by L. M. Pruitt
Shades of Gray
A Jude Magdalyn Novel
L.M. Pruitt
Red Hot Publishing
P.O. BOX 651193, STERLING VA, 20165-1193
Second ebook Edition August 2011
Copyright 2010-2011 L.M. Pruitt
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 978-1-927116-00-5
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental
Acknowledgments
This book is the result of numerous factors and people coming together. Without the help of my friends and family, I wouldn’t have had the courage to write. Without the dedication of C.J. Ellisson, I wouldn’t have a publisher. Without the perseverance of Danielle Gavan, this would not have survived a fifth round of edits. And finally, without the constant prodding of Shea MacLeod, I might have forgotten why I write—to tell a story.
Thanks.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
The moment I sat at the head of the table and took a good, long look at the three people making up the private party, I knew taking this job was a mistake. They looked like nice, normal, sane people. I’d learned many years ago when people look that normal, they usually aren’t, not by a long shot.
My employer for the evening, Mrs. “Just Call Me Bee” Talanger, clapped her hands together like a little girl and twittered excitedly. If one could imagine a child in the surgically over enhanced body of a fifty something year old woman. It might have been the twitter, the heavily perfumed room, or the look of hungry anticipation, but the feeling of I really shouldn’t be here got stronger. I started to stand, and the woman on my right raised a groomed eyebrow.
“Sister Henries, don’t tell us you plan to leave already? Bee assured Hart and myself you’d have a vision, answer some questions for us.” She shivered, as if the thought was both frightening and delicious. The look in her eyes was one I’d learned at a tender age meant they would find it delicious if you were frightened.
In answer, I arched my left eyebrow, making the tiny pinprick mole on the outside corner wink up. A handy, often impressive, trick. It was like a tiny exclamation point at the top of my face, an easier and less time consuming accent for my pale gray eyes than makeup. “Mrs. Talanger misunderstood my area of expertise. I read cards, I don’t have visions. I am not… gifted in such a manner.”
Thank God. It was difficult enough acting like a disgraced nun with a talent for tarot. Pretending to have visions would have been too difficult a con to pull off. Even for me.
“Are we to assume you have limited gifts then, Sister Henries?” The pale blond man on my left asked the question, a small smirk creeping across his face. I let my own face go blank, the type of blank usually reserved for when a person’s thoughts are far too wrong to be allowed to be seen. The smirk died away.
“That would be a very correct assumption.” I leaned against the high back of the chair, slouching despite the rigid frame. The movement loosened up the sloppy bun I’d thrown my hair in and strands of dark, almost black hair teased my bare shoulders. The outfit for this evening’s debacle was fortune teller, which also happened to be boho chic – the long, flowing skirts, loose, baggy shirts. The sort of style you can put together in under five minutes if you walk into a decent thrift store.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you all seem to have forgotten you’re sitting in a dining room in New Orleans, one of, if not the most, haunted cities in America. Not all of those spirits are friendly neighborhood ghosts. I would be most distressed if my attempts to foresee the future were thwarted by one of them.”
Mrs. Talanger exclaimed her lack of thought on the issue. I refrained from rolling my eyes in disgust because I hadn’t been paid yet. If it looked like I wasn’t, I’d indulge in some displays of annoyance, until then I’d be polite. I’d try – I didn’t know if I’d succeed.
While I waited for my employer to work out the unexpected news and how it impacted her party and my payment, I let my eyes roam over the room. I didn’t know if the house had sustained any serious damage from Katrina almost two years before, but if it had it was impossible to tell. I remember walking through the Garden District, a few weeks after the all clear allowing us back into the city and the massive piles of debris on the sidewalk. Like a neighborhood garage sale gone wrong.
If you liked the traditional look, it wasn’t a bad room. There was a huge dining table with matching sideboard and china cabinet, all done in the same glossy mahogany. I’m not a good enough judge on whether something is antique, but if it wasn’t it was a damn good knock-off. The china red walls hurt my eyes and made my head pound slightly, but the incense in the room could also have been the culprit. For some reason, people always believed in order to do a good card reading, you had to be swimming in incense. It just made me cranky.
The huge crystal chandelier was a little on the tacky side, but hey, it looked like it cost a load of money, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Or it was, and the saying money can’t buy taste is spot on. Either way, Mrs. Talanger needed to have the maid dust it more often. I could see a thin film of dust on some of the dangling crystals. Now that was tacky.
The sound of a throat clearing had me dropping my eyes from the ceiling to meet those of my employer. She twittered again, her platinum bob bouncing with the movement. “Are you sure you can’t attempt a vision, Sister Henries? Is it really so dangerous?”
Something about the way she asked the question and the way the woman to my right locked eyes with the man who’d asked about my delicacy, Hart, had my back straightening in a way the sisters at the orphanage would have approved. Pushing back from the table, I bent to pick up my bag, ignoring the small sighs of disappointment and the squeal of distress from Mrs. Talanger. I was already at the entranceway to the hall when a hand clasped my elbow.
