“I’m not going to write under my real name.” I was surprised I told him of my secret plans.
“Initials!” He was thrilled. “So that people assume you’re a man. Perfection.”
I hadn’t really thought beyond taking a pseudonym, but the idea of initials instantly appealed to me. “Yes, I. B. Deadly.”
“You are the zebra’s stripes,” he said. “I like you. You’ve got spirit. You might be a flapper, though you’re dressed as more of a conservative society lady.”
“Beaded dresses are de rigueur for those hoping for communication with the dead. The spirits have their clanking chains and ghostly moans. I have my clacking beads and rustling silk.” I was surprised by my own high spirits.
“You are delicious,” he said, “and now I have to attend to my duties.”
I engaged the newcomers in casual conversation, learning their reasons for attending the séance. Reginald stood at Madam’s side as she chatted casually, asking a few general questions of everyone in the room, telling a story or two about her youth in Paris and her family’s heritage. She was a striking woman dressed completely in black. Judging by her proper posture and appearance, she might easily be a society woman found in any New Orleans parlor. I’d hoped for something more exotic, more . . . dangerous.
At last we took our places. I sat between Emily Rainfield and her nephew, Tyler, who’d lost his mother eight months earlier in a flu epidemic. The other two ladies were family friends who’d accompanied Emily and Tyler on the trip down the Mississippi River from Memphis. They radiated discomfort.
I made an attempt to talk to the teenager, but he replied only in monosyllables. I felt his grief and wondered if this attempt to contact his mother was such a good idea.
At last, Madam took charge of the evening. The lights were dimmed and candles lit. She briefly described the ways in which spirits might communicate, from knocking to thumping to even materialization.
She warned us that if a spirit possessed her body, we should remain seated and calm and not interrupt. “There is no danger if a spirit uses my body to communicate unless you overreact and disrupt the natural sequence of events. The spirit will leave of its own accord, so do not attempt to intervene.”
We all joined hands, and I squeezed Tyler’s clammy fingers. As much as I wanted to speak with my parents, Alex, and Robert, I hoped if a spirit came through, it would be for the boy. I knew nothing of his circumstances, but I felt his desperation. He needed to hear that his mother was safe and happy.
Across the table, Carlton winked at me, and I thought of the fortune-teller’s assessment that he wanted more than friendship from me. I wasn’t certain she’d read Carlton accurately. I enjoyed his company, but on what level? A question I couldn’t—and didn’t want to—answer.
Madam spoke a Latin incantation and then inhaled deeply several times. In midbreath, she went rigid. Her left hand broke free of Uncle Brett’s and began moving in circles on the table.
Reginald jumped to his feet, went to the sideboard, and grabbed a sheaf of plain white paper and a packet of pencils. He captured her left hand, inserted a pencil, and aimed her hand at the paper. Without missing a movement, Madam began to draw large circles on the page.
I chanced a look at her eyes, which stared directly ahead without any seeming comprehension of what was in front of her. Her hand moved as if it belonged to someone else. The hair on my arms began to stand on end.
Madam jerked, and the pencil snapped in her hand. Reginald removed the jagged stub immediately, and a good thing, as her hands became very animated before they stilled beneath his. A low moan escaped from her throat.
“Come with me,” she said, but it wasn’t her voice. It was deep, a male voice that sent shivers through me. I knew the voice. I’d heard it before, coming from the front lawn of Caoin House. I was so shocked that I felt paralyzed.
“We can be together forever.” Madam’s body was rigid, and her eyes were rolled completely back in her head. “Come with me. I’m so cold.”
I swallowed a sob. I wasn’t afraid, but I was overwhelmed with sadness, a sense of loss so deep that my heart wanted to quit. The words could have come from Alex or Robert, both buried in the damp soil. Or my parents. But it came from Eli, and while I wished to help him, I had no desire to go with him or follow him anywhere, especially not to the grave.
“Who is with us, Madam?” Reginald asked.
“Betrayal.”
