In the random way things sometimes happen, he’d recently come across an article in a medical journal about a mentally unstable woman who reported multiple realities. The medical team treating her had many theories, not one of which included the fact that she might be right. Gabhran suspected the paradox she presented was the same one he was living. He was headed to New Orleans to the state hospital where she was housed. He needed to talk with her, and it gave him someplace to go.
Gabhran stepped off the plane at the Louis Armstrong International Airport. After eighteen hours, even the extra space offered by the first class seat had cramped his nearly six and a half foot frame. He stretched his legs, walked out into the waiting sunshine, and was struck by the wave of heat and humidity that rolled over him. He gasped with the effort of drawing a breath, and his clothes instantly stuck to his body.
He stepped to the first cab in the line and asked for the French Quarter. The driver asked about reservations, but Gabhran had none, having left Edinburgh in rather a hurry. “Take me to a place near that famous street in the French Quarter, where ‘tis likely they will have a decent room available.”
The cabby didna answer immediately. Instead he scanned Gav from the tips of his leather-clad feet to the wilted dress shirt and loosened tie. Then their gazes locked for a long moment before the old man nodded, as if to something only he could hear.
“You look like money ain’t a problem. Hope you got American.” Then he pushed a button and popped the trunk lid. Despite the heat, the man’s dark skin looked cool and dry below his white tight curls, but his thin frame didna look strong enough to carry the heavy bags. Gav tossed them in the trunk himself, then climbed into the backseat.
Ignoring the near-constant quiet murmur from the front seat, Gav occupied himself with looking out the windows and absorbing the feel of the city. It startled him when a dark hand with papery skin slapped down on the back of the bench seat.
When Gav turned his head, he caught sight of a broad grin in the mirror. The cabby cranked up the rear air, fished out a business card, and passed it back. With an accent full of vowels and sugar, he said “Call me Alfred. Now why don’ you tell me awhile what it is you be looking to do?”
“I’m a doctor. I’m here to do some volunteer work at a little clinic on Governor Nicholls Street.”
“Is that so?” He got another long look in the mirror, but then Alfred pulled out a cell phone and made a call, abruptly ending their brief conversation. Gav went back to looking at the narrow streets and garishly decorated shops. It seemed to him that the cab was deliberately turning up and down the narrow, one-way streets, giving him a look at the shops selling souvenirs, bars, clubs, seafood restaurants, tattoo parlors, and Voodoo fortune tellers. As they drove, the darkness within him swelled, poked its head up, interested and hungry. It liked the atmosphere of the French Quarter, the mystery of the place; the darkness felt at home.
The old man nodded to himself once again, and pulled up in front of a single-family dwelling on Burgundy, deep in the heart of the French Quarter.
“Is this an inn?” Gav asked, confused by the lack of a sign.
“No, sir. You din’t have no reservations, and when I asked you yo’ business, you told me you was going to be doctoring near the Quarter. Doctor’s need they own houses. And if you don’ mind me saying, your eyes are real careful-like. You sho’ did look behind to see we wasn’t being followed. I would care to wager you don’ want no one to be knowing where you’re staying for now. Am I right?”
Gabhran met Alfred’s wise gaze in the rearview mirror before answering. “Aye. So what is this place?”
“My daughter, she sells and manages real estate. You come talk to her a while, and see if you don’ like what she has to say. You and she don’ deal? I’ll be taking you just down the road a block to the Royal Sonesta. Now let’s go, Marion is waiting inside. And don’t you be worrying none, the air conditioning, she be working jes’ fine.”
Although the French Quarter teemed with people, this particular cobblestoned block was lined with homes and was free of the tourist trade. The front of the house was a plain, traditional Creole townhouse, a pale pink with black shutters and wrought iron railings surrounding second and third floor balconies.
A lovely woman in her early fifties waited just inside the door. She glowed with rich mocha skin, light brown eyes, and chin-length dark brown hair streaked with delicate white strands. “How do you do? I am Marion Gauthier.” She held out her hand for a handshake.
