Bayou Nights

by Julie Mulhern

  “Most people can sense things.”

  “Most people don’t pay their senses no mind. You do.” Then Granny nodded her wrinkled chin in his direction in grudging acknowledgement. “He does.”

  Drake leaned against the counter. So, Christine Lambert saw ghosts, sensed spirits, and had a touch of telepathy. Useful skills. Too bad she spent her days selling silly hats. Or, maybe that was a blessing. If she was a serious woman, he might be tempted to pursue her. No. He shook his head. He wouldn’t. Women were too breakable. Her especially. She was too delicate—the weight of her chestnut hair looked as if it might snap her neck. She was too slender—a careless man might break her by holding her too tight. She was too lovely—her angelic face revealed a life untouched by hardship. Now, if only she’d button her shirtwaist.

  Granny Amzie cleared her throat then smiled at him, a sly smile that suggested she’d read his mind.

  Heat prickled the back of Drake’s neck. “Miss Lambert thought we should start looking for her father at Bony LeMoyne’s.”

  Eeeesh. Granny Amzie drew breath through her teeth.

  Christine turned her gaze on him.

  He shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. “I’ll help you find your father.” It was the reason he’d come. That her father was a ghost, that a zombie had attacked her, that a long-since dead pirate’s treasure was in play—that just made things more interesting. “It’s why I’m here.”

  “I reckon there are better places to start lookin’ than Bony LeMoyne’s,” said Granny Amzie.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Jean Lafitte’s smithy comes to mind. His ghost might be willin’ to help. Especially since she’s wearin’ the coin.”

  That sounded like a colossal waste of time. Why would a ghost share information with the woman who’d stolen his coin? He shook his head.

  “I’ll go,” said Christine. She looked out the front window into the fading light. “It’s not far from here.”

  “No.” His voice was too loud and the women on the couch stared at him. That he’d let another woman go off into the night, half-cocked and over-confident, wasn’t an option. Surely Christine Lambert was too smart to think she could battle the darkness and win. He rubbed at the furrow that had appeared between his brows. His silly, foolish, too brave sister had thought exactly that. She’d been wrong. “You stay here, I’ll go.”

  The women left off staring at him, glanced at each other, then laughed.

  Chapter Three

  How had this happened? It was one thing to want an escort to Bony LeMoyne’s shop of horrors, but to a harmless old building in the Vieux Carré?

  Drake’s suggestion that she stay behind had been serious. He obviously didn’t want her around anymore than she wanted him.

  They’d had a lengthy discussion about tight-lipped ghosts who wouldn’t give a Yankee the proper directions much less the truth about one of their own. She’d prevailed but the man’s silent displeasure was fully audible. It pealed like the bells in Saint Louis Cathedral each time his heels hit the banquette.

  Then again, perhaps all the annoyance that seemed to simmer just beneath his skin wasn’t for her presence but for her personally. He’d responded with incredulity to her insistence that she couldn’t walk through the Vieux Carré looking as if she’d been dragged through a rat hole. He didn’t understand. She had a reputation as the best-dressed woman in all of New Orleans to protect. That caché kept every woman in the Garden District and the Quarter clamoring to buy hats at her shop. She couldn’t afford to look anything less than fabulous.

  Drake took her arm and steered her around a broken bottle. Safely past the shards of glass, he released her and wiped his hands on his pants, as if touching her might give him yellow fever.

  Crazy as it seemed, she sensed that part of his ire was directed at the flight of fancy that sat atop her head. The same shade of deep navy as her dress, the hat had yards of rhinestone-sprinkled tulle wrapped around the crown. It brought to mind lazy childhood nights with nothing to do but lie in a hammock and gaze at the stars. She patted the brim.

  He grumbled.

  “I don’t believe I caught that.”

  “Can you walk any faster?”

  The man was beyond churlish. She couldn’t walk faster, didn’t want to. Christine stopped on the banquette and stared up at him. He stood taller than she did, of course his strides were longer. “What’s your hurry, Mr. Drake? That building has been there for a hundred years. I reckon it will last another hundred, sagging roof and all.”

