by P. C. Cast
14
“Oh my God.” She backed away from him, then turning, she ran through the darkness, along the row of tombs. She darted to the left, then right, running full speed, having no idea which way to turn. She couldn’t see beyond a few concrete crypts in any direction. Only those dark shadowy peaks in the village of the dead. Finally, she stopped, breathless, panting, more light-headed than before.
“I’ve frightened you.”
The words came from behind her, making her jump and spin around.
“It’s the last thing I wanted to do, Marie.”
“Tessa ! My name is Tessa.”
He closed his eyes, lowered his head. “I know, I’m sorry. Forgive me, I…” He pressed a hand, gloved again now, to his forehead, rubbing slow circles there. “To me you are one and the same.”
“But not to me.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” He lifted his gaze, met her eyes. “Come back to the carriage. I’ll return you to the hotel.”
She hesitated, watching him, painfully aware of how alone she was here, how difficult it would be to summon help. There were houses nearby, yes. Wealthy homes so large and well built she doubted anyone within them would hear her cries for help even if she screamed with everything in her. And even if they did, how could help find her in this maze, in time to prevent—
“You have nothing to fear from me, Tessa,” he assured her yet again. “I would die for you. Nearly did, once. Would have if the others hadn’t pulled me from the flames.”
She licked her lips, lowered her head. “You do realize that what you’re saying is impossible. You would be nearly two hundred years old.”
“Nothing is impossible, Tessa. I’ve learned that over the years.”
She shook her head in denial.
“You’ve been drawn to me since you first set eyes on me, when I saw you and took over the tour group that night. You couldn’t explain why, but you couldn’t get me out of your mind.”
She held his gaze, saying nothing. Finally, he sighed, lowering his head. “I’m pushing too hard, too soon.” He looked up, past her left shoulder. “The carriage is that way. Come.” Then he walked past her, easily locating the open part in the wall, beyond which that black carriage sat in the street, its shrouded driver sitting at the ready.
Marcus, or whatever his name was, went to it, opened the door for her. “Good night, Tessa.”
“You’re not riding along?” She stood between his body and the open door, staring into his eyes because she couldn’t seem to do otherwise.
“I’ve frightened you enough for one night. I would ask one promise of you, though I realize I have no right to ask anything at all.”
“What promise?”
“Don’t leave New Orleans without…at least saying goodbye.” He had a card in his hand, which he tucked into her jeans pocket.
She bit her lip, nodded. “I suppose…that’s not so much to ask.”
“And…”
“And?”
“And this…” Leaning closer, he curled his arms around her waist, pulled her tight against him, and kissed her.
15
Tessa’s mind told her she should be deeply offended. She should feel violated. She should tear herself free of his embrace, slap him, upbraid him for the uninvited invasion.
Why, then, was she kissing him instead? Why had her arms twisted around his neck, her fingers twined in his hair as her mouth made love to his? Why were there tears running down her cheeks while her entire body trembled?
One salty tear reached her lips, and his, she thought, because he broke the kiss abruptly, blinking down at her, concern etched on his face. “Tessa?” he asked.
Shaking her head violently, she climbed into the carriage and tugged the door closed behind her. The vehicle rocked into motion, and she buried her face in her hands, weeping softly all the way back to the hotel.
She had no idea why being in his arms had felt like a long-awaited homecoming. She had no idea why it had nearly broken her heart to leave him there, alone, in the night. It wasn’t as if she believed any part of his story. It was sad, heart-wrenching, and it touched her, but it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
She got out of the carriage as soon as it stopped, and it set into motion once more the moment her feet touched the street. She didn’t bother looking after it. Instead she hurried inside, rubbing her tears from her face on her way up the stairs, and finally reached the haven of her room. She dug in a pocket for the key, but as she lifted it toward the lock, the door swung slowly open.
Catching her breath, she looked up and saw her sister standing there. Only—it wasn’t. Her face was pale, and her eyes—her eyes were the wrong color. They were jet black, with a soft glowing light coming from within them.
“You must remember. You must,” she said in a voice that was not her own.
“Tricia?”
“Unless you remember, it was all for nothing,” Tricia went on in that strange voice. Then she reached up, her hands clasping Tessa’s shoulders like claws. “Remember!” she shouted, shaking her violently, with surprising strength. “Remember, damn you!”
“Tricia!” Tessa planted her palms flat on her sister’s chest and shoved with everything in her. Tricia’s grip was broken, and she staggered backward.
“Remember,” she whispered, and then she collapsed on the floor.
16
Tessa rushed forward to help her possessed sister, falling to her knees beside her. “Tricia. Tricia, come on, wake up!” She lifted Tricia’s upper body, patting her cheeks. “Come on, wake up.”
Tricia’s eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at her sister. “What? What’s wrong?”
“You were…uh, sleepwalking. Or something.”
“I was?” Tricia sat up, looking around the room. “Wow, I ended up on the floor huh? Geez, that’s odd. I never sleepwalk.”
“You don’t…remember anything?”