The hoarse voice that spoke gave the word added dread. “Who is betrayed?” I asked softly.
The laugh that came from Madam made my skin bump and dance. “Give us revenge.”
The two women from Memphis who’d accompanied their friend started to push back their chairs, but Reginald stopped them with a command. “Be still,” he said in a tone that brooked no disobedience. “When she’s in a trance, you have to be still. If you don’t, she could be harmed.”
That quelled their cowardly retreat, but their faces showed their unhappiness and fear.
“Madam, who is with you?” Reginald asked.
Madam’s normal voice had returned, and she said, “He’s come from far away, a place of neither land nor water.” She nodded, her blind eyes seeking around the table until they rested on me. “He comes for you.”
Across the table, Carlton started to rise, but I shook my head.
“Mrs. James,” Madam said, “he is for you. Heed his words.”
“I will,” I said, proud of the solid sound of my voice. “Tell me his truth.”
“The past rules your present. The hidden rules his actions.” She sighed, and her head dropped forward. A death rattle came from her chest, but Reginald signaled us all to remain seated. At last she lifted her head, and her voice was feminine, light, and filled with warmth.
“Tyler, let your grief pass like a cloud across the sun. I am with you. I will never leave you. Remember when we said our prayers. You always asked for a bicycle, and I told you you’d get your wish. And you did. Your wishes will always be granted. Hold that knowledge. I am with you always.”
The young boy sobbed once and covered his face.
Madam slumped sideways in her chair, and Reginald calmly got up and caught her before she slipped to the floor. He lifted her in his arms with such ease, as if she weighed nothing. Without a word to anyone, he left the room.
The aunt comforted her nephew, and the other two ladies stood so quickly they almost overturned their chairs. Their transition from parlor to door took only seconds. “We’ll meet you at the hotel,” one said before they let themselves out.
Carlton went to the decanters filled with liquor on the sideboard and poured four drinks. The séance was over—the prohibition against strong liquor was no longer in play. He looked at the woman who still held her nephew. When she nodded, he poured a fifth for her.
“Should we leave?” Isabelle asked. “I don’t think Madam is well.”
“Please, finish your drink.” Reginald had returned to the room so silently that we’d failed to notice. “When a very powerful entity takes over, Madam is sometimes overwhelmed. She’ll be fine tomorrow. She sends her apologies that she couldn’t continue.”
“I’m sorry she’s not feeling well, but it is a little disappointing.” Uncle Brett sipped his whiskey. “Perhaps tomorrow we could return. I have some questions.”
Reginald frowned. “Madam won’t consider your request. I’m sorry. You brought an entity with you that she fears.”
I thought of Isabelle’s near death on the train. She’d said someone pushed her, yet no one was near. “Does Madam know who the spirit is?”
“She said the entity was cloaked. It seethed with power. Her word. She will not risk another encounter. I’m sorry. I’ve been authorized to refund your money.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Uncle Brett said. “It was an exciting evening. I’m sure Raissa will benefit when she sets about writing her stories.” He finished his drink. “We should be off.”
Reginald
glanced at me before he spoke. “I could pay a visit to Caoin House myself. Perhaps I could divine the answers you seek.”
“And you have the same abilities as our medium?” Carlton asked in a tart tone. “You look more Hollywood than Gypsy.”
“My ancestry is Irish Italian, both cultures which respect the ability to communicate with the dead.” He smiled. “I would offer my services at no charge, of course.”
“A capital idea!” Uncle Brett’s disappointment had vanished like fog beneath a summer sun. “Why don’t you ride back on the train with us tomorrow?”
“Brett—” Carlton began.
“Nonsense, Carlton. Reginald will make an excellent traveling companion, and we’ll get to the bottom of Raissa’s peculiar haunting and some issues at Caoin House that I’d like probed.”
“Do not let this . . . four-flusher into your life.” Carlton’s steely eyes held a dare that Reginald met with a glare of his own.
“What are you afraid I’ll find?” Reginald asked.
