Tainted Love

by Nancy Morse

  “And I suppose you think that’s you.”

  A shadow of distress passed over his face. “I hoped that I would be. That you and I—” He stumbled to a halt. “No matter,” he resumed. “I can wait. I have all the time in the world.”

  When he was gone, she returned to the window and looked for his tall, well-built form to appear on the street below. The rain that had begun as a gentle patter was now coming down in earnest. He emerged beneath the dim yellow glow of a lamp post. She watched as he stopped for a moment to pull up the collar of his coat before continuing on down the street.

  Chapter 23

  The sun was struggling to break through the lingering clouds, and the streets were black with slush from last night’s rain. Pru skirted the ditches overflowing with sewage, and was heading toward Rue du Rampart where the banquettes were sturdier, when she heard the drums of the Sunday bamboula in the square.

  Beneath the sycamores the earth was stomped bare by dancing feet. More than a hundred people were gathered, mostly slaves, dancing and singing and squirming like snakes in a pit. Two men crouched on their haunches, holding between their knees round drums that they beat with the heels of their hands, while an old African strummed the fingerboard of a stringed instrument. The drum beats, the squeal of the strings, and the chanting of voices in the African tongue, created a hypnotic, savage frenzy not unlike the spectacle Pru had witnessed in the bayou, only without a fat-bodied snake and the sacrifice of a goat.

  A few blocks away the cathedral bells began to ring the hour, and one by one the street lamps were lit, radiating an incandescent glow over the bodies of the dancers, half-naked despite the growing chill in the air as dusk descended over the city. Pru watched for a little longer and then walked away. She hadn’t come to this part of town to watch the dancing. She came for answers.

  Inside the cottage on Rue Ste. Anne the candles were lighted. The voodoo queen sitting quietly in the parlor, her sleek black neck bent as she worked with something in her lap and rocked back and forth in her chair, the embers of a dying fire reflected in the cold beauty of her face.

  Sabine answered Pru’s knock and held the door ajar for her to enter. Pulling a shawl tighter around herself, she said, “Wait here. I will bring in more wood.”

  When she was gone, Pru looked at the object Sabine left on the chair. It was a doll made out of brown cloth. Spanish moss stuck out from the edges of its arms and legs, the seams were sewn with neat backhand stitches, and it had little black beads for eyes. Its stuffed body was pierced with pins and nails.

  “It is cold,” Sabine said when she came back in. She piled the wood high on the fire. The flames sprang up, flooding the room with warmth and lurid orange light. “Sit, and tell me what brings you here.”

  Pru undid the clasp on her cloak and swirled it from her shoulders. “It’s the potion,” she said. “It didn’t work.”

  Arching a skeptical brow, Sabine asked, “Did you give it to him?”

  “I brought it to his house, but he was sleeping, so I left it with instructions for his…servant…to give it to him the moment he awoke.”

  “But you did not give it to him yourself?”

  “No. I thought coming from me it would make him fall in love with me.”

  “You did not heed my words. You were not the giver. You did not hand it to him as you were meant to. The servant girl did. And she is the one your man fell in love with.” She said this last part in a flat, knowing voice. “That was a very stupide thing to do.”

  Pru received the reprimand with a crestfallen look. “Is there anything that can be done?”

  Sabine shrugged. “There is always something that can be done, eh?” Her eyes strayed to the rocking chair upon whose seat was the cloth doll. “Or you could burn a black candle. That will also bring death and destruction.

  “I do not wish to kill the girl.”

  “Who said anything about the girl? It is the man you should destroy.”

  “What?” Pru exclaimed, horrified. “I love him.”

  “Then burn a brown candle. That’s not as evil as a black one.”

  “I swore I would only use good gris-gris. With the way I am forced to exist I already have much to atone for. Besides, why would I want to destroy him over something that was not of his doing?”

  “Because he is a man, that is why, and from my experience, all men are not to be trusted. Do not be so sure that it was not of his doing. My potions work when the receiver wants it to work…even if he does not realize it. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it does not.” She stopped and tapped her chin thoughtfully “You could put stale bread in little pots of water and place them in every corner of your room. That would soak up your bad luck with men. As for this one, no, cher, there is nothing that can be done. But if I were you, I would consider myself lucky to be free of the rat.”

  It wasn’t Stede’s fault he fell in love with Marie, and it wasn’t Marie’s fault for giving him the wine as Pru had asked her to do. She had no one but herself to blame for it. She’d already had Stede’s affection. Who was to say it would not have turned into deep abiding love if only she’d had the patience to wait instead of resorting to a voodoo trick?

  Something Nicholas said loomed suddenly in Pru’s mind. “I have all the time in the world.” As one immortal longing for another, he was right. But she was an immortal who longed for a flesh and blood man, a mortal who would notice that she was not growing older and question it. Not to mention the possibility she still refused to believe that he was a hunter and would destroy her if he knew what she was. On the one hand, time was something she had too much of. She might not be able to gain Stede’s love, but she was more determined than ever to regain her lost soul so that something like this would never happen again. And for that, time was something she did not have.