“No. Nothing.” She smiled at her sister. “Hey, you’re still dressed.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said. She wondered if her sister would notice the door standing open behind her and ask where she had been, but when she glanced at it with the thought, she saw that the door was closed.
“Come on,” Tessa said, helping her sister to her feet. “Let’s get you back into bed.” She shook off the feeling that someone else was in the room with them, or had been. She told herself she must have closed the door herself. But she knew right then what she had to do.
She had to get the hell out of New Orleans. As soon as possible. This was no longer just affecting her, it was getting to her sister, and she would not allow that.
She didn’t sleep that night. She did put on a nightgown and slide into bed, but she never closed her eyes. She sat awake to protect her younger sister from whatever might be lingering in this place. There was something. God, it made no sense to her. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she could feel them with every cell in her body. She could almost hear them whispering to her. “Remember.”
In the morning, over breakfast in The Rose’s dining room. She tried to put on a carefree expression as she told her sister, “Honey, how do you feel about expanding our vacation a little bit?”
“Like—how?” Tricia asked. She seemed none the worse for wear. Her appetite was good, while Tessa found herself unable to choke down a bite of the luscious omelet or the delectable pastries. She could barely swallow the coffee and it was the best she had ever had.
“Let’s get out of New Orleans,” she said. “Let’s rent a car and go driving out into the countryside. We can tour some of the old plantations, take a look around the bayou, maybe visit some of the historic battlefields.”
Tricia frowned, tilting her head to one side. “But there’s still so much we haven’t seen right here,” she said. “Honey, you’re not getting all wigged out about the ghost stories in this place, are you? I mean, my sleepwalking last night probably had more to do with the spicy meals we’ve been eating than
with any ghosts.”
Lowering her head, Tessa said, “I just don’t like it here. I need to get out, Trish.”
Her sister frowned. “All right, if you feel that strongly about it.” She tucked into her omelet with relish, and didn’t bring the subject up again.
17
Tessa hurried to make arrangements, using the phone in the room while her sister flipped through the pages of the entertainment guide. Trish looked up only when Tessa slammed the receiver down with an aggravated sigh.
“What’s wrong?”
“It seems the entire universe is conspiring to keep us here.”
“Permanently?” Tricia asked, a mischievous eyebrow arching in question.
“Every car rental place I called is booked. The earliest we can get a car is first thing tomorrow morning. And the innkeeper insists twenty-four hours’ notice is required in order to check out early—if we leave today, we get billed for tonight anyway.”
Tricia shrugged. “Maybe we should stay then. Hell, Tess, one more night won’t kill us.”
Tessa licked her lips.
“Besides, look what’s opening tonight at the Saenger Theatre.” She handed to Tessa the paper she’d been reading, and Tess saw the half page ad. A production of The Phantom of the Opera. Oh, hell, it couldn’t have been anything else. Her sister was a Phantom-nut. She had collectibles, CDs of the music, playbills from every production of the show she had seen, and that was no small number.
“Come on, sis. Just one more night? We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
Tessa sighed. “I don’t feel good about this, Trish.”
“Tess, this is my vacation, too. But if you feel that strongly, go ahead. You go on ahead without me. I’ll see the show, spend one last night here, and meet you wherever you say in the morning. Okay?”
Tessa looked up fast with wide eyes. “I can’t leave you here alone!”
Tricia frowned deeply. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
She shook her head rapidly. “Fine, fine, you win. One more night. But we’re out of here in the morning, all right?”
“Okay.” Tricia smiled. “Meanwhile, I’ve made us lunch reservations at Emeril’s place. And there’s a museum we haven’t visited yet. They have a special exhibit featuring the work of Marcus Lemieux. I was reading about him in that book you bought yesterday. He’s the artist who was involved with that prostitute who died in the fire here.”
Closing her eyes slowly, Tessa nodded, fingering the card she held in her pocket, racked with guilt for her intent to break her promise, and already having second thoughts.
18
Tessa gritted her teeth with expectation when they went to see Marcus’s display at the museum, but she was relieved that not one painting of that long-dead woman she so resembled was included in the exhibit. She wondered why, but then she knew. Marie’s paintings were private. He had probably kept them. Maybe they still hung in the home of the beautiful Lemieux descendant who called himself Marcus.
She knew, suddenly, that they did. That he spent hours staring at them, longing for the woman they depicted. No wonder he’d become obsessed to the point of delusion.
The work on display touched her. A mother, holding the hand of a small child. Two lovers, on a bench beneath the moonlight, entwined in a gentle embrace. A church, with flowering wisteria creeping up its outer walls.
She walked with her sister, admiring the work, then suddenly stopped and sucked in a breath, her hand flying to her chest as if to still her pounding heart.
It was the self-portrait. For an instant she had thought she’d rounded the corner and come face-to-face with him. But she hadn’t. It was only a portrait, life-size, and accurate to a fault. His eyes seemed to stare at her, so filled with sadness she nearly wept.
