by C. L. Bevill
Jane thought of Raoul.
Yes, him, Christien thought, and the anger that boiled behind the thought nearly blocked his words. I wanted to rend him into pieces so small that the minnows in the river would have a hard time getting a meal out of him. Did I kill him?
I’m not sure, she thought. Jane reconsidered. Christien had thrown Raoul through a door. Granted it hadn’t been a steel security door, but it hadn’t been like a kid tossing a beanbag at a target. It had been more like a pitcher trying to break the two digit barrier on the radar gun. Except Christien hadn’t been using a baseball.
There was a blot of silence. A blankness momentarily extended between them. Jane could sense a cloud of anger associated with Raoul and what Raoul represented. If he had thrown Raoul through a Plexiglas door and killed him dead, then Christien didn’t care. Raoul had deserved everything that had been given to him.
He beat you, Christien gritted out through his growing rage. He was an animal even if he didn’t have the fur, claws, and teeth.
Jane agreed. She looked at a plain metal wall. A rivet had popped loose at some point in time, and she could see the light from outside. I can’t go back to Titus’s place. I can’t face the witch. She…controls me.
“What?” Christien muttered.
“Last night, she told me to follow her, to get on my knees and not to move until she told me to, and I did it, although I didn’t want to do it.” Jane’s voice was bitter. “It was as if I was a robot, and she was typing in commands. I tried to make myself move and I couldn’t.”
“They call me a monster,” Christien said under his breath.
“She did this to us. Adrienne Viqc took our memories. She made you the Roux-Ga-Roux. The Louisianan werewolf, but you don’t just change at the full moon, do you?”
“When the last bit of sun sets, I become the beast,” Christien said, “and I don’t always have power over what I do. The woman controlled me before, like you’ve said about yourself, but something changed.”
“The necklace you were wearing as the Roux-Ga-Roux broke off when I struggled with you,” Jane whispered. The moment that happened, you didn’t want to—
To kill you.
Not sure if that was what you wanted.
The witch wants us both.
“But not dead,” Jane said.
“She locked you in a parking area with me,” Christien snarled. “I could have done anything to you. I wouldn’t have known until I woke up the next morning with your blood bathing me.”
“No,” Jane murmured. “I think Adrienne suspected you wouldn’t hurt me. It might have been a test of sorts. She didn’t think you would hurt me. But Raoul, he was on his own.”
Her hands carefully reached up and soothed the back of his. She stroked him and it felt so right that she was disconcerted. She didn’t know anything about what she was before the witch had stolen her life from her, but she knew that it was right to touch Christien. The Roux-Ga-Roux protected me. I could speak to you in that shape. You weren’t able to answer coherently, but you were trapped in there with me and you knew it. You were agitated. I was afraid and you knew it. You remember this.
“There was breaking glass,” Christien said slowly. “That man, Raoul, was there, and he was terrified of me, too. He used you as a shield. He had a knife to your throat.”
Abruptly, Christien pulled away and rolled Jane onto her back. Bemused, she stared up into his face. He wasn’t looking back. He was examining her neck, concern coloring his features. The long fingers of his hand were undoing the strip of cloth. “This will hurt,” he said, as he pulled the congealed strip away from her skin.
It did hurt but Jane remained motionless. Christien got up and quickly found the sink and a roll of paper towels that had been left behind by the company’s employees. He cleaned the wound up and sighed with relief. “I don’t think it needs stitches,” he said. Then he found the little knife and went to work on the PlastiCuffs. It took him several minutes to saw through the heavy-duty flexible strip, but she was free within minutes, and even Jane was impressed.
Jane didn’t think about it for very long. Something else had captured her attention. “How on Earth did you get your clothes back on?”
Christien was wearing the same shirt and the same pants. He even had his shoes on. Certainly, the jeans were ragged and the t-shirt was well-used, but it didn’t seem dirty or even slept in. “When the sun goes down, I’m in my clothes, these clothes. When I wake up in the morning, I’m in these clothes again.” He laughed bitterly. “The curse impacted them, too. Don’t even need to be washed.”
