Darkness Divine

by P. C. Cast

  She took the camera from around her neck, and set it on the bedside stand. Then she wandered to the window again, parted the curtain to stare down at the street.

  He was standing there. His long black hair was pulled into a ponytail, and his moustache connected to the closely cropped black beard. Trimmed, neat. He was still completely in character, just as he had been when he’d walked their group through the French Quarter on that guided tour. He wore a long black coat with a tab collar, and his tight-fitting pants were tucked into tall black boots that whispered naughty suggestions into her mind.

  He was alone. Just walking along the dark street. And as she watched, he stopped, paused just a moment, then turned to look right at her. His eyes burned into hers, made her painfully aware of just how long she’d been without a man’s touch. Then he smiled, very slightly, as if he could read exactly what she was thinking.

  She backed away from the window, letting the curtain fall, pressing a hand to her chest to still the hungry beat of her heart. Then, slowly, cautiously, she looked out again.

  But he was gone.

  2

  Tessa woke with a start. All night she’d been dreaming, but from the moment she opened her eyes she couldn’t remember what she had dreamed about. Something intense. Something that left her skin damp and her heart palpitating. She took a second to ground herself back in the firm, solid world of reality, and finally slid out of bed and slipped into the bathroom. She ducked into the shower to start the day as she would inevitably end it—wet. It was perpetually hot and wet here in July. But already she felt as if she were getting used to it.

  When she came out of the bathroom she was dressed and ready for a full day of playing tourist. But as she glanced at her sister still in bed, she frowned. “Hey, sleepyhead, wake up. Daylight’s burning.”

  Tricia lowered the covers enough to squint at her sister. “Would you be totally bummed if I begged off this morning?”

  “Are you sick?” Tessa went to the bed, pressed her palm to her sister’s forehead.

  “No, just drained. I’ll just lie here and sleep till noon, then I’ll be good to go. Promise.”

  “You sure you don’t mind staying here alone?”

  “Not during the day,” she said. “Go on, go have beignets or something. Come back for me at lunchtime.”

  “Okay, if you insist.” She wasn’t worried about Tricia—her sister had never been a morning person. Tessa grabbed her straw hat and matching bag, her sunglasses, and her camera, and headed out. The first thing she did when she got far enough from the hotel, was turn back to face it to take a photo of it, which she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought to do before now. But when she depressed the shutter, nothing happened. Frowning, she turned the camera toward her, looking at it. Every shot had been used up. “Well the hell? I could have sworn.…” Then she shrugged, and headed into the small souvenir shop down the block. She dropped her film off there for two-hour developing, picked up a couple of fresh new rolls at tourist prices, and went on her way again.

  It was nine a.m. and already well above 90 degrees. Sweat beaded, but didn’t evaporate. There was no such thing as a breeze on the streets. Only a few tourists were out and about this early. The horse-drawn carriages hadn’t even begun carrying groups of them around the Quarter yet, and most of the shops were just opening for business.

  She walked. She loved to walk. She walked all the way from Rue Royale to Jackson Square as the sun beat down on her, and her clothes and skin grew damp. Café du Monde was open, and already many of the tables were filled. It was covered, for shade, but the place had no sides. A lone musician, a man in a white suit with dark skin, was setting up outside it, unpacking his saxophone lovingly from its case, setting up a display of his own CDs and tapes for sale. She chose the table closest to him, so she wouldn’t miss a thing, dropping a bill into the saxophone case as she passed.

  “Well, thank you, pretty lady. Can I play something special for you this beautiful mornin’?”

  “Something heavy and mellow,” she said. “Like the air here.”

  He smiled as if understanding, put the horn to his lips, and began to play. Tessa ordered beignets and coffee, leaning back in her seat and letting the sweet music wash over her. Until something tingled on the nape of her neck, and she sat up again, turning and looking… and she saw him.

  The tour guide.

  3

  The mysterious tour guide stood outside a small gift shop staring at her. She stared back for a long moment, her body heating, melting, aching in a way that was completely foreign to her. Then he broke eye contact to pick up a book from a rack that stood outside the gift shop. He flipped through it, then put it back again, very carefully, very deliberately. Again, he looked at her, his eyes burning and intense, as if he were trying to tell her something.

  A large group of tourists passed between them then, blocking him from her view, and when they cleared, he was gone.

  Tessa left her table to run across the street to where he’d been standing. She looked up and down, but he was nowhere to be seen. And why was she so hoping to see him anyway? What was she planning to say if she did see him? How could she explain what happened to her every time she met his eyes? It was as if parts of her that had been dormant, came screaming to life. It was as if her insides melted and pooled low and deep inside her. Her skin tingled, her heart sped up, and she thought about things she never thought about.

  She supposed it was desire. She’d always been lukewarm to the advances of men until now, but for some reason, probably some inexplicable chemical attraction, she kept having the urge to rip her clothes off for this man she had barely met. Maybe it was the hot flavor of New Orleans bringing her inner vixen to life in her loins. Or maybe it was something about him.

  It was probably, she thought, those damned sinful boots he wore.