Her voice was a rich contralto, her accent barely perceptible, and she eyed Gabhran with interest. “It is a pleasure to meet you. My father tells me you are interested in a long term rental, and prefer privacy to the convenience of a hotel?”
Gabhran smiled at her. “Aye, your father seems to know a great deal about what I want. Maybe more so than I do. He says this is a private residence. Are the owners letting a room? I doona think that interests me over much, I am a verra private man.” His brogue sounded strong to him…a sign of stress? Or perhaps just a natural contrast to this woman’s gentle tones.
“Sugar, the owners cannot afford this place any longer. The price has dropped nearly in half since they put it on the market a year ago. They would take most any offer to get it off their hands, but I was under the impression you were looking to rent not buy. This is a much more private arrangement than a hotel, and they would be grateful for any income, so I could arrange a lease. How about you walk around on your own, since you appreciate your privacy. I will wait on the patio, in case you have questions.”
The simplicity of the exterior gave no hint of the luxurious interior. Gabhran walked through the house, enjoying the wood floors, the surprisingly large rooms, noting ceiling fans and fireplaces in each room. He knew he would take the place. He wasn’t sure how long he would need to stay here, but he needed to make contact with the mysterious patient, and spend enough time with her to determine if she experienced the same sensation of changing realities that he did. He expected to be here several months, at a minimum.
When he stepped outside, he was surprised to find a lush brick lined courtyard, with stairs leading to another balcony on the second floor. The walls were lined with planters filled with tropical plants, banana trees, palms, ferns, and many he didna recognize. The center of the courtyard had a large, ornate four-tiered fountain, complete with a musician perched on top playing a trumpet, and water trickled from the bell of the instrument. Across the bricked expanse was a small building.
When he joined Marion on the patio, he asked about it. She told him there was a garage, which was a premium in the French Quarter, and a small apartment above it. The apartment had a separate entrance and the tenant was seldom around and as a local detective, was never any trouble.
The damp courtyard air lay heavy on him, as comforting as an old blanket after a bad dream. The darkness within him couldn’t compete with the earthy smells of compost, greenery, and the sweet honeysuckle that climbed toward the sunlight on a corner trellis. Everything about this house offered comfort, freed him from the tumult of his soul. The moment Gav had stepped through the front door, the darkness within him had quieted. That was all the encouragement necessary to decide this house was meant for him. He needed to feel free of the darkness, and the house seemed to tame it somehow.
Marion assured him she had already spoken to the owners and he could stay there starting that night. Before they finalized an agreement on the cost to rent the house for a month, Gabhran surprised them all when he made an offer to purchase the place outright, including the furniture. There was a sense of peace in the house that he found restful. After one more phone call to the owners, there were handshakes all around. Alfred said he would return in the morning to take him to visit his nephew, who just so happened to be an attorney who specialized in real estate.
“Just lookin’ to help you out, boss,” Alfred said with a wide grin splitting his narrow face.
Finally, Gabhran was alone. He unpacked
, showered, and headed out into the sultry New Orleans night to see what he could make of this place he was suddenly prepared to call his home, even if it was only temporary. The pull of the highlands in his native land would always be first in his heart, but for now he let the party atmosphere of the French Quarter wash over him. The streets were crowded, everyone had a drink in hand, and laughter layered over the ever-present music. Heads turned as he cut a swath through the crowd, and Gav assumed the tourists weren’t used to seeing someone of his size.
As Gabhran walked along the banks of the Mississippi, he wished he’d brought some money to drop into the open cases of the street musicians. Music was everywhere, carried on the breeze, floating over the water, perched on street corners. Gabhran watched a full moon rise, reflecting off the river in a thousand pieces and wondered where he would be, come the next full moon.
As he approached a small table set in the shadows surrounding Jackson Square, a young woman dressed in a flowing garment whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
A prostitute, he thought, and instinctively he widened his berth.
