But none of the young fellows around her stopped dancing. Nobody approached her. Camille slowed, her puzzlement giving way to concern.
Perhaps it was the case that she had presumed too much, broken the rules too often. Could it be that her orisha had become displeased, was shunning her?
Her congregation was not even looking at her anymore. Many were staring off at the far side of the Ceiba tree.
She went over, having to push her way through the crowd. And was confronted with a spectacle that stopped her dead.
The glow of lanterns washing over their slim bodies, two young women were lying on the ground. Their heads were tipped back, their eyes glassy. And the smiles on their lips were of a hot and sensual triumph.
On top of each of them was a naked young man.
It was they that Changó had chosen tonight.
Camille could only watch, dismayed and fearful. Her own daughters had become even more powerful than she was.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Pierre Melville had returned home and was lying on his sweat-stained mattress, his hands folded behind his shaggy head and a matchstick working idly between his teeth. This evening’s hooker had slipped back into her dress and left, and he had already forgotten all about her.
Gazing out through the balcony doorway, his thoughts turned to Jack Gilliard, and he wondered what the hell was wrong. The man in whose company he’d spent the last couple of evenings was not the same Jack Gilliard he had known in previous times.
That outburst on the first night could be put down to drink easily enough. Tonight, though—jumping about and shrieking like that, in the middle of a crowded nightclub, for no reason whatsoever?
Returning from the washroom, Jack had claimed that he’d dozed off, become disoriented. But Pierre found that hard to credit. Was the guy having some kind of mental breakdown?
Pierre was completely alone in the house in which the government had boarded him. It was a big place, entirely dark, in a quiet neighborhood just down from the Nacional. Its occupants—there was no rent—were a professional family, both the parents lawyers and staunch Party members who were delighted to have an Internationalista staying underneath their roof. They had cleared out this spare room especially for him. But this week, they and their three children were in Baracoa, on the far side of the island, visiting a sick grandmother.
Pierre rather missed them. They had been so very kind. He almost felt like an upstanding human being when they were around.
He plucked the matchstick from his lips, used it to light a cigar. Blew a plume of smoke up at the ceiling.
The growling of Havana’s traffic was reduced to a dim murmur. In a window across the street, a few teenagers had gathered, one of them strumming a guitar.
If you lay very still, you could feel the atmosphere of this place soak its way into your pores. God, he loved this city. It pained him that, one day, he would have to leave—and one day soon, if he had any sense. The only thing that he could sensibly do was to enjoy it while it lasted.
Pierre put the cigar down on a tin ashtray, then settled his head deeply in his pillow. Before long, he felt himself drifting, his eyelids sliding closed.
But then, there was a sudden noise from outside. High heels tapping up the path out front. The hooker? Maybe she’d forgotten something, or she couldn’t find a cab.
The footsteps came to a halt directly beneath the balcony. Pierre frowned, his right hand sliding underneath his pillow to the pistol he kept there.
He was about to get up when there was a whisper from outside. He could not make out the words, but the voice was high-pitched, female.
He sat fully upright as it came a second time.
He realized with astonishment that, whoever this might be, she was speaking French.
* * *
“Monsieur? Monsieur Melville?”
Pierre’s gun was in his grasp in an instant, nestling against his belly. And his first thought was: They’ve found me, all the way from France! They’ve tracked me down!
It had been an Algerian teenager he’d killed, back in Marseilles—some stupid kid who’d tried to cheat him in the days when he’d been smuggling hash. He hadn’t even meant to do it.
“Monsieur Pierre, I know you’re in there. Please, I have to speak with you.”
There were no treaties here though, it occurred to him. Cops from France would never be allowed into Cuba on official business. In which case, who was this?
“Monsieur, I have to see you. My sister told me I should get in touch with you.”
Huh? What sister?
Pierre got up, tucking his gun into the waistband of his shorts. He padded across the tiled floor, then peered out, trying to keep hidden in the shadows. It was useless. He could make out nothing from this vantage point.
Gingerly, he stepped onto the balcony. He leaned over the wrought iron railings.
There was no one to be seen.
But the voice came again.
“Monsieur?”
And this time, it was directly behind him.
* * *
Pierre spun around, almost yelling. He pointed his gun where he’d heard the voice.
The door to his room was wide open. He could make out a slender shadow in its frame.
It could have been the figure of a ballet dancer. Gentle curves and smooth-honed limbs. A waist so narrow you could practically encircle it with both your hands. And the woman’s hair was piled above her head, defying gravity.
He couldn’t see her face, however. Just a pair of tiny, twinkling glimmers, marking the position of her eyes.
How’d she gotten up here so noiselessly, so fast?
Pierre stepped back into the room, aiming his pistol squarely at her chest. He peered harder, trying to make out who she was, but it was impossible in this half light.
