called, his voice a faint whisper that battled against the hold of the drug. ‘I will not be part of this. Let me go … let me go …’

  ‘But this is what you wanted,’ Seraphina said. ‘What you desired. Now it is too late to go back. You know how that girl died...because she would no longer do what I asked … you have seen the pictures … understood how it had to be because she rejected me…not like the others who gave you what you desired …’

  ‘I had nothing to do with the death of that girl. Nothing … this is all a nightmare … something you made happen to trick us … it is not magic … it is all trickery … and you are just a part of it all … a fake … nothing but a charlatan …’

  ‘Am I, Cyrus Buckman? Is this not real? Now you have rejected me. Called me a fake … is it so? We will see …’

  In his mind Buckman fought the images. He closed his ears to the insistent sounds. Rejected the sensations that threatened to consume him.

  Seraphina’s image wavered, faded and Buckman heard the sound of the drums coming from the shadows starting to grow quieter. But then he had begun to choke as he breathed in the smoky fumes. The sensation grew stronger. It felt so real. As was the heat reaching out to engulf his body. It seemed to ignite his clothing, burning through to blister his flesh. Buckman struggled to break out of the dream but found he was unable to raise his arms. He struggled, then realized his hands and arms were bound by cords, holding him spread-eagled on some cold marble slab that prevented him from helping himself. As he twisted his head back and forth, desperate to escape the increasing swell of the fire, and failing, he saw the face before his eyes.

  Circled by the rising flames yet untouched it was the face and body of Seraphina Lacroix again. She was still naked as she leaned in closer, her hand appearing, a finger admonishing him.

  ‘I said you would regret mocking me,’ she whispered. ‘Dismissing my powers with such arrogance, Cyrus. Now we shall witness who holds the truth. Who will become the victor.’

  Her voice had a hollow tone to it. The words sliding out with a mocking sibilance.

  Buckman felt the flesh of his face pulling tight over his bones as the flames threatened to draw him in. He could smell hair scorching. His clothing smoldering.

  It was as if it was real.

  Not a dream.

  But it had to be a dream, he told himself. The effects of the drugs Seraphina had tricked him into taking.

  Seraphina’s image vanished as quickly as it had appeared and Buckman found himself alone again, misty shadows coiling around him.

  He was still in the cellar. In the house where he had been all evening. Seraphina’s threats were simply that, he told himself. The boastful threats of a woman not used to having her so-called power challenged. And everything he was experiencing was a figment of his own imagination.

  It had to be.

  It couldn’t be real.

  Could it?

  He called out. Then realized he couldn’t even hear his own voice. He yelled the words but there was only silence. The beginnings of panic nibbled at his consciousness.

  This had to be something conjured by Seraphina?

  She had drugged him so that these images were no more than hallucinations. Yet if they were they damn well hurt. The heat was all around him now and the temperate had risen to the point where Buckman knew he had to do something, even if it was only to wake up.

  He tugged at his bound wrists, feeling a degree of slack, the rope slick against his sweating flesh.

  I can do this, he told herself. I can do this.

  He spread the fingers of his right hand and willed his mind to banish the burning images around him. He fought to reach into the depths of his conscious thoughts, seeking some solid thing to allow him to draw out of Seraphina’s dream world and let him touch reality

  At first there was nothing.

  Then he felt the lip of the alter. The cool marble, and he rubbed his palm across the sharp edge, deliberately forcing his hand against it, feeling the slightly ragged edge tugging at his flesh. Buckman forced his palm harder against the marble, felt the edge break his skin. He maintained the action, sawing back and forth until he felt sudden pain as the marble sliced his flesh. He knew he had gashed his palm, and the sudden surge of keen pain jolting his senses. He felt the blood run across his hand and kept on dragging his hand across the marble …

  … Buckman became aware of a subtle change in his surroundings. The darkness receded and he sensed himself at ease again, as if some challenging sensory effect had been reduced. The flames disappeared. The heat and the swirl of smoke began to withdraw, and though he still felt uncomfortable, the strong sense of foreboding was lessening. His flesh and his clothing were whole. Untouched by the fire. When he raised his head he saw Seraphina standing at the base of the marble plinth, staring down at him, face taut with barely repressed anger and a degree of frustration because he had broken the grip of her actions over him.

  ‘No more,’ he said forcibly. ‘I will not allow you to control me.’

