by Nancy Morse
There was no sense lingering. Nothing was going to bring his Sabine back to him, and besides, he had work to do. He turned away from the tomb, picked up his black bag and followed the narrow path out of the cemetery.
***
She ran through the streets that were just now coming alive with traffic, oblivious to the landaus of the planters who came to town with their families for a day of shopping and the wagons that rumbled by on great spoked wheels, the clopping hooves of horses splattering mud on her cloak. She darted this way and that to avoid the bustling bodies of pedestrians—sailors fresh off ships, Irish and German immigrants, black slaves, free people of color, and Americans everywhere. She wished for transformation, prayed for the wings to sprout and turn her into a hideous little creature so that she could take flight and wing her way home even faster. But it wasn’t anger that drove her—Nicholas had explained that the transformation was a result of abject anger—it was fear, growing huge and insurmountable.
When she reached her house on Rue Bourbon, she came to a dead stop, her heart pounding against the stress. For several moments she stood there, staring mutely at the gallery doors that were opened to the parlor, her head tilted as she strained to pick up the slightest sound. Then she heard it, a heartbeat, undetectable save to one who possessed the power to hear beyond any mortal’s feeble ability. There came the faint scent of tea leaves brewing in the pot and the sound of tea pouring into a cup. But her sigh of relief stuck in her throat when there came to her ears the sound of a second heartbeat. Papa was not alone.
She fumbled with the latch on the wrought iron gate, flung it open and raced headlong up the walk, her shoes clicking frantically against the flagstones. The front door crashed open with the thrust of her palm and slammed back against the wall. Her mind filling with imminent disaster, she flew up the stairs in a horrific wind that blew up the curtains over the tall leaded windows and rustled the tapestries that hung on the staircase wall.
The glass panes in the French doors nearly shattered when she burst into the parlor to find papa seated in his favorite arm chair, a bent figure hovering over him.
“Get away from him!”
She flew across the room, hands outstretched, ready to tear the vampire killer away from her papa.
“Pruddy!” James sprang to his feet. “What is the meaning of this? That is no way to speak to Delphine. You must apologize at once.”
Pru stopped short. Her wild gaze slid from her papa’s angry face to Delphine’s mortified expression, and dropped to Delphine’s hand frozen in mid-motion holding not an implement of death but a cup of tea.
“I—I—,” she stammered, not knowing what to say. Her mind raced. Surely, if Delphine had meant to slay papa, she would have done it when they were alone and had the chance. She came forward and took the teacup from Delphine’s hand. “It’s just that I always take care of that,” she said impulsively. She lifted the cup to her nose and sniffed it, but detected nothing amiss in the aromatic brew. “Here you are, Papa,” she said, handing him the cup and noting the sharp disapproval in his eyes.
“Delphine, I didn’t realize it was you. I thought…Please forgive me. I didn’t mean…” Her words trailed off into awkward silence. She cast a guilty look downward, only now realizing that the basket was still swinging from her arm. “Here,” she said, forcing civility into her tone as she handed the basket to Delphine. “Why don’t you take this to the kitchen?”
The floorboards creaked beneath Delphine’s feet as she hurried from the room.
When they were alone, unable to meet her papa’s potent, silent eyes, Pru inquired, “When did this happen?”
“If you are referring to Delphine, we were quite fortunate that she heard we were in need of help and came to us to offer her services.”
“Fortunate, indeed,” Pru mumbled. “Do you know anything about her?”
James sat back down and picked up his newspaper. “She needed employment and we needed help. What more is there to know?”
“Her background. Her references.”
“You can wipe that suspicious look off your face, Pruddy,” he said admonishingly. “And that little display you put on was quite unbecoming. I would suggest you smooth things over with her.”
“Of course, Papa,” she said helplessly.
She found Delphine in the kitchen. Summoning her sweetest voice, she said, “You really must forgive me. I haven’t been myself lately.”
“I do not blame you. Nothing has been the same since she came,” Delphine grumbled as she plucked the feathers from the chicken Pru had brought home.
Puzzled, Pru asked, “Who?”
“Marie. She is not as timid as she looks. I had it with her orders, so I left.” She looked up at Pru from over the chicken. “I would not be myself if my man was stolen by her.”
Pru made a sound of despair. “I had hoped things would have been different between me and Stede, but—” She expelled a fatalistic sigh. “C’est la vie.”
“You take it very well,” Delphine observed. “I would scratch her eyes out.”
“That sort of thing is not in my nature.”
“Eh, bien. You would not harm a fly.”
Pru watched her closely as feathers fluttered to the floor. “You can tell that about me?”
“Oui. And your père, too. You are good people. I am, how do you say it, lucky to be here.”
“Did Babette tell you we were in need of help?”
“Babette?” Delphine shook her head. “I do not know this Babette. Mon frère told me.”
“Your brother? How did he know?”
“He heard it from your père.”
“I thought—” Pru was suddenly confused. “I was under the impression that your brother lives upriver.”
“He lives on Rue Condè. Near the ballroom.”
