Creole Curse (A Jason Brand Western Book 11)

by Hunter, Neil

Faint sound reached his ears. Brand saw a figure moving along the outer wall, in his direction. The man wore a glistening poncho and had a Henry rifle cradled loosely in his arms. He moved with the air of a man who had trodden this particular path many times. Too many times it seemed by the bored way he was walking, barely taking notice of his surroundings. When he drew level with the gates the man paused to peer through the bars, most likely wishing he was inside the house rather than tramping around it in the rain.

  Keep coming, feller.

  The man did, approaching the spot where Brand crouched in the dense growth at the foot of the wall. Slipping his Colt from the holster Brand reversed it. He was going to have to employ it as a club. There was no way he could risk a shot so close to the house.

  The closer the guard got the louder his boot steps. Brand saw his shadow fall across the ground and held himself motionless as the figure reached and passed him. As soon as the man’s back was to him Brand rose, swift and silent. His left hand reached out to pull the man’s hat from his head, his right bringing the heavy revolver down across the exposed skull. Brand hit hard, withholding nothing. The solid thud of the strike was followed by a short grunt as the man stumbled, knees giving way. Brand followed him down, striking a second time. The guard’s solid bulk thudded against the ground, rifle trapped beneath his body. He jerked once then laid still, blood starting to bleed from the ragged gash in his skull.

  Brand moved to the gates and slipped through. He started along the hard-packed drive that led in the direction of the big house. There were willowy trees and high ferns lining the drive. Brand used them as cover on his approach to the house, his eyes taking in the classical lines of the building with its high frontage, intricate ironwork edging the verandahs that showed at the many windows. The main entrance was decorated by a stone-columned porch affair. The high front doors were painted in a deep red, furnished with gleaming copper handles and hinges. The antebellum architecture was reminiscent of a faded era that still held sway in parts of the south.

  Brand reached as close as he could without exposing himself. The approach drive ended in a wide circular area directly fronting the house. There was ample space for carriages and buggies to turn about.

  Brand waited. Studying the layout around the big house and finding himself intrigued by the armed men. What did Lacroix have that required such a level of security. He sat back against the thick trunk of the tree. The question in his mind asked – was Lacroix guarding against someone getting inside his home, or preventing someone getting out? The first thing that came into his mind was the location of the missing girls. His suspicions that Lacroix was involved in the abductions connected to the house. It was isolated. Out of sight and the man was protecting it as if he had something to hide. While that was going on inside his head, his eyes were following the movements of the two armed guards as they patrolled the grounds.

  The first thing he decided definitely was the men were no professionals. They were simply men with guns, moving back and forth without any kind of measured pattern. And from their appearance they were from the same mold as Rene and Lupe. Guns for hire. Men working for money. Which usually meant the only loyalty was towards the money they earned. Lacroix might have had their attention as long as he paid them well. He would not have their hearts. There were never any absolutes when it came to owning a man’s soul. Hired guns were in it for the money, not reserving a place in Heaven.

  He slid the heavy Colt from its holster and checked it, making sure he was carrying a full load. Brand knew a situation could change quickly and he had no intention of being caught napping. He though back to the way he had been taken by Rene and Lupe. There had been no question over their hostility. The intention from the moment they had persuaded Brand to go with them had been his imminent death. Nothing had been surer. He was going to keep that in mind once he made any move.

  Brand decided his next move.. He considered the possibility there might be others inside the house. It was something he would have to deal with if the situation arose. But come hell or high water he needed a look inside.

  He spent more time watching the two guards. They both wore waterproofs over their clothes. One, short and heavy built, moved across the front of the house and headed in Brand’s direction. There was no deliberation in his approach. He carried a Winchester rifle cradled across his front. He wore gaudy striped pants, knee-high tan boots. A soft-brimmed felt hat, sodden from the rain, was pulled over his shaggy dark hair. He scratched at his unshaven jaw as he walked, casually staring about him with the detached air of someone less than enthusiastic with his work.

