Blessed Curse

by Sandra R Neeley

  “First shot? That was our deal. If he’s on the radar at any time, for any reason, I’m on him. Me! No one else!”

  “I know. And I’m honoring it. But I'm asking you as my friend, not my operative, to please allow me to send backup with you. Don’t go in alone, Solange. He’s completely unpredictable. It’s too dangerous for one operative alone.”

  “I know exactly what he’s become. I know exactly what he has always been, Gillian. You forget who I am. You forget exactly how I came to be.”

  “Where are you going? I’ll send backup.”

  “I don’t need it. It’ll be fine.”

  “Where, Solange?”

  “Bye, Gillian.”

  “Solange! He’s more dangerous than he’s ever been. He’s completely off the rails, Solange. You can’t do this one alone.”

  “I was always going to do this one alone.” Solange hung up before Gillian could say anything else. She didn’t want anyone else involved in what she was about to do. She was going to kill her father, and anyone else involved would only distract her, make her have to protect them as well. She didn’t need that.

  She pushed her burrito away from her, got up from the table and changed into her clothes. She called Mr. Scruffikins inside and picked up her plate while Mr. Scruffikins ate. She glanced at the notepad lying on the kitchen counter and picked up a pen. After writing a quick note she put both burritos on one plate, grabbed a bottle of tea from the fridge and headed back to her bedroom. Quietly she opened the door and smiled when she saw Crispin snuggled in her bed, soundly sleeping. If she’d been anyone else, she could have loved him, and let him love her.

  Crispin reached out in his sleep, pulling her pillow into his arms before settling down again, still asleep. Solange watched him. There was no ‘could have loved him’ about it. She did love him. But she could never allow him to know she loved him. If she did, he’d never leave, and if he never left, E.V.I.E. would find out about him, and they’d have him eliminated. She smiled sardonically. Cursed. Everything about herself, everything she came into contact with, one way or another ended up causing pain. She was cursed when she was conceived. She was cursed when she was born, and she was cursed now. But it was time to end the curse. It was time to end the sonofabitch who was responsible for her existence, and if absolutely necessary, herself as well. She didn’t want to die, but if that was what it took to remove Alastair from this world, then she’d gladly accept it.