  She slanted a sly look at Sabine. “Perhaps there is a way.” Lowering her voice, she spoke in a whisper that hinted of conspiracy. “Once, a long time ago, a man—an alchemist—gave me a very old book. In this book he said was a chant that could restore something that has been lost.”

  “Ah, so there you go,” said Sabine. “Speak the words.”

  “He told me the words can only be spoken by a woman with strong power. I didn’t pay him much mind, but now that I think of it, I have the book, and you have the power. Would you do it, maman? Would you speak the words?”

  Pru hoped the half-truth she just told was believable. There was a book, and it did contain a chant. But she wisely kept to herself that it was her soul she wanted to recapture, and that the words had to be spoken by a powerful witch. She held her breath waiting for Sabine’s reply.

  “What language is it in? French?”

  “No. It’s an old language that I don’t recognize. But I’m certain you’ll be able to read it. All you’d have to do is recite the words exactly as they appear in the book. It doesn’t matter what they mean. Probably some silly nonsense about falling in love. I don’t know—I’m not sure—it’s my only hope. Please, maman.” Pru prayed the false anguish she conveyed was convincing.

  Sabine’s expression reflected her uncertainty. “I think it is a waste of time, but bring the book to me.”

  Pru left the cottage on Rue Ste. Anne feeling the first real glimmer of hope. There was no way to know for certain if the chant would work—after all, the love potion had gone awry—but she had to try. A cabriolet rolled past her, the wooden wheels churning mud on her cloak, but she scarcely noticed as her mind forged ahead with thoughts and plans.

  Her first thought was of her papa. Unlike her, he had taken to his undead state with ease. Now, he could play his beloved violoncello until the end of time, and having experienced that once-in-a-lifetime love with her mother, he had neither the need nor the desire to find love again. All in all, he was well suited to immortality, and her hints to him of possibly regaining his mortality had been met with a lackluster response. She would explain to him as best she could why it was so important to her that she become
mortal again—why the prospect of growing old did not frighten her nearly as much as the prospect of going through eternity without someone to love. No doubt, it would be painful for him to watch her grow older and one day die, but difficult choices were not without consequences, and she was prepared to face whatever came her way. He was a fair and decent man, and in the end she was confident he would understand.

  Nicholas, on the other hand, was a different matter. Why was he so stubborn about clinging to his immortality? By his own admission he hated the thought of subsisting on the blood of others which necessitated the taking of lives, no matter how vile they were. He had wanted her to join him in immortality, claiming to be in love with her—if indeed it was possible for that scoundrel to love anything but himself. Her rejection of his dark gift all those years ago had wounded him deeply. Then he forced it upon her, claiming he did it only to save her life, but what kind of life was this that caused her to lurk in shadows and drink from the throats of others? Oh yes, he was happily content to be undead now that she was also undead. He wanted a playmate with whom he could cavort through eternity, someone like him who understood the uncontrollable urge for blood, while all she wanted was to put this behind her and become a normal human again. And if that meant withering and dying, so be it. To live one lifetime with the love of one man meant more to her than a million lifetimes. Why couldn’t he understand that?

  As she walked down the wide alley alongside the cathedral, she could hear the voices of humans like whisperings from the far corners of the city and smell the sweat from their pores and the perfume scenting their bodies. Giddy, fearful, and apprehensive all at the same time, she rounded the corner of Rue Bourbon and stood stock-still in the shadows, her eyes growing wide and gathering light from the lamp post at the sight of a familiar figure standing outside the wrought-iron gate to her house.

  Chapter 24

  Even before she saw his face in the silvery moonlight she smelled the absinthe.

  Torn by an impulse to run to him, a warning voice at the back of her mind cautioned her against it. He held something at his side. Was it the stake he intended to drive through her heart?

  He turned then and saw her. “Pru, you do have a knack for sneaking up on a man real quiet-like.” The soft lilt of his voice and the southern cadence of his speech worked in harmony to muddle her senses, and the lingering traces of the beating he’d taken at the hands of the Spaniards tugged at the heart she was trying desperately to harden against him.

  “Hello, Stede.”

  He looked so fine in breeches of velvet in a rich crimson color. His damask coat, open to the cool night air, was decorated with braid trim along its edges. Beneath it he wore a black silk waistcoat whose silver threads caught the light and a satin sash slashed diagonally across his chest. A heavy, curved cutlass with its deadly cutting edge hung from the leather belt at his waist. On his feet he wore black leather boots reaching to his knees. The red feather adorning his tricorn swayed in the evening breeze.

  She struggled to maintain a steady voice that would not betray the rapid beat of her pulse. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you. I knocked on your door, but your father said you were out. Now I see where you get your pale complexion from.”

  “How long have you been here?” She spoke up quickly, hoping to divert the subject away from the hue of her skin.

  “Longer than I’d wait for any other woman.”

  The smile he flashed threatened her resolve to be on her guard. “I can’t imagine why,” she said, trying to sound flippant.

  “I brought these for you.” From his side he lifted not a hawthorn stake but a bouquet of flowers.

  “They’re lovely,” she said of the irises whose deep blue was like the midnight sky. “Thank you.”