I thought for a moment Carlton might punch him. I couldn’t understand the animosity between the two.
“Gentlemen.” Isabelle stepped between them with perfect ease. “I think this is a wonderful idea. Brett will get his answers, and we’ll have the pleasure of Reginald’s company for another few days. Carlton, I know you don’t believe in anyone’s ability to speak with the departed, but loosen up a little and enjoy the fun.” She put a hand on his arm.
Her gentle words calmed the moment, but I could tell by the way Carlton turned away that his dislike of Reginald had only intensified. I went after him to smooth the waters, leaving Reginald to finalize arrangements with Uncle Brett and Isabelle.
“Don’t be upset with Uncle Brett,” I said when I had Carlton alone in a corner of the room where we could speak softly. “He doesn’t really take this seriously.”
“And what about yourself? Are you going to be led around by the nose by a fag?”
The word caught me up short. “What?”
“Reginald is a nancy-boy. Surely you can see it.”
Anger hit me quick and hard. “Why should that matter to me? I want him to talk with the ghosts at Caoin House. I’m not interested in dating him.”
“You’re determined to do this?”
“Uncle Brett has issued the invitation. Caoin House is his to offer if he chooses. That’s something we both need to remember.” I pivoted on my heel and went over to Emily Rainfield and Tyler. They’d both recovered their composure. In a moment Reginald joined us.
“Please thank Madam for us,” Mrs. Rainfield said. “She’s given Tyler some comfort.”
“Yes, I was glad to hear that my mother is happy and watching over me.” The boy’s solemn expression had lightened, and even his freckles seemed more vivid and happy.
“Indeed, she is,” Reginald said. “They never truly abandon you. She will be with you as long as you need her.”
“And then what?” Tyler asked. “Where will she go?”
Reginald considered for a moment. “Into a new life. She will return to live again. And there are those who believe that you’ll return, also, that souls are reincarnated in clusters or groups, though the next time around you might be her father or brother. Or sister.” He grinned as he put a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “The thing is, we don’t remember our past lives, for the most part.”
“But I’ll return with her?” Tyler’s face showed all his hope. The boy missed his mother with the intensity of youth.
“I believe that to be true,” Reginald said with great gentleness. “From my communication with the spirits who linger here—those who have a reason to remain, like your mother is here to care for you, certain souls are bound together. Forever.”
While his words to Tyler were said with kindness and compassion, a chill traced through me as I thought of the Civil War ghost who called my name and lured me to follow him. Why was Eli lingering at Caoin House and visible only to me? What could I possibly have in common with Eli Whitehead, a pillar of antebellum society, a soldier, a man of great wealth? Had he been the entity at the séance that uttered the word revenge? Revenge for what?
“Please thank Madam for us,” Emily Rainfield said. “Tyler and I will be going.”
“May I call a taxi for you?” Reginald asked.
“It’s a short walk, and I believe the night air will do us both a lot of good. There are some things about his mother I wish to share with Tyler. She was my sister, and I loved her greatly, but she was far from a saint. Tyler needs to understand that she was a spirited young woman before she was his mother.”
“He does, indeed,” Reginald said as he walked to the front door with them. When the door closed, he signaled me into an alcove beneath the grand staircase. “Your friend is clear in his desire that I not return with you to Caoin House. I don’t want to start trouble. Should I make up an excuse for your uncle and decline?”
“My uncle has invited you, and it isn’t Carlton’s place to monitor Uncle Brett’s social activity. Carlton is a good friend, but he has no right to attempt to control my uncle’s guests.”
“And you? What would you prefer?” Reginald’s gray-green eyes searched my face. “You know my tastes differ from . . . other men. Will that be an issue?”
“No.” I’d never given it much thought, but my answer came easily enough.
“Then I’ll be happy to be your uncle’s guest for a few days. Perhaps I can discover something at Caoin House that answers both of your questions.” He shrugged. “And perhaps not.”
