Bayou Nights

by Julie Mulhern

  “Wait.” Mike held up a single finger. “What happened to start all this?”

  Now Lambert stared at her.

  “You had the coin for years.” The school marm expression returned to Mike’s face. “What changed?”

  “I told Youx about it over cards a few months back. The next time we played, I won. He offered the location of the second coin. I figured between Christine and me we could find the third.” He shifted his gaze back to Drake. “You did it without me.”

  “Where did the Simms woman take her?” asked Mike.

  “The house on St. Charles.” Lambert sailed toward the door. “Are you coming?”

  Drake pulled on his coat and grabbed the rum bottle.

  “You’re going to give her the bottle?” Mike sounded disbelieving.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s eternal life.” The expression on Mike’s face shifted from marm to that of a general staring down a deserter.

  “We have to save her.”

  “You can’t just give some kidnapper immortality.” Mike crossed her arms over her chest and glared.

  “Of course he can.” Lambert’s arm disappeared through the door. “Simms took her at gunpoint.”

  Gunpoint? The logical, reasoning part of Drake’s brain agreed with Mike. The rest of his gray matter and all of his body prepared to knock her down if she moved to stop him. “I have to save her.”

  “Wait! You can’t just rush in there without a plan.”

  Drake paused.

  Lambert paused, drew his arm back into the hotel room, and rubbed his chin. “She’s right, son. I never guessed that Simms woman had this in her. We need a plan.”

  We? Drake’s plan, formulated by the non-reasoning, non-logical part of his brain, was simple. Break down the door. Rescue Christine. Carry her to safety.

  A furrow formed between Lambert’s brows and he rubbed harder. “That woman is tricky.”

  “We have the water.” Drake held up the bottle. His other hand closed on the door handle. They had to go. Now.

  “Don’t give her the real water,” said Mike.

  “We’ve offered up a fake already. Look how well that worked.”

  Mike, who didn’t know the full extent of the debacle in Jackson Square, scowled.

  “She’ll be ready for a switch,” said Drake.

  “How could she tell?” asked Mike.

  “We’ll take two flasks.” Christine’s father was suggesting that they try and fool the woman who held his daughter at gunpoint? Had he lost his ghostly mind?

  Mike tilted her head. “Two?”

  “One real and one fake,” said Lambert.

  They were complicating a simple operation and taking far too much time discussing it. Knock down the door. Use whatever means necessary to save Christine. Hold her in his arms until the certainty that she was safe seeped into his bones.

  Lambert narrowed his eyes. “If you go in there ham-handed, with guns blazing, the Simms woman might hurt Christine.”

  They could argue all day. Meanwhile, Christine remained a hostage. “No more dilly-dallying.” Drake turned the handle. “We’ll figure this out on the way.”

  “You’re just going to walk down the street carrying a bottle of rum?” Mike sounded almost scandalized.

  The sound in his throat was too raw to be a laugh. “You haven’t been in New Orleans long. I promise you, no one will notice.”

  “In that case—” She grabbed a bottle of tequila from the cart and followed him.

  When they reached the street, Drake flagged down a carriage and produced a bill large enough to make the driver’s eyes widen. “It’s yours if you get me to the Garden District in ten minutes.”

  They raced down the streets, the Spanish moss in the trees waving in their wake. Drake’s heart raced faster. Please, God, let her be sitting in the parlor with a cup of tea and a praline. The alternative—Christine bound or hurt or crying—chilled the blood running through his veins.

  There!

  Drake tossed the driver the bill and leapt from the carriage and onto the banquette in front of Yvette’s house. He bounded up the flower-lined front walk, the half-empty tequila bottle clasped in his hand—Mike having categorically refused to let him trade the water. He’d given up arguing. If—if—Yvette Simms proved difficult, they’d give her the bottle.

  Drake glanced over his shoulder. Why was Mike still on the banquette? Lambert, too?

  Mike’s fingers splayed as if she pushed against an invisible wall. “There’s a ward.”

