Soul Reckoning

by Nancy E. Polin

  Smiling at the image, Rowan trotted down the steps and shoved the door at the base of the stairs outward. When it bounced back, she let out an undignified yelp and stumbled, catching herself before she could land on her ass. A big hand grabbed the edge of the door to keep it from slamming.

  Luke stood frowning down at her, eyes deep, contemplative. Almost mocking. Despite the warm day dawning, he wore a long-sleeved t-shirt capping his black jeans. “Problem?”

  “No. You just startled me.” She kept her tone cool, even as her heart restarted. She allowed a personal pat on the back when her voice didn’t tremble.

  “Sleep well?” Something in his words had her eyes narrowing. On the surface, they sounded caustic, but his eyes darkened with what might have been concern. It disappeared a moment later and she figured she’d imagined it. It wasn’t like the guy had done anything to hide the fact that she was unwelcome.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” She jutted her chin out.

  “New town. New place.” He shrugged a solid shoulder. “I gather Margie mentioned my arrangement.”

  Rowan stared up at him, at a complete loss.

  One brow jerked up. “She didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me…?” A second later, Margie’s words echoed in her brain. Shared facilities. Biting back a lengthy groan, she nodded. “Oh. She did. Warn me, that is.”

  “Good.”

  She swallowed the urge to question him, suspecting he wouldn’t answer her anyway. Living within the walls of the tavern was bad enough, but sharing the facilities with her? It felt utterly ridiculous. He didn’t seem impaired or anything, so why the hell would he be okay with this kind of arrangement?

  “All right then. Don’t worry about the key. I have one.” He stepped past her, whistling as he took the stairs two at a time, towel and shaving kit under one arm. In his wake, she caught the scent of faint cologne, soap, and warm male. A low tremor heated her skin and she took a half-step back.

  Rowan shook herself off but stared after him, noting the grace and power in his fluid movement. Obviously a man who took care of himself. Even more ammo for her bafflement.

  With a heavy sigh, she walked toward the front of the bar to let herself out into the brilliant sunshine. She had a lawyer to see.

  Chapter Four

  It had been all about timing and Marcus Ady could only take that good fortune as a sign from the gods. He seldom voyaged into the city these days, at least not in person, but business sometimes beckoned or certain rare supplies occasionally needed replenishing.

  With more than idle curiosity, he’d stopped across the street from Broussard’s tavern as the cab rolled to a stop. The woman caught his attention when the driver carried her luggage within, and he found himself wandering over, discreet in his step and gaze.

  The building hadn’t wanted him there, he could feel the push, unpleasant in its persistence. Marcus clenched his jaw, took a breath, and slipped through the entry anyway. He chose an unobtrusive corner table where he could get a clear view of the room. When the server swept by with a large smile, he ordered a beer on tap that he had no intention of finishing. Trying to ignore the creeping of his skin as the tavern reacted to his presence, he kept an eye on the newcomer.

  Young, not even out of her twenties, with dark-red hair and delicate features. Her demeanor held a no-nonsense quality as she was introduced to the staff and some of the bar’s patrons, despite the shadows of fatigue soaking into her face. She glanced around, gaze fixing on other customers, smiling, nodding, and finding his and holding for a moment. Those evening-storm-gray eyes left his and moved on. With the exception of those odd eyes, she looked nothing like Broussard.

  When the waitress returned with his pint, he smiled at her and nodded in the other woman’s direction. “Who’s that?”

  “Oh. New owner."

  “Beautiful girl.” The words came out in appreciation and a wave of regret swept through him. It was unfortunate, but there was nothing else to be done. His choices were and would remain narrow if he didn’t make a grab for this opportunity. A thread of new resentment sifted through his belly and pooled atop the old anger.

  The waitress glanced over in frank assessment. “She is. She’s the former owner’s niece. He left her the place. Came all the way from California.”

  “Really? That’s going to be quite a change.”