The ballroom where her papa enjoyed the fancy-dress balls. Yes, she supposed it was possible that he had met Delphine’s brother there and mentioned it to him. “I must have misunderstood Christophe.”
“Christophe? Ach, that weasel. I would not listen to a thing he says. I never liked that one.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He is always sneaking around. Especially when Monsieur is on the island. Once, when I go to Monsieur’s room to change the sheets, I catch Christophe at the armoire. I ask him, what are you doing there? He closed the doors quickly and left. I thought maybe he was stealing something. Every time Monsieur leaves, something goes missing.” She shook her head as she placed the plucked chicken into a pot. “I do not trust him.”
At the mention of the armoire, unspeakable fear raced up and down Pru’s spine. Was Christophe stealing from the armoire or placing something at the back? “Does Christophe have any brothers?”
“Trois that I know of. One lives in Paris, one died when the fever came through last year, and one was killed in a duel with an Amèricaine.”
“Were any of them older than him?”
“Younger, I think.”
Wetting her lips, Pru dared to ask, “Do you know if his father had brothers?”
“Ma foi, so many questions about Christophe,” Delphine complained.
Pru leaned forward and placed a hand on her arm. “Please, Delphine.” She tried hard to keep the urgency from her tone. “It’s important.”
Delphine glanced at the pale fingers encircling her arm. “So cold.”
Drawing her hand back, Pru said, “I’m sorry. It’s an affliction that runs in the family.”
“Ce n’est rien. His père died a few years ago. At the funeral there was only Christophe. The old man had a younger brother who did not survive him.”
Pru fought to control the wild terror sweeping through her at the realization that Christophe was the first born son of a first born son. She saw it all now with sudden clarity—the way those watery blue eyes scrutinized her, luring her to the bayou on the false pretense of helping her get Sabine to chant the words, and lying about Delphine to throw suspicion
off himself.
“Where will I find Christophe?” Pru asked.
Delphine swung the pot over the fire. “He has a cottage on Rue d’Orleans, but he spends much of his time at La Bourse de Maspero complaining about the Amèricaines while he plays dominoes and smokes cigars.”
Pru walked numbly to the doorway, pausing only to utter from over her shoulder, “Papa likes red beans and rice on Mondays.”
Chapter 30
Delphine hurried to answer the pounding on the door.
Nicholas burst in, yelling, “Prudence!” in a voice that shook the house like thunder.
“She is not here.”
He turned on her fiercely. “Who are you?”
Unnerved, scarcely able to eke out the words, she stammered, “I—I am Delphine.”
Bending his head close, he sniffed the air surrounding her. Detecting no trace of evil, with green eyes hot and intense upon her, he demanded, “Do you know where she went?”
She replied with a faint trembling in her chin. “Sh—she said something about taking care of business on Rue d’Orleans.”
Abruptly, he asked, “Where is the master of this house?”
Before Delphine could voice a reply, the parlor doors swung open and James poked his head out. “What is going on out here?” His eyes lit up at the sight of his friend. “Nicholas. I was not expecting you.” But his pleasure was quickly dashed by the look of distress upon that handsome face. “Is something wrong?”
“I must speak with you at once,” Nicholas said urgently.
“By all means. Come into the parlor. Delphine, would you brew a pot of tea?”
“There’s no time for that,” Nicholas cut in. Shooting a look at the woman who stood by in mute silence, he said, “Pack a bag for Monsieur Hightower. Only the essentials. And be quick about it.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” James objected. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I’ll explain everything,” Nicholas said. Turning him toward the French doors, he led him into the parlor.
James sat down, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, hands steepled, listening intently and muttering fearful conjectures as Nicholas told him of the danger they were in. Finally, he jumped to his feet. “A hunter!” he cried. “This is terrible. We must do something.”
“I have a carriage waiting outside,” Nicholas said.
“Where are we going?”
“We are not going anywhere. You are. I made the arrangements before I came here.”
“But—”
“Where do you keep your decanter?”
James nodded toward a rosewood cabinet and voiced a frantic thought. “What about Pruddy?”
Nicholas moved across the room like a quick and silent wind and pulled open the cabinet door. “Don’t worry about Prudence. I’ll find her. Come. You must leave at once. There is no time to waste.”
“My instrument,” James cried.
“I’ll get it.” He dashed off to the music room and returned with the case containing James’s violoncello.
Delphine had a small tapestry bag packed and was waiting by the front door when they emerged from the parlor.
Lifting the bag from her hand, Nicholas said brusquely, “Return to your home and wait until you receive word to resume your duties. You will be paid in the interim. Do you know where I can find Christophe?”
“He has a cottage where the old fort used to be. At the end of Rue d’Orleans.” She shook her head. “I do not understand all these questions about Christophe.”
His suspicion was aroused. “Has Prudence been asking questions about him?”
“Oui. She asked many questions.”
Alarm shot through Nicholas like a hard-driven nail. There could be no doubt about Pru’s business on Rue d’Orleans and the danger she was walking into.
