by Trisha Telep
“It’s good to see you, Chere. You come in da kitchen an’ have you somtin’. Den you can tell Mama whats eatin’ at you.”
Three
It had been hard to find the words to explain to Mama Petitjean what the spirit had told me. I knew Tomas had told her of my talent. I didn’t know whether she believed in it.
I needn’t have worried. She listened attentively, her expression growing more and more concerned. “You tink dat ghost be lying?”
“I don’t know, Mama. Maybe. But Tomas never came back to me. Never came and said goodbye.”
She sat in silence for a long moment. “Chere, my boy loved you wit’ all his heart.”
“I know, Mama.”
“He woulda come.”
“I thought so too.”
She rose from her chair and began rummaging around the kitchen. “You gotta do dis ting, you gonna do it right. I’ll make the pound cake for da offerin’. You get the candles outa dat closet an’ you put it wit your prayer to da lady.”
The lady was Marie Laveau, voodoo priestess and possible saint, a powerful figure in the religious beliefs of the Petitjean clan.
The pound cake was still warm from the oven when I put it at the foot of the statue of St Expedite. I’m not a big believer in voodoo, but Mama Petitjean was, and I wasn’t taking any chances. It wouldn’t hurt a thing to leave the cake, or the candle and flowers with my request to Marie Laveau. If Mama Petitjean was wrong, no harm done. If she was right, these actions might just make the difference between success and failure. I wanted every advantage I could get.
It was full dark by the time I made it back to my mother’s house to start the ceremony.
I used my mother’s piano bench as an altar. Candles on each end were the only light in the room, casting flickering shadows on the wall. Fragrant incense hung heavy in the air, making me a little light-headed. I sat cross-legged in front of the altar, holding a small cloth doll filled with herbs. Pinned to it was a picture of Tomas taken at our wedding. Just looking at that smile, my heart caught in my chest.
I was afraid. Truly terrified. I might have lived with my talent my whole life, but this, this was something else entirely. I had no experience in this sort of thing. I’d never attempted magic before. I wasn’t even sure I believed in magic. But if there was any chance, any chance at all that the ghost had told the truth – that Tomas’s soul had been trapped by an evil sorcerer – then I had to at least try to free him.
Chanting the prayers as I’d been instructed, I grabbed the hatpin that was sitting on the altar and jabbed it into my finger, drawing blood. I set the doll on the altar and squeezed the injury until a drop of my blood fell onto the photograph.
It happened in an instant. In my mind I was wearing my wedding gown, running through a darkened maze, the only light coming from the candle in my hand. I called my husband’s name, but there was no answer from him, only mocking male laughter that came from nowhere and everywhere.
“Tomas? Is that you?” I was sure it wasn’t. I’d heard his laughter a million times and it had never sounded so smug, self-satisfied . . . evil.
“Go home, little girl. You have no business here.”
I stopped, holding the light up so I could peer further into the blackness. “Where is my husband? What have you done with him?”
“Last chance, girlie. You’re dabbling in things you don’t understand.”
“I’m not leaving without Tomas.”
“Then you won’t be leaving at all.”
Four
The light rose slowly, and I found myself standing in front of a polished mahogany table. Behind it, in one of those burgundy leather chairs with brass studs you see in lawyers’ offices, was a distinguished man of middle age. I recognized him immediately. His name was Jean LeClaire. A well-known figure in the city, he was alleged to have Mob connections. The prosecution’s case had fallen apart when the key witnesses, his wife and her lover, had disappeared.
LeClaire’s black suit and matching tie were no darker than his hair, his red shirt the exact shade of the ruby in his pinky ring. On the table in front of him were two crystal balls, both the size of my fist. Inside each was the flickering blue glitter of a trapped soul.
“So, little girl, you really think you want to challenge me, like your husband before you?” He leaned back in his chair looking most pleased with himself, a sly smile pulling at the corner of his sensuous lips.
“You will release Tomas. Now.”
