Did the magic eventually kill them?
The image of Pryor’s blistered hands came back to her. She’d have to leave. Find another way to deal with this stupid curse because if she caused something to happen to that beautiful man or his brothers, she couldn’t live with herself. Maybe Audrey would find that shaman she’d read about and he could do something for them. Feeling better with that decision made, she left the room and made her way across the yard, carefully watching for random roots. The haunting cry of an egret echoed somewhere out over the water. She looked that way and shook her head. Last night, the place had been terrifying and today, all was peaceful and gorgeous.
He’d told her to walk on in, but she still hesitated at the top of the steps at one of his back doors.
Silence greeted her inside before it quickly filled with the sound of whispers. Harsh, guttural voices that carried such a heavy weight of sorrow, their misery threatened to crush her. A shudder ran through her body and she hurried through the house.
“Pryor?”
He didn’t respond to her call, but the whispers grew louder. All the hair on her body stood as the weeping started up. Her heart felt like it would break.
Such unbelievable sadness was trapped in this place.
Elita squinted into the bright light streaming through the two slim windows on either side of the front door. She gripped the wooden handrail. “Pryor?” Her voice echoed up the stairwell, blending with those of the Bernaux ancestors.
The cacophony of voices, this symphony of misery and fear, made her skin prickle and her heart ache. “Pryor?”
She heard the faint sound of a shower.
And immediately imagined his hard body, muscles slick with water.
Clenching her hands into fists, she backed away from the stairs. Having sex with that man was probably not the best idea—not when she had to leave. Not when she still didn’t completely trust him. But she’d never wanted a man this badly in her life. He would make her sweat even in the coldest Boston winter. And her body had never acclimated to those.
Maybe what he’d done for her would be enough to lessen the curse.
If she didn’t let herself think about the crazy of the night before. It couldn’t have been a hand wrapping around her ankle. Couldn’t have been.
She had to leave. Today.
And do what? Go back to Boston? Be a struggling waitress for the rest of her life? Alone?
If she were to be completely honest, she had to accept that she’d missed this place. Missed her family. And yeah, missed the basin. It was like she’d left a part of her soul here. Everything that made up who she was came from here. The food, the way of life, the people.
One of her regular customers in Boston spoke French and her heart had stuttered every single time. She’d thought of asking him to teach her, but the words weren’t the same. Cajun French was like a whole other language at times. But one similar phrase and she’d been pulled back to her favorite season here. The spring, when life bloomed like magic every year.
Elita heard the washer ding and walked to the spell room. She put the load of clothes, including her shoes, into the dryer and went back to the kitchen. She looked out of the window over the kitchen sink and stared at the trees, the moss…
Hell. She wouldn’t be going back to Boston.
Yes, this place was in danger and yes, it would break her heart to watch the disappearing swamplands, but she belonged here. She did. She could cook here as well as anywhere else. Find a way to make her recipes stand out in a bayou of great Creole and Cajun chefs. She could do it.
But first, she needed to find a phone and call a taxi. Scrubbing her hands over her cheeks, she remembered spotting a phone in the parlor. She loved that old-fashioned term and loved that the brothers still had one. Most folks she knew had already remodeled those old rooms and turned them into game rooms. These guys had done that with a bedroom instead.
She walked down the hall, passing the family photos and once again, the voices started. They whispered and wailed and she covered her ears, her gaze landing on a picture of Pryor and his brothers. There wasn’t much of an age difference between him and the next brother, but it looked like several years separated the next two. The oldest had darker hair and such a serious expression. He kind of looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Pryor and the other brother grinned at the camera, their arms around each other’s shoulders. The charm ran strong in those two.
She moved along the wall and saw them grow older. The smiles disappeared on the younger two in the pictures for years. An older woman entered some of the images and the unbearable sorrow in her features broke Elita’s heart.
The sobs started back up. An old woman’s sobs.
Elita knew it was the woman in the photographs—the boys’ mamere. In this picture, she had rested her hand on Pryor’s shoulder. Elita touched Pryor’s face. He’d been one of those tall, gangly teenagers—one who hadn’t yet grown into his arms and legs.
The voices grew louder, more agitated and a feeling of panic suddenly ripped through her. She set the photo down and ran to the bottom of the stairs, nearly slipping on the floor rug. “Pryor?” she called up the stairs again.
Her agitation grew as the level of whispers rose. That symphony became a clattering, clashing loud mass of voices that pushed her toward the second floor. She ran, skidding into the wide upper hall. The wood floor was scuffed and faded up here. A small chandelier with fake candle lights dangled from the ceiling. Wood panels went halfway up the walls while the upper halves were painted a deep burgundy. The brothers had obviously not started on the upstairs renovations. The doors, white and thick, were all shut except for one.
Still following the sound of the shower, she went through the open door, surprised to find the big room empty of everything but a fireplace. This wasn’t Pryor’s room.
The agitation level of the voices rose and rose until it felt like they were trying to push her heart into her throat. The panic that had been bubbling near the surface burst free and she flung open the bathroom door.