I looked into the main parlor, where Isabelle and Brett were chatting away. Carlton was examining a painting of a New Orleans street. “We should go. I hope Madam feels better. We’re scheduled to depart tomorrow at noon. We’ll meet you at the train station. Bring enough things to remain for at least a week. I suspect my uncle will want to host some parties.” I smiled. “He works hard, but he also likes to play.”
“Until tomorrow.” Reginald picked up my hand and kissed the back of my fingers with unfettered sensuality—all while he eyed Carlton. No matter who or what he liked, he was a charming devil, and he had no qualms about going nose to nose with the lawyer.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
We breakfasted in the hotel the next morning, and Uncle Brett and Carlton left “the girls” while they completed some errands. Isabelle and I retained an air of perfect decorum until the men walked out the hotel door. We grabbed each other’s hands and ran to the street. We were on our own in the City That Care Forgot, a den of sex, liquor, and bad behavior.
To my utter delight, Reginald leaned against a street sign smoking a cigarette at the corner. “Ladies, do you need a guide?”
“Oh, yes, we do, but you can’t tell Brett and Carlton. We want to explore.”
“I’m your man,” he said. “You’d be perfectly safe, but it’s better to have a male companion. Let’s walk.”
Reginald’s knowledge of the French Quarter and his clever wit and charm made the hour pass, and too soon it was time to collect the men and the luggage and catch the train home.
“I took the liberty of leaving my bags at the station,” Reginald explained. “So we’re off.”
Uncle Brett and Carlton joined us not long before the train arrived. Carlton was distant with Reginald on the trip home, but everyone ignored it. The medium entertained us with stories of Madam’s varied clients. When I asked about Arthur Conan Doyle, Reginald kept us laughing as the tall pines marched past the train window like sad sentinels.
Always good-natured, and with an astute ability to sense the emotions of those in our little group, Reginald fit in as if we’d known him all our lives. Even Carlton occasionally loosened up. By the time we pulled up at the Mobile station and found Travis waiting to retrieve us, I felt a warm friendship growing between us.
On the ride home, I sat between Reginald and Carlton. Reginald took in the port and the bustle of Mobile, but it was a small city compared with New Orleans. It wasn’t until we t
urned down the drive to Caoin House that Reginald leaned forward and spoke.
“A moon ago he died. A moon ago died the dutiful son. A moon ago died the faithful husband. A moon ago died the brave, the friend.
His ghost is cold.
His ghost is naked.
Let the ghost of the brave be carried away.”
“A bit morbid, don’t you think?” Carlton asked.
“It’s part of a poem about a Meskwaki ritual called ‘Carrying the Ghost.’ For some reason the words came to me when I looked at the light filtering through those trees.”
Reginald had gone slightly pale, and I wondered if he’d seen something. “Who or what are the Meskwaki?” I asked.
“Native American tribe. I spent some time in Canada and learned their traditions. They ended up on reservations in the States, but they had a ceremony to release the ghosts of warriors. The tribe sent them on the ghost road, a long journey. They were warned not to return down the road. Not to come back.”
Though the day was sunny and the car hot as we passed beneath the oaks, I felt a chill.
When the car stopped, Reginald helped Isabelle out, and Carlton offered me his hand. Winona met us at the doorway. “Come inside. I’m sure you’re famished from your travels. I’ve made tomato aspic for you, something light and cool after your travels.”
And we were swept into the rhythm of Caoin House as if we’d never been away. Reginald was pulled along with us. In no time he’d won Winona and Travis over with his easy conversation about plants and cooking. Reginald knew a little about a lot of things, and it made him facile and at ease.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Carlton said, standing, “I think a nap is in order. Tomorrow I have to return to town and work, but tonight I’m eager to see what Reginald can discover about Caoin House. I want to be rested and on my toes in case a savage spirit decides to gust through the house.”
Instead of taking offense, Reginald laughed. “I’d like some time to explore the property before I host a séance,” he said.
The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1) Page 11