He raised his eyebrows, looking amused. But I stood my ground, glaring across the distance that separated us.
He shook his head with mock sorrow. “Oh no, girlie. He lost the challenge – fair and square.” LeClaire’s hazel eyes locked with mine, and his smile returned, wide enough to show sharp white teeth. “Of course, if you’re absolutely determined to do this – we could play. If you’d care to gamble. If you win, Tomas and the boy who helped cuckold me go free.”
“If I lose?” I was fairly sure I knew the answer, but I had to ask.
“You’re mine.” With a wave of his hand a chair appeared on my side of the table.
“Shall we play?”
My mouth was too dry to speak. So I simply nodded and took my seat.
“As the challenged, it is my right to choose the game. I believe I’m in the mood for blackjack, or twenty-one as you might call it.”
I might as well have been mute. My voice was gone. My heart was pounding in terror. I kept twisting the ring on my finger, round and round, as I prayed silently.
“Bring us a deck,” he called into the darkness. I heard a series of thumps followed by dragging footsteps.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when Hector stepped into the light, but I was. At my gasp LeClaire chuckled. “I see you recognize my employee.”
Hector was clean and clean-shaven, dressed in black jeans and a matching black T-shirt. Face drawn with pain, he made his way slowly forward, the cane in his hand shaking under the pressure of his massive weight. He leaned against the table for a long moment, gasping for air and wiping the sweat that had begun trickling from his brow.
After taking a moment to recover, he reached into the pocket of his jeans to withdraw a sealed deck of cards. He handed them first to my opponent. LeClaire examined them carefully, declared himself satisfied and returned them to Hector, who then passed them to me.
I checked the seal. It didn’t appear to have been tampered with. Apparently I would have a fair chance. Not that it made me feel any better. But when my courage began to fail I looked at the crystal balls with their imprisoned souls, and thought of Tomas, trapped for eternity. It gave me the strength to continue.
Hector ripped the plastic from the deck. Setting aside the jokers, he began to shuffle the cards, his movements practiced and sure. He presented the deck to be cut, but I shook my head. Let it stand.
He began to deal.
To me, the queen of hearts. I blinked and stared at it for a long moment, for the face on the card was the smiling face of Marie Laveau.
To LeClaire, the king of spades.
My second card was the king of hearts, and he was portrayed by St Peter, or Papa Limba. In his hands were the keys to the kingdom of heaven. I gasped, feeling hope surge in my breast. I wasn’t much for signs, but surely this was a good omen. And twenty, twenty would be hard for him to beat.
LeClaire was dealt the four of clubs.
I gestured that I would hold at twenty. Everything now depended on my opponent’s next card. I held my breath. In the corner of my eye I saw a ghost begin to materialize, but I paid it no attention. My whole focus was on the card that Hector was placing on the table in front of my opponent: the nine of diamonds.
LeClaire leaped to his feet. Upending the table with one hand, with the other he drew a Derringer he’d had hidden. He aimed it at me. I tried to dive out of the way, knowing I would be too late.
Neither of us had counted on Hector. He swung his cane with all his might in a vicious a
rc aimed directly at LeClaire’s head. LeClaire dodged the blow, but it cost him his aim. His first shot went wide, missing me completely. But Hector wasn’t finished. Off balance from the swing, his movements painful and awkward, still he staggered forward, throwing his bulk into my attacker. LeClaire fired his second shot as the pair fell to the ground, and I saw Hector’s body jerk, heard his grunt of pain. Still, he pinned the other man with his great weight, his huge hands closing inexorably around LeClaire’s throat.
LeClaire fought, clawing and struggling, as his face turned red, then purple. But Hector held on and LeClaire stopped struggling, passing into unconsciousness.
I rushed forward to roll Hector over. Stripping off my shirt, I held it tight against the bleeding wound in his chest. “Oh God. Hector. Hang on. Don’t die.”
“Tomas?” Hector’s eyes widened as he stared over my shoulder.
