Nancy K. Duplechain - Dark Trilogy 02 - Dark Carnival

by Nancy K. Duplechain

  “She’s part of your group?” I said with surprise, trying to hide my dread.

  Nadia whispered a chuckle as Ruby entered the house and shut the door behind her. “So you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting her, huh?”

  “Pleasure. Yeah.”

  Nadia stifled a giggle. “It’s awful of me to say, but I’m still not convinced that she and Cee Cee are related.” She reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a color print out of a picture and handed it to me. “This is what we’re looking for,” she said, as she started the car.

  I took the picture and studied it. It was an antique Venetian mask, full face, black with sinister gold accents. The caption read: Masque de L’âme Noire— Marseille, France, 1779. “That’s a mask that belonged to a minister of King Louis XVI’s court,” she said, pulling out of the driveway. “He wore it to a masquerade ball in Marseille where Louis and Marie Antoinette were invited by friends on holiday. This man, Jean-Phillip Laurent, was an evil man who secretly tortured those who went against the king. Laurent was part of the Dark Ones, Les Foncés as Cee Cee tells me they say in your part of Louisiana. The night of the ball, he was stabbed by a man whose son was killed by Laurent a year earlier. He died with the mask on. It was collected as evidence and stored away for a few years until the French Revolution upended everything, and the mask went missing.

  “It was found again by one of Napoleon’s soldiers, another evil man by the name of Gaston Rousseau. He, too, followed The Dark Ones. Just like Laurent, Rousseau was a torturer, and he wore the mask during his interrogations to give a greater element of fear to his victims. He also died with the mask on, after his fort was raided by the British.

  “After that, there was no record of the mask until the early twentieth century, when the museum of the British government hired an additional curator to sort through a large storeroom of items that had not yet been classified and labeled. All of the items deemed unimportant to British history were sold to antiquities collectors. The mask was sold to one collector in London who cleaned it and put it up for auction, where it was then purchased by a museum in Nice, France. They called it Masque de L’âme Noire—Mask of the Black Soul.

  “The mask remained in that same museum until two weeks ago, when it was bought by another collector here in New Orleans. Miles found out that the Krewe of Grigori wants the mask to use for an initiation at their faux Mardi Gras ball. They plan to crown a King. We have to get the mask before they do. The problem is we don’t know which antique shop has the mask. The museum wouldn’t tell us for security purposes.”

  “Trying to find a mask in New Orleans four weeks before Mardi Gras. It’s a little needle-in-a-haystack-ish, don’t you think?”

  “We have to try.”

  “Who are the Krewe of Grigori and what do you mean by faux Mardi Gras ball?”

  “The Grigori are a group of Dark Ones. They have cleverly disguised themselves as a Mardi Gras krewe to recruit more people to the dark side. They are mostly made up of a group of fallen angels who were once sent to Earth to protect humans.” She said this rather nonchalantly, and I wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.

  “Fallen angels?” I said in disbelief.

  She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, why do they want the mask so badly?”

  “We think it’s because it’s cursed. Two evil men died wearing it, and that gives it a dark power that can be transferred to the next one to wear it. They are going to convert more people over to their side with an elaborate Mardi Gras ball for their pretend krewe. When the Grigori crown their new king, he will absorb the power, and The Dark Ones will become stronger, tipping the scales on the dark side. This makes it much harder for us paladins to stop them.”

  Nadia turned down the very trendy Magazine Street, drove a couple of blocks, and pulled up to the curb in front of an old antique shop. When we entered, the door gently swung shut behind us with the sound of a tinkling bell. The smell of fresh coffee was in the air, and it overpowered the musty odor from the eclectic collection of baubles and trinkets from years past. Everything was organized in different collections; sets of dishes here, linens there, a locked glass counter full of antique jewelry and a display of Mardi Gras and Venetian masks along the back wall. Near us was a shelf of musical items, like snow globes and ornate music boxes.