Slowly, he lay back beside her. Jane didn’t move as he propped his head on his elbow and stared down at her.
Jane looked back. “You’ve got the same color eyes as I do.”
“Not exactly. You’ve got some blue in yours. I can see it now.” There was a string of light coming in from the sheet metal wall. It happened to pass across her face and Jane could see dust motes dancing in the air. Her breath disturbed the little things and they pirouetted in majestic detail.
Christien frowned. “Blue eyes. I remember blue eyes. So blue I could swim in them.” His fingers touched the side of Jane’s face. The tips grazed her skin, and Jane shivered in response.
“We could be related,” Jane said. “Cousins. Brother and sister.”
“I don’t know what we are,” he said firmly, “but I know we’re not related.”
“I know we’re basically hosed,” Jane said.
“A penny dreadful witch chasing us down, minor league criminals set upon us by some reward by the same, and a man who changes into an animal when the sun drops below the horizon.” Christien nodded. “Oui. Hosed is the word for it.”
Jane’s mouth shut. She enjoyed the basic feel of his fingers across her flesh. They were warm but calloused. He was used to labor. “You’ve been working with your hands,” she said.
He nodded again. “You worked for Perdue’s. I got odd jobs in people’s gardens. I’ve taken care of some handyman work for several elderly women on Esplanade. They’ve quite a word of mouth operation. They got me for a set fee for several hours’ worth of work. It wasn’t far away from Perdue’s, and I could easily wait for you to be delivered back to there after one of his jobs.”
“The old ladies probably liked looking at you work,” Jane said pertly. “Pretty face. Nice abs. Did you take your shirt off.”
“It was hard work,” Christien protested. “A man’s got to eat. Even a man like me.”
Jane didn’t say anything. She thought, I didn’t mean anything—
I know. We don’t have much of a choice.
Jane understood the hint of despair. They lay together, humans under a pursuit they didn’t understand. Alone, seemingly without avenues of escape. You said I was paying the consequences.
I thought you were being held accountable for your actions, Christien corrected. His fingers resumed their exploration of her face. It’s something I know. Just like you knew you weren’t some drug-addicted prostitute on the run from her pimp.
With an unfathomable exhale, Christien said aloud, “The witch told you. You took something from her. She took something from you.”
“My memory.” Jane rolled away from him. “But she took you, too. She took you and made you into something. She controlled you with a necklace. But you’re still cursed.”
“I don’t pretend to understand how this all works,” Christien said. He came onto his back and brought his arms up to pillow his head as he watched Jane sit up. “She doesn’t control me anymore, but you, with simple words, she makes you do things.”
“It doesn’t seem to work from a distance,” Jane said. “As soon as we got away from her, then it was all right.”
“What a nightmare,” Christien said with a laughing tone. “Like some fantastical story my grand-mère would tell.”
Jane glanced at him. “When we’re together, we can remember more.”
Christien stared at her. “What h
ave you remembered?”
“Your face above mine. My face was swollen. My stomach in agony. I could smell the metallic hint of fresh blood as if I was drenched in it. I was dying. You were extraordinarily frantic. There were others’ voices in my head, but they were speaking to you. They didn’t want you to die with me.” Jane’s eyes caught Christien’s, and they didn’t look away from each other. “I didn’t want you to die with me, either.”
“A man attacked you,” he said after a moment. Christien wasn’t asking a question. He was stating a fact. He remembered it. “A man in the place where you worked. You were afraid, so desperately afraid, and I— couldn’t get to you in time. I was waiting for the ferry, but I turned the truck around because you were screaming in my mind.”
Jane gulped. “The witch said I died, that I belonged to her since the day I died.”
“It’s true,” Christien suddenly choked as if the realization caused his throat to seize up. “You died. Oh my God, you died, Jane.”