  On the other edge of the area Brand saw the second man vanish from sight down the side of the house. He figured he wasn’t about to get a better opportunity. Brand reversed his Colt, holding it by the barrel as he slowly rose to his full height, still hidden by the wide trunk of the tree. He let the guard walk by, then slipped clear and stepped up behind the man. He reached out with his left hand and as with the earlier guard he knocked the felt hat clear before he slammed the butt of the Colt down across the guard’s skull. The man gave a soft grunt, his knees bending as he went down. Moving quickly Brand removed the man’s pistol and knife and threw them into the undergrowth. He kept the rifle close by. Brand loosened the man’s belt and bound his wrists behind his back. He used the bandanna to gag the man, then dragged him deep into the bushes, not forgetting to pick up the man’s hat and conceal it.

  Armed with the rifle Brand crossed the open frontage until he was able to press himself against the front wall. He kept in mind the other guard, even though he couldn’t be sure where the man might eventually show. Moving quickly Brand reached the main doors. When he pushed against them they opened silently and he eased himself inside.

  He found himself standing in the entrance hall, with a wide stairway leading to the upper floor. The floor beneath his feet was smooth marble, the walls on either side painted plaster. A pair of chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Doors led off on either side of the hall.

  He shrugged out of the heavy topcoat he was wearing to leave his arms free.

  Brand became aware of the silence. It was unnaturally quiet.

  Yet there was a soft, pervading smell that tainted the air. It seemed to creep out from the very walls, reaching out to envelope him. He breathed it in and felt the invasive sensation as it filled his lungs. He felt the heat now, like a thick blanket wrapping itself around him. He saw, or imagined he saw, pale wreaths of smoke – maybe mist – that floated in his direction. With a life of its own. It advanced, coiling and stretching with the sinuous grace a snake might employ.

  And then he saw the man - at least he imagined it was a man - moving out from behind the staircase, gliding on silent feet as it approached him.

  Tall. Lean and skeletal, the face like a grinning skull. Black hair that fell in long braids around hollow cheeks. Clad in a dark, enveloping garment that swirled around him, the exposed arms like brown twigs. Hands with long, boney fingers that flexed and curled as they pointed at Brand. The figure almost floated as it confronted him, mouth opening to expose long, near-pointed teeth.

  ‘Now you come to my place and now you stay …’

  The voice was soft, with a rolling cadence that seemed to flow from the mouth.

  Brand felt his hand tighten around the rifle. It was a simple reaction to something that engendered a cold chill. This was something unexpected. Away from normality and though his mind was telling him it was some kind of trick, he still felt unnerved.

  ‘You want to know … too much … now you will learn what you should have left alone …’

  A sense of personal danger rose. Brand knew there was a threat in the words. Whatever was going on here in Lacroix’s house was beyond normal and he needed to handle it. He raised his rifle, aiming at the figure. Found it so heavy in his hands.

  He felt difficulty in breathing and realized he was weakening.

  Damn.

  It was the drifting tendrils of smoke
. Despite his determination he had breathed in some of it and he could feel its effect. The soft insistence as it touched his very being. Made his thoughts waver. Pulled heavily at his eyelids. He tried to pull back but his movements were becoming sluggish. As if he was wading through molasses. Feet were getting heavier. Reactions slow… this was wrong … the rifle slipped from his grasp … seemed to fall to the floor in a slow curve … Brand dropped his right hand to the holstered Colt, fingers suddenly feeling thick and stiff … and then he was on his knees …

  The dark figure stood over him, hollow laughter coming from the gaping mouth. Brand managed to lift his head, staring up at the face and now saw Victor Lacroix returning his gaze.

