A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  She pulled on a loose shirt and a pair of riding breeches, then reached into the depths of her armoire for the boots she’d had specially made. Most people would say women didn’t need riding boots like these—sleek, supple leather that hugged her calves. Those same people would probably say women shouldn’t ride astride. Most people didn’t matter. Freedom could be found on a horse. On a fast one, no man in the world could catch her.

  She opened her dresser drawer, pushed aside a stack of satin lingerie, and closed her fingers around a pearl-handled revolver. She checked each chamber then shoved it into her waistband.

  Trula tapped on the door to Diddy’s room before she entered. He was the one member of the household who wouldn’t question her. Or try to stop her. “Diddy,” she whispered, “I have to go out.”

  He yawned then nodded.

  She waited for him in the parlor. Nervous energy made her pace. Pure chance made her peek through the slats of the plantation shutters covering the windows. Like a magnet, he drew her gaze. Almost hidden in the shadows, Zeke Barnes spied on her house.

  Her jaw tightened. How dare he?

  Did he still think she hid some clue about the murders? Perhaps he believed someone in her house was a deranged killer? He ought to investigate voodoo mambos with enough power to summon spirits and stop bedeviling her. She ought to go down to the street and tell him exactly that.

  If she did, he’d smirk or perhaps bark a laugh. Then his gaze would roam her body as if she was his for the taking. That same traitorous body would tingle.

  She stepped away from the window. Why give him the opportunity to laugh at her expense or size her with those knowing eyes? She had other things to do. Better things. Things a Yankee wouldn’t understand.

  Would he follow her?

  She smiled in the darkness. Let him try.

  …

  Zeke scanned the darkness. He dismissed the staggering drunks, the musicians making their way home after a long night blowing horns or pounding piano keys, and the pale memories of men, ghosts who floated just above the banquette. Somewhere a murderer stalked his next victim. Zeke’s hands fisted at his sides and stomach acid rose to his throat. The murders would end here in New Orleans. This time the beast who ripped apart grown men wouldn’t escape him.

  Zeke’s gaze traveled the length of the street—more drunks, more musicians, a ghost, and two figures slipping through Trula Boudreaux’s front door.

  The child caught his attention. Then he noticed that even in the darkness the man with the boy had curves. He recognized those curves, dangerous and delicious. What the hell was Trula doing sneaking out at four in the morning? And where the hell was she going? A murderer roamed the district. Did she want to be the next victim?

  She’d rejected him nightly. Why should he care if she put herself in danger? If the woman walked naked through streets filled with drunken, lust-crazed louts, he shouldn’t lift a finger to stop her. If she juggled sticks of dynamite, he should sit back and enjoy the show. And, if she chose to share the night with a murderous fiend, he should let her.

  She was nothing but a troublesome woman. One who occupied his thoughts far too often. One who wouldn’t thank him for interfering in her affairs.

  She disappeared into the gloom.

  Damn.

  His responsibilities were clear. Gallivanting after Trula Boudreaux was not among them. But no matter how tough she thought she was, he couldn’t let her wander the streets with a murderer. Stifling a curse, he followed her into the darkness.

  The streets were murky, the walls of the buildings were slick with damp, wisps of fog swirled around him, and menace hung heavy in the pitch air. The smallest noise echoed and the mournful note of a foghorn bounced off the buildings. The sound of footsteps faded. Where was she going? Zeke hurried his own steps to catch up to her.

  She led him to a stable.

  Her sharp rap brought a boy to the door.

  The lad rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawned, then let her in.

  Zeke paused in the shadows of a scrolled eave and restrained himself, barely, from barging after her.

  The stable doors opened and Trula appeared astride a dark gray. She trotted into the night. Alone. Without even the child to protect her. Zeke groaned. Where now? Had she somehow forgotten death haunted the streets?

  He couldn’t allow her to ride into darkness and danger. He knew precisely what might happen to her. Zeke strode through the open stable door. Inside, two boys lay a blanket on a pile of straw. Apparently Trula’s young escort meant to spend the night. Both boys stared at him, their faces studies in surprise.

  “Do you know where she’s going?” He recognized the boy, Diddy. The boy stared at his feet and said, “No, sir.” Zeke didn’t believe him. “You’re sure?”

