Tall, Dark and Paranormal: 10 Thrilling Tales of Sexy Alpha Bad Boys

by Opal Carew

  “Priestess Cassandra lives at Marie’s place,” my companion continued. “Set up a voodoo shop.”

  “Sounds kitschy.”

  “Catchy?”

  “Touristy. Tacky.”

  “Not this one. She’s got things you won’t find just anywhere. Even has a voodoo temple out back.”

  That I wouldn’t mind seeing, but first things first. “I hear there’s been disappearances.”

  “In New Awlins?” He lifted his eyebrows. “Don’t say?”

  His sarcasm was understandable. I’d discovered early on in my search for the paranormal that a lot more people disappeared than anyone realized. With the huge transient population in New Orleans—both homeless and tourists— as well as a river, a lake, and a swamp nearby, I bet they didn’t even have an accurate count of the missing.

  I motioned for a refill and tried a different approach. “Been talk of a wolf in the swamp, too.”

  “I saw a wolf on Jackson Square.”

  I blinked. “In town?”

  The old guy nodded.

  “You’re sure?”

  Wolves definitely didn’t venture into highly populated areas—unless they were completely whacked.

  “If ye don’t believe me, ask Jay.” He flicked a finger toward a young man who was quietly consuming a huge hamburger at the other end of the bar. “He works the Square.”

  “Works?” I eyed Jay. He was cute enough, but I couldn’t see him trolling the streets.

  “Police.”

  Well, that made more sense. I resisted the urge to rub my hands together in glee. An off-duty police officer. What could be more convenient?

  If a werewolf walked right into Kelly’s, but I wasn’t going to wait around for that to happen.

  “Was there a wolf in Jackson Square?” I asked.

  Officer Jay looked up from his plate. “No.”

  I turned to the old man.

  “I saw it,” he mumbled.

  “Folks see strange things around here every night,” Officer Jay explained.

  “Like what?”

  Standing, he tossed some money onto the counter. “New Orleans is the most haunted city in America, and there’s a reason for it.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “Booze, drugs, loud music.” He headed for the door. “Messes with the head.”

  A few moments later I said my good-byes, then meandered down a quiet, dark side road in the direction of Bourbon Street. Within minutes I had the distinct impression I wasn’t alone. Perhaps one of the ghosts had decided to follow me home. Or maybe it was just a mugger. I’d almost welcome the opportunity to kick some low-life ass after allowing myself to be embarrassingly manhandled by—

  Who?

  I paused and could have sworn whatever lurked behind me paused, too. How’s that for paranoid? I glanced to the left, the right, the rear, and saw nothing but shadows. So I walked faster, and as I did, I distinguished a clackety-clack, like nails tapping on a desk. Or claws clicking along the pavement.

  Now I was really losing my mind.

  Heated breath brushed my thighs, a growl rumbled the air, and my heart stuttered. I was afraid to turn, afraid of what I would see, or not see.

  Up ahead, someone had left open the gate to a private courtyard. I ducked in.

  Something scooted by, something low to the ground and furry. I was so amazed, I scrambled forward to get a better look and caught my toe in a crack. My knees hit the pavement, then my hands. I waited, expecting hot breath to brush my face instead of my thighs.

  Nothing happened.

  I climbed to my feet, using the wall for support, and stepped onto the street. A car whooshed past. Laughter drifted on the wind. A dog barked, but the sidewalk was deserted.

  Except for the man who lounged against the building a block away. Beyond him lights flashed, music pulsed, people danced in the street. His bicep flexed as he leaned forward to light the tip of the cigarette just visible beyond the long, dark fall of his hair.

  I started to run as he slid around the corner. By the time I reached Bourbon Street, all that remained was the milling crowd.

  That night I dreamed someone climbed onto my balcony. I’d left the French doors open. I’d known he would come. He moved to the bed with the grace of an animal. His eyes were so blue, they made me gasp, even before he reached out a rough, calloused hand and touched me.