“I’m here, brother.” I turned at the sound of that familiar voice. Tomas was here. Pale, and haggard, but he was here. He knelt down beside me, his hands joining mine to put pressure on his brother’s terrible wound.
“I’m sorry. Please . . . say you forgive me.” Hector was gasping raggedly for air, bloody froth coming from his lips.
Tomas leaned forward, setting his forehead against his brother’s. “Of course I forgive you.”
Hector turned to me. “Lola?”
“You saved my life, Hector.”
“You wouldn’t have been in danger if it weren’t for me.” His voice was weak, thready. I could tell his strength was fading fast, the makeshift bandage had soaked through, both my hands and Tomas’s were red with his brother’s blood. Hector’s eyes closed. I could barely hear him whisper, “It was my fault.”
“I forgive you.”
He drew one or two more shuddering breaths and then he was gone. His body and LeClaire’s both shimmered for a moment and disappeared. The ghost and her lover, too, were gone.
Tomas and I knelt alone on the floor of a place that both was, and wasn’t. I knew it was not real, but it felt real. His hand was so warm holding mine. I stared into the endless depths of his dark eyes for the first time in so long and there were no words in the English language that would be enough to express what I was feeling.
Tomas smiled, but it was a sad smile. He reached up, brushing a stray hair from my forehead. “I love you, Chere. But you have to go. Your body, it’s wearin’ thin.”
“I don’t want to leave. You just got here!”
“I know, Chere, but you gotta go. Someone needs to take care of mama now that Hector’s gone.”
“But . . .” I started to protest, but he set a single warm finger against my lips.
“It’s not your time. Not yet.” He moved his finger away. Leaning forward, he gave me a tender, lingering kiss. “You go on back. I’ll wait. And when it’s your time . . .”
“We’ll be together.” I wanted him to promise.
He nodded, smiled and said, “In eternity. I promise.”
The Lovers
Julia London
York, 1898
Agnes Whitstone admired herself from all angles in the mirror. She was wearing a gown her father had commissioned for her to wear to the York Spring Cotillion Ball, and she’d never seen a more beautiful garment. It was gold, with dark-green trim. The décolletage was enticingly low, which had alarmed her mother, but thrilled Agnes.
Her father was determined that his daughters would be the most fashionably turned out at the Cotillion Ball. It was his belief that in addition to a young lady’s usual accomplishments and impeccable manners, if she looked to come from means, her prospects for marriage were that much improved.
But Agnes had already accepted an offer of marriage. And this was the gown that she would wear to her wedding. Which would occur sometime tomorrow. And for the next eight hours, she had only to pretend that all was quite ordinary.
But she was busting with excitement.
John Parker, her beloved, had said she must not confess to anyone what they intended to do. John said that if she told as much as one sister, her father would hear of it and find a way to keep them from their hearts’ desires. “Be patient, my love,” he’d said that afternoon, when they’d met secretly in the potter’s shed behind the apple orchard, “do as I ask and we shall be man and wife by this time tomorrow.”
At seventeen, it was very difficult for Agnes to be patient. She and John Parker had been in love for what seemed ages. They’d been introduced to one another after church services one day. She’d felt an instant attraction sweep her up and wrap its arms tightly around her. John had sent her a letter very soon afterward in which he’d proclaimed his esteem as well, and now, they stood on the cusp of lifelong conjugal happiness.
“I can scarcely look at my sisters, for I fear I will burst with the news!” Agnes had moaned when John had warned her to keep their secret.
“Not a word, Agnes,” John had said, and he’d kissed her silent, his mouth on her bosom, his hand beneath her skirts, roaming to spots that had never been touched by another person, places that made her swell and stir and yearn desperately for more.
“Make love to me,” she whispered into his neck.
“Hush,” he said, his voice drifting over her like a silken drape as he pressed the palm of his hand against her breast. “I can scarcely contain my desire as it is without such enticements from you.” He kissed her lips.