Her voice cut through the night, “I know you have magick, and there are things I must read for you, but not tonight. You will find me any day at the Voodoo Museum. Do not be fooled by the appearance, it is designed to appeal to tourists.”
Her words intrigued him slightly, but only because she’d mentioned magick. He supposed it was all part of a gimmick to lure in tourists. She was just a walking billboard. He tossed his head, his long, black hair falling lose, and began to circle around her, to continue on his way. “Out of my way, woman. I am not interested in your wares.”
The air around him suddenly grew chilly despite the sultry night. His heartbeat slowed painfully in his chest. She had magick. Not Druid, but something that made the dark within him roar to life and push back. It wanted this woman now. It craved her blood, and he took an involuntary step toward her, his fingers curled in anticipation.
Her voiced whipped with the force of a hand across his face, and he froze in his tracks. “Make no mistake, I do know you, Gabhran MacLachlan. The dark within you is strong tonight. Seek me in the daylight.” Her skirt swished as she turned and faded into the shadows, leaving him wondering if she’d really been there at all.
He staggered as he forced himself not to follow her…hunt her. Her words had stunned him. She was waiting for me, and she knew my name. And the darkness wanted to kill her. I have to be very careful now. He veered down a brightly lit street closed to vehicular traffic, so his mind could wander, without fear of being run over.
The street was lined with bars and masses of people covered the street and sidewalks. Men stood outside clubs and pressed pieces of paper in his hands, encouraging him to step inside. Women stood in doorways, speculatively eyeing all the males who walked alone. Everywhere he looked nubile young women kept blatantly flashing their breasts at him to his utter bewilderment. The area reeked of alcohol, tobacco, and desperation, surrounded by an atmosphere of never-ending party. This was the famous Bourbon Street.
Gabhran passed a group of four beautiful women standing in the doorway of a club, dressed to kill in evening gowns, with flawless makeup and hair. One of the women playfully reached out to touch his arm, while the others made bawdy promises, suggesting a man of his size could surely handle all four of them at once. Oh yes, the darkness had liked that idea. They were as lovely as any lasses he had e’er seen. His gaze drifted to their breasts. Good Christ, they have chest hair! What the hell is this place? He swiftly continued walking.
Around the next corner, he passed another club with windows and doors open to the night, and the tones of a lone trumpet flowed out and over him. Without stopping to think, Gabhran entered and was encased in pure New Orleans Jazz. People were seated on benches, folding chairs, and the floor. He squeezed into a spot against the wall and leaned back as the music washed over him, stilling the darkness that had raged on the street. He loved it all, fast, slow, syncopated, smooth. This was a place to which he would return often.
A young woman sat on a bench in front of him, honey-blonde hair in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Her profile was all that was visible, and he rested his eyes on her, cleansing his mental palate. When she stood to clap after the last set, he was relieved to see her camisole showed her to be all woman, down to the natural jiggle of her luscious breasts. Her nipples were small, sweet buds pressed against the cotton fabric and he was struck with a strong desire taste to them. He was slow to avert his gaze when she turned to leave, and she raised a brow, gave a half smile but kept walking.
With a quick and inexpert flash of his Druid senses, he caught a pure light spilling from her, like the glow of a street lamp pressing back the shadows of the night. This was a woman he would love to get to know. Her eyes had appeared hazel in the dim light, and her expression had been full of laughter when she’d caught him staring. Her legs were bare and her short shorts hugged her perfect ass as she walked away. Had she looked back, she would have caught his rueful smile. She was not for the likes of him, not now.
Chapter Three
Gabhran spent the next few days taking care of the tedious tasks required when buying a house or moving. Alfred stopped by each day to take him on short trips to run his errands. Since he’d bought the house furnished, his household needs were few. Since his clothes were suited to the cool climes of Scotland, not subtropical New Orleans, his wardrobe needed work. His style was definitely not the slogan-laden clothing readily available in the French Quarter, so now that his household errands were completed, he’d arranged to hire Alfred’s services for the entire day. First for the shopping and then he wanted a tour.