  “They grow wild in the swamp. The color reminded me of your eyes, the way they get sometimes, like now.”

  “Yes, I’ve been told my eyes get darker when I’m angry.”

  “You must be mighty angry at me, then, because your eyes are as dark as those flowers.”

  “What would I have to be angry about?” Pru asked, testing him.

  “One of my men saw you on the island,” he replied suggestively.

  She ran a finger along the top of the wrought iron gate. “I was there, yes. I was concerned about you. I hadn’t heard from you since your return from the fortress, and when Delphine told me you’d gone to the island, I thought I would go there to see if you needed anything. But it appeared you had everything you needed.”

  “If you’re talking about Marie, I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Are you in love with her?” The bluntness of her question surprised even her.

  He hesitated, but the look on his face confirmed what she already knew.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I can’t get you out of my mind.” He offered a guilty little smile, his handsomeness affecting her more than she cared to admit. “Marie is pretty, but she’s not as, shall we say, spirited as you.”

  Pru bit back the temper his remark provoked. “I am no man’s whore,” she said heatedly. But even as she said it, she longed to lay herself bare to him and feel his possession as she had that day under the live oak.

  “That’s not how it is with you,” he claimed.

  “Oh? And how is it with me?”

  “I can’t rightly say. You’re different.”

  “You got that right,” she muttered under her breath. “I can’t accommodate you, Stede. Perhaps it would be best if you returned to Marie.”

  “I understand. I guess what I really came here for was to thank you for helping me. If you hadn’t sent your friend to the fortress, I never would have made it back to Nawlins.”

  And to Marie, she thought ruefully. “Nicholas is very thorough,” she said. “I’m glad he could be of help.”

  “I have to tell you, though, he’s an odd one. In fact, the whole damn experience was odd. There I was, shackled in chains, and suddenly the cell filled with mist. At first I thought it was off the water, but it didn’t smell of brine or salt. It was the rarest scent I ever smelled. The next thing I remember was being outside. There was a figure standing over me.” He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the image draped like a cobweb over his mind. “I remember thinking what a fine-looking thief. But he wasn’t a thief, and if he was, I had nothing for him to steal. He helped me to my feet and led me to a horse he’d stolen from the Spaniards. When I was mounted, he looked up at me and said, ‘I have done my part. The rest is up to you.’ I wonder what he meant by that.”

  That was like Nicholas, doing only what she had asked of him and nothing more. It didn’t matter to him if the Spaniards went after Stede and recaptured him, although how many of them Nicholas had left alive was open to question.

  “Did he say anything else?” Pru asked.

  “No. But I’ll never forget the way he looked at me. His eyes were green and bright. And maybe it was my imagination—he did give me something to drink which I admit may have confused me—but I thought I saw hatred in them. Now, why would a man who hated me have gone through all that trouble to save me?”

  Why, indeed? Pru huffed to herself. And how clever of Nicholas to give Stede something to drink—absinthe, no doubt—to make him unsure of the events of his rescue.

  “I’m sure he gave you something to drink to fortify yourself for the long ride home. You do seem to have a fondness for drink,” she added sourly. “If I’m not mistaken, isn’t that what got you captured by the Spaniards in the first place?”

  He gave her a half-smile. “How you find out about that?”

  “I overheard the men at The Snapping Turtle talking about your capture.”

  “What were you doing in the alley at night all by yourself? Tending a sick friend again?”

  He was referring to their first meeting outside The Snapping Turtle when she had drank from the throat of the nun-killer. “I was on my way home from
visiting a friend and cut through the alley to save time.”

  “There you go again,” he said, “being evasive. I thought we had become good enough friends by now where you could be honest with me.”

  She opened her mouth, breathing unevenly as she cast about for something to say. “Honesty is a two-way street,” she replied at last. “Is there something you would like to tell me?” She strengthened herself for his admission of being a vampire hunter.

  “Like what?” Stede asked. “I take it you already know how I make my living, so there’s no secret there.”

  “What are you?”

  “I don’t take your meaning.”

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  “All right,” he said impatiently, “so I fell in love with her. I couldn’t help myself, Pru. It just happened.”

  “Being struck by lightning just happens,” she said tersely.

  His gray eyes darkened like shadows in the candlelight that fell from the tall windows of the house. “You’re talking in riddles,” he complained.

  Pru felt herself quaking with confusion. If he was a member of the Sanctum, surely he knew what she was. Yet she had the distinct feeling that he did not. Something was amiss. She thought back to the black bag Nicholas adamantly claimed he saw in the armoire.

  “The tale of your capture was not all I overheard at The Snapping Turtle,” she said, averting her gaze so that he would not detect the lie she was about to utter. “It was a flatboat man from upriver who told it. A coarse fellow, judging from his speech. Anyway, he spoke of a story he heard from a Saint-Domingue slave about creatures that drink from the throats of the living.” She forced a laugh. “It sounded quite preposterous, of course. But it got me to wondering. I have never encountered such creatures, but you have sailed all over the world. Have you ever come across such things?”

  “The Cajuns tell of strange creatures they call Rougarou living in the swamp. But I’ve never seen one.”