Outside, the sky had lost its dusky glow, and the lamp lighter was lighting the wicks on the whale oil lamps, throwing pale light onto the street. Nicholas tried not to convey his growing fears to James as he held the carriage door open for him, pushing the violoncello case in after him. In a level tone he said, “This carriage will take you to a house on the outskirts of the city. From there, you will be put aboard a ship and taken to a safe place.” He thrust the decanter of chicken blood into his hands. “When this is exhausted, I’m afraid you’ll have to do your own hunting.”
“I’m perfectly capable,” James irritably replied. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”
“Of course not. I meant no offense.”
“Besides,” James added grudgingly, “I had a good teacher.”
Nicholas allowed the compliment to go without comment. “When the danger has passed, I will come to collect you.” He started to draw away from the coach.
“You will protect my girl, won’t you?”
The desperate plea held him to his spot. Looking strongly into James’s eyes, he said, “I give you my solemn vow that I will protect her with my life.”
James gave him a little smile. “You must love her very much.”
“Is it that obvious?” Nicholas asked ruefully.
“Only to another who loves her as strongly. Be good to her, my friend. Perhaps in time she will come around.”
With that wish in mind, Nicholas tapped on the carriage door, signaling the driver.
James slid forward on the seat as the wheels began to turn and thrust his head out the window. “You did not say the name of the ship.”
Standing beneath the street lamp, an otherworldly light shone on Nicholas’s face as he called after the carriage rattling unevenly down Rue Bourbon, “The Marie’s Fortune.”
Chapter 31
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Christophe froze in the doorway at the honeyed voice that spoke from out of the darkness. As his eyes gradually adjusted to the absence of light inside the cottage, they perceived a woman seated in an armchair by the fireplace. His gaze darted anxiously around the room.
“Looking for this?” Pru asked, drumming her fingers against the black bag in her lap. “I didn’t think a hunter went anywhere without the tools of his trade.”
Closing the door behind him, he walked into the room. Without removing his coat, he went to a lamp on small round table and carefully lifted the flint glass shade from its weighted brass base. “How did you know where to find me?” he asked as he lit the wick and replaced the shade, releasing the unpleasant odor of whale oil into the room.
“Delphine told me. You remember Delphine, don’t you? She’s the one you warned me about.”
“Why would I warn you about Delphine?” he said evasively.
“Oh, come now, Christophe. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I am.”
His pretence dropped like a load of bricks. “Yes,” he sneered, “I know what you are.”
“I’m curious how you found out.”
“Sabine told me.” Even now, he could not utter that name without a wince.
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“Not in so many words. I went to her cottage to pick up the green drink for Monsieur Bonham, and she said something about a blood drinker who had ordered a love potion. When I saw you at her cottage the night we went to the bayou, you said the love potion she gave you did not work. I merely put two and two together.”
“Was it your plan to get the entity inhabiting Sabine to jump into me?”
“I didn’t know about that until later that night. My first thought was to help you get Sabine to chant the words.”
“How very generous of you,” she said sarcastically.
“It was not for your benefit. When I realized that my Sabine was not herself and that something evil had taken hold of her, I thought I could get her back by enticing that…that thing…to leave her. You were a likely target.”
“Alas, the best laid plans do not always work out, do they? There was one tiny thing I neglected to tell you, however. When Lienore, that’s her name, you see, leaves the host, well, you saw what ha
ppens. How does it feel to know you killed the one you love? Although, she wasn’t really the one you love.” She sighed. “It’s all so confusing, isn’t it?”
“You told me getting her to chant the words would bring back what I had lost.”
“I lied,” she said coldly. “Just as you lied about Delphine. She’s not the hunter. You are.”
“Now that you know, what are you going to do?” he asked
“Hmm, that is a dilemma. I certainly can’t trust you to be a good boy and not do me harm.”
“It’s not you I want to destroy.”
“Ah, yes. Nicholas. You are, after all, the first born son of a first born son, and the Sanctum has been after him for centuries. What makes you think I will let you destroy him? Not that I believe it’s only him you want to destroy. No, it appears I may have to kill you.”
“Not unless I kill you first.”
“And how would you do that when your killing tools are in this bag? Oh, by the way, all this garlic you have hanging about the walls and from your bedposts is a waste of time. As you can see, it didn’t keep me away”
With a calculated look, he said, “You’re right. My tools are in the bag. But this isn’t.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and opened his palm to reveal a small white wafer.
Pru hissed at the sight of the Holy Eucharist. Unspoken fury filled her veins, but she was determined not to reveal to him the extent of her fear of the powerful Host. “You fool,” she spat. “What you hold in your hand does more damage to you than to me. The Eucharist can be used only in the ways that God permits, not to your own advantage. By profaning the Host, you consign your soul to eternal damnation and risk excommunication.”
The lamp light flickered along the edges of the holy symbol as he brandished it before her, noting with perverse satisfaction the way she recoiled, her back pressing against the pillows of the chair. “I am forgiven for what I do.”