  ‘Welcome to my home, Mr. Brand. You came uninvited so whatever happens now you have brought upon yourself …’

  The urge to drive his fist into the grinning face rose but Brand knew he would be unable to do anything. His whole body had become sluggish, a dead weight and he knew he was going to fall to the floor. When he dropped he didn’t even feel when struck … darkness swirled around him, deep and all-consuming … he fell into it and just kept falling …

  ~*~

  …the cell – he called it that because it couldn’t have been anything else – was cold and damp. The stone walls oozed moisture. There was a small opening high up, with an iron grille over it. Brand was sprawled on the flagged floor and he could feel the chill through his clothing and a shiver ran through him. The temperature was low enough he could see his breath when he exhaled.

  So much for the careful approach, he thought. Made a damn fool mess of that.

  And what the hell had been that with the strange figure and the mist? Some kind of hallucination from – opium maybe? Some drug that had confused him? He shook the thoughts away because what he was experiencing now was no hallucination. This was real

  On the far side of his cell was a timbered door, strengthened with iron straps. He wasn’t going to be shouldering that open. There was an opening set in the door, again with a barred grilled in place. It was the only source of light, allowing some illumination to enter the cell. When he took a look around he realized the cell was totally bare. Devoid of any fittings.

  Brand climbed to his feet, the slightest movement sending pain through his skull. The effects of whatever he had been breathing before still lingered. He realized he had been disarmed. His Colt was gone and his gunbelt. He bent over carefully and checked his right boot beneath his pants, his fingers finding the outline of the sheathed knife still in place. A small comfort. The razor-like blade might come in handy if a close up chance occurred.

  It came to him that Lacroix must want something from him. If not why keep Brand alive? Unbidden the disquieting thought came to him that it might simply be because Lacroix and his sister wanted Brand for their own amusement. The pair were sick enough to be playing with him. If he was right about what they had already got up to, then prolonging his life would be simply another of their damned games.

  It had to be something like that. Brand was no pawn to be used in a bargaining move. They couldn’t ransom him. Even if he knew the position Brand was in McCord would not negotiate. Brand understood this and wouldn’t have expected any other response from his superior. It was up to him to extract himself from Lacroix’s hands. He had walked into this situation. Now it was down to him to pull himself out.

  He had learned early on that Frank McCord expected his people to see their assignments all the way through without yelling for help. They were given carte blanche in the field. It was a known fact that McCord would back whatever they did to resolve their problems, short of mass murder. McCord had the knack of smoothing over ruffled feathers and damaged pride. He wielded power and influence and did not hesitate to use them in order to keep his department up and running. Brand had broken the rules on more than one occasion and had received the stinging rebukes McCord was capable of handing out. But as long as an assignment came to a satisfactory conclusion the verbal dressing downs were expected and accepted. His involvement with Victor Lacroix had already resulted in a degree of agitation that McCord would grumble over, but as long as the assignment resulted in its intention there was not going to be too much said and the President would be able to face the aggrieved families and offer them his sympathy over the losses they might have suffered.

  One young women already dead.

  Two others still missing.

  Buckman murdered in his own home and his two friends still unaccounted for.

  However the affair panned out, Brand saw the body count as unacceptable. The fact the girl had been dead before he was called in did not make it any easier to accept. All it did was make Brand determined to find the missing girls and return them alive to their families

  And make sure Lacroix and his sister did not walk away.

  ~*~

  The rattle of a bolt being withdrawn brought Brand to full alert. He wasn’t expecting a surprise release. Or a sudden rescue.

  He stood facing the door, showing little response.

  When the door swung open a heavy built, bull-necked and armed man stepped into the cell, a stubby shotgun pointing directly at Brand. Movement behind the armed man formed into Seraphina Lacroix.

  Dressed in a cream silk shirt, tucked into tight black riding breeches, with gleaming high boots, she looked distinctly out of place in the gloomy cell. Her black hair was swept back from her face, sculpted into a shining coil. She paused, legs braced apart as she looked Brand up and down.

  ‘You look a mess, Mr. Brand.’

  ‘Have to excuse me. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

  ‘I fail to see the humor in your situation.’