  The boy shook his head, refusing to look up, much less answer Zeke’s question.

  He had to convince the youngster he meant her no harm. Zeke’s fingers closed on the child’s shoulders. “Diddy, I won’t hurt her. Something out there might.” Zeke waved his free arm toward the shadows that oozed through the stable door.

  The boy raised his gaze and a sly smile slid across his face. “She’s not going to meet a man.”

  It hadn’t occurred to him Trula would sneak into the dark to meet a man. Now that Diddy had suggested it, Zeke’s gut twisted with an emotion he didn’t care to examine.

  “Where’s she going, Diddy? Please tell me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I want to…” He wanted to wring her pretty neck. “I want to protect her.”

  Finally, the boy nodded. “Out toward the river. Miz Trula’s fixin’ to visit Granny Amzie.”

  Relief flooded Zeke’s veins. “Tell me the way.”

  “Take Royal Street to rue Guillote. Granny Amzie lives on the northwest corner. It’s just past Poland Street.”

  Zeke ignored the stable boy’s surprised expression. Diddy hadn’t betrayed Trula’s trust. He’d done the right thing. Thank God the boy realized she shouldn’t be alone in the night. It was a shame the damn woman didn’t have as much sense.

  “I need a horse.” He pulled his purse from his coat pocket and withdrew a crisp bill. “A fast horse.”

  “Yes, sir.” The stable boy disappeared into a stall and led out a likely looking bay. Unable to stay still, Zeke helped throw a saddle on the gelding. He cinched the girth, climbed onto the horse, and cantered into the night.

  The street echoed with the smallest sounds. His horse’s hooves on the cobbles sounded like gunshots. How could she have gotten so far ahead of him? The image of Trula bleeding in the gutter, her beautiful face a mask of pain and horror, her hair blackened with blood, made his own blood run cold.

  Did she think beautiful women were immune from violence?

  He knew otherwise.

  Trula wasn’t Bess.

  He’d loved Bess, with her romantic ideas of starlit walks and conquering heroes. He’d indulged her whims. But the stars cared not a whit for romance. The stars watched Bess’ blood soak the ground. They’d both discovered he wasn’t a hero. He gritted his teeth against the familiar pain and blinked back the vision of Bess’ battered body.

  Trula wouldn’t walk into danger armed only with her belief in human goodness. Trula knew the dark and believed she could face it down.

  He ought to let her go. He hardly knew the woman.

  Except, despite her best efforts, he did know Trula. A saxophone’s plaintive notes could bring tears to her eyes. She snapped when she was angry, smiled when she was sad, and protected those who lived in her house with single-minded determination. If only she’d direct a tiny bit of that determination into protecting herself. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and its strides lengthened.

  He sped down streets emptied by darkness and rain, his eyes searching for a white shirt or a gray horse. He found a shimmering blue light. It glistened in the dark street and his horse shied beneath him, rearing and dancing on the rain-slicked pavement. Adrenaline iced his fing
ers. The blue light meant death. Sparkling bright as sunlit sapphires in the heavy air, it was the manifestation of a spirit. A dark one. Probably a fifolet, it preyed on lonely travelers. It filled their lungs, suffocated them in seconds, then feasted on their souls.

  Zeke backed his nervous mount. Cursing the delay, he cut over to Chartres Street, hoping his horse wouldn’t object to the mist rolling in off the river. With a rising sense of dread, he passed Francis, Lesseps, and Poland Streets. Where was Guillote? It should be here. The river meandered to his right, a dark ribbon of turbid water. Where had she gone?

  He slowed the bay to a walk. The horse snorted then shifted between his legs.

  A man, little more than a shape in the misty darkness, reclined on the bank.

  “Sir, would you direct me to rue Guillote?” Zeke’s voice was weighted with mist.

  The man didn’t move.

  “Sir! Directions to rue Guillote, if you please.”

  The dark head turned and the hair on the back of Zeke’s neck rose. Despite a ruined jaw and a gaping hole in his forehead, the ghost replied, “Ain’t no such street.”

  The horse reared and Zeke leaned forward over its neck to steady the frightened animal. “I apologize for bothering you.”