  In the dream I saw him, and he was beautiful. Full lips, sharp cheekbones, long eyelashes—an aristocrat’s face and a workingman’s body. No man of leisure would ever possess scarred fingers, bulging muscles, or tanned skin.

  Naked he stood above me, the faint silver light shining across the ladder of his ribs, a taut, rippling abdomen. The desire to trace my fingers along the flow, feel the heat and the strength, press my mouth to those ridges, then move lower and taste him, nearly overwhelmed me.

  “Goddess of the hunt, moon, and night,” he murmured, his voice spilling down my skin like a waterfall.

  I wanted to lose myself in that voice, in him.

  The bed dipped. He did things I’d only imagined, whispered suggestions in a language I didn’t understand.

  I cried out, “Loup-garou,” and the breathy, hoarse rasp awoke me.

  A breeze fluttered the curtains. Heat poured in, along with the rumble of the party that still rocked the street below. I got out of bed, slammed the French doors, flicked the lock, still trembling with the memory of a dream that hadn’t seemed like a dream.

  I couldn’t blame myself for an erotic fantasy. I was a young, healthy woman who’d denied herself sex for four years. Suddenly confronted with a mysterious man, unlike any I’d ever known, I’d have been worried if I didn’t dream of him.

  Nevertheless, I was annoyed with myself—frustrated, sweaty. Too wide awake for this time of the night, I didn’t relish what was to come. Hours in the dark, lonely and guilty, because even though Simon was dead, within my dreams he’d been alive.

  Until tonight, when another man had taken his place.

  I spun away from the window, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

  At the foot of my bed, stark against the creamy satin bedspread, lay the bright red flower I’d seen on the far shore of the swamp that afternoon.

  Chapter 4

  I stood near the window shaking my head, unreasonably spooked by a flower.

  Well, maybe not unreasonably. I hadn’t brought it here. My gaze flicked around the room. There wasn’t anywhere to hide, except—

  I glanced at the floor, and the breath I’d been holding streamed out in relief. The wooden bed frame ended at the carpet. There was no “under the bed.”

  I crept toward the bathroom. Why I didn’t just call security I’m still not sure. Perhaps I couldn’t bring myself to say, “I found a flower. Save me!”

  I’d left on the bathroom light as I always did when sleeping in a strange place. I hated walking into walls half-asleep.

  The reflection in the vanity mirror revealed there was no one inside. Just as there was nothing in the closet.

  I turned toward the window. The curtains, meant to block the sun so Mardi Gras partiers could sleep away the day, also blocked everything else. Unable to bear not knowing, I strode across the room and whipped them back.

  Then stared past the empty balcony, studying the flickering neon across the street My room was on the fifth floor. How could anyone have scaled the hotel without being seen from below?

  Would the drunks even notice? If they had, would they care or merely cheer? Except, if they’d cheered, I’d have heard them.

  Someone had been here. But who? How? Why?

  All questions for a time when the sun was shining. Too bad they kept me up for the rest of the night

  Dawn found me dressed and swilling coffee from the complimentary urn in the lobby. If I could have positioned my mouth directly beneath the spigot without undue notice, I would have. I was so tired.

  I showed the concierge the address on my handy dandy sheet of paper. Contrar
y to the opinion of the sexy-voiced Cajun with an attitude, the concierge confirmed it as the location of a trustworthy guide service—CW Swamp Tours. I retraced my route to the dock where a man waited on an airboat.

  “Deanna Malone?”

  I guess he was waiting for me.

  “Diana,” I corrected, and he grinned.

  I wished that he hadn’t. His teeth were nothing to write home about. They’d make a short letter since there were so few left. A shame. He didn’t appear a day over twenty.

  “Mr. Tallient sent me.”

  The accent was Deep South—not a hint of France, and I missed it

  “I was here yesterday,” I said.

  His face, which resembled both Howdy Doody and Richie Cunningham, despite the bright white hair that shone beneath the morning sun like a reflector, crumpled with the effort of thought. “Was I supposed to come yeste’day? I get confused.”