“We are leaving today. Why must we wait?” Agnes complained, and caught a breath in her throat as his hand drifted up her ankle, to the inside of her thigh.
“We have survived this long.” He kissed her cheek. “The anticipation will make our coupling that much sweeter.”
Agnes shivered and closed her eyes, lifting her face to him. His lips singed her, made her roast with desire. She had heard tales of the marriage bed, of the duty of a woman to her husband, as if it were something to be feared. But if it were anything like this, she thought, as John’s hand cupped her breast, she would as soon live in her marriage bed as in the world. There was no feeling quite like it, nothing that made her heart fill to bursting as her love for him made her feel – dizzy, weightless. Adored.
“Agnes,” he whispered against the hollow of her throat, then down further still, to the mound of her breast.
Agnes let her head fall back, relishing the thrill of his hands and mouth on her body. He freed her breast, then took it into his mouth.
Agnes gasped wildly and pressed against him as he drove her to madness. She was wet with desire, aroused like a sleeping dragon. Her hands flitted across his temples, his shoulders, his neck. She thrust her fingers in his hair, squeezed her legs around him and fought the abandon inside her.
John responded with desire as hard and heavy as hers. He ravaged her, teething the rigid nipple while his hand danced around to the apex of her legs, then slid into the damp folds. Agnes thought she might expire from pleasure when John, dear John, suddenly stopped.
“God help me, but I cannot resist you,” he said roughly. He rose up, caressed her hair, and looked into her eyes before kissing her once more. “But resist you I must, for a few hours more. Then you will be my wife, Agnes, and I will have you as a husband ought to have his wife.” With that, he sat up, pulling her up with him. “Go,” he said. “Go and ready for tonight.”
Agnes reluctantly did as he asked. Her body was still burning, her heart still throbbing. She saw such desire in his eyes that she could not suppress a shiver. But he smiled and smoothed her hair. “I love you, lass,” he said. “I love you more than I can possibly express.”
Agnes smiled and leaned up to kiss him. “I love you, John. You are my heart.”
They had left the shed, walking into air that was warm and moist. They did not notice that the winds had picked up and the smell of rain was in the air. As they walked, John gripped Agnes’s hand and made her review their plans again. At the stroke of midnight, when Agnes could be certain everyone was abed, she would meet John at the potter’s shed. H
e had a horse, which they would ride to York. From York, they would board a train to Scotland and Gretna Green, where they would marry at once. They had agreed that no matter the weather, they would make their escape.
She had only to wait a few hours more.
With a sigh, Agnes removed her gown and returned to her simple green day gown. She folded the gown she would wear to her wedding very carefully.
When John had asked for her hand, she’d wanted to go to her father straightaway, but John had cautioned her against it. He’d suspected her father would not approve, and he’d been right.
“John Parker?” her father had boomed when Agnes, egged on by her sister Aurora, had announced one evening that she esteemed him. “You will take your esteem elsewhere, Agnes Whitstone. John Parker is not of a station to marry my daughter.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Agnes had cried, deeply offended that anyone would find John less than perfect.
“He is the son of a carpenter. You are the daughter of a man who owns the county’s largest mercantile,” her father had boomed. “These are two occupations that do not suit in business, in pleasure, and certainly not in marriage.” He’d lifted his newspaper to thwart any argument. “You will set your sights on someone of a proper caliber, or I shall do it for you.”
Her father’s opinion of John had not improved with time, and Agnes had become increasingly agitated. It was John’s suggestion that they elope. Oh, but Agnes longed to tell her sister Esme, who was closest to her in age and demeanor. But it would have been no use – Esme could scarcely think of anything else than the spring ball.
Agnes wrapped her wedding gown and a pair of embroidered slippers in a cloth, bundled it, and slipped it under her bed. When she was satisfied it was well hidden, she glanced out of the window at the early spring day. The weather was cool and blustery, but otherwise a perfect day to elope.
