Louisiana Moon

by Rhea, Lani

  She typed in the name and crossed her fingers, and then tapped the enter button. Rapping the pencil against the desk, she waited several minutes for the database to do its thing. The search showed no results. Damn.

  There had to be another course of action. She ran her hands the length of her ponytail, tugging the strands as ideas floated through her mind. On a hunch, she decided to go check out the paper records herself on the elusive Ms. Adams. With a few hours left in the day, she’d visit the courthouse to do that.

  Her email beeped once more with a reminder for a meeting with organizers for the Knight Lost Loves event. Crap. How could she have forgotten about the Knight dinner? Her life was twisted and turned upside down with vampires, dark eyed men, escapees and Soulscapes. She groaned and plugged the reminder into her cell before getting back to business.

  After gathering her belongings and switching off the laptop, she shut and locked her private office door, then hurried to the secretary desk to turn on the answering machine.

  Exiting, she got into her car for the two-hour drive to New Orleans. On arrival, she parked in front of the courthouse and glanced at the dash clock. An hour before they closed. That hour better be worth counting.

  Her time was further depleted by the security checks at the front door. Since the bombing of the Oklahoma City Federal Building and 9-11, no one walked into a government building anymore without dealing with security. She flashed her ID and snoop license three times before she arrived at the records department.

  Half an hour passed as she searched the files for Vanessa Adams. Three quarters of the way into the slush, Vanessa’s name popped up. Bingo. A rude court clerk gave Kris dark looks before pulling the requested folder. It was almost five and the courthouse would soon close.

  She tapped her fingernails on the desk as she waited. The clerk returned with just enough time to spare. Kris snatched the folder and flipped through several papers. Yahtzee. She stopped on a page that might lead her to the target.

  Inside, an ancient deed dating back to— She squinted, couldn’t make out the date. She could read the physical description, and unless she was way off the mark, the house was on the outskirts of New Orleans, in the swamps.

  She never enjoyed visiting the swamps. However, the gators lurking in the marsh appealed to her wolf side. Every time she got near one of the beasts, the hairs on her nape stood up and her mouth watered. And every time she wrestled the idea of snatching a gator, she’d remind herself of the lifestyle her human side had chosen. Most times, she liked the vegan purity and tried to keep temptation away.

  No other clues inside the folder revealed Vanessa was any kin to Stanley. Kris would drive to the house to find out. Maybe a link between the two would be there… If she were lucky.

  6

  Lucky, yeah right. For over two hours, she searched for the damn house. She was almost always good with directions but out here in the bayou, one cypress-covered lane looked much like others. She had made several wrong turns and doubled back at least half a dozen times. The sun sank low, casting long shadows. The sky above the trees turned deep rose pink and purple. With full dark not far away, her senses vibrated.

  Ready to bail for the day, she made one chance turn, revealing the house. She had a hard time making out the crest of the roof over the tops of huge magnolia trees dripping with Spanish moss. But she’d bet her next retainer the roof she’d spotted was the place she searched for.

  The lane to the house was gutted with potholes. Each dip the car made threatened to jar her teeth loose. Daylight had almost slipped away. The sun inched toward the horizon, shining through the mossy trees at odd angles, casting eerie effects onto the narrow road and glaring into her eyes. The sun and shadows reminded her of the dream of her mother’s wolf form. She shivered.

  Distracted, she didn’t brace herself and her head connected side of the car. Damn it. She rubbed the tender spot. The bump throbbed, pulsating with her heartbeat.

  At last, the trail ended at a large iron gate. She didn’t see one of those boxes that allowed entrance, but wasn’t going to let that stop her. She’d go on foot if she could get out of the freaking car from the surrounding overgrowth of native plants. Wax myrtle and sandbar willow smashed against both sides of the car, wedging the doors tight.

  How the hell was she going to move without shredding her legs and arms? She glanced into the rearview mirror then removed the car key from the chain and tucked the warm metal into her bra. She had a whacky idea that might just work so she set to the task.