  Her face, once beautiful, had become ugly and she glared at him with what he could only define as a mix of bitterness and rage.

  ‘I can do what I desire …’

  Buckman sat up, realizing the cords that had seemed to bind him had vanished. He could feel the sharp, pulsing pain in his hand where he had torn it against the marble. Blood was running from the gash freely now, dripping from his fingers.
The pain had drawn his mind from the cloying seduction of the opium, allowing him to draw on rational thought.

  ‘Get away from me … away … damn you, woman …’

  He wrenched himself to one side, sliding across the slab until he toppled, falling to the cold earth of the cellar, fighting the lethargy that had gripped him, aware that he had to escape from this place. Had to get out. Away. Back into the real world.

  As he dragged himself to his feet, leaning against the marble slab, staring about him, he realized he was by himself. Seraphina had vanished and he was alone in the shadowed cellar. Buckman stumbled across the uneven floor, seeing shapes emerge in the faint light that found its way through gaps in the outer wall. He moved towards the light, clumsy footed, his whole body trembling and aching. He came to the wooden door set in the cellar wall, the warped timber letting in streaks of daylight. Weak as he was Buckman thrust his body against the door. It gave but resisted his initial attempts to break it open. With a strength borne of desperation, Buckman drove his shoulder against the door again and again, sobbing with the effort, ignoring the pain from his shoulder. The driving force behind his efforts was the fear Seraphina might appear again, using the force of will to subdue him. He concentrated his pounding against the door and it suddenly swung open on creaking hinges. The suddenness of the action pitched Buckman forward, falling to his knees as the cold chill of air struck him and he was aware of falling rain. He lifted his head, feeling the cold strike him, helping to drive away some of the opium fumes that still fogged his mind.

  He had to get away from this place. Back to the real world. To the city where he would be among normal people. In truth, he had no choice. If he stayed here he would die. Lacroix and Seraphina could not allow him to tell what he had learned. So regardless of the danger he had to get away.

  Buckman moved with a speed that surprised himself. He knew it was fear of being caught that added to his flight. Stumbling, falling and dragging himself upright again, he moved along the side of the house, ignoring the cold and the discomfort. If he was caught minor things like rain and the hurt that racked his body would be nothing compared to what Lacroix would do to him.

  When he reached the end of the building, leaning against the stonework, Buckman peered around the corner and saw the wide open drive in front of him.

  A buggy and two-horse team stood patiently waiting, heads down against the falling rain. At first he thought he was imagining the sight. A second look convinced him it was no apparition. Buckman didn’t hesitate. He pushed himself forward, gaining enough speed to take him across the circular drive and up to the buggy. He forced himself to stare directly ahead, convinced that if he didn’t see anyone they might not materialize. Barely able to believe his luck he reached the buggy and dragged himself on board, picking up the reins as he settled on the seat. He pulled on the reins, dragging the heads of the team around, flicking their backs with the whip he plucked from the side holder. The pair of horses broke into motion and Buckman slapped the reins across their backs, raising his voice to yell at them despite the risk of being overheard.

  The buggy rocked from side to side as Buckman cracked the whip over their heads, wheels sliding and he almost lost his grip on the reins. Despite that he held on and saw the open gates in front of him. He also saw an arm-waving figure step into view. The man held a shotgun in one hand but was intent on halting Buckman’s approach. Ignoring the terror rising in his throat Buckman refused to back down. He urged the team on faster and the gateman had to leap aside as the buggy bore down on him. Buckman kept up the pace, turning the team in a slithering curve onto the road that would take him back towards New Orleans.

  Trees and bushes flashed by on either side. The sheeting rain stung his face. Buckman kept the team on a headlong rush, not daring to look back in case he was being pursued. His logical mind told him Lacroix would not follow in case his people were recognized. He would want to keep matters secret. Even so Buckman knew that one way or another the man would engineer some kind of retribution. He had a need to keep his dark secrets just that – secret. So any strike against Buckman would need to be kept behind closed doors.

  Buckman was glad now he had managed to persuade his sister to leave the city. He wanted her out of harm’s way. What he had gotten himself involved in had nothing to do with Eleanor. She was completely naïve when it came to the dark goings on and that was how Buckman wanted it to stay. With her out of the way he no longer had to worry about her safety. All he had to do was attempt to put things right. He had allowed himself to be drawn into Lacroix’s evil games so it was down to him to get himself out … how he had no idea at the moment. First he needed to get back to town. Give himself time to think. To decide how he would go about saving himself.