  A ward? His stomach tightened. Perhaps rescuing Christine wouldn’t be as easy as he planned. He descended the steps and returned to the juncture of the walk and the banquette. He looked Lambert in the eye and asked, “Can you fetch Granny Amzie?”

  The ghost stared back at him. “I reckon.” He poked his finger—without the ward the digit would have ended up embedded in Drake’s chest. “Don’t do anything rash while I’m gone.”

  Rash? Him? The only imprudent actions he’d ever taken were here, in New Orleans, with Christine. “Just go.”

  With a last, lingering, warning stare, Lambert disappeared.

  “What now?” asked Mike.

  “You wait for Granny Amzie.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Rescue Christine.” He turned his back on her outraged expression.

  Drake climbed the stairs, raised his hand, but paused before knocking. He tried the handle instead. The heavy door swung open and he stepped inside.

  The house felt empty, silent, ominous. Drake walked softly, peeking into vacant room after vacant room, his gun clasped in his hand.

  Where was she? The flimsy hope that he’d find her sipping tea seemed laughable now.

  He tiptoed up the front stairs and faced a hallway of closed doors. The first room stood entirely empty, without so much as a stick of furniture. So too did the second. The third room yielded a four-poster bed swathed in netting. On the bed lay a man so emaciated he could pass for a skeleton.

  “Who are you?” The man’s raspy whisper sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet house.

  “Mattias Drake.”

  With what looked like great effort, the man lifted his head. “Why are you in my house?” His gaze settled on the gun in Drake’s hand. “You should leave while you can.”

  “Yvette Simms has taken someone close to me.”

  The man stared at him with rheumy eyes. Those eyes filled with pity. “A woman? If my wife has her, she is lost.”

  His wife? “Where are they?”

  Simm’s head dropped back on his pillows and he stared at the ceiling.

  “Where?” Drake insisted.

  “The attic.”

  Drake stepped toward the door.

  The rasp of Simm’s voice stopped him. “She’s evil.”

  Drake already knew that. The woman had kidnapped Christine.

  “She comes from a long line of evil. You’ve heard of Delphine LaLaurie.”

  Christine had mentioned her. He was sure of it.

  “Her grandmother. She locked her slaves in her attic and tortured them. She made deals with dark powers. Yvette is just like her.” He drew a rattling breath. “You cannot save the woman. Save yourself. Leave now.”

  Torture? It took effort to fill Drake’s lungs. “Where’s the door to the attic?”

  Simms’ eyes fluttered closed.

  Shake the information out of the sick man or find it himself? Simms didn’t look as if he had too many breaths left. Drake left him sleeping and strode into the hallway.

  He threw open yet another door. A woman’s bedroom, all pink silk and lace, lay on the other side. A cloying floral scent seeped into the hallway and Drake closed the door on the place where evil laid its head.

  The next door revealed a mop, a bucket, small boxes, and various packages waiting for someone to carry them up the steep staircase. Drake tightened his grip on the gun and climbed.

  Fear for Christine battered his heart. Th
e malevolent silence that blanketed the house made even the squeak of his shoes too loud and he paused before lifting his foot to the next riser.

  Above him the stairs reached into gloom.

  Below him an old man withered.

  Drake took the next step and heard it—the catch of her breath followed by a furious whisper.

  Christine was there. So was Yvette. They both knew he was on the stairs.

  “Christine,” he called.

  “Run! She’s got a—” The sudden break in Christine’s words robbed him of breath.

  What had Yvette done to silence her? Every fiber of his being insisted he run up the remaining steps and rescue Christine. But that was emotion. If ever he needed a cool head, it was now. Drake took a deep breath the reached into his pocket. It held a few coins, a handkerchief, and a pebble.

  He threw the pebble at the wall at the top of the stairs.

  Bang!

  Simms had a gun and she was quick to use it. What else? If sound was any indication, she stood to the left of the staircase.

  “I want the water. Mr. Drake. Give it to me and you can walk out of here with your hat-maker.”

  He didn’t believe her.

  “Come now, Mr. Drake. Do you want me to hurt her?”

  He climbed another step. “Don’t hurt her!”