  A few struggling moments later, she managed to fold the backseats down and crawl into the small trunk then pulled the emergency hatch handle. Voila. She rolled over the bumper then jumped to her feet and looked around. Locusts and katydids chirped loudly in inharmonic duets. The air reeked of wet earth and rotted tree branches. Somewhere, a bull gator bellowed.

  Her hackles rose. An urge to chase some fresh gator meat gnawed at her. She pushed the instinct deep and aside then took stock of her clothing. High heels, already buried halfway in the mushy ground, wouldn’t work with the plan she had in mind. She snatched the running shoes, replacing the heels before chucking them inside the trunk.

  Kris inhaled, ready for action. Smoothing her skirt, she took a step, came down on a rock and lost her footing. Her palm slapped onto the bumper as her jaw smacked against the trunk. For crying out loud. When had she gotten so clumsy?

  As she rubbed her aching jaw, she eyed the gate. A warm wind rustled dead leaves into the air, swirling them above her head. In the distance, insects chirped. None sang their songs alongside the locked gate.

  The lush jungle of the bayou hadn’t crept over the structure either. On this side of the wrought iron, the ground yellowed from undernourishment and water deprivation. The beautiful plant life that once might have graced the courtyard had been drained of nutrients long ago. There was no sign of life anywhere. Nothing breathed, nothing stirred but the wind. The place was just dead and creepy.

  She stood at the end of an extensive oval drive facing an ocean which seemed a million miles away from this parched piece of land. The expanse of the property, about the length of two football fields, had been surrounded by a deep, red brick wall. The wall, at least six feet high with wrought iron crenellations, could be seen from this side of the gate. The fence remained intact for the most part.

  The drive wrapped around to the far end of the estate. It ended at a falling-down stable and carriage house. If she didn’t miss her guess, this place had stood empty since the Civil War, or close to it. There were no signs of modernization. No electric or telephone lines.

  Under the weight of dry briar thorns, a statue of some long-forgotten Greek goddess stood, defiant, in the center of a large marble fountain that was in the middle of the oval drive. Only hollowed out eyes were visible through the tangled mess. In one graceful hand, the statue held a spear.

  Kris’s heart skipped a beat, night bearing down on her. Soul demons could use the damned statue as a host. With the daylight slipping away, she’d better hurry her ass.

  The neoclassical grounds and house, despite the decay, reminded her of the house in the movie The Skeleton Key. To the left were broken, weathered columns that might have once been an arch leading into a garden. The hedges retained their former shapes, looking like wasted caricatures of cartoon figures. A couple centuries ago, she imagined the garden would have been pretty.

  The two-story plantation house had a balcony on its second level. White crackled pillars stood out in contrast against the weathered tan of the chipped siding. Black shutters, faded to gray, hung crooked off the windows. More than one lay broken on the ground. From a busted window upstairs, a ragged curtain fluttered in the hot wind. In the dying sunlight, Kris could swear a mummified hand pawed at the air.

  The steps to the front door were broken red brick like the property walls. On either side of the steps, two stone hellhounds guarded the entrance. The statuaries didn’t fit with the rest of the house and d
idn’t appear as old. The actual entrance revealed a less-faded red door.

  In a couple of minutes, night would envelop the property. Paranoia tingled in her gut with icy claws. Not that she believed the soul demons were loose and raising hell in the bayou. Still, the idea of those malevolent bastards finding her alone after dark gave her pause.

  Avoiding the guarded entrance, she circled to the side of the mansion to search for an open window on the ground floor. It should be easy since there wasn’t a single frame holding its glass on the front.

  She found a low window and it still had glass. She stretched, standing on tiptoes, her fingers latched over the windowsill. Inside, she saw a room that looked like some kind of living area. The window held a thick layer of dust and grime, blocking a clear view of the content. When she used the edge of her sleeve to wipe the dirt, she only succeeded in smearing the mess. She sighed and turned in the direction she hadn’t ventured.

  On the ground, an old branch lay in the debris from a crumbling pecan tree. Kris took a wide step over it to continue the search for a back entrance. There had to be another way in without stone guard dogs. She smacked at a mosquito seeking to lunch on her arm.