She seemed unconcerned about the gun and struck a relaxed pose, leaning against the doorjamb. Pierre could see that she was wearing a short, filmy dress that was almost transparent.
“There’s no need for the weapon, Pierre,” her voice floated to him. “I’m not going to harm you.”
“Who the hell are you? What d’you think you’re doing here?”
“You were recommended by my sister,” came her puzzling reply. “According to her, you just adore beautiful women.”
What? he wondered numbly.
“And so,” she went on, “here I am. For you.”
And without further preamble, she reached up with one hand and tugged at the knot of fabric at her neck.
Her dress slid down across a beckoning olive paleness.
She began moving. She stepped softly over to his bed, her hips swaying. Pierre tried to follow her with the aim of his gun but it proved difficult, because his hand had started shaking.
The dusky circles at her breasts and the darker triangle below them mesmerized him. Even if he had to, could he pull the trigger?
But what in God’s name was going on? He still couldn’t make out her face properly, even though her figure had been revealed by the moonlight from the window. And it took his breath away to look at her. So perfect in every detail.
The woman slowed to a halt. She clicked his night lamp on, then turned to him again. And he knew, at once, she was a total stranger. Because if he’d ever met her, however brief that meeting might have been, he would have remembered her for the rest of his life.
Such a face. Like a beautiful portrait. A pair of emerald-green eyes were staring out at him from underneath those curls of lustrous black hair.
Pierre felt his arms dropping, his hands losing their tension, and the pistol clattered to the floor.
The woman’s soft smile widened to a broad, delighted grin. She clasped both hands to her chest in a pantomime of relief.
“You’re not going to shoot me th
en, Monsieur? Have you thought of something better you can do with me?”
Pierre still couldn’t figure why a perfect stranger should behave like this.
“Don’t you have the courage?” she inquired of him.
Another peculiar thing to say. And he did not know how to answer her.
“You have questions?” Her voice seemed hypnotic. “Please, forget them. Questions are the baggage that weigh down our lives. Simply accept me, Pierre.”
And before he even knew what he was doing, he had begun walking over to her. He was clambering up onto the mattress.
And she was moving too, joining him from the other side.
* * *
Near the end of it, he was so exhausted that she had to do most of the moving for him.
She was even lighter than she looked, and if he closed his eyes he could practically imagine that she wasn’t there at all. That only a soft breeze was idling across his body. It was one of the most delicious sensations he had ever known.
After she climaxed, Pierre found himself listening to her breathing as she settled down against his chest. Oddly, it was slow, perfectly even. As if she hadn’t exerted herself in the slightest.
And when her breath touched his skin . . . it was rather cool, he noticed. It should have been warm. But instead, it seemed almost chilly.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
And the woman sniggered.
“I’m Lucia.”
Abruptly, her weight vanished altogether.
Pierre sat bolt upright, his eyes coming open wide.
It was wholly dark in the room again. The bedside lamp was off, although he hadn’t heard it click. His whole body was drenched with sweat. But he still had his shorts on.
No, that wasn’t right.
Of the woman, there was not a sign.
Pierre got up, listening for retreating footsteps. He could hear none.
But he could still taste her on his lips. And her musk filled his nostrils. It had seemed so real.
He clasped his hands around his shoulders, and took in the fact that he was shivering. This was utterly crazy, but the shaking wouldn’t stop.
It wasn’t only from the fright, he understood after a while. He had actually become quite cold.
There was no reason for that. It was a perfectly normal, hot, and sultry night. Except that he felt cut adrift from everything around him.
Even when he climbed up and got fully dressed, the strange chill that had closed around him wouldn’t go away.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Dolores was still asleep, her neck twisted awkwardly as she lolled back in her chair. And she was still caught up in dreams, although the scene had changed.
It was eighteen years after that first incident. And she was no longer seeing through Camille’s eyes, but through those of her third daughter, spawned from a brief coupling with a slave called Vasquo.
Esme.
Hearing what she’d heard. Thinking what she’d thought. Just as it had happened, all those many years ago.
* * *
By the time Esme had reached her teenage years, her mother, Camille, was long dead. Relatives of Santiago DeFlores had taken over ownership of the plantation. And he had not been her father. She was the product of a sinful union, and was lucky to have been allowed to stay at all. So she had kept her head down and worked hard, reduced to a mere servant. But by the time that she’d reached puberty, the voices had started coming to her in her sleep.
“Come to the mansion in Havana, darling, for a better life awaits you there.”
And finally, they had become so overpowering, she’d followed their advice, going on foot the whole way to the capital.
She had arrived at the townhouse at night. Moonlight limned its edges. The front door was open and so she’d gone in.
The door slammed shut behind her. The trap had been sprung. Esme Vasquo and her bloodline were caught in this house, bound by an unbreakable magic stronger by far than any chains. Slaves to the two phantoms, maybe until the end of time.
