by LAURA HARNER
“Why are we here, Alfred? What are you up to?” Gav asked with deceptive quiet.
“I will tell you my story another time, right now you must go see Marie. She is my granddaughter, and the great-great-granddaughter of Marie Laveau, the original Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. She has some things to tell you.
“You listen to me awhile, young man, I will tell you now that I read your intentions that very first day at the airport. I know you could read my intentions if you tried. You just didn’t know you needed to try down here in New Orleans. Don’t make that mistake again, you hear me? Always read intentions, you have that ability for a reason. Here in New Orleans there is a deep magick. Not the same as yours, but you would be a fool to ignore it.
“Now, I read you that afternoon in my cab before I decided you could meet my Marion or I would have taken you to a hotel. I confirmed what I knew at the store today, otherwise I wouldn’t let you see my little Marie, no matter how she insists. So go listen to her. She says you need to hear, and I believe her. I will be here when you are finished.”
Gabhran tested his senses a bit and realized there were no bad intentions coming from this man. Why didna I think to use my senses before? To use them on purpose, because I can and because I should. I willna make that mistake again.
He stepped from the cab, moved toward the door, and the darkness within him swelled. It had done its own sensing, and found something it liked, it could trust. What the hell is that about?
As soon as he entered the store, the darkness curled up and lay dormant. The young woman flipped the sign to indicate the store was closed and bade him to follow her into a back room. The room looked like a bad movie set complete with fortuneteller’s tent, round table, crystal ball, and candles on every surface. Tarot cards were already laid out on the table as well as a small bag and incense.
“Come in here now and sit,” the woman said in a deep Jamaican accent.
Gabhran snorted. “Since I have already heard you speak, met your mother and grandfather, I find it highly suspicious that you have such an accent. Drop the pretense and tell me why I am here.”
Marie, as her grandfather had called her was older than he’d originally thought. In her early thirties, she was tall, nearly five feet, ten inches, with a classic hourglass figure. She was a beautiful woman, who would turn heads in any century. She wore a white turban, which was striking against her café au lait skin tone, and the vibrant rainbow hues of her flowing dress. Her cheekbones were high, and her dark brown eyes tilted upward, giving her an exotic look.
“I’m sorry,” she quickly apologized. “I get in the habit of speaking with my father’s accent; it is what the tourists expect to hear.” Indeed her voice still held a musical, lilting cadence that was different than her mother’s, although not nearly as noticeable as the first accent.
He sensed a wariness about her. Not exactly fear of him, but an awareness that reminded him of those back in Scotland who sought his powers. She trusted him enough to turn her back on him, and to sit while he stood, which told him ‘twas not a physical fear of him. He sat opposite her and waited to hear her story.
“I don’t quite know where to begin, so I will tell it my way, and you may ask questions as you see fit.” She waited until he nodded his agreement before continuing. “I work the tourism trade, selling hope in the form of trinkets, telling futures, holding séances. I conduct tours of the local cemeteries, and take people to visit the grave of my great-great-grandmother, Marie Laveau. I am even ordained so I perform weddings for those who wish to be married by a real Voodoo Queen. This is how I pay for my house. Do you understand?”
Gav nodded, uncertain where she was going with her story.
“For some of the local people, for the true believers, I will perform special rituals for health or other much needed ceremonies. I look to the future and at times, I can see paths that should be followed. I am not a true seer, but occasionally I have visions that guide my actions.
“I was reading for myself on the night of the last full moon, and I saw that Druid magick would intersect mine. The vision was infused with darkness and light.” Gabhran started at her words.
“Ah, I see that means something to you, will you tell me?”
His mind had flared at the word darkness. However, he was not ready to share his story with this woman. “I canna tell you,” he said flatly.
She smiled then, a small dimple revealing itself on the left side of her mouth. “You will tell me, I have seen that you do, but I cannot yet see what you will say. Perhaps that is still in the hands of the fates.”
A shudder passed through him at her words.
“Will you let me look at your hand?” she asked, laying her own hand on the table, palm up.
He placed his large hand on top of hers, face up, and she examined it closely for a very long time, before sighing, and standing. “You will see me again, do not be startled when you do. You may reach me anytime through my grandfather.”
He failed to rise when she did, and he looked at her expectantly. “Is that it, woman? Is that all you have to tell me? You send your family after me, set me up in a certain house, stalk me at night, and that is all you have to say? Dark and light?”
She turned swiftly, placing her hands on her hips, she glared down at him. The seductive power of her voice snaked out and captured him.
“What else would you have me do for you? Is it your fortune you seek? You are not yet ready to tell me your story.” She paused, as if waiting to see if he would talk.
Again he shook his head.
“Do you need proof of my powers, then? I did not ask for proof of yours. Which is a good thing, isn’t it, Druid? Your magick is still buried too deep within you. I can sense it, awakened but untrained. I could tell you other Druids approach. Would you believe that?”
Gav sat back, startled that others were coming so soon. How did Worthington find me?