“Hey, doesn’t this look a lot like that tour guide you were so into the other night?”
Tessa nodded, but found herself unable to speak. She couldn’t tug her eyes from his. God, she couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. She just couldn’t.
That night, after her sister left for the theater, Tessa pulled the card from her pocket, and with hands that shook violently, she picked up the telephone and dialed the number on the card.
His voice when he answered was soft and deep, and achingly familiar. It caressed her ear when he whispered her name, knowing who was calling before she told him. “Tessa?”
“Yes, it’s me,” she said. “I…I’m keeping my promise. To let you know before I left New Orleans.”
“You’re leaving?”
God, the pain contained in those two simple words. “I have to. I’m sorry.”
“When?”
“In the morning.”
There was a long moment of silence. Then he said, “I’ll come to you then. Tonight.”
“Marcus, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. This is already difficult enough, and I—”
“God help me, Tessa, but I can’t let you go without seeing you one more time. Please, say you’ll see me tonight.”
She hesitated.
“Please…”
“All right.” It made no sense, but she could hardly speak around the lump in her throat, and she was as desperate to see him again as he seemed to be to see her. “Outside the hotel, just as before?”
“Yes. I’ll wait beneath the balcony.”
“I’ll come down,” she said. “Is an hour too soon?” Did that sound as eager to his ears as it had to her own?
“More likely too long,” he told her. “I’ll be there soon. And Tessa?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
19
Tessa told herself it was insane to fuss, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She chose a dress that was flowing and white and mostly sheer. It looked Grecian, and she’d always loved it. She took it into the bathroom with her, hung it on a rack while she stepped into the shower, and rinsed away the dust and sweat of a day’s touring. And if her heart and her body tingled in anticipation, she couldn’t help it. This thing had moved beyond her control. This was the last time she would see him. She was doing the right thing. Surely that was good enough to appease the practical, logical part of her mind. Surely she could at least enjoy this one, final encounter.
Finished in the shower, she stepped out, toweled down, and pulled on the dress. It was soft on her skin. Then she leaned over the bathroom mirror to arrange her damp hair. She pinned it up loosely, letting tendrils fall around her face and tickle her neck and shoulders. Then she applied makeup.
But almost as soon as she began, the light in the bathroom flickered out.
Frowning, Tessa flipped it on and off several times, then tried the other lights in the room to no avail. Snatching up the phone, she dialed the front desk.
“Just a brief outage,” the manager promised her. “It happens from time to time. Feel free to use the oil lamp on the mantel until we get it fixed.”
She hung up, went to the oil lamp, found the matches beside it, and set the thing alight. By its light she glanced at her watch. Only minutes until he was due to arrive. She hurried back into the bathroom, taking the lamp with her, and put the finishing touches on her face.
Then she carried the lamp back to the bedroom, set it on the mantel, and went to the French doors. Stepping out onto the balcony, she looked at the street below.
He was there. He looked up at her, met her eyes, lifted a hand toward her in greeting.
“I’ll be right down,” she called softly. And she knew he heard her, knew he would know she had taken pains to look beautiful for him, and she didn’t care.
She turned and walked back into the room. But when she had gone no more than four steps, the French doors slammed behind her. Tessa jumped in alarm, turning back to stare. “What in the world?” She went back, reached for the handles, tugged on them, but they wouldn’t budge. Suddenly frightened, she crossed the room to the only other exit, the one that led into the hall.
But when she tu
gged, that door wouldn’t open either.
Turning, facing the room’s center, she looked around her. “What’s going on? Please, just tell me what you want from me!”
The oil lamp floated from the mantel to the center of the room, hovering there.
“Remember!” a woman’s voice demanded. Then the lamp was hurled by unseen hands. It exploded on the floor in a pool of yellow fire.
20
Tessa ran forward, yanking a blanket from the bed, and trying to use it to douse the fire. But the flames spread unnaturally, slowly surrounding her. She stumbled toward the French doors, reaching for them, but she couldn’t get past the wall of fire, even to hurl herself through the glass.
She shrieked in terror. And then, through the curtain of fire, she saw him on the street below, the horror in his face as he realized what was happening. She saw him racing toward the building to come for her, and suddenly it all returned.
Everything. Her love for him. God, it was an all-consuming, all-powerful love. His father, yes. Yes, it was his father who had started the fire all those years ago. She’d seen him leaving, but it was too late. Already the flames had been licking around her bed. She’d tried so hard to escape. To get to Marcus. Tried so hard to cling to life, even as the fire seared her flesh.
The flames raged higher, engulfing the room. The windows exploded. She screamed and screamed, and she no longer knew which parts of this night were happening now, and which were parts of her memory.
But the pain was so great, so intense. Her hair was on fire, her dress blazing, her skin melting from the bones and yet she clung to life. For him. For Marcus.
And then she heard a voice shouting from the streets far below. It was the voice of the woman who had read her palm in the little voodoo shop. And yet it was a voice she knew from another lifetime. The voice of Marie LaVeau.