  It occurred to me that a music box would be a wonderful souvenir for Lyla. I glanced at them, and one in the back on the second row caught my eye. It was cherry wood, inlayed with a gold rose-and-vine design. I picked up the music box in the front and cradled it in my left arm. I handed Nadia the second box. “Hold this for a sec,” I said.

  “Oh, wait—” she started, but stopped as I thrust the box into her hands.

  I reached back toward the wall and grabbed the last music box. I turned it over and saw the price tag was $80.00. “Ouch,” I said. Well, not that bad for an antique, I guess. ‘Course you never know if they’re pulling your leg about the whole antique thing. Might have been made in 1997 for all we know.” I laughed, but Nadia was silent. I looked back at her, and she was staring off into the distance with tears pricking her eyes. “Hey, are you okay?”

  She nodded meekly and sniffled. “Sorry. It’s … well, my ability—” She looked at me and saw the perplexed look in my eyes. “I can see the history of anything I touch.”

  “Oh.” After an awkward moment, I said, “What’s the story with that particular music box?”

  Nadia smiled sadly and her gaze shifted from me to something I couldn’t see. “A man in 1960’s Czechoslovakia bought this for his girlfriend, the love of his life. They wanted to get married, but her parents didn’t approve. She became pregnant, and she and the baby died during childbirth. Her parents ran him out, and he moved to New York City to be a piano player. Every day he played the tune from this box. He jumped from the top of his apartment building in 1969. This box was left on the roof with the song playing.”

  Nadia sniffled again and gently placed the music box on the linens table beside her. I looked at the box I wanted for Lyla and thought twice about it. I put it back where I found it and returned to the shelf the other one I had in my arm. I picked up the sad little box Nadia had placed on the table. It wasn’t as pretty as the one I wanted; it was made of pine and had a couple of deep scratches in the wood. Instead of golden roses, it was hand-painted with tulips, the paint faded and chipped long ago. I opened the box and listened to the little tune. It was nothing I recognized, but the tiny plastic couple who danced to it seemed pleased with the melody.

  “Some things should get happily-ever-afters,” I said, tucking the box into my arm. Nadia smiled at me.

  “Hello?” We turned toward the sound of a man’s voice behind the front counter. “Can I help you ladies?” he said, smiling.

  Nadia dabbed the corners of her eyes and gave one last small sniffle before she walked toward the counter. I followed with the music box cradled in my arm.

  “Yes, sir,” said Nadia. “We were looking for a very old antique mask from France, circa 1779. We understand you just got a shipment in recently.”

  “1779?” said the man behind the counter. He was plump, balding and had a bushy mustache that had traces of powdered sugar on it. I suspected he had beignets with his coffee. He smiled again. “That is pretty old,” he laughed. Nadia and I politely returned the smile. “I did get a shipment a couple of days ago, and there was a mask in it, but none of those items are for sale just yet. I let the museums have first crack at ‘em.”

  “Well, do you mind if we look at the mask?” asked Nadia.

  He thought about it for a second. “Don’t see any harm in that. I’ll be right back.”

  I placed the music box on the counter while we waited for the shop owner to return. “What do we do if it is the mask?” I asked. “You heard him. Not for sale.”

  “He’ll sell for the right price.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Everyone has a price.”
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  “How much money do you guys have exactly?”

  “Me? I’m pretty broke. The convent takes care of my needs, so I don’t really require much money. We’re paying for this with Miles’ money.” That didn’t surprise me in the least. One look at Miles’ house and the fully-loaded Mercedes he drove and anyone could tell he was loaded.

  The shop keeper came back a couple of minutes later, carefully carrying a small display case containing a mask that looked similar to the one in the picture. He gently set it down. “Sorry it’s a little dirty. Haven’t had a chance to get the pros in here to clean it yet.”

  “That’s okay,” said Nadia. “May I hold it for a second?”