  “I suppose so. No way she can ever replace Jimmy though.”

  “Of course not, but sometime fresh blood can invigorate a place.”

  She leaned a hip against the table and tilted her head. Blonde hair flowed over one shoulder. “I guess. Did you know Jimmy?”

  “Here and there.” He smiled again. At one time he could charm women, and when she responded with a sudden relaxed smile, he figured he wasn’t as rusty as he might think. His deceased wife had always called him “handsome with a thread of dapper.” Maybe that had been true at one time, but illness had a way of warping what was or could have been. When he looked in the mirror, the once appealing face had shrunken to skin pressed over bone. It was less a face and more a horror movie mask.

  The waitress hadn’t seen the ill man sitting before her, though. She’d seen what he’d wanted her to see, which, he would have to say, was a much more appealing package. It had taken a lot of effort on his part. Too much.

  At one time he would have considered laying out some breadcrumbs for the blonde girl to follow. All that youth and vivacity would have given him a nice boost, but a connection could not be established. He didn’t have the strength.

  It had to be Broussard’s niece. Blood begets blood.

  He didn’t stay long that night, just long enough to dispense a little something for the tavern’s new owner to start the process. Even if the girl hadn’t disappeared as quickly as she had, he still wouldn’t have been able to stay. That unpleasant creeping sensation affected every square inch of his skin, propelling him toward the door. Even worse, the protection of the building shoved his lungs closed and constricted his veins. He could barely breathe and his blood pressure rose to crest into an excruciating headache. When he stumbled outside, warm syrupy air of the Louisiana night provided a welcome relief.

  Yes, Broussard had turned things around. It didn’t manage to save him though. It had been much too late for that. But he had managed to avoid paying his debt.

  And now Marcus suffered for his betrayal.

  He grit his teeth at the recent memory as he now threw cracked corn mixed with oyster shell down for the chickens behind his home. His land connected with another’s on the very northern tip, the rest backed up against the bayou. Braced on stilts, the little house itself had been built with the reality of flooding in mind. Of course, his own protection spells locked it up tight, even as Katrina raged around him. One of his neighbors had floated past on the second day, bloated and staring. Marcus felt nothing, remembering the hissing of “djable!” as they’d passed one another on the narrow road that adjoined their properties. Superstition fueled terror and Marcus found he enjoyed the power it gave him. Besides, the man had been nothing but a waste of flesh. On the rare occasion he laid eyes on the man’s wife, she wore blackened eyes or swollen lips as others might boast expensive cosmetics.

  One person’s devil was not always another’s.

  Marcus let out a breath and leaned against the wire of the coop. Fatigue was too easy a draw these days, but he now knew there was a way out. Hope fluttered deep in his chest.

  What he’d said to Jimmy’s waitress was indeed true. Sometimes fresh blood could invigorate. It could even heal. He’d managed to avoid the call of the reaper for decades beyond his given years, and he had no intention of allowing it now.

  He let himself out of the enclosure and slowly climbed the steps to the back porch, clutching the railing to pull himself forward. His breathing rasped and his lungs burned. The weakness enfolding him disgusted him, but he reminded himself it was only temporary. Needing to recoup his strength, Marcus wouldn’t be able to
leave the safety of his home for a bit. At least not physically. His mind still remained sharp, powerful. It was his strongest weapon. But it wouldn’t remain so for long. A quick melding of the eyes established the connection with the girl, but he needed time to cement it before he could move forward. Marcus prayed his soul wouldn’t break down in the interim.

  He shuffled down the hall to the heart of his house to prepare for his afternoon visit.

  Chapter Five

  Feeling a little indecisive, Rowan stepped into afternoon sun. Her sense of protocol wanted to bring her back to the Goose. She knew she had so damned much to learn and wanted to hit the ground running, but the lawyer had encouraged her to take some time to explore the city. In fact, she’d practically threatened her if she didn’t. Being able to tell the Garden District from the Warehouse District from the French Quarter from the surrounding suburbs could only be advantageous as a local business owner. There was no way to really argue with that bit of logic.