  She quietly left the bedroom, telling Mr. Scruffikins to stay when he tried to follow her.

  ~~~

  Crispin awoke hours later, face down in Solange’s pillow, alone. He turned over and moved to sit up, dislodging a warm ball of fur from the small of his back when he did. He looked down at the small dog. “Where is she, Traitor?” The dog just lay there and looked at him, before sitting up and using his back leg to scratch his neck. His tags jangled on his collar, and Crispin could see words on them. He reached out and held the tag still so he could read it. “Mr. Scruffikins?” he asked. “She named you Mr. Scruffikins? That is a travesty — just won’t do. Even Traitor is a better name than that. I’ll come up with something better,” he said, getting out of bed. Crispin ran a hand through his bed-head hair and yawned. He looked over at the dog again, sitting on the end of the bed and watching him. “Mr. Scruffikins,” he scoffed.

  “Yip!” the dog answered excitedly, getting to his feet and dancing around.

  Crispin walked over to the door and without thought pulled it open. Bright sunlight streamed down the hallway from the huge wall of windows in Solange’s living room. He slammed the bedroom door closed, his heart pounding. Sunlight would kill him. It would burn him in seconds, and turn him to ashes. “Fuck!” he breathed out, still pumping adrenalin from the unexpected scare.

  He looked down at the little dog standing beside him. “Sunshine is bad, Scruff. Remember that. Sunshine bad.” Crispin cracked the door open and shouted out into the rest of the house. “Solange?” He waited a few moments and when he got no answer, he called again, raising his voice to an almost unbearable level. “Solange, are you here?!”

  He got no answer. “Damnit!” he cursed, closing the door and looking around the room. Then he saw it. A plate on the dresser across from the bed. He walked over to it and pulled a note from beneath it.

  “Crispy, had to go out — extermination of the evil vampires of the world never stops. Hope you get some good sleep. Here’s some lunch if you’re hungry. You’ll have to wait until about 7:45 this evening before you can leave. That’s about when the sun goes down this time of year around here. Good news though, I have cable — and lots of vampire movies to make you feel right at home. Just hit the DVR option on the remote, they’re lined up and ready to play.

  PS: If any evil vampires happen on my place, please slay them for me. I’ll be tired when I get home and not up to the job.

  PSS: There’s no garlic in the food. I don’t use it.

  PSSS: Take care of Mr. Scruffikins for me. Make sure he knows he’s loved.”

  Crispin glanced down at the dresser again and saw the remote. He looked over at the TV mounted on the wall and picked up the remote, pressing power. He waited until the menu popped up then pressed DVR. He rolled his eyes when ‘Interview With the Vampire’ started playing. He looked over at Mr. Scruffikins. “She thinks she’s funny.”

  Crispin picked up the plate and removed the foil. He lifted one of the burritos to his nose and sniffed, but rather than the anticipated Mexican seasonings, his nose picked up the scent of the ocean. “But it seems she can cook, so we’ll forgive her,” he said to Mr. Scruffikins. He grabbed the bottled sweet tea that Solange had left on the dresser beside the plate and took the top off, tossing it back onto the dresser. He stuck the remote under his arm, grabbed the plate he’d set down long enough to open his tea, and took a seat on the bed, with Mr. Scruffikins hopping up right beside him.

  As Crispin settled the bottle of tea between his legs so he could eat without having to hold it, he noticed the little dog, leaning his entire body against his hip. Crispin looked down at him. “Mine,” he said. “You can go out there and get some kibble or whatever it is she feeds you. I have to stay here.”

  Mr. Scruffikins blinked his huge, sad, puppy dog eyes at Crispin and let out a little whine.

  “Oh, fine!” Crispin snapped, just after taking a bite. “Oh my god,” he said, looking at the inside of the burrito where he’d just bitten it. It was a seafood burrito. Shrimp, scallops, and oysters, all fried to perfection and rolled up with fried potatoes, tartar and cocktail sauces in a buttered tortilla.

  Mr. Scruffikins whined again. Crispin dug a potato out of the burrito and handed it to him. Mr. Scruffikins eagerly took it from him, mouthed it around a bit, then spit it out.

  “I take it you don’t like potatoes.”

  Mr. Scruffikins jumped off the bed and pawed at the door.

  “You better be able to service yourself, Scruff. I can’t go out there,” Crispin said. He let the dog out, closed the door and resumed his position in front of the TV to finish his food.

  Not ten minutes later the dog was scratching at the door to get back in. Crispin opened the door and let him in before tightly closing the bedroom door again. “That’s it. You can’t get back out until I do.”

  Some while later, he’d eaten, watched part of a movie, taken a shower, and was pacing the room. “I don’t like this, Scruff.”

  Mr. Scruffikins just reclined on Solange’s pillow and watched him, walking back and forth.

  “Where is she? Has she found Alastair, or is it some other assignment?” he asked the dog. Every twenty-to-thirty minutes he’d stalk to the bedroom door, open it just enough to peek at the hallway, see the sunshine and bellow at it before slamming the door shut again.

  The next hours were excruciating for Crispin, unable to leave the bedroom, not knowing where Solange was. He checked the clock beside Solange’s bed again. Two more hours. He had two more hours before he could le
ave here. He growled out his frustration, and threw himself down on the bed to wait.

  ~~~

  Solange stood outside the deserted mansion in the Garden District. Its windows and doors were boarded up, and the roof had partially collapsed. There were keep out signs posted by the city on the black wrought iron fence standing guard around the perimeter of the property. It was condemned — had been for as long as she could remember. But a long battle between the city council and the historic society of New Orleans kept it from being torn down, or restored.