  The shop keeper looked worried. “Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea. The acid in your hands—”

  “I promise I’ll be very gentle with it and it’ll only take a second,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  The man wrestled with the decision. “Well … okay. But let me get you some gloves first.”

  He went into the back room, and Nadia quickly lifted the display case and touched the mask. “Shoot!” she whispered and hurried to put the glass back. The man came back with a pair of latex gloves and handed them to Nadia. “Oh, you know, I was thinking. You’re right. It’s best not to handle the mask at all. I’m such a klutz and I wouldn’t want to damage it. Might hurt the re-sale value,” she said, with all the grace of a seasoned liar.

  The shop keeper frowned. “Okay. Well, uh … can I help you with anything else?”

  “Yes,” I said with a smile, pushing the music box toward him.

  He perked up. “Okie doke,” he said, ringing up the sale.

  He thanked us for the business, and we left. As soon as we walked outside, Nadia said, “I thought for sure that would have been the mask. It looked enough like it.”

  “Maybe that was the style back then,” I mused.

  She sighed. “Guess so. Let’s go.”

  From there, we continued down Magazine Street and checked with three more stores. None of them had the mask we were looking for. Nadia was a little discouraged.

  We walked out of the last store and into the parking lot. Before we got in her car, I noticed the same good-looking guy from the bar—the one with the scar on his arm—across the street looking our way. He was at a café, sitting at one of the outdoor tables, sipping coffee. As soon as he saw me looking at him, he looked down at his cell phone and started texting, or pretending to text.

  Nadia unlocked the doors, and we got in.

  “Hey, you see that guy across the street at the café?” I said.

  “What guy?”

  I peered through her driver’s side window. He was gone, his paper coffee cup left behind.

  “Never mind.”

  She looked at me concerned. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Ever get the feeling you’re being followed?”

  She smiled at me. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” She pulled out her phone and called Miles to tell him that we had no luck finding the mask. He told her to bring me to the convent.

  On the way there, Nadia and I had a long chat about everything from paladins to politics. I was surprised to find out that, for a nun, she was mostly socially liberal.

  “What made you decide to be a nun?” I asked. “No offense, but you really don’t fit the nun type.”

  She laughed and said, “I guess not. But I’ve always felt the calling, even when I was a child. I went to a Catholic school, and there was a convent on campus. I remember our second grade class taking a tour of it and, as soon as I walked through those ornate wood doors, I could smell fresh-baked bread.” When Nadia spoke, her eyes lit up at her fond memory. “Our tour guide was this short, round, little old lady named Sister Pearl. She had granny glasses and a huge smile and was delighted with all us kids. After the tour, she gave us cookies she had made. That day, I knew I wanted to be a nun. And, as I grew up, I understood more about what they do, how they devote their lives to God. When I discovered my ability, I knew that it was a gift and the best place to use it was with a convent. Even though I’m not technically a nun, it’s pretty close.”

  “So, you never had any doubts?”

  She paused for a reflective moment, her dancing eyes stopped, and a sad smile worked the corners of her mouth. “Once. In high school. There was a boy, and it took a lot of convincing, but he finally got me to go out with him. We dated for awhile and … well, he was the only one who ever made me have doubts.”

  “What happened? Did he break your heart or something?”

  “No. I broke his.”

  “You left him for another guy?”

  She nodded. “God.”

  “How’d he take it?”

  “Angry at first. But he’s still my best friend to this day.”

  I smiled. “Happy endings are nice, aren’t they?”

  She laughed. “Yes, they are.”

  6

  Another Saturday Night

  There were about twenty-five of them, sick and feeble alike, in line for some miracle. They had blind faith, something that I hadn’t had since I was thirteen when my mother died. I had lost my faith soon after that. Now, it was something I still struggled with.

  The first to step forth was an elderly man of about eighty. He regarded me with kind, hopeful eyes. “It’s the cancer,” he said softly, steadying himself with one hand on his walker, lifting his shirt with the other hand, placing it over his pancreas. “They said it’s spreading too fast. Nothing they can do.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, unable to look him in the eyes.