  Another grumble.

  “I assure you I don’t need a hack.” Her fingers flew to cover her lips. She’d done it again, answered a question he hadn’t yet asked. She turned her gaze away from his furious expression and looked instead at a flowerbox hanging from a balcony. Already the verbena looked full and lush. “It’s a lovely night for a stroll.”

  “Lovely!” His brows rose and he looked at her as if she was as crazy as a June bug in May.

  It was lovely. The remnants of the day’s heat still clung stubbornly to the banquette but, for an evening in late April, the weather was balmy. What’s more, bits of music floated on the night breeze, the air was scented with jasmine instead of the river, and the stars shone almost as bright as the rhinestones dotting her hat. “Lovely.”

  “Need I remind you that a zombie attacked you today or that we’re on our way to the headquarters of an infamous pirate?”

  Jean Lafitte had gone from unknown to infamous in the space of a few blocks. Christine tightened her lips to hide a smile.

  A ghost in a seersucker suit turned and stared at them. He doffed a straw hat then completed an elaborate bow. “Miss Lambert, what an unexpected pleasure to see you on this fine evening.”

  She dipped a small curtsy. “Mr. Flournoy, always a pleasure.”

  “Who is this gentleman, my dear?” Beauregard Flournoy was too polite to show his disapproval of Drake’s plain suit, but Christine sensed it. Perhaps Mattias did, too. His back stiffened.

  The ghost extended his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “This is Mr. Mattias Drake all the way from Boston.”

  “A Yankee?” The question carried forty years’ worth of pent-up resentment. Flournoy withdrew his hand.

  A few seconds of awkward silence followed. It wasn’t as if Drake could actually shake the ghost’s hand, but the removal of that stretched palm probably stung.

  “Mr. Drake’s just visiting, Mr. Flournoy.” Neither the ghost nor the man seemed much impressed by her attempt to smooth their feathers. She pitched her voice lower, sweeter. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my father?”

  Flournoy left off glaring at Drake and smiled at her. “Not since the last time you asked, dear. I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he decided to take a steamboat trip. You know your father adored the steamboats.”

  She knew too well. Days on the river with nothing to do but play cards. Christine drew a deep breath of jasmine-scented air.

  “When did you last see Mr. Lambert?” asked Drake. Only he mispronounced her last name. Had he done it on purpose? The ghost stared at him without comprehending. Or at least he pretended not to understand.

  “He means Daddy.”

  “Lamb-bear.” The ghost looked down his patrician nose then directed his answer to her. “I reckon it’s going on two weeks since I saw Warwick.”

  “Where were you?” asked Drake.

  One of Flournoy’s brows rose at the abrupt question. The ghost focused on her, ignoring the Yankee. “Playing cards in one of the back rooms at Josie’s. Your daddy had quite a run.”

  “Where?” the Yankee repeated.

  “At the table.” Flournoy tilted his ghostly head and regarded Drake with the same disbelieving expression she’d used a time or two.

  Drake drew a deep breath, one that expanded his already broad chest, then exhaled. “Where were you playing cards?”

  “Oh. Josie Arlington’s over on Ba
sin. It’s a—” Flournoy glanced her way and his voice died.

  “It’s a house of ill-repute,” Christine finished.

  “Who else was playing?” asked Drake.

  Flournoy stroked his ghostly chin. “Let me see here… Quig Haywood, Jack Sumner, and Dominique Youx.”

  She’d never thought to ask who’d played cards the night her father won the secret. Well, she hadn’t put together the coin and his disappearance until this afternoon. Mattias Drake wasn’t so very smart—she’d have thought to ask the same question…eventually.

  “Mr. Flournoy, Daddy won a secret at that game.” She smiled her sweetest smile and widened her eyes. “Who did he win it from?”

  The ghost cocked his head to the side. “Your daddy won that with three aces over two kings.”

  A replay of the hand was the last thing Christine wanted to hear. “Who lost?”