  “Surely you can climb faster, Mr. Drake.” Evil seldom sounded the part. Most often it sounded…seductive. Today it sounded like a woman whose role in life was pouring tea and spending too much money on hats. Simms’ polite tone sent a shudder down Drake’s back.

  He took another step.

  “Hurry…” She drew out the syllables as if she held a string and he was a cat who longed to pounce.

  Think! There had to be a way to rescue Christine. “I have your water. Send me Christine.”

  Simms’ laughter spilled down the stairs.

  “I think, Mr. Drake, that you want Miss Lambert even more than I want that water. You bring it to me.”

  “Your husband could die at any minute.”

  “And?”

  So…the water wasn’t for her husband. “Why do you want it?”

  “You’re stalling, Drake. Bring it to me now.”

  Christine gasped in pain and Drake climbed four steps before realizing what he was doing. One more and the top of his hat would be visible to anyone in the attic.

  He backed down the stairs and grabbed the mop, put his hat on one end and climbed again. His hat cleared the landing and he remained safely below.

  Bang!

  The hat flew off the handle.

  “I might drop the bottle if you keep shooting,” he called.

  “Don’t give her the water, Drake.” Christine sounded breathless. “She’ll kill us both.”

  “Bring it or she dies.”

  He drew breath deep into his lungs and held it. What would he do if it wasn’t Christine being held hostage? He’d maneuver, find an advantage, take risks. From her current spot in the attic, Simms dictated all that might happen. That could lead only to disaster. “No. I’ll be in your husband’s room.” He took a step backward. Retreat was the wisest course of action, so why did his feet fight him?

  “I’ll kill her.”

  For a half-second the world around him went black then a red haze clouded his vision. Logic dictated a strategic retreat. His heart demanded that he storm the attic.

  But Christine was right, if he climbed those stairs, they were both as good as dead.

  “Your husband’s room. Bring Christine.”

  Then he descended. To hell or the second floor, he wasn’t sure.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A worrisome smile curled the corners of Yvette’s lips—almost as if she wanted Drake to descend the stairs. The woman was a—well, she was a lunatic. One need only glance around the attic to know. Gone were the dress forms, old trunks stuffed with dated clothing, and boxes filled with Christmas ornaments that had squeezed the rafters during Christine’s childhood. In their place were chains and shackles and what looked like a branding iron. The enormous room remained as dusty as ever—that had not changed.

  Christine sneezed.

  “Bless you.” Yvette waved at a few dust motes. “Should I kill your Mr. Drake then come back for you?”

  Her Mr. Drake? Yvette really was a lunatic. Christine sealed her lips shut. There was no point in replying, less in struggling—not with her hands cuffed behind her back then fastened to some sort of whipping post.

  “You could watch. Or…he could watch you die. I think it’s more entertaining when there’s an audience, don’t you?”

  Christine bit her tongue. Hard.

  “You might not say anything now but”—Yvette jerked her chin toward the branding iron—“you will. You’ll beg me to stop.” She scraped a fingernail underneath Christine’s jaw, forcing her to meet her insane gaze. “Even if you ask nicely, I won’t stop.”

  The woman was out of her cotton-pickin’ mind. If Christine’s hands weren’t cuffed she’d…she’d what? No derringer, no rifle, not even her father’s sword cane. Christine narrowed her eyes in a futile attempt to look threatening.

  “Do you think Mr. Drake is still down there? Maybe he’s gone back to that pretty Yankee.”

  Christine closed her eyes. If they really were the windows to the soul, Yvette ought not to see that her words had drawn blood. Drake was downstairs. He had to be. He might betray her heart but he wouldn’t leave her with Yvette.

  “You thought he cared, didn’t you?” Yvette laughed softly. That laugh was the cruelest thing out of her mouth yet. It said—eloquently—that Christine could never hold Drake’s interest, that he was destined to betray her.

  Why had she let herself fall in love? Christine swallowed around a large lump in her throat. She was in love with a man who couldn’t be trusted—not with her heart.