  He slowed the buggy as he reached the outskirts of the city and drove at a slower pace, negotiating the near-deserted streets. The rain had forced most people indoors so he abandoned the buggy at the first opportunity and walked the rest of the way to his home. It took him some as he wearily tramped the remainder of the journey. He was close to collapse by the time he reached the house and let himself in. When he closed the door and leaned against it, the bone-deep tiredness engulfed him.

  He was soaked, his body ached, and in the empty silence of his house the memories came flooding back. He tried to fight them off but in his sheer exhaustion he failed. With a tortured moan he slumped to the floor and lay in a stupor. Without knowing it, he fell into a deep sleep. Yet in that sleep he was plagued by the visions of what had happened and how he had become so enmeshed in Victor Lacroix’s world … it had happened so gradually that he was unaware how he was being manipulated…by the time he realized it was too late…the trap had been sprung and Buckman and his friends were well and truly caught …

  … Cyrus Buckman lived in a wealthy part of New Orleans. Every house in the area was large, standing on large plots and boasted multiple rooms. Buckman had always felt himself privileged to be where he was. He held a respected position in one of the city’s most prestigious banks - in fact he owned the bank. But right now he might as well have been a beggar on the street. Since his involvement with Victor Lacroix and his sister, Seraphina, his cozy world had started to fall apart. What had seemed an enticing diversion from the staid world of banking had become dark and at times terrifying.

  At first the secret meetings, alongside his two friends – Jerome Coleman and Henry Dalton - men of stature and business like himself – had taken an unexpected turn. The debauched entertainment, the unrestrained sexual encounters, that had excited and overwhelmed them, gradually took on a shadowy and sensual turn. By then, deeply involved in the insidious practices of Lacroix and his sister, Buckman and his companions, were open targets for what was to follow. There was little they could do to counter the open threats of exposure. Lacroix had, simply, blackmailed them. During the frenzied episodes, senses dulled by copious drinking and the use of opium that Seraphina used to lull them, Buckman and his friends had been caught by Lacroix’s concealed photographer. When he had shown them the results, with the implied threat to publicly show the photographs the three men had been too shocked to do anything but submit to his demands.

  Seraphina Lacroix had openly flaunted herself at them, forcing them to recall what they had been involved in during their intoxicated and opium drugged states. Her devotion to the voodoo arts, which she had employed to seduce them into their compliant conditions, were implicit in her demands that they remain silent on what they had seen and heard. She used the enticement of her beliefs and her strength to subdue them. She had a strong following in the local Creole beliefs in the power of voodoo and Buckman and his friends were caught up in the craft. Seraphina used her black magic to good effect. Her acolytes were enslaved. They entered into the spirit of the sessions, in awe at her magic powers, the hold she had over anyone who came close to her – and that included Buckman and his friends, though for different reasons. The thrill of the sexual encounters and the way in which their
heightened senses gave them feelings long since dormant.

  It was only later they realized that images they had thought were imagined turned out to be real. The rituals came back to them as the hallucinatory feelings faded and Buckman, of them all, took on his shoulders what he realized were true images.

  In the semi-darkness, enveloped in the grip of Seraphina’s magic, they had seen and heard the frenzied activities, taking part in many of the rituals themselves. It had been only in the cold light of reasoning, with the return to reality, did the enormity of what they had witnessed strike home. That awareness had crashed down on them, the bitter truth that they had been witness to the death of the young women, Netta Delacort, they had imagined was part of the fantasy woven by Seraphina’s voodoo-induced performances. Yet despite the misgivings, they returned each time Lacroix and Seraphina extended an invitation, coaxed and drawn back into the dark fantasies that had them in its grip.

  When reality finally dawned they were, to a man, too far entangled to walk away. With all that Lacroix had on them the group were forced to choose between acquiescing to his demands or being exposed. If they admitted to what they had been involved in it would have meant public humiliation for them and their families, with the prospect of criminal charges and possible prison sentences. The price Lacroix demanded for his silence was substantial portions of their business holdings and even financial offerings. It was out-and-out extortion, with Lacroix’s sister adding to the threat with her voodoo curses that she had burned into the susceptible minds of the victims during her elaborate ceremonies. Ridden with guilt and plagued by the physical threats, Buckman and his two associates, were wracked with premonitions of terror and monstrous retribution.