“Do you wish me to tell you what else I sense?” Her voice dropped to a hiss. “Should I tell you of the darkness? The oily blackness that threatens to choke you? The darkness that grew excited when you approached this shop, and then feigned dormancy once you were in my presence. Oh yes, I know that darkness, and I know it’s fighting for control of your soul.
“I can help you, but I do not yet know how. You are still making choices, other pieces have not yet come into play. I can offer you some protection, but only if you believe. Tell me Druid, do you believe in my powers?”
“Yes, I believe,” Gabhran whispered.
“Then I will make you a protective gris-gris bag for now. It is similar to Druid wards, though not as strong. It is all I can do, until decisions are made, certain actions are taken.”
She took a small blue cloth bag and began to select ingredients from the jars on the shelves that lined the room. Finally, she took a strand of her own hair, inserted it, and pulled the ties of the bag tight. She began to mutter words, quickly and quietly over the bag, as she anointed it with oil. Then she was silent a long time, face and hands uplifted, before she finally returned her gaze to his.
“When you get home, you must add one more item to this bag. Only one, something that is important to you. You must anoint your gris-gris with this oil every day, and keep it next to your skin at all times. You can wear it on a chain around your neck.” She handed him the small vial of oil and the bag.
“The gris-gris is only as strong as your belief. You may come see me anytime. Call my grandfather.” As she had the night before, she swirled around and left, disappearing into the other room.
****
Alfred returned Gabhran to his house and made arrangements to pick him up in the morning for his appointment with the director of the mental health clinic. He carried his shopping bags into the house, and headed for the refrigerator. In the short time he had lived here, he had acquired a taste for cold beer the way they drank it in America. Anyone who spent a summer day in New Orleans would instantly understand the need for the icy coldness
. He opened the bottle of Abita Turbodog Ale, and headed to the courtyard to lie back in the cool breeze and think about what he’d been told by Marie.
He stepped into his courtyard, and took a long pull from the sweaty bottle as he walked over to the lounge chair in the shade. He glanced across to the sunny area of the patio and stopped dead in his tracks. There was a woman lying on a chaise, covered in oil, and nearly naked.
In fact, she was so nearly naked he was sure his hand was bigger across than the piece of fabric that covered her nether region. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, her feet slightly apart. Her waist was small, he thought he might span it with his hands. And her breasts! They were magnificent. He considered them for a while and was sure he knew those breasts. They were the breasts he’d noticed at the jazz concert that belonged to the honey-blonde.
He let his gaze drift up to her face, and he was right, it was the same woman. Well, this is a bit of a fankle. Here is a nearly naked woman in my own backyard, who from all appearances is sound asleep. He suspected she wouldna appreciate him ogling her, but ‘twas a hard thing not to do, given all that slippery golden skin on display.
Suddenly he realized her breasts had been pressed together, lifting them even higher, and he tried to pay attention to the cause of the shift, not on the breasts themselves. He pulled his focus back a little and saw that her arms were extended in front of her, the left hand supporting the right. The right hand was holding a gun, and the gun was pointed at him.
He deliberately turned his back on her, arranged his lounge chair so that it would be facing hers, propped the back up, and then sat down. He took a long drink from his bottle, and only then did he allow his gaze to meet hers.
“Lass, you might want to put that gun down, before you hurt one of us. Even in America, I believe ‘tis against the law to shoot a man in his own home.”
“This is just your bad day, buddy. I’m Detective Close, New Orleans PD. You’re under arrest. Put your hands behind your head.”
Gabhran lazily took another long pull from his ale before setting the bottle on the table, then he laced his hands behind his head and leaned back as though he was contemplating a nap.
“Och, lass, ‘tis fair distracting the way your breasts move when you have them pushed together like that. Do you think you could come pat me down?” he asked, pointing at the conspicuous bulge between his legs with his chin and leaving no doubt as to what he wanted her to pat.
“Let’s see some identification,” she spat.
“`Tis in my pocket, lass, would you care to pull it out yourself?” he asked with a wiggle of his brows and a smile. He knew he was aggravating her; he just couldn’t seem to help himself.
The matter of a driver’s license was of no concern. He’d taken care of that along with obtaining a work visa, and a visiting physician’s permit. Alfred’s extensive family connections seemed to extend into every city, state, and federal office in the state of Louisiana. He’d been examined, interviewed, fingerprinted, and sworn to protect patients and the Constitution. He would happily share the information with her.
“Take it out of your pocket with two fingers and toss it over here,” she demanded through clenched teeth.
Gabhran did as she directed and realized he was getting more aroused by the minute. Her oil-slicked body was glistening in the sunlight, and the scent of coconut filled the air. He would love to hear the lass tell him how to make love to her in just such a fashion. Toss me down there, touch me here, taste me there. Och, ‘tis a sweet torture to look at her like this.
Gabhran thought he might melt sitting there, she was so damn hot. He deliberately tossed his wallet so that it landed about six inches beyond her comfortable reach. He wanted to watch her lean over to retrieve it. He hadn’t counted on her police training.
