by C. L. Bevill
Jane didn’t say anything.
The group of men wandered down the path, headed for Basin Street. They’d already moved onto another conversation, unconcerned with Jane or the black-haired man.
The black-haired man watched them as they walked. The young men never looked back at them.
His head turned and he regarded Jane.
“Are you a mugger, a rapist, a murderer, or a person intent on doing me harm?” Jane barked, saying the first thing that came to her mind.
The black-haired man coughed out a laugh. “My name is Christien,” he said instead of answering her. “Maybe I can help you down from there?”
“If you can get me down without me falling and cracking my head, I’ll buy you a very large cup of coffee from the nearest place that has a bathroom,” Jane said sincerely.
“I guess you were up there all night, huh?” He stepped closer and looked at the pointed iron pickets. “Maybe if you slide down this side, I can catch you before you hit the sharp arrows of the fence, oui?”
Jane stared at Christien. Do I trust him? Do I turn my back and run the other way? She looked inside herself. I’m tired and my ass hurts. I need a bathroom, and I need something to drink, preferably with LOTS of caffeine in it.
“You’ll help me down?” Her voice was plaintive, and she didn’t like it.
“I won’t let you fall,” he responded solemnly.
Jane took in a deep breath. She looked around and decided the best method for getting down from the tomb. It didn’t seem as easy as when she’d gotten up. But she reconsidered. It hadn’t been easy, but I was motivated by a thing roving about in the darkness, glaring at me.
“Those kids chase you up there?” he asked, as if he was asking if she knew the time.
“No,” she said shortly.
She twisted around and let herself slide, aiming for a section of the wrought iron fence that didn’t have the sharp pickets on top. She didn’t see Christien move, but he stepped in, and the next moment, she felt his hands on her waist, lifting her as if she was weightless.
Jane had her feet on the path before she could take another breath. She peeked over her shoulder at him, and he was so close, too close. His hands were like burning brands on her waist, resting there for the moment, as if all was casual and nonchalant.
Uncertain of what to do, Jane thought she should step forward out of his reach. He would do one of two things. He would pull her back, or he would let her go. It would be like a test. It would mean something very important. Either she had trusted him for a good reason, or he’d lied to her by a sin of omission.
It was an endless moment. Those hands touched her; she could feel their strength and heat even under the t-shirt.
Christien let go and stepped back. “Kids didn’t run you on top of the tombs? What else would chase you up there? Unlessin’ you’re one of those who thinks you can speak to ghosts? Needs to be close to the dead or such?”
Jane turned to look at the man. He was so much taller than she was. She wasn’t used to looking up at men. The hospital said she was five-ten in her stocking feet, so most men weren’t much taller than she was. A significant proportion was shorter. Even the ones who were six feet tall didn’t seem to outreach her.
This man was a half a foot taller. He was large, too. Those mile-wide shoulders stretched the limits of the threadbare t-shirt. He radiated the essence of dangerous when crossed. It was the reason the teenaged boys had chosen the higher road. This man was capable of many things and hurting them wouldn’t have been difficult for him.
Those eyes. Jane stared. She’d looked in the mirror. She knew what she looked like. “Do you know me?” she whispered. “Do you know who I am?”
Christien frowned. It didn’t detract from his remarkable appearance. His face wrinkled into confusion. “No. I don’t know you,” he said. “Am I…am I supposed to know who you are?”
The moment glided away, lost in the intensity of the rising sun. “No, of course not. I just thought… The color of your eyes is so similar to mine. I thought we might be related.”
“I don’t know you,” he repeated. His eyes were chaotic. “Let’s get that coffee, huh?” He gestured toward the nearest exit.
Jane nodded. She pointed toward Basin Street. “Maybe that place on Burgundy Street?”
“If it’s black, I’ll like it,” he agreed.
Jane took two steps and stopped. She couldn’t remember ever being on Burgundy Street. At least she couldn’t remember being there since waking up in the back seat of a sedan with handcuffs on her wrists.