  I hoped he didn’t get confused in the middle of the swamp.

  “I met someone—” I began.

  “No one but me comes to this place.”

  “Tall, dark.” I left out “handsome,” fearing I’d sound too much like Snow White. “Long hair.”

  “Don’t bring no one to mind.”

  I wondered if this was Adam Ruelle, except Ruelle was mysteriously missing. Besides, I doubted a man who had been raised in a mansion, however broken down, would let his teeth rot out of his head. Then again, I could be wrong.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Charlie Wagner.”

  “Did Frank—Mr. Tallient—tell you why I’m here?”

  “You want to look for the wolf.”

  “Have you seen one?”

  Charlie’s gaze slid from mine. “Can’t say I have.”

  I found his choice of words interesting. He couldn’t say. Didn’t mean he hadn’t seen it.

  “You gonna meet me here at dusk?” he asked.

  “Dusk?” The last time I’d come at dusk I’d nearly been eaten by an alligator, and that had been the best part.

  I remembered the voice, the scent of smoke, breath in my hair, an arm cradling my breasts. A long, long time had passed since a man’s anything had been near them. Maybe the alligator hadn’t been the best part, after all.

  “You wanna look for the wolf, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Wolves don’t come out in the light,” Charlie explained.

  I knew that. “All right. Dusk.”

  He made no move to leave. After several silent moments, I asked the question that still plagued me. “Do you know Adam Ruelle?”

  Charlie had been peering into my face, and now he glanced away. “Neva met him.”

  “Know where he lives?”

  “No one does.”

  “What about the Ruelle place?”

  Charlie pointed to the far side of the water and the waving grass.

  I had nothing else to do. Tallient had already hired Charlie. And I was curious.

  “Take me there.”

  Charlie’s boat was a smooth, fast ride. I probably should have been wary. Airboats flipped in the swamp all the time. But the whip of the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, was too enjoyable to ruin with what-ifs. In the daylight, the swamp was beautiful. A riot of colors, hardly any alligators, not a nutria rat to be had. I doubted the area would be as appealing tonight.

  The red, stalklike flower grew everywhere. I jabbed my finger at a clump as we scooted past, but since we both wore earphones to drown out the blare of the boat, Charlie wasn’t going to be answering my questions anytime soon. He merely flashed me his un-teeth and kept driving.

  The Ruelle Mansion became visible as we slid wide around a small island. The place would fit perfectly on a Halloween card. The boards had gone gray; the windows were broken; the porch listed to one side. Despite its condition and obvious age, the word stately came to mind. In days past, music, laughter, life, had filled the rooms. If I concentrated very hard, I could imagine the Ruelle Mansion coming alive again.

  Most plantations in this part of Louisiana were located on the Great River Road, which ran from New Orleans to Baton Rouge. Finding one here was as mysterious as it was fascinating. I felt as if I’d stepped through a time warp and into another century.

  Charlie cut the engine, and we bumped against the decaying dock.

  “How long since someone lived here?” I asked.

  “Used to be a lot of transients in and out. But no one lately.”

  “Why not?”

  “People got spooked. Ha’nts and such. Heard tell a few folks disappeared and no one ever saw ’em again.”

  I stared at the building. If any place looked haunted, the Ruelle Mansion did.

  “I’d think the walls would have rotted in the damp.”

  “Made of cypress wood from the swamp. Never rots. House’ll stand ’til the end of time.”

  While I should have been reassured that the structure was sound, instead I was a bit creeped out that the house would be standing here when the rest of the world had passed away.

  “Come with me.”

  I wasn’t afraid of ghosts, but I had a hard time believing every homeless person in the area had been scared off by the rumors. I didn’t relish running into a transient as I wandered through the place.

  Charlie shrugged, tied up the boat, and followed.

  “What’re those flowers?” I indicated a patch that seemed to mark the end of the yard and the beginning of the swamp. “The tall red ones.”

  “Fire iris.”

  “Pretty.” I took a step in their direction.

  “Don’t touch ’em!”

