1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Nine

by Carrie Ann Ryan

  “Best of luck to him,” David murmured. “Is Julian back in the office?”

  She followed David down a narrow hallway to a half open door. Julian Henri, a slim young man with a shock of dark hair and serious eyes, was seated at a desk, shoulders slumped as he stared at his computer.

  He looked up as they entered the room, his eyes flickering with recognition. “Danni Cafferty? You look great. How are you?”

  She smiled. “Good. Thanks, Julian. Glad to see you. Sorry about the circumstances.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Then he frowned, looking at David. “Oh, no. You went to Danni’s because of the rumors when we were young? That her father collected things that were haunted or evil. Danni, I’m so sorry.”

  “No problem, Julian, really,” she said. “I’m not sure what we can do, but—”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve heard. You’re with Michael Quinn.”

  “You know Quinn?” Danni asked.

  “I know of him,” Julian said. “And it sounds good. I’m happy for you both. This thing with the tour is horrible and scary. There could be more. And you can’t believe the e-mails we’re getting. I’ll read you one of my favorites.” He tapped the keyboard on his desk. “‘You irresponsible asses. A few years up north and you forget who you are and what you came from. Money hungry asses. You’ve awakened the rougarou. Death is on your hands. You’re murderers.’ Here’s another one, really concise. ‘Fuck you, monster men.’” He shook his head and looked up. “Do you believe this crap?”

  “Why not?” David asked wearily. “There are television shows dedicated to chasing the yeti or abominable snowman. People love legends more than the truth.”

  “And,” Danni said, “some people are just superstitious, and really stupid, cruel, rude, and horrible. It’ll go away when the police find the killer.”

  Julian looked up at her. He was about her age, still not thirty, but looked younger with thin dark hair and wide eyes. Usually quick to smile, today he looked as if he was simply beaten down.

  “They didn’t catch the guy when we were kids,” he said. “Could that same murderer have waited for twenty years to start over again? Or did we somehow really awaken the soul of Count D’Oro and let him run around as a rougarou again?”

  “Someone is obviously playing on legend,” Danni said. “Julian, did you see anything?”

  He shook his head with disgust. “I was just maneuvering through the swamp, like I’ve done most of my life. We had a good group on board. They listened, joked around, laughing. It was good. Then I heard the scream and saw the body.”

  “What about the young man you didn’t hire? David said that you don’t have any enemies, but that you didn’t hire a guy who was being a jerk.”

  “That guy? He didn’t seem smart enough to kill anyone. Maybe you don’t have to be smart. His name was—” He paused and hit a few keys on his computer again. “Jim Novak. Thirty-three. No college. But somehow graduated high school. He claimed that he’d been a tour guide in Savannah. I never tried to verify his résumé since I knew we weren’t hiring him.”

  “Address?” Danni asked.

  Julian drew a notepad toward him, checked the computer screen, and scribbled down the address. He handed the paper to her.

  “Can you think of anyone else who might not want you guys to make a success of this tour? Or anyone who might want to somehow use the two of you as scapegoats?”

  Julian looked at David. “What’s her face? The woman who owns that other tour company. Victoria—”

  “Miller,” David added.

  “She was ticked-off about us doing this tour,” Julian said.

  “I think she was madder because her boyfriend, that Gene Andre guy, thought it was a great idea. And then there’s the realtor, your dad’s old friend, Julian,” David said.

  “He wanted to buy the property with the docks,” Julian said. “Guess they’re pretty worthless now.”

  “What’s the guy’s name?” she asked. “There are lots of realtors around.”

  “Byron Grayson. Old, smart-looking dude,” Julian said. “Always in a gray suit.”

  “To be honest,” David said. “I can’t even imagine him in the swamp.”

  Danni nodded. “I’m going to head back and start doing some research. Here’s the thing, whoever killed that man knew the legends. I’ll see what I can find.”

  “I’ll walk back with you,” David said. “Julian, I’ll be back—”

  “I’m going home to my apartment, not out to any of the shacks by Honey Swamp,” Julian said. “I’m going to duck and cover for a while.”