  Sighing, she slid sunglasses over her eyes and took a moment to get her bearings before turning down Royal Street to head southwest. According to Margie, she could pick up the streetcar at Canal and Carondelet and it would take her on a mini tour of the city.

  Taking her time, she paused to peer through storefront windows into art galleries and gift stores, listening to the buzz of conversation and laughter around her. Street performers sang, danced, juggled, spray painted, and impressed with magical feats. Rowan barely sidestepped being yanked into a conjurer’s act by flashing an apologetic smile and quickening her pace. The Quarter throbbed with life and energy and she found herself sluicing off the oppression of the night.

  Canal spread wide with two lanes running either direction, while the trolley line speared down the middle. Towering palm trees lined the sidewalks, caressing luxury hotels and sidling up against business signage. Rowan slid along with the bustle of foot traffic oozing out from the French Quarter, turned right, and headed up to the next block to cross the street.

  She purchased a day pass from the automated ticket seller just as the St. Charles trolley pulled up, ringing its bell. Several people stepped off and she waited patiently for her turn to board.

  From nowhere, a chill trickled down her spine, pebbling a cold sweat across her brow and down the center of her chest. Pausing, she pivoted, ignoring riders pushing around her. The heavy sense of being watched soaked into muscle and bone, and her heart rate spiked.

  As far as she could tell, no one was paying the least bit of attention to her. People milled around, immersed in their own lives and problems. She heard snatches of conversation relating to appointments, kids, jobs, parties, and politics, nothing concerning the redhead standing frozen beside local transportation.

  “You okay, miss?”

  Rowan turned toward the voice, finding herself pinned by a dark gaze flitting between empathy and impatience. The trolley operator frowned, lines cutting into her face. “You gettin’ on? Where you goin’? You need help?”

  Her breath rasped hard in her ears and the woman’s words sounded distant. “Um…”

  “I got a schedule to keep.”

  “Sorry,” she murmured and climbed on, stopping once to sweep the street again through concentrated vision. Nothing.

  The AC blasted above her as she took a bench seat beneath the window. A shudder plowed through her and she braced when the trolley surged forward.

  Imagination. She’d never been lacking in that department. It had been honed to a fine point of late. That had to be it. That, and crappy sleep, were a potent combination. She pressed her fingers to her eyelids, aware of the throb of a low headache building.

  “Screw this.”

  She opened her eyes to the wide grins of a couple of teenage boys. One waggled his eyebrows and Rowan stared at him until he dropped his gaze. His friend elbowed him in the ribs and guffawed.

  Okay. This was ridiculous. No one was watching her. Hell, no one even knew her here. A tiny bit of caution in any city was wise, but she’d never been paranoid. And she wasn’t going to start now.

  Lifting her chin and steeling her spine, she shifted to gaze through the window to absorb whatever the sights might be.

  So many people going about their business, walking, jogging, biking, or skateboarding, filled her sight to serve as foreground for the shifting views of hotels, businesses, green neighborhoods with stately mature oaks shielding magnificent homes, museums, and a university. Here and there, she caught the shine of past Mardi Gras beads hanging from trees and power lines, and her brows rose at the implication, knowing she would never have the guts to earn them.

  Sunlight drifting through the window and the influx of sights and sounds brought about her dormant sense of adventure, and an anticipatory smile twitched the edges of her mouth.

  Much better.

  She let out a long breath, imagining misgivings and worries flowing out from her. There was no doubt they’d be back to plague her, but for this moment, she wanted to be cheerfully thought-free.

  Frequent stops brought a constant influx of people and she watched them almost as much as she gazed through the window. The mom with two tiny children and two reusable grocery bags, the young man with the earbuds and jerking head, the old couple holding hands, the tourists recording everything, including her. Rowan returned her attention to the passing city, and at the rumble of an empty stomach, she made an impulse decision to bail for a bite of late lunch.