  ‘It’s all I have left. You took away my gun so I can’t shoot you. And believe me, lady, given the chance that’s what I would have done.’

  The beautiful face paled for a few seconds as she stared into his eyes and what she saw caught her off balance. When she recovered she forced an ugly smile on her face.

  ‘You have caused us a great deal of upset.’

  ‘Spoiled your blackmail scheme and your sick games.’

  ‘I could have you killed in an instant.’

  ‘Sure, but you haven’t, so I figure you still have more of your games to play.’

  ‘I have you where I want you, Brand. For as long as I need.’

  ‘Do me a favor, lady. Quit the dramatics. They don’t impress me. Never did figure mumbo-jumbo had anything to get excited over.’

  ‘Quint, perhaps Mr. Brand needs to be impressed.’

  ‘No spells to cast? You run out of opium …’

  ‘You enjoyed my introduction in the hallway? I wanted to prove my power to you. To make you aware I am not a charlatan.’

  ‘No need because I don’t give damn about your games.’

  ‘Games?’ Seraphina’s anger rose. Uncontrolled. ‘Damn you … you think I am playing games?’

  Brand kept his gaze on Seraphina, aware the shotgun man, Quint, was moving in, his weapon off-cock as he swung the stock in a lazy arc. Whatever else he might have been Quint was not fast. His stocky build kept his movements slow. Brand eased to the side as the shotgun came in his direction, following up with a hard shoulder that pushed Quint off balance. As the big man stumbled off-balance Brand clubbed him across the side of his thick neck, palm-edge delivered with considerable force; it was one of Kito’s strikes Brand had been forced to practice many times over, with the martial arts master drilling into his pupil the need to hit hard and fast, unmindful of the damage the blow could inflict. Quint gave a hoarse grunt, falling sideways as his nervous system reacted to the blow. As he dropped to his knees Brand snatched the shotgun from his unresisting grip.

  A shrill yell came from Seraphina. Out the corner of his eye, Brand saw her right hand reaching behind her. A small silver revolver was clutched in her hand when it reappeared, the muzzle centering on Brand.

  He wrenched his body around, shotgun following, aware Seraphina had the advantage. The rev
olver flashed a sparkle of flame, the sound of the shot hard in the confines of the cell.

  Brand felt the slug bite as it hit, but he had already made his own strike. The wood butt of the shotgun made a solid sound as it cracked across the side of Seraphina’s face. Her head was snapped to one side. She uttered a surprised cry as the force of the blow sent her stumbling, losing her balance and stretching full length across the floor of the cell.

  Reversing the shotgun Brand eared back the hammers. He glanced down at Quint. The man lay still. Unconscious. Brand bent over him and searched his pockets. Found four more shells for the shotgun. The man had no other weapon on him.

  Standing over Seraphina he picked up the revolver she had dropped. Checked the loads. Six in the cylinder. One fired. Small caliber, .32, thankfully he accepted. He could feel the burn from the shot she had put into him now. The slug had buried itself in the tight muscle of his left shoulder. It was painful and it was going to slow him, but Brand figured it wouldn’t stop him doing what he had to do. He tucked the revolver behind his belt.

  Something made him look closer at Seraphina. He checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

  ‘Magic isn’t working now,’ he said quietly. ‘So much for the Creole curse.’

  When he stepped out of the cell he closed the door and slid the bolt home, pausing to check the stone passage that extended either side of the cell. The right hand one showed footprints on the damp surface. One set was small. Like a woman’s … Seraphina. It was as good an indication as he was likely to get. Brand followed the passage and took the left turn at the end.

  Soft sounds reached him and he paused. The way ahead was shadowed despite the lamps fixed to the walls. Yet there was enough illumination to show him the barred doors spaced along the walls.

  In the first cell he found the two missing girls. When he showed himself they drew back on the low cots, faces pale and drawn. Their clothes were soiled and torn. Faces bruised and dirty. Neither of them said a word.

  ‘I’ll get you out of there soon as I can. Give me a little time to …’