Her breath caught when she saw Pryor standing mostly under the spray. He’d have to duck to get his head wet, so the water hit him mid-chest and ran in rivulets down his hard frame. He had the kind of muscles that came from work, not overly bulky and they flexed nicely as he moved his soapy hands over his sides.
She wanted to be those hands more than anything in that moment.
And he seemed perfectly fine.
Fire—way warmer than the steam filling the room—scalded every inch of her skin. And it was born not only of the feelings his naked body raised in her, but the utter humiliation of barging in on him like this.
Pryor went still and turned his head to look at her, eyes flaring wide when he took in her expression. He opened the shower door. “Elita? What is it?” He hurriedly swiped at the soap left on his body, switched off the water and stepped out of the shower stall.
Elita spun around. “Sorry! The voices…they made me think—” She rested her forehead on the cool wall. “Oh shit, this is so embarrassing. Just sorry.”
“Quit apologizing.” There were rustling sounds behind her and she stiffened when he put his hands on her shoulders to turn her back around to him. “The house is very noisy right now and a lot of the voices seem more restless every day.” He smiled. “Something about you riles the old ones, Elita Raisonne.”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t just their noise. They grew agitated and made me feel it. Made me believe something was wrong with you. And the water had been running so long…”
That crooked grin—the one that did evil things to her insides—stretched his mouth. “The hot water felt good on my tired muscles and without having to share it with my brothers, I took an extra-long shower this time.” A drop of water slid down from his hair, over his cheekbone. More water dripped in lower places.
She tried not to look at all that still-wet skin. He’d only wrapped a towel around his waist, so there
was a lot of it to look at. She loved that phantom tattoo on his chest, wanted to trace the lines of the other colorful ones flowing out from it, over his shoulder and down his arm. The air, hot and steamy, made her clothes cloying and sticky, and she had to curl her hands into fists so she didn’t rip her shirt off and see what all those hard muscles felt like against her. She briefly closed her eyes. “Angry voices or not, I had no right to burst into your bathroom.”
“It’s not mine. Mine needs the tile replaced because it’s leaking hard enough to reach the first floor.”
She made herself look at his eyes—not at his body. “Doesn’t matter who it belongs to.” She looked away from him, tried to think of another way of saying she was sorry and instead, inane words tumbled from her lips. “I can’t imagine the upkeep of a place like this.”
“It’s taking a lot of time and a lot of money to bring it into this century, but we’re doing it.” He glanced around the room. “It’ll be worth it in the long run.” His gaze came back to her, locked on her. The corner of his mouth turned up as he stepped closer and stroked his fingers over the hollow of her throat. “Either you should step out of the hot room, or take off your clothes so it’s more comfortable.”
Elita opened her mouth, but snapped it closed because she had no idea what to say. His near-nakedness was wreaking havoc with her brain and her body. The steamy air in the small room made her feel dizzy. She took a step back toward the door and glanced over her shoulder to find it closed. She didn’t remember even closing it. All she’d seen, from the moment she’d entered the room, was a naked Pryor in the shower, then out. And while he’d been in, she’d seen everything, from the broad shoulders, down his long sinuous back, to the perfectly round cheeks of his ass. The memory of that ass of his would be permanently tattooed in her brain.
She couldn’t stop herself from going over the front of him again and it wasn’t only steam heating her cheeks when she saw the evidence of his desire for her changing the shape of his towel.
“You can’t be cold,” he said half under his breath. “There is no way you’re cold, so it’s me doing that.”
“Doing what?” she whispered.
He took the few steps needed to close the space between them and stroked his finger over her nipple. “So hard.”
She shuddered, her back hitting the door, her eyes shutting tight. “Oh boy.”
Pryor didn’t stop coming toward her until he pressed his body to hers. She felt the water still on his skin soak through her T-shirt. Her own skin tingled, her breaths picked up, the excitement racing through her system so powerful, she couldn’t contain it. She touched the smooth skin of his waist, moved around to the taut, lean muscles of his back. She then wrapped her arms around his neck.
He stared at her a moment, shook his head, then seemed to give in to whatever doubts or thoughts or denials he had going on in his mind. When his mouth slid over hers, she was glad she held on to his neck.
Pryor pressed her close, then lifted her up. He slanted his head, opening her mouth with his tongue. A shudder went through him and he flicked his tongue over hers, luring it into a dance that curled her toes. His lips were softer than she expected—his mouth hot. She buried her fingers in his wet hair, the strands heavy and silky against her palms.
He pulled back slightly, bottom lip still clinging softly to hers. His hot breath brushed over her upper lip before he nipped it, then kissed down her jaw, her neck. “Touch me,” he breathed against her throat.
She ran her hands back down his neck, around his strong shoulders, over his collarbones. “Damn, Pryor, your skin…I love your skin.” She touched more of it, stroking her fingers over his pecs, his abdomen. She brushed against the cotton of the towel and froze.
So did Pryor. He pulled back, gaze locking with hers, chest moving with his fast breaths.
Still staring at him, she ran one finger across the tender skin just over the towel.
He went perfectly still.
“I’ve never felt this drawn to someone in my life,” she said, splaying her hand over the hard ridges of his abdomen.