I froze, shocked and angry. Nobody, and I mean nobody, touched me without permission. I turned slightly, my face inches away from Hart. This close, I could see his eyes were as pale as mine but the brown of watercolors mixed too thinly. His lashes were as pale as his hair and clustered tightly together. The sheer number gave him more color than he’d otherwise have. His mouth was so thin you knew - if he pursed his lips together, the line of it would all but disappear. His body was lean. Everything about him was as though he’d been whittled out of somebody else and gotten the smaller portion.
There was a look in his eyes, like the woman, that said, I’ll smile while you scream. I’d spent a scant two weeks on the streets at sixteen before recognizing such a look. I’d tried to explain it to one of the other kids, and he hadn’t understood. He got into a car one night, and none of us ever saw him again. I’d like to think he had a Julia Roberts-Pretty Woman moment, but I severely doubt it.
“Sister Henries – Jude. My companion and I will double Mrs. Talanger’s offer if you’ll try.”
I barely managed to control my flinch at his use of my first name, but not the look in my eyes. When you’re a female a few inches short of six feet, sometimes all you need is a good hard glare to put someone in their place. Luckily, this was one of those times. Hart let go of my arm slowly, as if he just
now understood I really didn’t want him touching me. He stepped back and let his hand drop to his side. I backed further into the hall. If I shifted my eyes to the right, I could see the door, and escape.
Freedom was suddenly something very, very important.
I moved to the right, and he mirrored me, keeping me in his line of sight. Behind him, the guests sat silent. The woman who’d asked the first question licked her lips, in amusement or anticipation. I didn’t want to know which.
“There is no amount of money that could induce me to dabble in something I have no experience with. Apparently, you three missed The Exorcist. Only the pure of heart can deal with what lies between this world and the next.”
Hart smirked again, as if hearing a joke no one else did. “Are you implying none of us, yourself included, are pure of heart?”
I smirked. It was such a ridiculous question given this day and age and the present company. “If you were able to deduce that, you’re only ninety percent as arrogant and ignorant as you appear to be.”
Mrs. Talanger gasped loudly, fanning herself with her hands as if my words had sent out a wave of heat putting her on the verge of fainting. The woman, who could only be Hart’s companion, bit her lip in an effort to control a giggle. Nice to know someone found me amusing.
Hart’s eyes filled with anger, the kind that makes everything brighter and fiercer, like a huge ball of fire inside. Looked like someone had issues with criticism. I’d have told him to contact a therapist, but I don’t think he’d appreciate hearing that piece of advice. “And you, Jude Magdalyn Henries, are only a tenth as knowledgeable about the world between worlds as you believe.”
I couldn’t control the flinch this time as he spoke my full name. The smirk on his face grew to a smile and my skin broke out in goose bumps. I had to swallow twice before I could speak without a tremor. Hard to be tough when your voice is shaking.
“Keep your money. I’d rather have my soul.”
Not the most original parting shot. Not even one of my better ones, but he and the woman at the table jolted. Mrs. Talanger sighed as her eyes rolled back and she dropped not so gracefully to the floor. I smiled a little. I’d won the war – and had no doubt in my mind, we were at war, the two of us. I didn’t have to be a tarot card reader, real or fake, to figure it out.
I backed down the hall, my eyes trained on him as he matched my movements, until I reached the door. Feeling for the doorknob, I grasped it firmly, stepping forward only far enough to pull the door open behind me. As soon as I stepped over the threshold into the warm New Orleans night I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware I’d been holding. Hart stared at me from the hallway, pale skin almost glowing in the darkened corridor. Something about the pale glow hitched the breath in my lungs, almost strangling me.
I pulled the door shut, never breaking eye contact, until the polished wood separated us. A second before it snicked closed his faint whisper carried to me on the heavy night air.
“Women today. They must always make things difficult.”
It was at least five blocks to Saint Charles and another twenty to the Business District where I’d have better luck finding a taxi. The only thing keeping me from running all the way there was imagining explaining it to any cop that might spot me.
“All that trouble and I bet you didn’t even think to ask for at least a partial payment since Mrs. Talanger was at fault.” Izzy drained the last bit of beer from her bottle of Bud Light and shook her head at me. “There are times I wonder about you, Jude. Seriously.”
“Izzy, I wanted out of there so bad I would have been happy paying them. You don’t understand. There was something really wrong about the whole thing. Just really, really wrong.” I knocked back the shot of Jack Daniels, wincing as the alcohol burned down my throat. Wrinkling my nose, I continued. “Kind of like this scene here. I thought we weren’t going to drink for another week.”
Izzy looked at me sorrowfully, which would have been moving, except she reminded me of a dog when she did it. “You were upset. You needed liquid comfort.”
“Your mom’s in town, isn’t she?”
“Came in about two hours ago. She said to tell you that you still don’t eat enough, and you’re supposed to come over for dinner.”
