Bayou Nights

by Julie Mulhern

  “Bring me the water.” A woman’s voice, thick with mist and anticipation carried through the night.

  Christine squinted into the square. Where was Desdemona that her voice sounded so loud?

  “Please, Christine. Give me the flask.” Drake’s voice was low and insistent.

  “No.”

  He growled.

  At her!

  Surely he understood she couldn’t let him take her risks. It was her father being held hostage, her decision to bring tap water, her responsibility if things went wrong. She touched his arm and felt his muscles tense beneath her fingers. “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  “I can’t.”

  He shook off her touch.

  She peered up into his shadowed face. His brows were drawn and the planes of his cheeks had never looked harder.

  He returned her gaze as if he could stare her into submission. “Don’t you understand?” Fury bled from his voice, coloring the air around them crimson. “You could be hurt.”

  “So could you!”

  “I’m paid to take these risks.”

  “He’s my father.” She could be as stubborn and unreasonable as he.

  “I’m waiting.” The woman’s voice was louder now, stronger.

  “I have to give it to her.” Christine took a step toward Chartres.

  Again he caught her arm. “You don’t know what you’re facing. You don’t know who.”

  She glanced toward the square where roiling darkness devoured the mist. Desdemona had called one of her demon friends.

  “You can’t have it.” Youx’s French-tinged voice echoed between the buildings. “It’s mine.”

  A laugh followed. Voodoo witches kept skeletons of snakes and small animals, twisted roots, mysterious powders, chicken fat and chicken feathers, and grave dust on hand—tools of the trade. Tools that smelled of rot and evil. The laugh sounded like the smell. It sent a trickle of fear from the nape of Christine’s neck all the way down her spine.

  Drake was right. To walk into the square without an ally was suicide. Maybe worse than suicide. Maybe the demon Desdemona had called wouldn’t be satisfied with her death. Maybe it would claim her soul.

  Christine reached into the deep pocket of her dress and her fingers closed on the flask. Thank God they’d left the real water among a collection of liquor bottles in Drake’s hotel room. She wouldn’t be giving Desdemona more power.

  She pulled the flask from her pocket. It was a pretty thing, hardly larger than her hand.

  Drake moved closer to her. “Does Hector strike you as an evil man?”

  Maybe. He’d killed someone and shown not an ounce of remorse. “A lonely one.”

  “We’re sure Delphine LaLaurie is dead?” he asked.

  “Long since.”

  “So, she can only send thugs with guns. What about the Lafitte brothers?”

  “Ghosts.” Just like LaLaurie was a ghost. He knew all this, why was he asking now?

  “The real threat is Desdemona.”

  Desdemona and her demons. As threats went, she was a serious one.

  He grabbed the flask from her hand and strode toward Chartres. “Don’t follow me.”

  Of course she followed.

  Drake glanced over his shoulder. “Please? Worrying about you might get me killed.”

  His words slowed her steps. Halted them. Was he better off on his own? A northern knight come to slay Desdemona’s southern dragon? One thing was certain, she wasn’t some namby-pamby princess waiting to be saved.

  Drake disappeared into the darkness of the square. Damn him!

  Hisssssss.

  Could it be? Le Grand Zombi slithered by her, somehow growing larger with each damp cobblestone. It wasn’t a snake. It was an enormous black monster made of smoke and shadow and Christine was more grateful to see it than she could say. For the first time since she and Drake had established their hiding place in Pirate’s Alley, she drew a breath that fully inflated her lungs. Pére Antoine had convinced Marie. They didn’t have to face Desdemona alone.

  She exhaled.

  Marie followed the snake down the alley, her pace leisurely, her expression imperious. “You talked to my granddaughter?”

  “I did. She wouldn’t leave”—Christine glanced at Pére Antoine—“her place of employment.”

  The voodoo queen shook her head. “You offered her a job?”

  “I did.” Now Christine glanced toward the square. Drake, a man who was afraid of snakes, was out there with Le Grand Zombi as his only ally.

  The sound of footsteps running on the paving stones, a shout, and still more footsteps wafted into the alley.

  “I have to help him.”

  “Non. You stay here.” Marie looked down her nose. “I do this for Pére Antoine, not for you.” She floated into the square, leaving Christine alone with the priest.

  The ghostly priest chuckled. “She’s out there because she can’t stand Desdemona.”

  Christine didn’t care why Marie had decided to help them. She was just grateful that the voodoo queen was on their side.

  One of Christine’s hands clutched her cane, the other a gun. She was as ready as she’d ever be. She followed Marie.

  “He’ll be safer without you.”

  The priest was wrong. “No, he won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  Because, she knew. Whether Drake realized it or not, her place was by his side. They were better together than they were apart and if he was too blind to see that…well, she’d only just discovered it herself. She’d prove it to him later. After they’d faced down Desdemona and whoever else lurked in the square.

  Bang!

  The shot echoed through the misty square. It echoed through her chest.

  Christine ran the last few steps to Chartres. Where was Drake? The streetlights had dimmed and the night seemed darker.