Alfred took his job as guide seriously, and after some quick stops on Canal Street for menswear, the cab driver began the tour in earnest. The remnants of the damage from Hurricane Katrina surprised him. He’d watched in stunned disbelief, along with the rest of the world, as the fearful power of Mother Nature was unleashed upon the Gulf Coast. Although the central business district and French Quarter were restored and busy, there were miles of neighborhoods, entire communities, that were virtual ghost towns.
They visited the west bank of the Mississippi, drove around Algiers, and Alfred took him into the large Mardi Gras warehouse. The building doubled as a tourist attraction, and hundreds of visitors a year flocked to see the floats, beads, doubloons, and other lagniappe thrown during the massive parades. The walls were hung with dozens of pictures of past parades and Gav couldna help but notice the bare breasts in many of the photos. Alfred laughingly explained the mystery.
During Mardi Gras, the parades have giant floats and the krewe members riding on them indiscriminately toss beads, cups, doubloons, and other trinkets into the crowd. Cries of, “Throw me something, mister,” fill the air as thousands of parade-goers fight to get something thrown from the float.
Every float keeps a limited supply of special beads to throw to particular people, like their family, friends, or beautiful women. Since most of the krewes are all-male, young women willing to show their bare breasts have a distinct advantage over the rest of the crowd when it comes to getting the special treats tossed their way.
Gabhran stood there awhile and dubiously eyed the boxes of Moon Pies and beads, then asked seriously, “There are lasses showing me their breasts when I walk down the streets. Should I purchase some of these beads then to throw?”
Alfred laughed until tears ran down his face. “I suspect they want you to give them something a little more personal as a memento of their trip to the Big Easy.”
They stopped at a small grocery store in a neighborhood few tourists ever saw. The front of the store was a local gathering spot for old men and cab drivers, and Alfred was greeted by name. It was easy to guess from the looks he was getting that the men were curious. It had not escaped Gav’s notice that his was the only Caucasian face.
Alfred told him to sit, and went into the store. In the silence, every gaze fell on Gabh
ran. He eyed the only empty chair warily, unsure it would hold his weight. He hooked it with his foot, flipped it around then straddled the seat. He draped his arms along the wooden back and looked around.
He was being tested, but he wasn’t sure of the purpose of the game. Looking from the chessboard set up on the table to the wiry old man with rheumy eyes seated on the other side, and deliberately thickening his brogue, Gav asked, “Fancy a game, then? Mind I doona play with whiners, so if you’re afraid I might kick your arse, best let someone else take that seat.”
The group roared approval and the game began. He held his own in a close match, but finally conceded defeat, and shook his partner’s hand. Magnanimous in victory, his partner invited Gabhran to call him Myron and offered introductions all around.
Alfred bought hot roast beef po’boys. The gravy dripped from the freshly baked, crusty French roll, and the taste of garlic permeated every bite of beef. Good God, this is delicious. They ate on the porch and Gabhran listened to a story of New Orleans as could only be told by these men.
After lunch they played one more match, another closely fought battle that Gabhran won. They promised to meet again soon for a rematch, and then Alfred drove back to the French Quarter. Gabhran had a hard time hiding his smile. It was the most normal day he could ever remember.
“Why did you test me, old man?” he asked, still grinning.
“My granddaughter has her way of reading and I have mine.”
It was such an unexpected response, apropos of nothing, that Gabhran’s smile faded and he just stared. Alfred failed to elaborate. Gav blew out a frustrated breath. “What exactly is that supposed to mean? And where are we, why did you not drive me to my house?” he asked, belatedly looking around.
*
They were deep in the French Quarter, outside a black painted storefront, plastered with hand-lettered signs that advertised readings, spells, and charms. The window display featured voodoo dolls, amulets, and potions. Slightly obscured by the signs and trinkets was the woman he’d spoken with the previous night. She held something like rosary beads in her hands and her lips were moving fast.
Highland Pull (Highland Destiny 2) Page 2