Isabelle Bordeaux, otherwise known as Izzy, is my best friend. Truth be told, she’s my only friend. I’m not what one would call a people person. Izzy doesn’t seem to mind much. I think I’m like a project to her. Or a series of projects.
Izzy grew up in New Orleans, for the most part. Every year or so, her parents would decide to move to another city, only to move back after a few years. When she turned eighteen, she’d told them she was staying put. One of her parents made a visit every six months or so. When her mother had found out I didn’t have any family to speak of, she’d adopted me after a fashion. Which meant, I got to hear as many lectures about how I was too skinny and needed a man as Izzy did.
I remained uncertain whether this whole adoption thing was going to work out or not.
“Tell your mother if I gain any more weight, it will not be a pretty picture in the least.” I leaned over the bar and whistled for Joe. He shot me the middle finger, but nonetheless set us up another round. I think the fact I worked part time at Hole in the Wall kept Joe from dumping the drinks in our laps. It might have been the cleavage peeking through the veil of Izzy’s hair. Either way, we had our drinks.
Izzy batted her lashes at me, a demure smile completely at odds with the look of mischief in her eyes. She was blonde, blue eyed and tiny, as much my physical opposite as somebody could get and still belong to the same gender. Which just meant no one looked at her when the shit hit the fan. Lucky bitch. The only thing we had in common was chest size, which meant I looked proportional and she looked like Pamela Anderson’s kid sister. “You can tell her, when you come to dinner.”
I almost choked on my second shot of Jack, the alcohol burning my throat and the area behind my nose. Eyes watering, I turned enough to glare at Izzy. “By no means do I have a death wish. You tell her.”
“Oh, no. You, she wouldn’t kill. Me, she’d murder in my sleep and then have a press conference decrying the crime rate of the city.”
I snorted, wincing slightly at the residual burn, before standing and tossing some money on the bar. Our drinks were free, one of the perks of working at the Hole when the card scam was slow, so Joe had gotten a much larger tip than he deserved. Joe and I had a mutual relationship based on dislike. He disliked me because I had ovaries and I disliked him because he was a prick. Not because he had one, but because he was one. There is a difference.
Hole in the Wall was only about four blocks from my studio in Faubourg Marigny, and only a block from Esplanade. One of the reasons I’d taken the studio on Frenchmen near Dauphine was its proximity but distance from the Quarter. I’m not ashamed to admit I like to party, but when I’m ready to sleep, I want to sleep, and not worry about some drunk tourist getting mugged underneath my window. Not that drunk tourists don’t get mugged in my neighborhood, but in general the muggers here are slightly more discreet.
Izzy followed behind me, falling in step next to me once we hit the street. Call me crazy, but I don’t like people at my back. It makes me nervous, in an I wish I had a big knife sort of way. Which is really bad when you’re in the Quarter — but I’ve managed to not hurt anybody who’s made the mistake of accidentally invading my comfort zone.
In a matter of minutes, we were out of the Frenchmen District, crossing Esplanade and heading down Bourbon. Izzy finished her beer, tossing it in one of the numerous garbage cans lining the street. New Orleans is one city with an overabundance of garbage cans, in my opinion. Half the people are too drunk to think about not throwing their garbage on the ground, so why waste the money on the container?
Most people don’t realize part of Bourbon Street is residential. Most of the Quarter bordering Esplanade and Rampart is, and if you’re up early—or late enough—you’ll see people o
ut walking their dogs and watering their plants. It makes the walk toward the heart of the Quarter interesting at night, watching the change from respectable housing to raunchy commercialism at its best. We passed the Clover Grill and I made a mental note to stop by on our way back home. You can’t beat a diner that lets you know the employees are there to make you feel more beautiful than you are.
“So, seriously, are you going to call Mrs. Talanger tomorrow and demand at least a partial payment? I know the only reason you took the job was because you wanted to buy that jacket. Which was a stupid reason to take a job, by the way.”
“You apparently don’t remember what this jacket looked like. This is a must have jacket.” I slid to the left to avoid being plowed into by a trio of drunken girls who looked like they were barely old enough to vote, let alone drink. One of them had to be, because New Orleans bartenders are insane about checking I.D. Izzy and I shared a look when the one in the center tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, bringing the other two down with her. Amateurs.
“Jude, you have something like five trench coats. You don’t need another one, even if it is vintage, and embroidered with little butterflies and dragonflies.” Izzy veered left into one of the open mini-bars selling drinks in a space so bright you need sunglasses at midnight. Every now and then you see people seated at the bar. When you do a double take to make sure, they’re gone. Maybe they’re an urban legend.
We both ordered a kamikaze. Not my first choice but it was listed on the menu so the chances of the so obviously stoned guy knowing how to make it were pretty good. I made the mistake one time of asking for something not on the menu. Two words – never again. The stoner came out of his haze enough to leer at us before realizing we weren’t remotely interested and lapsing back into whatever mental playground we’d called him from.