  Idly, she glanced at the rack of magazine-size tour books that stood outside the shop, trying to see which title he’d been perusing. She was certain he had picked one from the topmost slot. When she saw her own hotel on the cover of one of the books, and read the title, she felt her heart skip a beat. Haunted Inns of the French Quarter. Blinking she picked up the book, flipped through the pages, then stopped when she came upon the image of a nude woman who looked exactly like her. It was a photograph of a painting, and it was stunning. She read the caption.

  “Prostitute Marie St. Claire was a favorite model of New Orleans artists for a 10-year period during the mid-1800s. The man who painted her most often was Marcus Lemieux, whose self-portrait appears on the next page,” it read.

  When she could tear her gaze from the nude portrayal of herself, she flipped the page, and found herself staring at the very face of the tour guide.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “My God, what can this mean?”

  “You wanna buy that book, cher?” a woman asked slowly.

  She had propped the shop door open and was smiling a welcome at Tessa.

  “Yes. Yes, here.” She handed the woman a twenty, muttered “Keep the change,” and hurried back across the street to the table where the waitress had already delivered her order.

  4

  Tessa ate the sweet beignets, dusting herself in powdered sugar, while reading the tragic story of Marie St. Claire. The tour guide had left out a lot of details. Yes, he’d spoken of the prostitutes who had died in the fire, trapped in the third-floor rooms, unable to escape. But then he’d veered into tales of hauntings, things tourists had reported and experienced in the hotel since. He had left out many of the details. The fact that Marie St. Claire had been a model, that one local artist, Marcus Lemieux, who could have been his own twin, had painted her more often than any other. Lemieux had attempted to rescue her from the fire, and become trapped himself. He had survived, but his hands had been burned so badly that he had never painted again.

  She closed the book, surprised to feel tears welling up in her eyes. Her chest hurt, and she found it hard to breathe. Leaving money on the
table to pay her tab, she slid the book into her straw shoulder bag, wiped the sugar from her blouse, and left the place. She was going to talk to that tour guide if it was the last thing she did.

  The tour had left from one of the popular voodoo shops along Rampart Street, not far from the hotel. Tessa figured that was as good a place to begin as any. When she stepped inside, she was surprised at the blast of cool air filling the place. It was a small shop, very high ceilings, walls of darkened wood. Every inch of it was lined in shelves loaded down with items. Voodoo dolls, candles in varying shapes and colors, cigars, and books and carved wooden images of tribal gods and Catholic saints, all mingled together. The air smelled of cigar smoke and incense. She walked up to the counter, looked at the girl behind it. “I’m wondering if you can help me find someone.”

  “If you want a reading, go through there,” she said pointing to a doorway filled by beaded curtains. “Mamma Celia’s in today. She’s very good and she’s free right now.”

  Tessa shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m looking for someone specific. The tour guide, from the Haunted Tour that leaves from here?” “Which one? There are a dozen tour guides.”

  “He had long dark hair, ponytail, mustache and beard.” She drew the pattern of his whiskers on her own face. “He wore these boots….”

  “Oh, you mean Rudy. You don’t know how many women used to come in here looking for him after a tour. But he don’t work for us anymore. Hasn’t in…oh, five years now.”

  “That’s impossible. He guided the group I was in just last night.”

  The girl frowned over the glass counter at her until Tessa had to let her gaze fall. She found herself perusing the selection of tarot decks inside the case. “Do you know who did guide the nine-thirty tour group last night?” she asked.

  “Lemme just check.” The girl opened a book. “That would be Victor Carre.”

  “And do you know where I can find him?” she asked.

  “He’s leading another group in a half hour. He’ll be out front a few minutes before then.”

  Tessa nodded her thanks and turned to go, but the rattling of the beaded curtains at the back of the room stopped her, and then a woman’s voice said, “You, girl. Come. I need to read for you.”

  Tessa turned, stared at one of the most beautiful faces she had ever seen. The woman’s brown eyes gleamed, and she reached for Tessa with a long, slender hand that bore rings on every finger and bracelets that jangled when she moved. She wore a silky turban of purple and blue. “I don’t really want a reading,” Tessa said.

  “No matter. You need one. Come.” And she drew Tessa back through the beaded curtains into a tiny room that smelled of sandalwood smoke.

  5

  “Sit, pretty one. Relax. There is nothing to fear.”

  The woman jingled as she moved around the small table in very cramped quarters, to sit in the chair on the other side. The table was draped in silk scarves in jewel colors. Candles lined the room, on the windowsill, and mounted in holders on the walls. There were at least a dozen of them burning, providing the only light in the place. Atop the scarves on the table, crystal stones were scattered about, and a deck of cards sat neatly stacked at the ready.

  Tessa sat down in the chair opposite the woman. “Your name…no wait, don’t tell me. It’s…” She closed her eyes, a slow smile spreading over her face. “It’s Marie.”

  Tessa’s throat went dry. “It’s Tessa. But I’m curious. What made you say Marie?”

  “It’s what spirit calls you, child. I have no idea why, but you own the name. Give me your hand.” Her cool brown hand clasped Tessa’s wrist, drawing it across the silk, palm up. She bent over for a closer look, the fingers of her free hand whispering over the lines in Tessa’s palm. “You’ve lived many lives. In this one, they collide.” She lifted her head. “You’ve spent a great deal of time in New Orleans. This city is in your blood.”