  Near the back of the house, a skeleton of a bush, with brown leaves circling the ground like a halo, squatted by the corner. She stepped around the bush and her jaw dropped. “Oh wow.”

  The backyard, as far as the eye could see, contained a cemetery. Another wrought iron gate, half off its hinges, swung silently in the warm air. The words Hallows Peak were crafted from metal and hung above the gate.

  Her gaze roamed over the grim landscape from one headstone to the next. The grave markers were the main occupants of the rolling hills. Crypts, scattered in the distance, outlined the burial sites’ background.

  The last rays of light faded behind the cemetery.

  Nightfall swallowed the light.

  As the last gasp faded, fog swept over the cemetery like flowing white fingers grasping for purchase. Fog rose to her ankles, sticking to her bare skin and latching tight. Her feet were almost pulled from beneath her when the mists tugged some more. If she fell she would be leached of life in seconds. She sensed death in the grip.

  Bullshit. No way would she go out like that. She kicked at the mist but the pulling continued. Adrenaline pumped in her veins like rocket fuel. Kris gave a warning growl and made a twisting leap backward out of the mist’s reach.

  As she moved away, she kept a wary gaze on the haze. The pale slithers continued to stretch toward her in a hungry gesture, like they begged her to come and play. Her only option at the moment was the house.

  An ominous cracking ricocheted off the tombstones and she startled. The blood in her veins turned to ice. Beneath the terrible breaking, a nerve-shattering screech howled through the darkness. Oh shit. She skittered backward, kicking up dirt and scrambling toward the front of the house. “What in the name of the gods was that?”

  7

  She knew that sound but didn’t want to believe. The screech came again, propelling her faster. Her heel caught on a limb and she fell hard on her ass, shoving air from her lungs. She gasped and glanced to the left. At ground level, she spied a small rectangular window.

  A basement.

  Due to the elevated water table, most houses in Louisiana didn’t have basements. She hadn’t even looked for one. Scrambling on all fours, she rushed toward the house over twigs and rocks. At the window, she hunched over the window casement, prying the sill open only a few inches but no more.

  The mist pulled on her body. Full whiteness surrounded her. Fuck.

  She pounded the wood frame with her palms.

  Think, damn it. Focusing her will, she allowed the wolf to enhance her body. With agonizing pain, her fingernails elongated, sinking into the petrified wood. Panic rose within her, making being graceful not an option. She tore the window off its hinge, slipped beneath the frame and dropped several feet, landing on her side, onto the dirt surface below. Her ribs smacked a rock as dust billowed in mushroom clouds around her. Sucking in a breath only dragged in more of the particles into her lungs until she coughed and gagged.

  Once her breathing was under control, she looked around. The dim light made it difficult to make out the interior. A hodge-podge of boxes, broken furniture and ancient tools were scattered across the floor. Two old coal fire pits consumed an entire wall, cold sentinels to a time past.

  Kris groaned, wincing when she wiggled to lean on an elbow. She took a quick inventory of her bruised body. Her butt and side were sore. Coppery blood filled her mouth from biting her tongue. Otherwise, nothing was broken; she just had some scratches and minor cuts that would heal on their own.

  Old mold and dampness, with a hint of death, floated in the air. The wet, chilled basement air formed goosebumps. Everything that could puckered into painful peaks and her teeth chattered hard. Kris stifled a shudder and rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

  The house swelled and shifted with the rising currents enveloping the outside, moaning and creaking before settling onto its natural foundation. Fog crept in through the now-unprotected window. Coming to her feet with lightning speed, she stood, arms akimbo. She needed to find a way out and fast. It hadn’t been her smartest move to go into the house, rather than sprint to the front and back over the gate. It was too late now. Why such foolishness? Her only excuse was the scattered thoughts left behind by Ryant’s visit.

  Looking up, she spotted a narrow flight of stairs and a door to the first level. Kris took the stairs two at a time. She covered her nose and mouth as to not breathe in the malevolence trailing her. She slammed into the door, bursting through, smashing the doorknob into the wall behind it. Shoving the door closed behind her, she whirled to see where she was. Her breath escaped in a hiss.