Chapter 20
Evil must be driven out by evil. – Danish proverb
Jane washed up and dressed in her spare clothing. Christien turned his back but, without asking, inspected the wound at her throat again when she was done. When he was satisfied with it, she took a moment to pack the few things she’d obtained while living in the warehouse. She used the same bag she’d used for a pillow. It didn’t take long.
Christien watched silently.
Jane explained, “I don’t know if this place is really safe. We probably shouldn’t come back here. I don’t think there’s anyone we can trust.”
“Not the boy from the hospital,” he said. “The one who took you to his boarding house.”
He doesn’t remember, Jane thought before she thought better of it. And he sounds jealous.
Remember what? he returned immediately. He didn’t comment about the second part of her thought.
Philippe was there last night. He said Flor, that’s his girlfriend, told him I didn’t come back from the Barbeau Building, that the other two women did but I didn’t. He came to see if he could help me. He ended up helping us both. We rode in the back of his truck.
Christien stared at her. His face was strained. Philippe brought us here? He knows where we’re at?
No, Jane protested. No. I made him drop us off blocks from here. I remembered what you thought about him, about his shoes, about his scrubs. I don’t know him well enough to be certain. I looked to make sure he didn’t follow us.
Christien went to the door and peered out the cracks to see the run-down parking lot on the side of the building. He maneuvered until he saw every angle he could. I don’t see anyone. There’s traffic on North Peters, but there’s always traffic on North Peters.
And I thought I was paranoid. Jane waited until Christien turned before she smiled tentatively. It was nice to be in this situation, whatever this situation was, with someone else.
Even if I’m a Roux-Ga-Roux? Christien smiled wryly. Those wonderful eyes still held a hint of humor, despite all the ill that had befallen them.
That’s even better. You make a great body warmer at night.
That’s nice to know. His voice in her head was rueful.
Jane cleaned out the pockets of her old pants and found the medallion. She carefully showed it to Christien and he winced. “It’s got power over me,” he said. “I don’t even want to look at it.”
Jane held it up by the thong. “The medallion has power over you, but how does the witch have power over me? I don’t wear a necklace or a charm.”
Christien shook his head.
She stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans. Then she found her money and the little pocket knife. The often repeated X’s reminded her of the X’s on Marie Laveau’s tomb in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. She stuck the two items into her pocket. Then, she found the business cards she’d acquired. Carefully Jane held one up, examining the name there. What had the librarian said? He spent most of his afternoons there in Bywater. He lives there.
Who does?
I think he might be able to give us some information. Jane smiled brightly. What he is, is an extremely arrogant and opinioned sociologist.
* * *
The shirt was Hawaiian again. This time it had buxom female surfers balancing on surfboards riding petite waves. The numerous well-endowed surf girls shook their booties, locked into position for the amusement of the fascinated onlooker. The jams were vividly purple and extra-large, making his legs look like toothpicks. On his feet he wore matching purple Crocs. Again, he was reading a magazine. This time it was an old, well-thumbed National Lampoon with a dog on the cover and a man pointing a revolver at the dog’s head. The caption said, “If you don’t buy this magazine, we’ll kill this dog.”
His white hair was gathered into another neat ponytail, and his skin was still a glowing shade of mahogany that would make dozens of teenage girls livid with jealousy. His brown sugar-colored eyes glimmered.
Sitting in the same high-backed chair, Dr. Armand Sorrell perused the antique copy of National Lampoon with dedicated interest. He glanced up at Jane and Christien’s approach and then looked back at the magazine. Then his eyes bounced back up again.
“Shit,” the doctor said succinctly.
“I don’t think you’re happy to see me,” Jane said.
Dr. Sorrell looked her up and down and then did the same to Christien. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate a pretty girl,” he said, “but my grandpappy used to say, if it’s got tits or tires, it’s going to give you trouble. You’ll pardon my coarseness.”
“You said you know something about curses,” Jane said.
Dr. Sorrell looked around with abject trepidation. “A little quieter please,” he whispered. “We wouldn’t want the Noir to hear from across the Big Muddy.”