  Following a migration, she chose a restaurant at random and sat on the enclosed patio to watch foot traffic. Deciding to skip dinner that night, she ordered a plate of brisket and parmesan fries with an inward promise of heavy calisthenics. She would normally run, but wouldn’t until she was comfortable enough in her new surroundings.

  Indulging in a glass of Cabernet, Rowan’s thoughts began to drift. When she arrived back at the tavern, she planned on sitting down and scrutinizing Jimmy’s budget to see what kind of wiggle room she might have. Perhaps she’d be able to spiff up the place a little, but figured she’d have to be careful not to scare off the regulars. The corner stage lent itself to live music at one time and she wondered if that was something her uncle had supplied or if it was an avenue neglected. His books would tell her, or she could always ask Luke.

  The thought of him brought a frown. She’d called earlier to touch base, letting him know she’d be out the rest of the afternoon and his dry response had been something to the effect that she should take her time, the place wouldn’t need her anytime soon. If she could have shoved a fist through the phone to sock that handsome face, she would have enthusiastically done so.

  It didn’t matter. She’d make this whole situation work no matter what. She had no plans whatsoever to go home with a bowed head, as much as her mother might expect or even hope. After all, O’Herleys were doctors, lawyers, shipping magnets, and business VPs, not actors and certainly not bar owners.

  Tension marched into her shoulders, and Rowan did a slow roll to keep them from knotting with pain. She took her mother’s disapproving image and shoved it away, very aware it wouldn’t go far.

  When her server swung by with her order, her stomach snarled in anticipation. Coffee had been a necessary starter that morning, but solid food had eluded her a little too long. With more than a little gusto, she dug in, rolling her eyes in food ecstasy. If she wasn’t careful, New Orleans would make her fat before she could blink.

  As she ate, her mind picked at problems and plans, careful to omit the Luke factor. As long as she could remember, she’d treated her issues like tightened knots, picking and working until she could straighten them out.

  “What’s a pretty lady like you doing eating all by her lonesome?”

  At the smooth voice, Rowan snapped out of her musings and looked up at the man standing beside her table. He gazed down at her, green eyes popping against mocha skin that crinkled in the corners. Something about him yanked a familiar cord in her brain and she frowned. “Just enjoying the afternoon.”


  “Ah, such a beautiful one it is. Tourist or resident?”

  “Both, I suppose.” Rowan sipped at her wine, scrambling to identify him, but nothing came to mind. With reluctance, she tried to let it go.

  He chuckled. “On the cusp between one and another. Wonderful place to be. Everything is shiny and new. It all gets old much too quickly.” The man slid into the chair across from her, his move quick and graceful. He folded his long slender hands together and rested them against the white of the tablecloth.

  A tingle reverberated at the base of her skull. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr.…?”

  “Oh, no. I’m doing beautifully, but I had a question for you.”

  Rowan glanced around her. No one paid attention to the odd man hanging about her table, but then again, why would they? “Well, I suppose you can ask, but the answer will most likely be ‘no.’ No offense.”

  “What does family mean to you?” He ignored her comment and tilted his head, the gesture somehow knowing.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Oh, you heard me.” He leaned forward, eyes meeting hers. His voice lowered and any semblance of good humor leached away. “Family is very important, c’est vrai?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Do I seem familiar?”

  She stared into his eyes, felt an odd sliding sensation, and pulled her gaze away. A prickle of sweat itched along her hairline.

  He shrugged one narrow shoulder, the casualness of the gesture not melding with the steel in his eyes. “You could call me a family friend, ma petite.”

  Rowan’s heart pounded in her throat, the man’s presence sending off electrical charges of alarm. Her reaction confused her, but she swallowed her sudden fear and allowed a wave of anger to take its place. She put down her wine, proud when her words bit instead of trembled. “Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, but I think maybe it’s time you leave.”

  “Does family mean honor?”

  “What?”