Rather than leaning over to one side, and leaving herself off balance, the woman placed both feet firmly on the ground and straddled the lounge. With her knees wide apart there was only a thin piece of material covering most, but not all, of her most private parts. He could see blonde curls peeking out, and a soft fold of skin that wasn’t completely covered by the narrow band of fabric. He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and forced his gaze away.
*
Never taking her eyes from him, she braced her feet on the ground on either side of the chaise lounge, before she leaned over to pick up his wallet. She set it on a well-oiled leg, and with one hand she pulled out the stack of plastic cards, before glancing down, looking for a driver’s license.
There it was right in front of her, a Louisiana license with his Burgundy address, a picture, and personal statistics that told her he was thirty years old, six feet, five inches tall and weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds. Hair color black, eyes blue, just the facts.
Of course that failed to account for the other features Randi noticed. He had a strong, chiseled face, and a straight nose. His jaw was brushed with a blue-black shadow of a beard, and he had a deep cleft in his chin. Black waves of hair fell below his shoulders and his blue eyes were really a light blue-gray, the color of steel. She couldn’t help but notice that he had a significant bulge in his tight jeans, hung just to the left of center.
Her fight or flight system had been activated when she’d thought there was an intruder. Now she suddenly had a surfeit of adrenaline, her hands felt shaky, and she lowered her weapon before she betrayed any sign of weakness. She was faced with multiple embarrassments. She had pulled a gun on her new landlord and she was practically naked. And he was, well… he is just yummy! Could this be any more embarrassing?
Before she could think of words to ease her own discomfort, he was up and moving toward the house. “I am going to go inside and get us fresh drinks, lass. I will return in a minute, and we can properly introduce ourselves,” he said. She bit back a smile at the ragged sound of his voice.
She appreciated that he turned his head away to offer her some privacy. Without looking back, he went into the house. As soon as his back was turned, Randi slipped the bikini top on and added the sheer cotton cover up for an extra layer. She thought about wrapping the towel around herself for good measure, but that seemed a bit of overkill.
When he stepped back into the courtyard carrying two beers, she spoke up, wanting to clear the air. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t know who you were, and when I woke to find you staring at me, I thought… well, I thought you were stalking me,” she finished lamely.
“No harm, lass. My name is Gabhran, but you can call me Gav.” He held the bottle out to her, then resumed his seat.
Randi cursed herself for remaining in the sun instead of moving to the shade when she’d had the chance. Now he would be able to see her, and she was blinded by the late afternoon light.
“Shall I just call you Detective, then?” he asked. His question reminded her she was failing Southern Manners 101 by forgetting to introduce herself.
“Oh, sorry, I’m Miranda Close, but people call me Randi.” She took a nervous swallow of the ice-cold ale and gave a little moan of pleasure. “Thanks, this is perfect.”
“Why?”
“Why what?” she asked, a bit confused by his question.
“Why would people call you Randi, when Miranda is a lovely name for such a lovely lass?”
She flushed at his words. “I don’t know, it was just something my dad started calling me, I think he always wanted a boy, but all he got was me, so Randi it was.”
“I think it must be Miranda for me, lass,” he said softly.
His brogue caressed her name and sent a shiver down her spine. This man was dangerous. It wasn’t just his physical presence. Randi could taste his essence in the air.
Randi was gifted when it came to reading people. It was what made her good at her job. So good, that she had become the youngest detective in the history of the NOPD. Of course, the fact that half the force left after Hurricane Katrina didn’t hurt either. She wondered why she couldn’t get a good read off Gabhran.
There was a duality about him, and she couldn’t sense if they were complimentary or opposing parts. Maybe she would be able to figure it out if she spent enough time with him. Now that’s a dangerous thought, girl. Her mind went to the size of him, and she considered proportions. Oh dear. Again a shiver passed through her, and this was definitely a shiver of anticipation. Desire coursed through her before she belatedly resurrected her barriers. She would not go there again.
He stood abruptly, drawing her attention back before she slipped into the past. “’Twas nice to meet you, lass. You may sunbathe out here any time; I give you my word I’ll not invade your privacy.”
When he left the courtyard this time he also left a trail of sadness that made her wonder just what the handsome Scot was hiding from.
Chapter Four
In New Orleans, the mentally ill had been displaced long before Hurricane Katrina had closed all the city’s hospitals. There were people everywhere you looked who needed assistance, whether from pre-existing conditions or from the trauma wrought by the hurricane and its aftermath. They lived in public and private shelters, in vast fields of identical white trailers, in mold-infested houses, condemned neighborhoods, and street corners. Professional athletes, busy office professionals, street musicians or unemployed—it didn’t seem to matter. Someone had to help.
A year after the disaster, recognizing a need for increased mental health services, the state launched an experimental program that provided outpatient services throughout local communities, rather than trying to house all the patients in one large hospital. The small mental health facility on Dauphine Street, within walking distance of Gabhran’s house, was one of those clinics. Housed in a small mansion that had once been converted to a brothel, it accommodated fifteen residential patients, and served several hundred clients that received outpatient care. As always the budget was tight. Gav had counted on that.
