Bayou Nights

by Julie Mulhern

  “And Delphine LaLaurie wants to live again.” Christine’s shoulders shivered.

  “There is more,” said Lafitte.

  Of course there was. Drake crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh?”

  “A man, or woman, can die but once. If LaLaurie comes back from the grave, she cannot die a second time.”

  “Who exactly is Delphine LaLaurie?”

  “That, mon ami, is another story. One I will let Christine”—Lafitte sent an oily smile in her direction—“tell you.”

  “I’ve had my fill of stories and riddles.” What Drake really wanted, besides Christine, was the ability to knock the know-it-all ghost into next week.

  “Then you, sir, have come to the wrong city.” The pirate rose to his feet and smirked as if he knew Drake’s thoughts on golden eyes, pink lips, and tangled sheets.

  Drake’s muscles tightened. He had other thoughts. Thoughts on knocking ghosts into next week. But before he could act, Lafitte offered Christine an elaborate bow and faded away.

  …

  “Lafitte was lying.” Drake’s disapproval was evident in his voice. Did he disapprove of pirates or lying? Probably both.

  “Yes,” Christine agreed. That had been obvious.

  “You flirted with him.” Now he sounded accusatory.

  “Yes.” That too had been obvious. Christine patted her lips with a napkin.

  “Why?” He barked loud enough to turn heads.

  “Shush!” Christine leaned forward and lowered her own voice to an intimate pitch. “I find it useful when people—or ghosts—underestimate me.”

  That he answered with silence.

  Drake looked angry, almost…jealous. Her mouth went dry and her stomach fluttered faster than her lashes when she was flirting. Jealous? Drake? Of a dead pirate? If Lafitte didn’t have information they needed, she’d have avoided him like yellow fever. She sipped her coffee and waited.

  Drake scowled at her and all of Jackson Square behind her. “What now?”

  “Now we go after Delphine LaLaurie.”

  “Lafitte told us not to.”

  She settled the cup in its saucer. “Seems like a good reason to do it.”

  He stared at her, his head tilted slightly toward his left shoulder, a furrow between his brows, his lips a thin line. “Any chance you’d go back to your shop and make hats while I find her?”

  “Why do you bother asking?” She shifted in her chair, ready to stand.

  He caught her wrist, stopping her. “Your grandmother, she taught you how to fence?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was clipped. She didn’t want to talk about her grandmother. Not with him. Somehow, he effortlessly snuck past the walls she’d erected to protect herself. She wasn’t about to throw open the gates and welcome him in.

  “Who taught you how to shoot?”

  “She did.” She let acid leak into her words. Surely he’d recognize the no trespassing sign in her voice.

  His unspoken why hung in the air, almost as tangible as Spanish moss draping the limbs of a live oak.

  If only he’d let go of her wrist. The warmth of his hand was melting her resolve. She tugged but he held firm.

  “Why?” The word was spoken now. It demanded an answer.

  Mentioning her grandmother in passing was one thing, telling Genevieve’s story another. Christine glanced down at her lap.

  “We can sit here all day.”

  Damned Yankee. He would, too. Just to discombobulate her. “Her husband, my grandfather, was a disappointment. He joined the Confederate army, leaving her with three small children and a plantation to run. By the end of the war, my aunt and uncle were dead with fever and Magnolia Hall was a shadow of what it had been. My grandfather never came home. My grandmother heard tell he stopped in Birmingham and just stayed.” There. The barest of bones. Her mouth felt dry and her throat swollen. She lifted the coffee cup to her lips and found it empty. “I’d like a glass of water.”

  Drake swiveled in his chair and motioned for the waitress.

  With his back turned, she swiped her eyes. She never talked about her family, not the details, not the women. Betrayed by men who’d promised to love and cherish them. They’d made her realize the absolute folly of putting one’s faith in a man. Of course, Warwick had helped them teach their lesson—the missed birthdays, the Christmas mornings spent waiting by a window, the promised pony that never quite materialized. The heart-breaking loss of Magnolia Hall.