  The stench of sulfur assaulted her nose. Where was he? Was he hurt? Her pounding heart struggled to escape her ribcage. Her throat felt stuffed with cotton.

  She stepped away from the cathedral, into the street. Would one of Desdemona’s demons swoop from the sky and crush her in its jaws. Nothing happened. She listened to the too quiet night.

  Was a demon circling Drake? Please, please, whatever fiend Desdemona had called, let it be circling Le Grand Zombi. Let Drake be safely tucked in one of the doorways to the Pontalba buildings.

  She crossed Chartres.

  She couldn’t see anything. Where was everyone?

  She and Drake should have abandoned the alley and talked their way into one of the apartments overlooking the square. They could have watched from the cover one of the flower draped balconies. Instead Drake was missing and she had no way to find him. As it stood, the only one with a decent view of the square was General Jackson and he was still looking at the sky.

  If she stood on the general’s pedestal, she wouldn’t waste her time staring at the heavens.

  She hurried toward the area at the center of the square, the wet grass snatching at the hem of her dress.

  Bang!

  In the quiet that followed the shot, Christine’s ears strained with listening. Was he hurt? Just the thought hollowed out her chest.

  She ran through the grass, across the path that circled the park, and scrambled up onto the general’s pedestal, sliding on the wet stone. Her hand circled the horse’s back leg and she hauled herself up.

  The view was…dark. High ground meant nothing when only a few streetlights cast weak light.

  The sky seemed darker, almost bubbling, near the corner of St. Peter and Decatur. Desdemona’s demon? Le Grand Zombi? She looked out toward St. Ann. Two men crept down the street. Light smudged across their backs as if they were mere charcoal sketches. They weren’t. They were all too real. The glint of their drawn guns was too real.

  Bang!

  Where was Drake?

  Why had he run into the square without her? Surely by now he’d figured out that they were bette
r together than apart.

  Bang!

  She whirled, squinting her eyes. The shot seemed to have come from near the corner of St. Peter and Chartres, where she’d been mere moments before.

  A man’s moan tiptoed across the grass.

  Drake?

  She had to do something!

  She inched forward until her hand rested on the horse’s neck then called, “I’m here.”

  …

  Her voice, southern honey laced with a shot of vinegar, carried through the night and Drake’s heart stopped. Of course it was too much to hope that she’d keep to the safety of the alley. Her voice seemed to come from the center of the square.

  He wasn’t the only one who heard her. The demon that seconds before had been intent on defeating Marie Laveau’s snake used its forked tongue to test the mist. The beast turned in mid-air, leaving the coiled, hissing snake and Drake behind.

  Bang!

  The sound of a bullet hitting metal carried through the mist-heavy air. So too did Christine’s gasp.

  Drake ran toward Jackson’s statue, the humid air pooling in his lungs, his heart beating at three times its normal rate.

  An arm reached out to stop him and he sliced at it with his knife without slowing.

  Its owner’s cry of distress trailed his steps.

  He cleared the edge of trees and stumbled, slipping in the wet grass. Landing on his hands and knees.

  He looked up at the statue at the exact center of the square.

  She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She had.

  Holy hell! Christine stood next to the charging General Jackson.

  Desdemona, her demon floating behind her, strode across the grass.

  Hector, gun drawn, stood not twenty feet away. His ancient eyes seemed to track Desdemona’s progress, then he turned and watched yet another group of men approach.

  “Stop there!” Hector’s voice carried centuries’ worth of authority.

  The men ignored him.

  Drake narrowed his eyes. Ty Doucet, the man who’d threatened to rape Christine, was among their numbers.

  “Stop!” Hector leveled his gun.

  “Get down from there!” Drake yelled.

  Christine turned toward his voice and—he couldn’t believe his eyes, it had to be a trick of the poor light—smiled. Only then did she have the sense to slide down the pedestal, giving up her title as easiest target in the square. The constriction around his heart eased—a bit.

  “Give me the water,” Desdemona demanded.

  “She doesn’t have it. I do.”

  Desdemona and her demon turned toward him.

  Having Le Grand Zombi slither past gave him hope.

  “Where’s my father?”

  Her father? Drake didn’t give a damn about her father. It would be a miracle if they made it out of the square alive. He rose to his feet, took the flask out of his jacket pocket, and held the container above his head. “Here it is!”

  For an instant, his pronouncement was met with silence. He felt the gazes of every being in the square land upon him. Then the demon’s roar split the night.

  Fear stiffened his resolve.

  He drew his arm back and threw the flask as far as strength and adrenaline would allow.

  A long, long way.

  The container flew toward the corner of St. Ann and Decatur, the one part of the square without demons, voodoo witches, immortal Spaniards, or men with guns.

  A stampede followed.

  Let them find the bottle in the dark. Drake raced toward Christine. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She shook her head. “We have to save my father.”

  Of course she wanted to search for the one person they hadn’t seen that night. He pulled her toward the street.

  A hail of shots rang out in the corner of the square.

  Christine struggled against him as if, once again, she meant to run toward danger. “We can’t leave him.”

  He held her tight. “We can. Your father’s already dead. This is our one chance to get out of here alive.”