Dolores came awake at last and clamped a hand across her brow. Oh, by all the Saints! She’d had that same dream many times before, but it had been so terribly intense tonight.
It had almost been like a proper memory. The images were so powerful that Dolores groaned gently.
But it was an inescapable truth. The sisters could do nothing physically. It was only dreams they could affect. And so they needed her. That was the irony of this whole thing.
She sensed that something had changed. Rubbing at her neck, she peered around her through the gloom.
When she’d first dozed off, Isadora had been absent, but her sister was still in the house. Not in view, but it was part of Dolores’s own gift that she could sometimes sense it when they were about. She could feel the extra chill their presence loaned the air. Or if not that, then a soft psychic vibration on the fabric of the night. She was descended from the mighty Camille DeFlores as well, now wasn’t she? And was not without her own abilities in supernatural matters.
But right now, she couldn’t detect either of the twins at all.
If both of them were on the prowl, then it was a very bad night indeed to be a grown man in Havana.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Jack had brought a bottle of the local rum up to his hotel room. He downed the best part of it before collapsing on his bed. It was his only hope of sleeping after what had happened at that club tonight. And, Mother of God, he needed the escape of sleep.
His head spun as it touched the pillow. And another strange emotion overcame him. He peered out through slitted eyelids at the room around him, taking in how empty it was and realizing he’d ended up alone in almost every room he’d ever slept in.
Little wonder he had started seeing imaginary women.
His head gave another soft spin, and then he was gone.
He lay motionless in the sultry darkness. The music blasting through the windows was an unknown quantity to him. The insects that followed it and whirred around his ears got no reaction. He was lost as deeply as though he were in a great, dark network of connecting caves.
And, once more, he was Mario Mantegna.
* * *
As Mario, he’d gone backstage to find the dancer. But nobody seemed to have the first idea who he was looking for. The only things he got were puzzled stares and shrugs.
What the hell was this? He started getting angry. Christ, she worked here, didn’t she?
Mario stormed back to his table, furious, like a hurricane was raging in his heart. Eddie and the girls were staring at him like he’d gone insane, but damn the lot of them. He wanted that dancer worse than anything in his whole life.
Eddie managed to get him to sit back down and tried to reason with him.
“What’s gotten into you? I don’t even know what broad you’re yapping on about. Look, here’s four beauties right here in our laps. Have them all, if it makes you happy. What is up with you?”
Mario knocked his hand aside, getting to his feet again. Grabbed the table, overturned it, too crazed to even notice any of the shocked attention he was getting. Then he barged his way back to the entrance of the club and got a cab to the hotel.
It was quiet when he let himself back into his suite. Here, at last, he had a chance to simmer down.
He slammed the door behind him. Slumped against it, his chest heaving. Then he wiped his brow and let out a deep breath and stared about the room.
A fan was turning in the ceiling, throwing its slow shadows over everything. A fly was tapping against the inside of a windowpane.
The violent emotions subsided a little, but refused to leave him. Eddie had been right—this was crazy. But he couldn’t seem to stop it. It was like a roller-coaster ride, too fast and frantic to get off.
He was sweating heavily. Perhaps a shower would help.
Mario stripped off his clothes as he went through to the bathroom. Turned the water on full blast and stood beneath it for what seemed an age. Was feeling looser, calmer, when he finally stepped out.
But he closed his eyes while toweling his face. The image of the dancer was still there.
So what to do about it?
Wrapping himself in a robe, he padded back into the main room of the suite, poured himself a Chivas from the bar. Downed it in one go and then refreshed his glass.
He carried it through into the bedroom, together with a fat cigar from the humidor.
Mario sat down on the bed, picked up the book of matches on his nightstand. But to his surprise, he found himself becoming drowsy before he could light one.
What was happening this time? He’d felt keyed up enough, moments ago, to fight an entire army.
Against his will, Mario’s eyes slid shut.
When he opened them again, the room seemed darker than it had before. There was a tall, deep shadow over in the corner by the door. Had he hung his coat up there? He thought about it blurredly, then remembered it was tropically hot. Who the hell would wear a coat down here?
When the shadow moved, he sat bolt upright. He instinctively raised an arm, ready to hurl his glass.
He noticed, in that moment, that the silhouette was female.
And as it stepped across, he saw it was the dancer from the club.
Mario didn’t stop to wonder how she’d found him. Nor how she had got into his room. He let himself sink back.
This was what he’d wanted since the first moment he’d seen her. And so he waited for her as she moved toward him. As she brought her face slowly closer to his, and pushed her long, slim fingers through his hair.
It was like the touch of butterflies. And her breath on his cheek was like the sweet perfume of some exquisite hothouse flower.
But . . .
He wasn’t Mario Mantegna any longer.
He was now himself. Jack Gilliard, in his own dowdier bed. The woman was still here with him. Her lips were moving closer to his face. Toward his mouth. To kiss it . . .
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