  She’d never been tempted by a man. Not until yesterday. Not until she met Mattias Drake. He looked dangerous, the type of man who would win every fight, then, bloodied, grin and look for another challenge. But there was more to him than a blazing left hook. Jesus help her, she wanted him to kiss her again. Christine raised her hands to her cheeks, hiding the pink heat that colored them. She had to change the subject before he read her thoughts. “We can’t go after Delphine alone. We’ll need help.”

  “Help?” He turned his gaze on her. “Who?”

  “Marie Laveau.”

  “Who?”

  “The queen of voodoo in New Orleans.”

  “Where do we find her?”

  “Saint Louis Cemetery. She’s dead.”

  He huffed. “Is there no living person who can help us?”

  “Granny Amzie might.”

  His eyes narrowed. “The old woman who doddered into your store? If she’s the only option, I don’t like our chances.”

  Christine shook her head. “There’s no one else.”

  He released her wrist, crossed his arms, and directed his gaze to the cross atop Saint Louis Cathedral as if another answer perched there.

  The waitress delivered a glass of water. Christine sipped gratefully.

  Drake shifted in his chair. “It’s pretty here.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “This spot. It’s pretty.” His gaze encompassed the bustling banquette, window boxes spilling with flowers, the palms rustling in a light breeze, the Pontalba buildings, and the cathedral.

  “Yes.” Christine drew sugar sweet air into her lungs. Early in the morning before other scents rose from the streets, there was no finer place on earth.

  “What’s the name of this place?”

  “Café du Monde.”

  “When I arrived, this city seemed”—he shifted in his chair as if it was suddenly uncomfortable—“let’s just say there’s more to it than I originally thought.”

  He was talking about more than New Orleans. Something inside her glowed with pleasure. That glow made her smile.

  Slowly, as if it was a forgotten talent, he smiled back.

  She’d misjudged him, too. Yesterday, she’d considered him pompous, arrogant, and interfering. But Trula had sent him and she needed help so she’d bit her tongue and suppressed the urge to send him packing. Thank God for that.

  Today, she’d had a peek behind the façade. Mattias Drake was brave and smart and overprotective. Why did he hide such qualities behind an unapproachable mask? “We should go.”

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Saint Louis Cemetery.”

  “No. A doctor should look at your ankle.”

  “Don’t be silly, I’m fine.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and arched his left brow, his meaning clear. He wasn’t going to the cemetery unless she visited a doctor first.

  Oh dear. She should have stuck with her original assessment. He was pompous and arrogant and incredibly interfering. She scowled at him.

  “I’m being practical,” he said. “What if you had to run on that ankle?”

  Pompous, arrogant, interfering, and right. Her scowl deepened.

  He escorted her to a doctor’s office where a kindly man with half-moon spectacles poked and prodded then declared she had a twisted ankle. For that, he charged five dollars.

  Money well spent when he bandaged her ankle. Wrapped, it felt firmer, more able to carry her weight. She hobbled less.

  Emerging onto the banquette, Drake somehow
managed to refrain from saying I told you so. The effort cost him. She could tell he was biting his tongue. “Now to the cemetery?” he asked.

  “Almost. We need to buy a bottle of Mount Gay rum.”

  “Thirsty?”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s for Marie Laveau.”

  They stopped at a store, bought the bottle, then strolled toward the cemetery.

  “Do you get the feeling we’re being watched?” Drake scanned the street as if anticipating a threat. With his eyes narrowed, a tiny sneer at the corner of his lips, and the harsh planes of his cheeks, he looked menacing. If she didn’t know him, she’d think twice before crossing him.

  She did know him and she’d still hesitate before crossing him. Unfortunately, the ghosts they passed seemed less impressed with his forbidding expression.

  The specters seemed to watch them too intently. Their attention sent a chill trickling down her spine. Something seemed…off.

  She stopped and took a good look at everyone around them.