  “We will figure this out,” Danni said,

  But what if they couldn’t? They were talking about the swamp.

  A great place to hide a million sins.

  She said good-bye to Julian and Sandy, then she and David walked the few blocks from the Legends office back to the Cheshire Cat. They came through the shop and spoke briefly with Billie and Bo Ray. They’d both seen the news and knew what was going on.

  Back in the kitchen with David, she drew out her laptop and began searching for all the information she could find about the rougarou, Honey Swamp, and the murders that had taken place there.

  “Julian’s family owns that property,” David said. “They’ve owned it since before the Civil War. If I understand it, they bought it from the parish after Count D’Oro met with vigilante justice. That’s why Julian is afraid people will blame this on him.”

  “David, the legend of the rougarou was around long before Count D’Oro,” Danni reminded him. “Julian can’t really believe that this is his fault in any way.”

  “But he does.”

  “He blames himself because you two are doing tours? Come on. Many companies do bayou tours.”

  She heard a key twist in the courtyard door that led straight into the kitchen and looked up to see Quinn enter. He walked in looking weary, his dark hair tousled, eyes grave. And he immediately noted David in the chair.

  Quinn had grown up in the Garden District. He was older than Danni and David by several years. He glanced at David, then at Danni, and she realized that they’d never met.

  “Quinn, this is David Fagin,” she said, rising.

  David rose to shake hands. “So you’re the ‘Mighty Quinn.’”

  “I am Quinn. Not sure about mighty.” He visibly relaxed with the handshake. “Does you being here have anything to do with the bodies in the bayou?”

  “Yes. Wait. Bodies? I only knew about the one,” David said.

  “Count is up to two,” Quinn replied. “We found a second victim, a young woman, this afternoon.”

  He was quiet a minute and then looked over at Danni.

  “Actually, I found her.”

  Chapter 3

  The basement wasn’t really a basement. The rest of the house was built up, allowing for a basement in an area that could flood. The first French fur trappers had chosen wisely when they had settled in the French Quarter. It was the highest ground around. Which wasn’t saying much since most of New Orleans was below sea level. The Cheshire Cat’s basement had been Danni’s father’s office, the place where he’d housed his private collection and The Book of Truth. Quinn knew that Danni had not known of the existence of the book until the day her father died. Angus had talked about the book, but Quinn himself hadn’t seen it until he and Danni had been forced to seek its guidance.

  Called The Book of Truth, it might have been better labeled The Book of Fantasy and Legend. It noted creatures from every culture and society, from vampires and werewolves to “fairy folk” and beyond. When, exactly, it had been written they didn’t know. It appeared to be medieval, coming from a time when the world was filled with superstition and feared darkness and the devil. But the book was also filled with curious bits of history that often helped. Like how to kill vampire, which they’d not as yet studied, though they had made use of other parts in curious ways.

  Quinn perched on Angus’s desk, glancing at the va
rious objects that were piled here and there. Some Greek, Egyptian, medieval, and Victorian era pieces. Crates and boxes littered the room, some labeled DO NOT OPEN.

  Danni sat reading.

  David had gone, headed to his own apartment in the city to hide out. Danni had told Quinn everything David and Julian had said. Many people in New Orleans were transient, most had come to the city, fallen in love with it, and stayed. Others had been there forever and would never leave. It was possible that all the hate e-mails were just superstitious locals.

  “‘Rougarou,’” Danni read from one of the books. “‘French, cultural, regional, similar to other creatures born of evil, caught in the web of sin, sometimes, the sins of others. Eater of men’s souls. Silver does not slayeth this beast, only the cleansing of fire will lay it to rest.’”

  “That’s it?” Quinn asked.

  “That I can find,” she said. “Quinn, what about the murders twenty years ago? You probably remember more than I do.”

  “I remember that my parents wouldn’t let me anywhere near Honey Swamp. It was only young women who were killed, but it was as if a monster suddenly arose out of the earth. They never found a single clue as to who had murdered those women. The thing is, when you find a body in a swamp, even now, it’s hard to find any kind of evidence.”

  He paused, thinking.