She took a moment to retrieve the notepad she’d dropped in her anxious climb to the top of the tomb. Fortunately, the group of young men hadn’t seen it, or if they had, it wasn’t something they wanted.
Christien stared at her oddly, but Jane thought most people would do that anyway, if they knew anything at all about her.
* * *
Both ordered coffee. Christian had a chicory roast with no additions. Jane had a café au lait with heavy cream. It was sweeter than she normally took it, but she thought she needed a sugar high to help her along. He let her pay for the drinks, but he didn’t really like it.
“You saved my ass. I’ll pay for the coffees,” she said, plopping a twenty on the counter in front of the barista. The young woman handed back change, and Jane stuffed it in her pocket. She took both cups and nodded toward the exterior patio. “Outside okay?”
“Sure,” he agreed. “You don’t want something to eat?” His eyes went over her figure. “Looks like a little something fattening wouldn’t hurt you.”
Jane sighed. “Most women don’t like to be reminded that they’re too fat or too skinny.”
Christien held the door for her. The side of his mouth quirked in amusement. “I suspect you aren’t like most women, chère.”
Jane nearly tripped, and he caught her elbow. The feeling of his bare fingers against the flesh of her elbow shocked her. He’d used French before, and it hadn’t shocked her nearly as much. But there was that word. She knew that word. Someone had called her that before. It was so important to remember. She struggled to remember, and Christien said, “What’s wrong?”
Jane shrugged him off and found a table, trying to keep her hands from trembling. Christien didn’t know her. When she’d asked the question, he was quite firm about it. She would have bet a million dollars he wasn’t lying when he’d answered her. But if he was the same one who had been watching her at the Tulane student’s family home on Dauphine Street, then he knew of her.
Therefore, if Jane followed that track of thinking, he’d been watching her since then, as well. He didn’t just happen through the cemetery at the right time. He knew she was there. Maybe he was there at the same time as the Roux-Ga-Roux. Did the beast frighten him as much as it did me?
Christien pulled a chair out for her, as if she was a lady. She sat in it, and he took the one next to her, rather than the one across from her. They sat and drank their coffee in reasonable silence, although Jane felt far from reasonable. They watched other people coming and going. The coffee shop was busy, and the morning was pleasant. People were inclined to treat themselves and linger.
Jane’s mind wasn’t on other people, however. It was possible he wasn’t the one who had been watching her. She’d only truly seen him the one time. The other times were feelings of being watched. They could have been the product of paranoia or the result of other people looking at her. Apparently she was attractive enough to warrant some attention, even though she didn’t feel especially attractive.
If Christien was a bad man, then wouldn’t he have taken his chance in the isolation of the cemetery? Why play games with her?
“You don’t know me,” she said.
Christien turned his head and regarded her with those fascinating gold eyes. “I don’t know you,” he said, and it was almost a question he was asking himself.
“But you’ve seen me before,” she said. That was subtle. He could answer
it without incriminating himself. He could come clean, and maybe she would even understand.
“Yes,” he said, and he didn’t fill in details.
“The house on Dauphine Street,” Jane said.
“Yes,” Christien said again.
It was like prying teeth loose with a seven-pound mallet. Jane grimaced as she looked up at the clear blue sky.
She could be doing other things. She could be catching sleep, or she could be working for Titus Perdue, but she’d already missed the morning cattle call at his business. She could head back to the Internet café and keep working at what she was doing. All she wanted were answers. Instead, she had to ask this taciturn man questions that he obviously didn’t want to answer.
“Why are you watching me?” Jane asked slowly. There was no threat here, but she felt fear unfurl in the pit of her stomach.
Christien didn’t take his eyes off of her. “I don’t know,” he said, and it was plain even to her, that he didn’t understand what was happening. But that was okay; Jane didn’t understand either.
“You don’t know me,” Jane said, “but you’re watching me.”