Something flickered in his expression, and he suddenly took a step back, then another. He shut his eyes, obviously working to bring his body back under control.
“Pryor?”
He didn’t say anything, just kept moving away from her until his back touched the shower door.
She reached toward him, then stopped when he held up a hand and shook his head. When he looked at her, something strange passed over his expression again, some kind of anguish that made her heart bleed. “Pryor, what is it?” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, Elita.”
“Sorry for what?”
“We can’t do this.”
“Do what? Kiss?” Heat that had nothing to do with the steam lingering in the room crept up her neck. “We seem to be kind of good at that.”
His smile was rueful. “Yeah, we do. But it’s—” He chuckled and the sound didn’t have a smidgen of humor in it. “Fast.”
“You think it’s too fast?” She knew she stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “Being a hex breaker wasn’t enough to make you an unusual man? Every man I’ve ever met thought fast was the best—and sometimes—the only way.”
There was again, no humor in his answering laugh. “Could you give me a couple of minutes to get dressed?”
She didn’t want to leave him alone, didn’t want to walk away and leave him feeling whatever it was causing the kind of deep pain she’d just glimpsed. She also didn’t want to stay where she wasn’t wanted, and it was possible that was it. Desire aside, she was trouble and nobody would know that more than this man. Even though it felt like a giant fist was squeezing the air out of her lungs, she pulled out everything she had to give him a friendly smile that showed nothing of her inner turmoil. She hoped.
“I shouldn’t have run in here like that, but I was looking for you. I wanted to let you know that I called a cab. It’s probably here by now. I’ll pick up another cell phone and call you so you have my number. I’ll come back when your brothers are here and—” He opened his mouth and she knew he was going to argue.
This time she held up her hand. “I think it’s better that I go. You’re okay with me coming back, right?”
He nodded. “You’ll have to come back. We can never turn a request down.”
She frowned. “But you didn’t turn me down. You tried to break the curse.”
“I did. But it didn’t work. I have to keep trying until it works.”
“What?” White, hot fear blinded her for a moment. “But Ma’man—that’s not what I’ve heard and if that’s true, it’s not fair.”
“And how much of life is?”
“No.” She shook her head, hugging her arms to her waist. “I didn’t know. If I’d known I never would have come here, never would have asked. Your hands…” She sucked in a deep breath. “Is the payback worse for bigger spells?”
He didn’t answer right away and she watched his face, frowned.
“You’re trying to come up with a way to lie to me, aren’t you?” she asked.
“No, not lie. Not exactly.”
She stepped forward and put her hand on his arm. “Is it worse, Pryor?”
He stared down her, his expression grim. “Yes.”
“And it will be okay if your brothers are here?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll call and come back when they’re here. Thank you so much for all you’ve done so far.”
Elita didn’t give him any time to answer. She ran downstairs and took her still-wet things from the dryer. Sure enough, the cab was outside, so she walked out and turned to look at the house. They hadn’t started the renovations out here yet and chipped paint and overgrown vines covered the once-white pillars on the porch. She looked up to find Pryor watching her through a window. It took everything she had to give him her best, fake smile as she waved and got into the cab.
The slow, sure strums of a guitar mad
e a lovely backdrop to the multitude of voices, all talking in low tones on Ma’man’s porch. None of it drowned out the creak of the moving chains holding up the swing where she was currently curled. Or the constant stream of singing crickets around them.
Elita picked at the loose threads on the old red cushion that had been here as long as she could remember. It was faded pink now.
Tooter and his sons were here for supper along with three other men and a woman she’d just met tonight. One of the fishermen, Jamal, had brought some of the best fried gator bites she’d ever tried. Since it wasn’t yet hunting season for them, he must have pulled the meat from his freezer. The man wouldn’t share his batter recipe either, no matter how much she begged.
Everyone lazed about the porch, enjoying the music and the conversation. Elita and her grandmother had more than tripled the amount of food Ma’man had planned to make and it had taken a couple of hours to cook. Nobody seemed to mind. They all contributed to Ma’man’s ancient freezer, then hung out even though it was after dark when it finally came time to eat.
Tooter sighed loudly, propped his feet on an upside down shrimp bucket and rubbed his belly. “Dose were de best pork and butter beans you ever made, Ma’man.”
Elita wondered if anyone thought it weird that Tooter called his girlfriend mother. Or even grandmother, depending on who you talked to. Some even considered the term derogatory. Not Ninette. She wore the moniker with pride. Everyone called the woman Ma’man Raisonne and Ava was always saying it was because the names rhymed and were more fun to say than Ninette, but one would think intimacy would make the address weird. Though technically, Elita was pretty sure enough years separated her grandmother and the fisherman to create that sort of age difference. If her grandmother had been an even younger teenaged mother.
“Elita seasoned de beans. Did de rice right too, yeah?” Ma’man grinned without a hint of resentment over being told something Elita had made was better than hers. She was wearing another of those short summer dresses, this one light blue. It showed off her still-petite figure and the tan she never seemed to be without. Moonlight sparkled on her white hair. “Taught dat girl right, I did.”
The Brothers Bernaux [01] Raisonne Curse Page 7