  “David said that his name was written in the mud and the police didn’t see it. What if David imagined what was written? Maybe this has nothing to do with them. Then again, maybe it does. I say we check out the guy who applied for the job. Then, the realtor and the tour group lady.”

  “Jim Novak, Byron Grayson, and Victoria Miller. They mentioned her boyfriend or partner, too, a guy named Gene Andre. Andre apparently approved of their tour, which pissed off Victoria Miller. Quinn,” she asked, blue eyes wide and somber, “shouldn’t we be looking into the past? Or calling on Natasha, maybe.”

  “You want to suggest this has to do with voodoo?”

  “Certainly not. But Natasha has connections on the street, and she’ll remember the past better than we do.” She winced, looking at him sadly. “We could definitely get together with her and Father Ryan. At the very least, they’re older and both have excellent memories.”

  Quinn nodded. Father Ryan was a most unusual priest. Excellent at what was expected of him in his calling, capable of much more. He’d been there with Quinn’s parents when he’d flatlined. He’d been there when stranger things had happened and hadn’t even blinked. Maybe his faith allowed him to see beyond what others were willing to accept.

  Natasha Laroche—Mistress LaBelle—owned a voodoo shop just down the street. She was one of the most regal women Quinn had ever known. She sold the usual, gris-gris, statues, herbs, and all the customary voodoo paraphernalia, and read tealeaves, palms, tarot cards and more. But she was also a priestess with a devout following. She and Father Ryan, despite their passions to their own religions, seemed to have everything in common and worked exceptionally well together. Part of an odd assembly of strange crime fighters, and also great friends.

  “You go and see Natasha,” Quinn said. “I’ll check out this address and pick up Father Ryan.”

  He stood. Wolf, who had been sleeping at his feet, hopped up too.

  “You stay and watch over Danni,” Quinn told the dog.

  “I could swear he heard you mention Father Ryan,” Danni said. “Take Wolf with you. I’m fine. I’m nowhere near Honey Swamp and Natasha is just down the street. They should both be ready for whatever. We had intended to go out tonight, remember?”

  Quinn nodded and paused to kiss the top of her head. For a moment, he didn’t want to leave her, not even for a second. Her hair always smelled so clean and yet so evocative. He wanted to forget all about rougarous and dead bodies in the swamp. He even wanted to forget about a night out with music and friends. Lock the world away. Play out a scene from Gone with the Wind and sweep Danni off her feet, carry her up the stairs, dive into the comfort of their bed and the sensuality of her bare flesh.

  “Quinn?”

  He snapped back to reality. “Yeah, I’m going.”

  He headed for the door.

  The phone rang.

  It was Jake Larue.

  “I’m sure as hell not saying that there was a rougarou out there last night,” he told Quinn.

  He heard the “but” in Larue’s voice.

  “But the guy did follow those young women back to the city. The blood on their balcony matched that of the first victim. The man found last night in the bayou.”

  * * * *

  Jez, Natasha’s unbelievably handsome, mixed-race assistant, had apparently been told that Danni was coming. Natasha always seemed to know these things, exuding an air of mystery in her manner and demeanor. Jez informed her that Natasha was waiting in the courtyard.

  Natasha was wearing a colorful dress and a turban to match, all in shades of orange and gold that enhanced the dusky quality of her skin. She sat at one of her wrought iron tables, a pile of books at her side. She rose and enveloped Danni in a hug, and then indicated they should both sit.

  “No music tonight?” Natasha asked.

  Danni shook her head. “Tell me what you know?”

  “Quite a bit, actually. I went and looked up the old murders as soon as I heard what happened.”

  “The young women killed twenty years ago?” Danni asked.

  “No, I went way further back, all the way to Melissa DeVane.”

  “I don’t remember the name. Was she one of the victims?”

  “She was, but not twenty years ago. When the French lost this area to the Spanish, Spain didn’t even send a governor right away. The French more or less refused to acknowledge what was going on. I know you’ve heard of Count D’Oro.”

  “He wanted the Good Witch of Honey Swamp—”

  “Melissa DeVane.”

  She connected the dots.