  “Ain’t no bother.” A rusty laugh rose above the sound of the river and the man shook the remains of his head. “Ain’t no street.”

  Zeke gritted his teeth and spun the spooked horse away from the ghost. There was no rue Guillote. Diddy had tricked him. No, not Diddy—Trula. The treacherous woman put the boy up to it. She’d planned this useless trip to the banks of the Mississippi.

  Where the hell was she?

  …

  Trula slid off the mare’s back, tied its reins to the twisted stump that served as a hitching post, then climbed the crooked stairs to Granny Amzie’s cabin. The old shack might once have been painted white, but rust from the tin roof stained the walls with streaks of brown. Now it looked afflicted by a disfiguring disease.

  Trula’s foot touched Granny Amzie’s drunken porch and the front door swung open. A pair of yellow eyes peered into the night, taking Trula’s measure.

  “Took your own sweet time gettin’ here. The kettle’s near bone dry.” The old woman cackled. “There’s not enough water to make tea and read the leaves. It’ll be the cards.” With a rustle of her patched skirt, Granny led Trula into the cabin and settled into her seat at a table scarred by hot pans, dripping glasses of rum, and time.

  Trula sat across from her in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair.

  Behind Granny, a narrow plank painted a vibrant shade of blue groaned beneath the weight of a large crucifix, the curve of a snake’s skeleton, a small painting of the Virgin, tightly wrapped gris-gris, a cascade of crimson lace, brightly colored beads, painted stones, and a bottle of rum. Several candles burned and flower petals floated in a glass bowl filled with water. Next to the altar’s dense opulence, the rest of the simple cabin appeared drab.

  “Are the wards holdin’?” Granny asked.

  “I saw a boy.”

  “Did he cause any mischief?”

  “No.”

  Granny snorted. “The wards only keep out ghosts who mean you harm. I reckon that boy didn’t aim to cause trouble.”

  The wards didn’t work against all ghosts? Until Zeke Barnes beat Carter Wayne, she’d never seen a single one in her home—it was a phantom-free haven. The wards made living in a city beset by ghosts bearable.

  “You didn’t ride clear out here in the middle of the night because of the wards.” Granny’s head was wrapped in a bright tignon, a red shawl draped over her narrow shoulders. Her hands, roped with age and bent like claws, caressed a tarot deck.

  “I’m worried about Cora James.” Trula bit her lip. It wasn’t exactly a lie.

  “Cora’s in a safe place. Don’t you worry your pretty head about Cora James.”

  The tension in Trula’s shoulders eased. “Where is she?”

  The old woman grinned. “I done told you. A safe place.”

  Trula closed her eyes and breathed through gritted teeth. If she wanted information from Granny, she’d catch more flies with honey than vinegar. “If you speak to her, would you please tell her the police are all over the district looking for Belmain’s murderer?”

  Granny laughed softly. “The New Orleans police aren’t gonna catch that killer. Least half those men couldn’t catch fish in a barrel. This ain’t somethin’ they understand. Darkness is roamin’ round the city.”

  Trula shuddered. Eulie Echo had warned her about Baron Samedi, now Granny had as good as confirmed her suspicion that a spirit committed the murders.

  “Cora’s not the only reason you rode clear out here in the middle of the night.” Granny’s faded eyes glittered in the dim light.

  “I’m worried about my own girls as well.” That wasn’t a lie, either. She did worry about the girls. The man who’d invaded her thoughts wasn’t worth mentioning. Trula scrubbed at her tired eyes. Had he followed her?

  Granny’s disbelieving laugh grated on Trula’s last nerve. “Maybe. But that’s not why you came. The cards have answers for you.” She shuffled the ornate deck and fanned it on the table. “Pick three.”

  The first card drew Trula’s hand to it. The second card nearly jumped into her fingers. She swallowed hard. Could it be so easy? Her fate already decided? She glanced at Granny. The woman regarded her with ancient eyes and a face twisted by age.

  A third card called to Trula as if they belonged together. She eased the card half out of the fanned deck then abruptly, randomly, chose another.