  “Youx.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Flournoy.”

  “My pleasure, dear girl. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about your daddy. He’ll be home soon. Now”—he withdrew a ghostly pocket watch and glanced at its face— “if you’ll excuse me.” He offered her another extravagant bow then faded away.

  Drake’s hand closed on her elbow and he pulled her forward. “They let a woman play cards with them?”

  “What? Of course not.”

  “Dominique.”

  “Dominique Youx. A war hero. He helped save the city during the War of 1812.”

  Drake looked blank.

  “He served under Andrew Jackson. He became president. You have heard of him?”

  “I have.” Drake’s voice was as dry as high sand at low tide. “Why can’t you people pick simple names?”

  Of all the nerve. She fluttered her eyelashes. “You mean like Mattias instead of Matthew?”

  The skin around Drake’s jawline tightened as if he was clenching his teeth very hard.

  They walked a few blocks in blessed silence.

  Christine stopped on the corner of St. Philip Street and pointed. “There.”

  The little brick building was French not Spanish, a rarity.

  “I thought you said it was a blacksmith shop.”

  “It was, ninety years ago. Someone lives there now.”

  “Who?” Drake asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might.”

  “We’ll have to look it up,” she said.

  A streetlamp cast a glow on the corner. “Or”—Christine pointed at a ghostly figure—”we could ask him.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Pierre Lafitte. Jean’s older brother.”

  Drake stared, slack-jawed.

  Apparently, he’d expected a ghost with a matted beard, tri-corn hat, and a brace of pistols across his chest—the Black Beard version of a pirate. Instead Pierre looked like a Southern gentleman, a Creole of French and Spanish descent. Perhaps Drake had expected a gray wraith. If so, Pierre Lafitte must come as a shock. The ghost looked almost solid, the colors of his clothes, his hair, and his skin barely muted by death.

  “You know him?” Drake asked.

  “Not yet.” Christine gathered up her courage like the trailing ends of a fringed shawl and crossed the quiet street. She bobbed a curtsy then lifted her hand for a ghostly kiss. “Je suis Christine Lambert.”

  “Enchanté,” the ghost murmured.

  “Vous etes trop gentil, Monsieur Lafitte.”

  “Pas de tout.”

  She sensed Drake at her back, his warmth a stark contrast to the coolness that surrounded Pierre. “Permettez-moi, ca c’est Monsieur Drake.”

  “I don’t speak French.” Drake’s voice was flat, almost rude, definitely unwilling to be seduced by old-world customs.

  The man didn’t speak French. He didn’t understand charm, much less have any himself. He could annoy her with just a sigh or a grumble. Yet he’d tried to save her from the zombie and now he was helping her find her father. Christine glanced up at the hard planes of his face—uncompromising New England granite. The exact opposite of what she should find compelling, so why did she? Christine shook her head and drew humid air deep into her lungs. “This is Mr. Drake.”

  Pierre Lafitte inclined his chin—slightly—then switched effortlessly to English. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Drake.” His friendly tone didn’t quite reach his eyes but at least he sounded polite. “I am Pierre Lafitte.”

  “Your shop?” Drake waved his hand at the little brick building.

  An amused smile flitted across the ghost’s lips. “It was. The front was for horses, the back for business.”

  “Business?” asked Drake.

  “Before the war, my brother and I used this place as our New Orleans office. It was a convenient spot for our customers.”

  “What did you sell?” Her voice sounded misty and weak in the lavender night. She cleared her throat and repeated, “What did you sell?”

  “Whatever our customers wanted to buy, chérie.” He fixed his ghostly gaze on her. “You’ve been here before. I saw you.”

  “My father brought me here to fetch something he won in a card game.”

  The ghost cocked his head to the side. Something dark and murky swam in the depths of his eyes. “Did he win the item or its secret?”

  The distinction had been lost on her. She’d never questioned if Warwick had the right to take the coin now hanging round her neck. “I don’t know. I assumed he won the item. After all, a secret shared is no longer a secret.”