  Solange stood there regarding the mansion. She’d been drawn here over and over again as a child. It was as though the old house called to her. As she grew older and better understood the story told to her by her grandmama about her mother, she’d convinced herself this old house was where her mother had lived the last months of her life with Alastair.

  It was ironic, really. Kidnapped and held only blocks from her actual home, yet still a world away, help not a feasible thing. Her poor mother had most likely never even realized where she was and had no idea she was so close to home. Solange reached out and placed a hand on the iron gate. She felt no magics, no conjurings meant to keep others out. But there was an inordinate amount of anguish trapped on this property.

  Solange looked up at the boarded up windows again. “Is this where you were, Mom?” she whispered aloud. Hand still on the gate, she let it slide down to the latch and let herself into the front yard of the dilapidated mansion. She opened herself up, sending out her energies, searching for any presence at all. Immediately she got several signatures back, but they all seemed animal, not supernatural. She looked up at the sky and took notice of how late in the day it was. She only had about an hour before the sun set, but that was enough time to drive a stake through a deserving heart — especially if the deserving heart was still slumbering.

  ~~~

  Crispin opened the bedroom door for the thousandth time since waking up and finding himself alone. The sunshine that greeted him was still bright enough to cause him harm. In fact, any sunshine at all would cause him harm. “Fuuuuuck!!” he shouted, stomping back over and sitting down on Solange’s side of the bed forcefully. He looked down at Mr. Scruffikins. “This is fucking ridiculous,” he declared.

  Mr. Scruffikins sat at attention at his feet, watching him to see what would happen next.

  Out of boredom, Crispin reached out and yanked open the drawer of the bedside table. He huffed a laugh when he found a gun, two knives, a small squeeze bottle of water and what appeared to be a small, wooden, pointed stake. He leaned over, using two fingers to gingerly lift the small plastic bottle of water. He wasn’t sure, but seeing as it was stored with weapons that would be deadly to both human and vampire alike, the chances that he was holding holy water were very high. Grimacing, he set it back where he’d found it. When he did, his eyes caught the faded photo of a woman on the old, yellowed page of a newspaper.

  He very carefully slid the newspaper out from under the weapons to get a better look at it. His immediate impression was that the woman was familiar to him. He squinted his eyes to better see the photo, but it was a very old newspaper so it didn’t do much good. His eyes jumped to the article accompanying the photo and as he read his dread grew.

  The photo was of Adrienne LaCelle De’Mers. He didn’t know her personally, but anyone moving in supernatural circles had heard tell of the LaCelle Coven. And Adrienne was the granddaughter of the Granddame herself - Marceline. She’d died, and left behind an infant daughter. Crispin cocked his head just slightly to the side as his thoughts began to play catch up.

  Solange had magics about her. And she never spoke of her family. Crispin turned the newspaper over and unfolded it, looking for a date. “Holy hell,” he said out loud. The date on the newspaper was about twenty-two years ago. Solange was about the same age if he had to guess. He got up and replaced the newspaper beneath all the weapons in Solange’s nightstand. Then he went on a search mission, trying to find anything that had Solange’s full name on it.

  He went through everything in the bedroom, but found nothing more interesting than the weapon drawer and the old newspaper. Then he stalked over to the bedroom door again and pulled it open. He’d been prepared to slam it shut again, but fumbled the door handle when he realized no sunshine greeted his peek down the hallway. “Ha! Come along, Scruff, we are free!” he shouted.

  Carefully Crispin advanced down the hallway toward the living room, hesitant to just rush into the living room in case there was some measure of sunset still shining through the windows. On finding the apartment in the dark except for the lamp in the living room and the light above the stove in the kitchen, he relaxed measurably.

  “Is she Solange De’Mers?” he asked Mr. Scruffikins. “Me thinks she is,” he answered himself, nodding. He stood in Solange’s living room looking slowly around when his eyes fell on a very modern, sleek, computer desk and a laptop sitting upon it. He grinned as he hurried over to the desk, rifling through the neatly stacked papers sitting to the right of the mouse pad.