  He whispered a chuckle. “Don’t be sorry. Just take it away.”

  I nervously looked over at Miles, who nodded his solemn approval. The man came closer to me with his shirt still lifted. I placed one hand over his pancreas, closed my eyes and concentrated all my energy on this one area of his body. My hand began to tingle, but would do no more. I concentrated harder, picturing a healthy pancreas, healing green light surrounding the area. Still nothing more than a tingle.

  “You’re not trying hard enough,” Miles said to me, softly but sternly. As soon as he said it, the tingling went away, my concentration replaced with self-disappointment.

  I removed my hand. “I’m sorry,” I said to the old man. He hung his head in defeat. Miles then got up, dipped his hand in the holy water he always kept with him, and placed a wet hand over the man’s pancreas. After a minute or two, he removed his hand and told the man to return to the doctors, that the cancer had shrunk enough for them to remove it. Grateful, the man left.

  Miles looked at me and sighed. “I know I shouldn’t expect so much from you so soon. When you are healing, you must remember that the power comes from the very core of your being. You must feel the energy moving through you and into the other person.” Miles nodded to one of the nuns, Sister Wendy, to let the next person in line come forth.

  I had heard her coughing for the past several minutes. She was maybe sixty-five or so. “Bronchitis,” she said. “Damned doctors can’t make it go away.”

  Miles nodded for me to start. I took a deep breath and placed my hand on the woman’s lungs. “I don’t have insurance. Those blood suckers took so much money I can barely pay my rent.”

  “Please stop talking,” I said.

  “What’s the matter? Can’t take a little distraction?”

  “Actually, no.” I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate.

  “Maybe this guy should do it. Pretty sure he has more experience than you.”

  I removed my hand from her lungs and stared at her.

  “Madame, please be quiet,” said Miles. She heeded the stern look in his eyes and shut up.

  I put my hand back and closed my eyes. I breathed deeply. I imagined a healing light pulsing through my core and into her lungs. My hand began to tingle, a little more than last time but would go no further. I opened my eyes and removed my hand. I shook my head and looked down at the floor.

  Miles let out a sig
h. He used his holy water and healed her in about a minute. The woman thanked him and then sadly shook her head at me and left. Miles looked at me, a quiet frustration creeping across his eyebrows.

  “Maybe I should try the holy water,” I said.

  “No. It’s not your element. You need to call forth the power inside you.”

  “I’m trying,” I said, sounding more aggravated than I had intended.

  The next person was a woman in her forties with arthritis in her hands. This time, Miles dipped both his hands in holy water, held my hand and the woman’s hand and instructed me to hold her other hand so that we formed a three-person circle. He instructed me to start healing first. I tried and felt the tingling again. The hand holding the woman’s hand started to warm slightly. Then I felt the hand holding Miles’ become very warm then very hot. The heat traveled through my body and into the woman’s hand. A few moments later, she was pain free.

  After she left, Miles said, “I could feel you getting a little stronger before I took over.”

  For a moment, I was getting hopeful, but as more people came, I grew more discouraged. We saw about fifteen people that day, and my hand never seemed to get any hotter than lukewarm. Miles tried to hide his disappointment, but I could see it in his eyes.

  It was after 5:00 PM when we left. Miles brought me back to his house so I could get my car. The awkward silence was more than I could take. He didn’t even have the radio on. He seemed very distant, and I could practically see the gears turning in his head as he seemed to wrestle with some internal problem. When we got back to his house, he told me to come back tomorrow at one o’clock. I told him okay and then went back to Cee Cee’s.

  About a mile or so before Cee Cee’s, I stopped at a red light and glanced in the rearview mirror. I noticed a dark gray Charger behind the car that was behind me. I froze, staring at the car. The windows were darkly tinted, probably beyond the legal limit. I couldn’t make out the driver of the car, but I had a feeling it might be the guy from the bar and the café.