  “This is my first visit.” The woman was so far off base Tessa wondered why her words were hitting her so hard, stirring up such odd feelings in her, making her want to nod and whisper, “Yes, yes, that’s right” to everything she said.

  “Interesting.” She continued staring at Tessa’s hand, then lifted her head to meet her eyes. “Why am I seeing fire?”

  “Fire?”

  She nodded. “As if your home has burned, and you with it.”

  Tessa jerked her hand away from the woman, jumping to her feet. “I have to go. I have to go now.”

  “Don’t be silly, child, we haven’t even consulted the cards yet.”

  “I have to go.” She reached for her purse.

  “No charge. Go. He’s waiting for you.”

  She stared at the woman, but she was clearly finished with Tessa. She sat silently, contemplating a candle flame and idly shuffling her cards. Tessa hurried out through the beaded curtain, where the girl behind the counter smiled. “That was fast. Just as well, Victor’s here.” She nodded toward the doorway.

  Tessa saw him from behind, the black coat was the same. Stiffening her spine, she went to him.

  6

  Tessa stepped out of the shop, and into a wall made of hot liquid air. Her shoes hit the sidewalk, and the tour guide turned to face her, and her stomach clenched.

  But it wasn’t him. This man was entirely different. Only the uniform was the same. He didn’t even have the boots.

  “I take it you’re Victor?”

  “I am. Are you here for the tour?”

  She shook her head, left then right. “No. Actually, I took the tour last night. I need to speak with the man who guided it, but according to the girl in the shop, he hasn’t worked as a tour guide for five years.” His eyebrows went up and he glanced quickly around, as if to determine who was within earshot. “According to the books, you guided the tour I took last night,” Tessa went on. “Only…you didn’t.”

  The man gripped her upper arm, leading her a few steps farther from the open shop door. “Keep it down, okay? You’re going to get me fired.”

  “I don’t have any intention of causing you trouble, Victor. But I need to know who he was. And where I can find him.”

  He nodded quickly. “Look, he’s a friend. He…was passing by when the tour group gathered, and all of the sudden he wanted to guide the tour.” He shrugged. “I saw no harm in letting him take the group around for old times’ sake. Hell, he knows the drill. I gave him 10 minutes to go change clothes, and then I let him have at it.”

  She nodded slowly. “Has he ever asked to take one of your groups before, since he quit working here?”

  Victor shook his head slowly from side to side. “You’re not going to turn me in, are you?”

  “Not if you tell me where he lives,” she said.

  Victor looked her up and down, maybe trying to determine whether she could be any threat to his friend. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. “I’ll tell him you want to talk to him, see if it’s okay with him for me to give out his number. Okay?”

  She thought about threatening to turn him in, but then thought better of it. It would still be an option later. Besides, she didn’t want to seem like some kind of stalker. “All right. I’m staying at the Rose.” She took a pen and a scrap of paper from her bag and scrawled her name and room number. When should I expect your call?”

  “Tonight, okay? I can’t be more specific. He can be tough to reach.”

  “Okay.” She nodded firmly. “Okay.” Then she turned and continued her walk back to the hotel, a thousand questions spinning and whirling through her mind. She walked right past the shop on the corner, before remembering her film, and did a quick about-face to go pick up her photos. She paid for them, tucked the envelope into her bag and hurried across the street and a block up to her hotel. She took the antiquated elevator with its decorative gates, rode it up to the third floor, then got out and walked down the hall to the corner room, which was hers.

  When she walked in, Tricia was just coming out of
the bathroom, dressed in a white terry robe and toweling her hair. She met Tessa’s eyes, and smiled. “Yes, I’m finally up. How was your morning?”

  “It was…weird.” She tossed her hat and glasses onto the bed, then sat on the settee and tugged the photos out of her purse. “But I did get our pictures developed.” She opened the envelope and began flipping through the shots while Tricia hurried to sit beside her to see.

  Tessa flipped past the cemetery shots, the ones they’d taken at the Voodoo Museum, and then her hands came to a sudden frozen stop on a photo that she could not have taken. It was of the two of them, sound asleep in the twin beds of this very room.

  7

  “Oh, that’s very funny, Tessa.”

  Tessa’s hands were shaking. She couldn’t take her eyes off the picture even to look at her sister.

  “A good one. Really. You know I believe the stories about this place a little too much, so you have someone take pictures of us in bed sleeping. What am I supposed to think, that one of the ghosts did it?”

  “Tricia…”

  Tricia took the stack of photos from her sister’s hands, going through them. “Oh, look there are more. This one was taken from the balcony, this one from over by the fireplace, and this one—oh, look at this one. From right beside your bed. Creepy, Tess.”

  “Tricia, shut the hell up.”

  Her sister stopped talking, and when Tessa looked at her she saw the smile die very slowly. “Come on, Tess, you’re scaring me.”

  “I’m sorry. I put the camera on the nightstand last night. I thought there were several unexposed shots left on the roll, but when I took it out this morning, they’d all been used up.”