  “Count Otto D’Oro was a horrible man. Richer than can be imagined. He had many mistresses, and many of them disappeared. Nothing could be proven against the man. He was very powerful. It was said that he had his own army of enforcers. He was into everything. Prostitution, gambling, piracy, you name it. But Melissa lived out in Honey Swamp. She was reputed to be able to cure the sick, to make crops grow, even to bring the rain. She never did anything evil. And she was beautiful. Naturally, D’Oro wanted her.”

  “And she didn’t want a thing to do with him.” Danni could tell where the story was going.

  “But he kept insisting. The story goes that she caused rain and a flood, leaving him trapped with some of his minions in the swamp. He was furious, so he waited for the floodwaters to recede, then sent his minions to get her. He tied her to a tree and threatened to burn her alive. She said that she’d rather kiss flames than him. Supposed eyewitness accounts claim that the rains came again when he tried to burn her. In the end, though, it couldn’t rain enough to dampen his enthusiasm. Eventually, he got a fire going. And that was when she cursed him. People say that he then turned into the rougarou—because his soul had been consumed by evil. And, as you’ve heard, he was eventually hunted down. Even his own people turned on him. And, he, too, was finally burned alive and the murders in Honey Swamp came to an end. Here’s the thing. He carried a cane with a silver wolf’s head. Like the cane of the mannequin in your window.”

  “I need to get that display down,” Danni said. “What about the cane?”

  “Apparently, D’Oro had some kind of an evil magician, or warlock, or whatever one chooses to call such a man in his employ, nowhere near as gifted as the white witch and certainly nowhere near as beautiful. The silver wolf’s head on the cane absorbed the brunt of the curse, and that’s what made D’Oro become a rougarou rather than falling victim to one himself.”

  “You think that the cane causes the evil?” Danni asked. “But it’s not in any museum that I’ve ever heard about. And D’Oro wasn’t buried. His ashes were left to disperse into Honey Swamp, along w
ith whatever was left of his bones.”

  “That would make one assume that, somewhere in Honey Swamp are the remnants of that cane,” Natasha said. “Unless, of course, someone found it.”

  “That’s a long shot,” Danni said.

  Natasha was thoughtful. “It brings us back to the question of what evil is. Greed, lust? Hatred?”

  “The world and the human mind are complex, Natasha. People kill for a lot of reasons. They torture and commit atrocities for their own goals and agendas. And then again, is someone with a totally fractured mind evil or just broken?”

  “I don’t know about every circumstance,” Natasha said. “But what’s going on here is evil, by any definition.” She paused. “The mind is powerful. We all know that. If you believe that you have an incredible power granted to you by the devil, or simple evil, can you make it so? Perception can be a form of truth.”

  “You’re right about that,” Danni murmured. “So what do we do? Search the swamp. Search the streets for someone with a silver wolf’s head cane? Or look to the reasons people become evil? Natasha, two young women were on the tour boat that came upon the first victim. The one young lady was convinced that she saw a rougarou on her hotel balcony.”

  “We can believe we see many things,” Natasha said.

  “But there was blood on the balcony that matched the blood of the first victim. Detective Jake Larue just called Quinn. Whoever killed that first victim came into the French Quarter as a rougarou.”

  Natasha sat in silence for a minute. Then she lifted one of the books from the stack at her side.

  “This is on the murders from twenty years ago. There was one young lady named Genevieve LaCoste. She was a shopkeeper in the Garden District. She’d been out with a boyfriend to Honey Swamp the day she was killed. She’d come back to the city, but was found the next day, dead, in the swamp. Maybe, just maybe, this rougarou sees what he wants and comes after it. Your young lady was very lucky to escape him.”

  “She wasn’t alone. She was with a friend.”

  “Maybe the rougarou expected her to be alone. Or maybe whoever was pretending to be a rougarou was startled away by her screams or something from the street,” Natasha suggested. “Read more of the book. Twenty years ago wasn’t the first time people were found ripped apart in the swamp. It happened eighty years and about a hundred and fifty years ago, too. There was nothing about it with rhyme or reason, just every twenty or fifty years, that kind of thing. But it happened first with Count D’Oro, and it’s happened again and again through the years.”