  “Why?” I had visions of hives, rashes, swamp warts. Hell. The thing had been on my bed.

  “Bad luck.”

  “What kind of bad luck?”

  “Hoodoo and such.”

  Hoodoo was an old-time, backwoods version of—

  “Voodoo?”

  His only answer was another shrug.

  This was the second time voodoo had entered the conversation since I’d gotten here. Of course I was in New Orleans, the voodoo capital of America. I shouldn’t be surprised. However, I decided it might behoove me to visit Priestess Cassandra after all.

  Charlie climbed the steps, his boots thunking against the worn wood like distant thunder. The sun threatened to cook everything well done, yet he wore jeans, a long- sleeved shirt and work boots. I suspected the latter had something to do with snakes. Glancing at my sneakers, I made a mental note to buy heavier shoes.

  He opened the door, and I followed him in. Someone had stayed here once. Several hundred someones, by the size of the garbage pile. The scent of old food, new dirt, and...

  I could have sworn I smelled blood.

  I shook my head. The place was dim, dusty, dirty, but there wasn’t any blood that I could see. Why would there be?

  If there’d ever been any furniture, it was gone now, either stolen or maybe used as kindling—although I couldn’t imagine the weather ever being cold enough to warrant a bonfire. There weren’t any holes in the roof or the floor, only the windows. With some elbow grease and a few pounds of soap and water, the place could be habitable again. Hey, I’d seen worse.

  A board creaked overhead, as if someone had accidentally stepped on a crack, then frozen at the sound.

  “Hello?” Charlie called.

  No one answered.

  I jerked my head toward the stairs and together we climbed them, splitting up on the second floor. Charlie took the right side; I took the left. I didn’t find anything but dirt until I reached the last room near the back of the house.

  There wasn’t anyone there—at least no one alive. Ha- ha. But there was a picture on the wall. A very old, very interesting picture. I was still looking at it five minutes later, trying not to hyperventilate, when Charlie found me.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “Ruelle.”

  “I thought you’d never met him.”

  Charlie cut me a
quick glance. “Not Adam. That there’s his granddaddy, several generations back.”

  He tapped the corner where a tiny notation read: 1857. I’d been too flipped out to notice.

  “Name’s Henri.” Charlie spoke the name with a French twist, dropping the h, putting the accent on the second syllable. “He’s been dead nearly a hundred and fifty years.”

  Charlie’s words reached me from a long way off. I couldn’t stop staring at the photo.

  The face was that of the man in my dream.

  Chapter 5

  “I guess New Orleans really is the most haunted city in America.”

  “Ye think it was a ghost up here?” Charlie’s voice wavered, and he inched toward the door.

  “Maybe.”

  What did I know? I’d dreamed the face of a man who’d been dead for a century and a half. I’d found a bad-luck voodoo flower in my bed. I was in Louisiana searching for a werewolf, for crying out loud. I shouldn’t be let loose without a keeper.

  Charlie tugged on my arm. “Let’s get outta here.”

  His hands were ice-cold. Poor kid. I took pity on him and went.

  “The photo was the only thing left in the house,” I said as we hurried across the grass. “Wouldn’t someone have stolen it by now?”

  Charlie leaped from the dock to the boat. “I dunno.”

  Neither did I.

  He drove back the way we’d come as if we were being chased, then dumped me where he’d found me.

  “We still on for tonight?’ I asked.

  “Sure. Swamp I got no problem with.” Charlie left with a roar of the motor, sending a huge wave over both the dock and my sneakers.

  I returned to the hotel, where I discovered my flower was gone. I’d have figured the maid disposed of the thing, except my room hadn’t been cleaned yet.

  “No, ma’am,” the girl insisted when I tracked her down. “I haven’t gotten to your floor.”

  “Did anyone else?’

  “No. That’s my responsibility.”

  She could be lying, but why?

  As I let myself back into my room, my cell phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID. Frank. I’d been meaning to call him but kept getting distracted.

  “What did you find?’ he demanded without the courtesy of a hello.