Christien instantly repeated, “The Noir?” in a peculiar voice.
He said the Noir was the name of a magical practitioner who might have made the medallion, Jane thought to Christien. He didn’t know if the Noir was the curse-layer or just a conduit for the witch. I’d ask if Adrienne Viqc and the Noir are one and the same, but I’m not sure if the professor should know her name.
“Who’s this?” Dr. Sorrell asked Jane, referring to Christien.
“Remember what I said about the medallion?” Jane asked evenly.
Dr. Sorrell laughed cynically. “I remember you said you took it off a Roux-Ga-Roux.”
Jane nodded. She pointed at Christien. “He’s the Roux-Ga-Roux.”
The retired sociologist stared at Christien for a long time. Finally, he repeated doubtfully, “He’s the Roux-Ga-Roux.”
I don’t think he believes you, chère, Christien thought.
Pull up some chairs, would you, Christien? I want this man’s help. He knows about the person who did this to us. He knows how to break a curse. He might not believe in the actuality of it, but he has knowledge that will help us.
Christien shrugged as he turned to get the chairs. He seems somewhat skeptical.
The doctor looked at Jane and then back to Christien. “Same dark hair. Same kind of gold eyes. You two related? I thought she said she was an orphan.”
“I said I wouldn’t know what I am,” Jane said. “No memory, remember?” Her lips twitched as she thought about what she said. “No pun intended.”
Christien put a chair beside Jane and held it for her. Then he got one for himself. They formed a little circle around the retired professor, and he held his National Lampoon magazine as if it would ward them off.
Well, you do use a rolled-up magazine on a bad dog, Christien thought to Jane.
I’d like to see the doctor try that with your other form, Jane thought back.
Looking around, Jane finally noticed that the library was fairly empty. It was a Saturday afternoon, and the weather was fine. People were outside staying busy with the business of living life to the fullest. But the doctor hid in the stacks with a thirty-year-old magazine.
“Did the Noir threaten you again?” she asked politely.
“The Noir doesn’t need to threaten me again,” Dr. Sorrell snapped. “Try going through multiple venomous snake bites, and you’ll be cured of insatiable curiosity, too. I was in a hospital bed for three weeks, and it wasn’t because the nurses were giving me sponge baths.”
“It’s not just idle curiosity on our part,” Jane said.
“No, you’re cursed and he’s cursed plus.” The doctor chuckled at his own choice of words. “It’s like a drink. You can have cursed or cursed plus.”
“I’ll take just cursed,” Christien interjected. “Better yet, no curse at all.”
“I saw an ad for Curse-B-Gone,” Jane said cheerfully. “I’m thinking they probably have a disclaimer for Roux-Ga-Rouxs.”
“Pity,” Christien added.
The doctor glanced back and forth between the two of them. “One of my degrees is in psychology,” he said after a few moments. “Perhaps a good therapist would be beneficial for your type of ailments. A little mood enhancer possibly. I don’t normally endorse pharmacological treatment, but occasionally the patient has a sincere need.”
“I thought I was insane,” Jane said. Her eyes locked on Dr. Sorrell’s. She wanted to make sure the older man knew she was being sincere. “You see, in the ‘real world,’ magic doesn’t exist. People aren’t cursed by witches. Men don’t change into wolves the size of refrigerators. Women aren’t brought back from the dead.”
Dr. Sorrell stared with round eyes.
Jane calmly went on because it was important that the doctor understand their position. He knew about the darkness in the world around them, but he thought all situations had a palatable answer, one that would conform to known sciences and psychologies. He had been threatened, but he hadn’t been cowed. Dr. Sorrell was as incorrect as she had been.
“But I was wrong,” Jane said firmly. “The world is full of magic and most of the population don’t open their eyes long enough to see it. It’s there and it’s touching us, all the time. We don’t notice it. We call it something else. Something we can understand. Something we can touch or feel. Something not magic. But it’s there all the same.” She sighed unevenly. “Please help us. We don’t know where else to go.”