He put his cup down and folded his fingers together, steepling them as if playing the child’s game. Here is the church and here is the steeple. Open the door and see all the people…
“You sleep in a warehouse,” he said finally. “You’re afraid of something. I don’t know your name, but I’m drawn to you. I want to help you, but I don’t know how. I thought if I approached you, you would be frightened of me, so I didn’t.”
Jane let out a shaky breath. Just when things seemed normal, it went from bad to worse. “Did you see the dog last night when you were following me?”
“Dog?” he repeated, and it sounded forced from his lips.
“A very large animal,” she said slowly. “In the cemetery with me. I’m not sure if it was threatening me or not. I don’t think so, but it doesn’t seem like the regular-type pet from the city.”
“Maybe a St. Bernard?” he said helpfully.
Jane looked at Christien sideways. “It didn’t have the barrel of brandy around its neck.”
“Pity. I enjoy a glass of warmed brandy.”
“I don’t—” remember ever having brandy, she started to say and finished as a thought. It didn’t really matter. On some level Jane didn’t want to admit her amnesia to this man. He said he was drawn to her, and she knew she was drawn to him as were others. Several women turned to watch him, regardless of the fact that he wasn’t in a suit, or he wasn’t wearing name-brand jeans. What Jane felt for him was nearly indescribable. She wanted to throw herself at him, but at the same time something inside shrieked at her to run away.
“I should be creeped out,” Jane said. I should be hauling ass down the street, getting away from him.
Christien nodded. He took a drink of coffee.
“You’re stalking me,” she added.
He nodded again. “I don’t watch you undress. I’m not threatening you. I just want to make certain you’re—”
Jane waited.
“What? You want to make sure I’m what?”
“Safe. Unharmed. Alive.”
“You wrote me that note in the hospital,” Jane said slowly. “You warned me.”
“Yes.”
“So where were you when I was stuck on top of the tomb last night and this morning?” Jane knew as soon as she said the words that they were unfair. Christien was some sort of weird stalker guy, and he wasn’t required to guard her. The whole thing was like walking through the looking glass and meeting the Mad Hatter.
“‘Why is a raven like a writing desk?’” she asked instead of waiting for his answer.
Christien looked pointedly at his wrist, which was bare of any adornments. “‘No wonder you’re late. Why, this watch is exactly two days slow,’” he said with a grin that eerily resembled the notorious Cheshire Cat’s.
Jane wasn’t comforted. It was true that Christien had likely saved her butt this morning. She didn’t know what the teens would have done or wouldn’t have done. Their bravado was probably just a group effort, and they would have left her alone at the first sign of a tour group in the cemetery. But did she really want to have a do-over and find out? Uh-uh, no way, no how.
On the other hand, Christien seemed to be on her wavelength. He was following her. He knew where she slept. He hadn’t done anything to her, but did she really want to take chances with her life? That was throwing dice for snake eyes when one only had a single die with which to play.
She finished her café au lait. Leaving the cup on the table, she stood. “I’m going now. Thank you for scaring those kids off. Please don’t follow me. My mother didn’t raise any—“ the words cut off abruptly as Christien reached up and touched the side of her arm.
The touch was a shock of electricity that formed between the two of them.
There was a crack that sounded in her head. Later she would liken it to the noise an egg makes when tapped with a spoon. The egg’s protective casing explodes in snaking fissures. A bit of egg white runs out in between the gaps. The shell can never be Humpty Dumpty again.
Jane looked into Christien’s startled eyes. His touch upon her arm had caused it. “My mother,” she said again. “I didn’t have a mother. She died when I was eight years old.” The words were a revelation. Somewhere, far underneath the surface of what she was supposed to be doing, living life, trying to understand what was happening, she’d hoped there was a family somewhere who was still looking for her.
Her face fell.
Christien’s warm fingers encircled her wrist, silently comforting.