  His fingers hesitated over a folded piece of paper. “Electric bill…” he said, lifting the sheet of paper and unfolding it, his eyes skimming the print all over the page looking for her name. His eyes widened when he finally found it. He spoke aloud though he was the only one in the home at the time. “I see you,” he whispered. His suspicions confirmed, he raised his eyes from the bill in his hand to gaze out over her private terrace and the swimming pool nestled there. Now he understood her abilities. He looked down at the bill once more before folding it as it had been and placing it neatly back in the stack.

  He closed his eyes, sending out feelers, searching for any connection to Solange or Alastair. If either was close he may be able to pick up on their presence. Solange would be a long shot since he’d not fully mated her, but Alastair was another thing entirely. Slowly his smile spread — he felt him. Alastair was indeed nearby.

  Crispin looked down at Mr. Scruffikins. “I may not be back, Scruff. But I’ll make sure your mistress is.” He closed his eyes and allowed his senses to become centered on the invisible bond he had with Alastair.

  Locked onto the path he needed to follow, he thought of Alastair. Then he dematerialized, sending Mr. Scruffikins into a barking frenzy. He smiled as he misted through the air thinking of the name he’d found on the electricity bill — Solange LaCelle De’Mers. His little slayer was a witch — of the most powerful kind.

  Chapter 16

  Solange walked around the old, once stately mansion, looking for a way in. Finding none, and assuring herself that a very large, very evil presence lurked inside, she simply closed her eyes, wishing herself inside.

  Materializing, she found herself in a very large sitting room. She looked around herself for any indication that someone had been there recently. As far as she could tell, no one had been there, at least not in the sitting room. Carefully, quietly, she began her search of the house, one room after another, methodically making her searches as she was taught to do, prepared at any moment to find herself in a surprise battle.

  Having eliminated all rooms on the level the sitting room was on, and the floor above that, she moved to ground level. Searched each room, and found nothing. Having determined that she was alone in the home with only a few squirrels, mice, and rats, she was comfortable knowing that she’d not be attacked from above while she made her way through the basement. Not all homes in New Orleans had them. But the finer, grander homes did. They were usually just below ground level, with walls of cement or cinder block, with windows or vents that just barely cleared the ground at their top edges, and this one was no different.

  After searching what some long ago owner had turned into an apartment in the basement, she found a stairwell in the kitchen pantry that only led down. Stealthily she made her way down the stairs, her senses and energies alert for any disturbance or presence she may encounter. Her energies told her she was not alone. Slowly she reached the bottom of the stairca
se, and paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness there. She glanced around the room and noticed it looked much like the basement she explored in London. Scattered pieces of beat up furniture, dusty stained sheets draped over pieces of what was most likely more furniture, boxes, old clothes — utter disarray scattered from one end to the other. And the presence she sensed when she entered the house was no doubt down here with her.

  Solange started making her way through the clutter. Some items were stacked, albeit haphazardly, and others were just strewn about. She did her best to remain quiet and not to disturb anything as she moved down a path that resembled a maze throughout the room. As far as she could tell, there was a place near the far wall that had a section cleared. That was her focus. That was where she needed to be.

  Almost there, her shirt caught on an old Tiffany floor lamp, causing it to fall over and clatter to the floor — the decorative, glass lampshade shattering on impact. Movement could be heard right away, over toward the cleared area she’d been moving toward. Her adrenaline ramped up, and instinctively she muttered a protection spell around herself.

  Solange waited a few moments to be sure nothing was moving toward her and took one step toward the far wall. Then a voice called out. “You’ve been a naughty mate, Mouse,” the voice singsonged, giggling wildly.

  Solange said nothing, but she stopped moving.

  “Oh come, now. It’s not that bad, you have after all come back to me. There is that to consider.”

  Solange remained where she was, not answering, waiting, giving the owner of the voice the opportunity to make the first move.