  The kitchen was filled with hoodoo ritual trinkets. Some appeared unrecognizable. Symbols and spell works etched the baseboards. Chicken bones were scattered across the bright yellow tabletop. Unshielded cupboards held root work spell bottles with shrunken heads as stoppers. Red and white beads and feathers hung like gruesome jewelry around the base of each head. A huge, single basin-style sink contained more heads. She didn’t believe in hoodoo. It was like a put-on show for carnivals using colored beads and king cakes.

  This didn’t look like any hoodoo magic she’d ever witnessed.

  The smell of rotted flesh stank to high heaven. She covered her nose, blocking out the putrid scent. The house creaked and moaned louder. Below her feet, the floorboards shifted. They rolled like an earthquake, making her nauseous.

  Kris moved from the basement door, her balance shaky at best. She searched the room for possible exits. With too many doors to choose from, she paused. Old plantation homes had been built for servants to move to most anywhere from the kitchen. They could lead her out or deeper into the house.

  “I so do not want to go further into this hell hole.” The sound of her voice was strangely comforting.

  Bits of plaster fell from the ceiling, breaking on the floor in powered splats. The danger inside the house lived a life of its own, much like the fog outside. It was like some kind of spell that invited people in, but made sure they never left.

  Kris exited the kitchen, finding a long main hallway with a grand staircase leading up. Paintings covered in gray, tattered sheets hung on the walls. Dust motes swirled from her passing. She suppressed the urge to run, screaming for the outside. She had to move with care. This house likely had more than a few tricks left to play.

  Scratching came from behind the walls on the staircase. She edged away from the stairs, not daring to go up when she needed out. More plaster beside her feet. Fuck.

  Something brushed her hair. She yelped and jumped, turning to face… A cover fell from a mirror. The material fluttered to the ground like a ghost. In the half-light, crimson fingerprints smeared the mirror in the shape of an X, right over her reflection. Her thudding heart almost beat out of her chest.

  She stumbled into a dra
wing room. A large scarecrow sat on the couch with metal rods protruding from its chest. Somebody in this house harbored a grudge for scarecrow men. She made a dash for the rotted front door and stopped at the sight of a daguerreotype picture over the fireplace. Inside the frame, a group of young women stood outside this house, dressed in virginal white as though prepped for a cotillion presentation.

  In very clear script, a list of names was printed from left to right: Madeleine Forsythe, Agnes Shuster, Sarah Carter, Vanessa Adams, Constance Rutherford and Elizabeth Harkin, spring 1858.

  Vanessa Adams. Fourth from the left, a smiling young miss, not much beyond fifteen years, stood with her hands on her hips. There was something sly in her smile. Knowledge gleamed in her eyes, defying the innocence of her youth. Kris didn’t trust that smile, not one damn bit.

  Lightning clashed and crackled, transmitting sizzling electricity into the air. Goosebumps rose over her flesh as the fine hairs stood on end. A seventh reflection appeared in the photograph’s glass with the lightning strike. Kris’s eyes went wide. She snatched the picture off the wall and wheeled around…

  …and faced a hoodoo witch.

  Thunder crashed, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. A high-pitched keening filled the space between her and the crone. Kris ached to cover her ears, but braved the noise to keep her hold on the picture. Her jaw tightened as pain ripped through her eardrums. Something popped, and the noise stopped.

  A dead calm remained.

  She stared at the witch.

  Cataract eyes glared malignant holes into nothing. The frizzy-haired, toothless lady gummed her jaws together. “Who’s there?” A fragile voice escaped, like a child asking for a tasty treat.

  Kris didn’t reply. No way. She didn’t dare try after hearing the woman speak. She had no idea what the lady might do and didn’t want to find out.

  It would be funny if she wasn’t so damned scared. She’d scoffed at Sparky for being effeminate, thinking he had no real power. Now she stood, quaking in her Nikes, her inner child afraid of the dark because a tiny blind woman with a child’s sugary, sweet voice asked who occupied her home uninvited. The difference was the power rolling off the woman smacked against Kris like waves on the high seas.