  Granny turned the first card. It depicted a man sneaking away from an encampment with five swords in his arms and two more driven into the earth beside him. The old woman clucked her tongue against her teeth. “This here card represents your past. The seven of swords shows you’ve been deceived and betrayed.”

  Trula nodded, suddenly impatient. She knew her past. Too well. Abandoned by her father. Traded by her grandmother for a diamond tiara.

  Granny’s wizened hand hovered over the second card. “This card is your present.” She hissed when she flipped it. Two figures fell from a lightning struck tower. Its foundation crumbled beneath the onslaught. “The Tower.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “A terrible omen. There are forces workin’ beyond your control. Chaos is fixin’ to come.”

  Chaos had arrived. Dead men littered the streets and Cora was missing.

  The candles on the altar flickered and the shadow of the snake’s skeleton slithered across the walls. Granny stroked the back of the third card. “This one here is your future.”

  She turned it. A naked man and woman reached for each other’s’ hands. The Lovers. Granny didn’t have to explain its meaning. Trula’s heart stuttered and perspiration beaded on her forehead. She’d picked the wrong card.

  “It’s a mistake,” she stammered. It would be bad enough to let Zeke Barnes into her bed. To let him into her heart was unthinkable. “I meant to pick that one.” She pointed to the other card, still in the fanned deck, the one that had called to her.

  Granny chuckled. “Maybe, but you picked this one instead.”

  With a shaking hand Trula withdrew the card she’d passed up. It no longer beckoned, as if knowing she’d chosen another, it had given up on her.

  Granny Amzie’s ridged fingernail stopped its progress. “You’re sure you wanna know what you gave up for a lover?”

  Trula pushed Granny’s hand away and flipped the card. A scythe-carrying skeleton grinned at her.

  The old woman cackled. “You chose well.”

  Trula wasn’t so sure. The pain associated with taking and losing a lover seemed a lot worse than dying.

  Granny Amzie snorted. “You’ve got a lover comin’ for you and you want death instead? You crazy?”

  “Does it have to be one or the other? Won’t you please read for me again?”

  The old woman shook her head and her face glowed with malevole
nt mirth. “You’ve picked your future. I’d be more worried about the present if I was you.”

  She returned Trula’s cards, all four of them, to the deck and snapped it into a neat pile.

  Trula couldn’t get up. If she stood, pushed away from the table, the reading would be over. Granny’s chilling prediction might come true. She wasn’t prepared for that possibility. She needed time to reinforce the walls around her heart, needed a plan to excise the memory of Zeke’s lips on hers, needed a path, no matter how twisted, that avoided the tempting Yankee.

  An aged hand snaked across the table and grabbed hers. “I know you, chére. You’re a good woman, but you’ve never been happy. You might could give it a chance.”

  A chance? Trula swallowed around a lump in her throat. A chance Zeke Barnes would bring her happiness? Chances were far better that he would destroy everything. Men were fickle, changeable creatures driven by lust. She’d have to be dumb as a post to pin her happiness on a man. Especially a devilishly handsome man whose voice made her quiver. One who would leave as soon as he caught the killer.

  Why had she come here? She freed her hand, dug into her pocket for the money to pay for her fortune, then laid it on the table. She couldn’t wait to get away.

  Escaping Granny Amzie’s cabin wouldn’t help her escape the future foretold by the cards, but it might relieve the dread swirling in her veins.

  The cards promised her a lover. She didn’t want one.

  Outside, Trula gulped at the night-cooled air. Above her, a setting moon flirted with the shredded remnants of a few clouds. The Spanish moss hung in the trees, heavy as a hanged man. The screech of a late predatory owl sent a shiver down her spine. She shook her shoulders. She wasn’t afraid of anything but ghosts. She wasn’t.

  Granny’s voice carried from inside the house. “You remember now, the thing that scares you the most might save you.”

  Trula set her lips into a scowl. Granny might be right about her fear of taking a lover, but the old woman was dead wrong about a lover saving her. It would never happen.

  Chapter Nine

  The hardness of the floor rose through the pile of the carpet and made Trula’s bones ache. Her eyes itched with fatigue and the jazz band’s rhythms bounced back and forth inside her skull. She wanted nothing more than to escape to the relative peace and quiet of her rooms. And why not?