  She looked over her shoulder at the corner where’d he thrown the flask, where flashes of gunfire burst like fireworks in the night, then let him lead her onto Decatur.

  “Can you run?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  Together, they raced toward Canal Street.

  Christine stumbled and he picked her up, tossing her over his shoulder the way he had that first night.

  “Are we being followed?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t dare slow his pace.

  “Take the next right.” Upside down and backward, she was still giving him directions.

  He set her down when the hotel came into view. Her face was flushed, her hair was mussed, and tears stood in her eyes.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked

  She sniffled.

  Who knew such a simple sound could wound him more deeply than a bullet?

  “Christine, are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” she squeaked.

  “You’re not.” If she was fine, tears wouldn’t be glistening on her lashes like diamonds. “You’re crying.”

  Her lower lip quivered and one of the tears balanced on her lashes toppled, trailing down her cheek. “I’m not hurt.” She bit her lower lip and stared up into the mist-filled sky. “We didn’t save him. What are we going to do now?”

  Drake had no idea.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Drake wrapped his arm around Christine’s shoulders. Shoulders that seemed too narrow to carry the weight of grief that had followed them from Jackson Square.

  “Let’s get you inside.” He escorted her through the lobby toward the elevator.

  For once she didn’t stop and flirt with the concierge or bat her lashes at the lift attendant. She just stared straight ahead, tears running unchecked down her cheeks.

  Her grief wasn’t an opponent he could fight. His fists were useless.

  He led her to his room and sat her on the edge of the bed.

  “Do you want a drink?” he asked. “Brandy? Bourbon? Water?”

  Her chin jerked at the mention of water and fresh tears welled in her eyes.

  Short of conjuring Warwick Lambert, what could he do to ease her pain? He sat next to her on the bed and lied. “We’ll find him.”

  “How?” So much sorrow in one innocuous word.

  “We’ll find a way.” Drake laid his hand on her back.

  She wiped her face with the backs of her fingers. “You must think me a complete ninny.”

  “No.” He rubbed a circle on her back and the brittle stiffness of her spine seemed to soften. He rubbed again, a slow circle, he hoped was comforting.

  She leaned against him, her cheek against his collarbone, the top of her head tucked just beneath his chin.

  He rubbed yet another circle.

  She sighed softly then tilted her head and looked up at him through lashes spiked with teardrops.

  Even with tears on her cheeks and her nose pink from crying, she was the most desirable woman he’d ever seen. He wiped away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb.

  “I left him there.”

  “We don’t know for certain that your father was actually in the square. Besides, he wouldn’t want you to risk your life.”

  She made a sound deep in her throat. On another night he might have called the sound a laugh. Tonight, it was a sob.

  Gently, he pressed her cheek back to his chest, dropped his lips to the top of her head, and kissed her. The soft cloud of hair that surrounded her smelled of some southern flower he couldn’t identify. Magnolia? Jasmine? Gardenia? He rubbed another circle. Her muscles relaxed beneath his touch.

  This was a woman no one ever saw. Christine Lambert with her head on his shoulder and tears in her eyes was completely at odds with the woman who faced mobs and alligators and voodoo witches with a dangerous glint in her amber gaze. This was a woman who had let down her guard, who trusted him.

  Hi
s heart seemed to swell.

  Again she lifted her head and looked at him.

  Her lips—so pink, so soft. Like a magnet that had to point true north, his lips had to touch hers. Their kiss was languid, gentle, tender.

  He tasted the salt of her tears.

  She brought her fingers to his face and explored the planes of his cheeks, moving with exquisite slowness, as if she could read the answer to all her questions in the stubble that roughened his skin.

  Her lips parted, inviting his tongue to explore her mouth. Now he tasted sweetness. Her tongue moved against his—tentatively—as if learning the art of kissing.

  She sighed and the sound fired something deep within him. Something primal—an urge to protect, to claim, to possess.

  She nipped his lower lip and his groin tightened.

  He pulled away from her. “Christine.” His voice sounded ragged. “If we don’t stop—”

  She looked up at him with her kiss-swollen lips and wide eyes. “I don’t want to stop.” She reached her hand around his neck, her fingers traced the length of his nape, and then she brought his mouth back to hers.

  The sweetness of their first kiss remained but the tentative slide of her tongue against his changed. With this kiss, she searched, demanded, teased. He let her. For a moment.

  Her fingers moved from his cheeks to his chest, trailing heat.

  The kiss deepened, no longer teasing. Instead it was hungry.

  “Christine.” They had to stop. She deserved love, a husband, a man who could treasure and protect her for all time—a man who wasn’t afraid of the consequences of loving.

  She pulled away from him then picked up the neat ends of the lace bow tied at her neck. With aching slowness she tugged the bow loose, exposing her neck.

  “What are you doing?” Was she mad? Testing his control wasn’t wise.

  “Tempting you.” A knowing smile touched her lips as if she was the seductress and he the innocent.

  Once again, she was running toward danger.

  She knew—he’d told her—that women he cared for died. Now she seemed determined to drag some sort of declaration from him. That or drag them both into the bed where they sat.