  “Why would a man like Drake fall in love with you?” Yvette’s voice, soft and cruel, filled Christine’s ears. “You have no family, no money, no education.”

  It was all true. There’d been no money to send her to Sophie Newcomb. What wasn’t lost in the war, her father gambled away.

  “I bet that Yankee woman went to college.” The words were slow poison. “She probably went to Vassar or Wellesley. She can talk to him about things you’ve never even heard of. No wonder he’s with her.” She crossed to a window and looked out. “She’s down there now. Waiting for him.”

  Even with a lunatic holding her prisoner, Christine’s stomach contorted, coiling and twisting. Tears threatened to fill her eyes. She blinked them back and stood straighter. She’d tell Mattias Drake exactly what she thought of him later…when they weren’t in danger of dying. “Why are you doing this?”

  Yvette glanced away from her view of the street below. “I want the water.”

  “But why?” What drove a lady with a house on St. Charles to kidnapping and murder?

  “To fulfill my grandmother’s legacy.”

  Christine blinked. “Who was your grandmother?”

  “Delphine LaLaurie.”

  The name hung in the dusty air like a lazy wasp. Buzzing. Dangerous. Ready to strike.

  More than the torture equipment littering the attic, more than Yvette’s gun, the name filled Christine with dread. “You want to bring her back.” Lafitte had been right all along.

  Yvette laughed. “No.”

  “Then why?” Did she really want the answer? Dread throbbed against Christine’s temples.

  “After she fled the city, she had another child.” Yvette stroked a length of chain as if it were a beloved pet. “My mother.”

  How, with her talent for reading people, had she missed that Yvette was both crazy and evil?

  “A mob chased my grandmother out of the city. I will reclaim her place…my place.”

  In a city filled with ghosts, voodoo, hexes, and all manner of evil spirits, parents still threatened naughty children with the specter of Delphine. What place did Yvette want to reclaim? />
  “The water won’t give you that.”

  Yvette snorted then disappeared behind Christine’s back. “The water gives power. You’ve met Hector. You know.”

  Hector was powerful…and amoral. What would someone consumed by evil do with all that power? The jangle of chain told Christine that Yvette was unfastening the bonds that held her to the post.

  “If you run, I’ll shoot off your kneecap.”

  If Yvette was looking for a reason to shoot her, Christine wouldn’t give her one. She stood stock still. When they were downstairs, when Drake was there, she’d act.

  Delphine LaLaurie’s granddaughter yanked the cuffs circling Christine’s wrists, and sharp pain lanced her shoulders. She swallowed a gasp, refusing Yvette the satisfaction of knowing—of enjoying—that she’d caused pain.

  “Walk.” Yvette pushed her toward the stairs.

  Christine walked, pausing at the top of the steep steps.

  Yvette shoved her in the back and Christine fell. With her hands behind her back, she couldn’t stop herself, she tumbled down the stairs, her head banging the handrail, her shoulder jarring against a riser, her healing ankle twisting painfully.

  She came to a stop among a pile of cleaning supplies. She lay there, grateful her neck wasn’t broken. A trickle of blood meandered down the side of her face and her ankle screamed its displeasure.

  “Get up.” Yvette hauled her to her feet then shoved again.

  This time Christine landed on the carpet of the upper hall. Less painful than landing at the bottom of the stairs, but being sprawled across the hallway was twice as humiliating. Drake would not see her like this—beaten, near tears, bereft. She struggled to her feet.

  Boom!

  The house shook.

  “Impossible!” Yvette raced to a window.

  Christine lunged for her childhood bedroom and slammed the door shut. Her suddenly sweat-slicked hands fumbled with the lock. There! Somehow, despite her trembling fingers, she twisted the tiny knob. Only then did she glance around the room. Of course the four-poster bed and lace curtains of her youth were gone. Light from the windows spilled across an empty floor, not so much as a chair to jamb beneath the door knob remained.

  Christine limped to the fireplace, turned her back to it, and rose up on her toes. The fresh pain in her ankle brought tears to her eyes. She ignored it and strained upwards. If she could just lift her hands a little higher…