  Lafitte shrugged his ghostly shoulders. “Ca c’est vrai. But it would have been better if you’d left my brother’s coin alone.”

  Christine’s fingers itched to touch the chain at her neck. She fisted her hands instead. “My father is missing.”

  “Oh?” Pierre raised a brow.

  “I hoped you might know where he is.”

  “I cannot help you.”

  “I can return your brother’s secret to its hiding place.”

  “Non, c’est trop tard.” He waved his hand, sweeping away her suggestion as easily as a broom swept dust from the banquette. “It is too late. The game has begun.”

  “The game?” Drake asked. He leaned forward, apparently interested.

  Pierre nodded. “As soon as Mademoiselle Lambert took the coin, it started.”

  Drake scowled. “Miss Lambert is quite concerned about her father. I’m sure she’d like a better answer.”

  Pierre’s response was an ennui-laden shrug. Must he be so very…French?

  Drake reached a hand inside his suit coat, pulling the fabric aside. He revealed a knife that seemed to glow in the darkness.

  Pierre gulped. Well, perhaps he didn’t actually gulp. As a rule, ghosts didn’t gulp or look nervous. They were already dead, after all. What more could happen to them? Christine narrowed her eyes and stared at the pirate. Pierre picked an invisible bit of lint off his coat and shifted his non-existent weight from foot to foot. He did look nervous, as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  Did Drake really have the power to send ghosts to the other side? If so, Pierre obviously didn’t want to go.

  “Tell me about this game.” Drake’s voice was as hard and cold as bare floor in January.

  “The one who holds the coins can find the treasure.”

  “What if I don’t?” she asked.

  “The treasure must be found,” said the ghost.

  “Fine. But how can the coins lead me to it? And where do I find the others?”

  “The first coin will lead you to the others—when it’s ready.” Riddles instead of answers. Typical ghost.

  “The coin?” Her voice sounded disbelieving.

  “It might even lead you to your father.” The ghostly pirate cocked his head as if listening to something she couldn’t hear. “You should probably go someplace safer now.”

  She followed the track of his gaze then all the air in her lungs fled.

  …

  Whatever Christine
saw, it had her worried. She stepped away from the ghostly pirate, her eyes suddenly far too large for her face, and said in a breathless, rushed whisper, “We have to go.”

  Drake didn’t move. Instead he peered down the length of Bourbon Street. In the distance, torches bobbed. Their light created crazed shadows, long fingers of darkness reaching for them.

  “We have to go,” repeated Christine. She grabbed his hand and tugged.

  “Who are they?” he asked. How did she know they were a threat?

  From two blocks away, a chant uncoiled, slithering down the street, down Drake’s spine. “Mamaloi, mamaloi, mamaloi.”

  “What does that mean?” he demanded.

  “They’re calling their priestess.” Lafitte inspected his ghostly cuticles. “Miss Lambert is right. It would be wise for you to leave.”

  Christine pulled harder.

  Still Drake peered. Something metallic glinted in the glow cast by a lit torch.

  Christine dropped his hand and hurriedly backed away from him, away from the mob. “Can’t you feel it?” She lowered her already quiet voice. “They want the coin.” Then she turned her back on him, on the pirate ghost and on the advancing horde, and fled.

  She was hobbled by her skirts. He caught up with her in seconds.

  “Can you run any faster?” Of course she couldn’t. Not in the fitted silk dress she’d insisted on wearing.

  She shook her head. “My dress.”

  She probably wouldn’t appreciate a well-deserved I told you so. Not with a mob on their heels. He grabbed her arm, drew her to a stop, then withdrew his knife and sliced through the front of her skirts.

  The hiss she made was every bit as frightening as the sounds emanating from the mob.

  A cry rose up behind them. The hunter had spotted its prey.

  They didn’t have time for her to be affronted or angry about her skirts. The torches were a mere block and a half away. The eerie chant rang in his ears and now that it was closer the metallic glint looked like a machete blade.

  “Run,” he ordered.

  They ran down Bourbon Street, pursued by writhing shadows and flames and the chant—