  “What is it?” Drake demanded. “What’s wrong? Is it your ankle?”

  “No. It’s just—”

  A man brushed against her and she jerked away. Jerked right against Drake’s broad chest.

  His hands closed on her shoulders. “What’s wrong?” His voice had softened around the edges. He sounded as if he was asking about more than the dread that coiled around her intestines. He sounded as if he was talking about her life.

  She fluttered her lashes. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I think we’re being followed.”

  “I’m sure of it. I can take you back to the hotel.” He sounded almost hopeful.

  “Not likely.”

  Drake escorted her inside the cemetery’s walls and suddenly, aside from the odd palm tree, they were the only living things around. The quiet seemed eerie after the bustle of the streets. The fog had burned away and the sun shone, casting the tombs in preternatural brightness. The dread in her belly blossomed, reaching its petals toward her heart and her lungs. She quickened her steps. The sooner they were back on the crowded streets, the better.

  “There.” She pointed to a white tomb. The reflection of the sunshine from its walls nearly blinded her. She narrowed her eyes and wished for a hat with a larger brim or a parasol to block the sun. That and a large fan to blow away the crowd of misty beings who watched their every move.

  “There?” Drake tilted his head and stared at the numerous XXXs that marked the tomb’s walls and the collection of gaudy trinkets piled in front of it.

  He was expecting cherubs?

  “What is all this junk?” Drake bent and examined the items in front of the tomb.

  “Don’t touch them,” she cautioned. “They’re gifts. Would you hold this, please?” She handed him her cane, cracked the bottle of rum, then bent and poured a generous tot onto the ground.

  “Now what?”

  Now they could leave. Couldn’t he feel the evil approaching? She held out her hand for her cane, giving him the bottle. “Would you seal that back up and put it with the other gifts? Hurry.”

  He deposited the bottle. “That’s it?”

  Did he need to hear the words aloud? She doubted Marie did. She said them anyway. Quickly. “S’il vous plait, aidez-moi. Aidez mon pére.”

  Drake tilted his head slightly to the left.

  “I asked her to help me and my father,” Christine translated.

  “She won’t.” A woman stood just across the path.

  The approaching evil had arrived and it wore a yellow dress that did nothing for it. At first glance, the woman didn’t look like the devil incarnate but on closer inspection the darkness emanating from her was enough to make the bravest cut and run. Evil surrounded her like an aura.

  The crowd of watching ghosts melted away faster than ice chips on an afternoon in August.

  Drake moved closer, his chest brushed against Christine’s back, and his hand closed protectively around her upper arm. He stepped in front of her as if his body could shield her from evil.

  Christine took courage from his presence, drew a deep breath hoping to slow the frenzied beating of her heart, then shifted to the side so that Drake’s body no longer blocked her view. “Who are you?” Somehow she kept her voice steady.

  The woman looked offended that she’d asked. “I am Desdemona.” Then she spat on the ground in front of the tomb. “I am the queen of voodoo in New Orleans.”

  Christine swallowed. Desdemona was reputed to be the source for most of the hexes and curses in New Orleans. Looking at her, it was easy to believe. The woman seemed surrounded by a dark whirlwind. She had to be Mamaloi, the priestess who’d sent the mob after them.

  “Give me the coin.” Desdemona held out her hand.

  “I don’t have it,” said Christine. There was no way she was giving the key to immortality to this woman.

  “Liar,” spat the voodoo witch.

  Drake’s grip on her arm tightened. Maybe, just this once, he could ignore the paperwork associated with shooting someone. Except…he was holding her in place with his right hand. The hand that drew the gun last night when someone shot into her suite.

  “Let me go,” she said.

  His grip tightened and he thrust her behind him.

  That lasted a half-second. She pulled against his grip and shifted to the side.

  In front of them, the whirlwind around Desdemona grew more visible, a circular sea of darkness with evil shadows swimming in its depths.