Jane jerked in his grasp. She gasped and pulled away. Then she spun on her heels. She didn’t waste any time going back through the restaurant. She simply went for the decorative fence that kept non-customers from sitting at the coffee shop’s tables and chairs. One foot stepped on a planter. The other one came up as she moved swiftly. She sailed across the fence.
Other customers muttered with surprise and stared.
Jane landed on the sidewalk and stepped off as if it had been a perfectly coordinated movement. She ran.
Behind her, Jane heard Christien yell, “It will be all right, Jane!”
Jane managed to sprint through three blocks and down two alleys before she remembered that she hadn’t told him her name.
Chapter 12
Company’s good if you are going to be hanged.
– English proverb
Adrienne Viqc’s Royal Street house appeared the same. The sun was shining down on its exquisite exterior and showed all of its 18th-century glory. This time, however, Raoul was missing a few parts of his body. Any more fuck ups and I’ll be getting a prosthetic limb or two, he thought with a convulsive shiver.
In the previous week, Raoul had stayed away from Adrienne because he didn’t want those piercing green eyes discerning the secrets of his soul. She was la sorcière. No, she was LA sorcière. Her name made the wary man’s knees quake.
He checked his shirt and was careful not to disturb the bandages around his left hand. Adrienne had a fondness for Japanese history because one of her ancestors had been a Japanese noblewoman who had emigrated to free herself from a mandatory marriage in Nihon-koku. Nothing of that ancestry was left but Adrienne’s interest in old-style methods of penance and a strong sense of tradition. Loss of the first knuckle of the pinkie was for the initial offense.
“Originally, the loss of parts of the fingers,” Adrienne had explained carefully to Raoul, “had to do with the individual’s grip on a sword. If a man, a member of the yakuza, could not properly use his weapon, he was forced to depend on the group, and the group was supreme.” Thus, Adrienne was the head of their family, and she was the one to decide when a soldier had committed offense against her and against her family.
In order to maintain the sovereignty of the family, infractions must be punished.
Raoul’s perceived sins against Adrienne had cost him tw
o knuckles. He wouldn’t be able to wield a sword, but a gun wouldn’t be a problem.
Before the last visit, Raoul’s hands had been whole. The girl’s importance to Adrienne was emphasized by his punishment. Adrienne had known of the girl’s significance from the moment Adrienne had first seen her. At that particular moment, the prophesied blood price for Adrienne had already been paid, although she hadn’t yet known it.
If it had been up to Raoul, he would have simply killed the girl. Adrienne’s vengeance was worse. The curse was byzantine. It didn’t involve merely the girl but the man, as well. Raoul didn’t understand the complexities, and he didn’t care to question Adrienne on the subject.
Standing before Adrienne’s front door again, Raoul shuddered. He didn’t have bad news for her, but neither was his news necessarily positive. It might work out, or the elusive woman might again slip out from his grasp. She was as slick as an eel drenched in grease.
Raoul opened the door and stepped inside. Everything was as it had been before. The foyer held its magnificent gilt-trimmed mirror. The mirror revealed a pasty-white fellow that was not so formidable. He didn’t like the frowning image looking back at him. Black circles rimmed his sunken eyes. His shoulders slumped. That man appeared weak.
With a heavy breath, he didn’t linger. Instead Raoul stepped into the living room and waited for Adrienne to acknowledge him. He’d already known she would be inside the ornate room, and she didn’t disappoint him. She’d known he was coming even before he’d called on his cell phone to let her know.
Adrienne Viqc was dressed in a shimmering brown sheath that complemented her matronly figure. Clearly, she was on her way to some function; she often attended events with politicians and socialites alike. However, she patiently stood by the fireplace, examining something on her iPad. If she had heard him, she gave no indication of it.
Raoul waited at the entrance to the room. He violently suppressed an urge to shift his feet about like a little boy, or worse, to blurt out his news in order to salve her temper before she let loose. Or before she called her bodyguards in to touch him again.