  The witch raised her arms and the circle of dark things whirling around her tightened, shrank…solidified.

  Fear replaced the blood in Christine’s veins. Drake was using his shooting arm to grasp hers. Idiot man. If he’d stop being so noble and let her go, they could both draw their guns. She reached across her body and fumbled in her pocket for the derringer.

  Drake’s sharp intake of breath slowed her fingers.

  A snake slithered past them.

  Enormous.

  Black.

  Shimmering with power.

  From behind Marie Laveau’s tomb it came, then coiled in front of them. Almost as if it meant to protect them.

  Desdemona’s gaze landed on the serpent and for a moment her arms lowered and the vortex of evil swirling around her slowed. “You’ll not defeat me, old woman.” The voodoo witch stiffened her arms and a nightmare in shadow form broke free from the circle around her. The beast reared up on shadowy haunches and lunged toward them.

  The snake struck, long fangs ripping into the dark monster.

  The shadow and Desdemona shrieked, a sound loud and shrill enough to frighten birds from the trees. Except, there were no birds. They stood in a city of the dead.

  The snake swallowed the shade whole.

  Drake thrust her behind him again. “Get your damned gun.”

  Christine reached deep into her pocket but her fingers couldn’t grasp the little gun’s handle. It slid from her hand. “Let go of my arm!”

  At last he released her. Her fingers closed around the grip. Too late.

  A second monster broke free from the circle, this one large enough to block out the sun and cast the cemetery in crepuscular darkness.

  A sudden wind, one that presaged rain, blew past them.

  The snake struck. Lightning fast. Vicious. Deadly.

  Again the serpent swallowed the monster whole.

  Desdemona’s face transformed into a rictus of rage. Lips pulled back from bared teeth, brows drawn, eyes narrowed.

  The snake hissed at her.

  The priestess took a tiny step back and tripped over a river stone. “This isn’t over.”

  Hissssssss.

  She took another step, nearly tripping in her eagerness to escape the snake who could devour her monsters.

  Hisssssss.

  Desdemona turned and ran.

  The snake’s long body seemed to shake. If Christine didn’t know better, she’d swear the
serpent was laughing.

  Then it turned its hooded eyes toward them and a forked tongue tested the air near her face. Christine stopped breathing.

  Drake gripped her arm again, this time as tight as a vice. He pulled on her as if he meant to join Desdemona in a dash for safety.

  Christine stood her ground. The snake hadn’t defended them just to kill them. “Merci,” she whispered. Her empty lungs couldn’t manage anything louder.

  The serpent nodded once as if it understood her then curled in front of the tomb, its tongue exploring the bottle of rum.

  “What is that thing?” Drake pulled her a few feet away then turned her to face him.

  Her heart still hammered like mad. The combination of Desdemona, her demons, and the snake had pushed the poor muscle to its limits. She looked up at the stark planes of his face. “Le Grand Zombi.”

  “The what?” They stood far too close to each other, her breasts pressed tight against him, his breath warm against her face.

  He stroked her cheek and his touch felt reassuring, safe…right.

  “Marie Laveau’s familiar. Her snake. Marie saved us.”

  “Marie?”

  “I’d say we owe her another bottle of rum.”

  “That will not be necessary.” A regal ghost stepped out of the tomb as if she was stepping down from a dais. She straightened her clothes, patted her tignon, and took a moment to study the two of them. “Le Grand Zombi and I enjoyed teaching that pretender a lesson.”

  The snake coiled around Marie’s ankles. She stroked the top of its black head.

  “Thank you.” Christine bobbed a curtsey. “We owe you a debt.”

  Marie Laveau nodded. “You, child, are in a heap of trouble. You got the coin?”

  Christine hesitated for a half-second then nodded.

  “It ain’t nothin’ but trouble till you have all three,” advised Marie. “And then, it’s more trouble.”

  “They want to trade my father for it.” Christine’s voice sounded too loud in the quiet cemetery.

  “Who is they? Desdemona?”