Bayou Nights

by Julie Mulhern

  The door rattled.

  “You think a lock will stop me?” Yvette’s voice carried through the closed door. “I have the key.” She jangled a set, the sound sneaking beneath the door.

  Christine strained harder, pain from her shoulder and ankle stealing her breath. Finally her fingers found the carved fleur de lis. She twisted it and counted each second that ticked past. Had it always been so slow?

  Yvette’s mumbles and the sound of a large bunch of keys being searched rang loud in Christine’s ears. She glanced at the door and prayed… Please, God! Open the passageway.

  Finally, a bit of the wall swung open.

  Thank heavens! Christine slipped into the hidden hallway then pulled a lever. The door closed with a satisfying snick.

  Just in time. The sound of Yvette’s heels on the wood floor carried through the wall. As did her voice. “I don’t care where you are. You won’t get out of this house alive.”

  In the too-hot confines of the narrow corridor, goose pimples raised on Christine’s arms.

  She inched down the pitch-black passageway, careful not make a sound, counting her steps.

  Eleven steps as a child but her steps were bigger now. Christine splayed her fingers against the wall, searching for the gap in the plaster, searching for the hiding place of her childhood treasures. Would it be there? The knife she’d won from her cousin, a Châtellerault with a pearl handle, hidden because her mother would have had apoplexy if she knew her daughter played with sharp things. Christine needed the knife now.

  Her fingers found the opening in the wall. There, among the strings of inexpensive beads, a small journal filled with the secrets of an eight-year old girl, lengths of crumbling ribbon, and a box of colored pencils, her fingers closed around the smoothness of the knife’s handle. A tightness in her chest she hadn’t realized was there loosened.

  She had a fighting chance.

  …

  Drake abandoned his post by the window and his view of Mike racing up the front-walk with Granny Amzie at her heels. Who knew that wizened old woman had enough power in her to break a ward with such force it sounded like a cannon? As for the man in the bed, if he’d heard the resounding boom, he was keeping it to himself. Simms hadn’t moved since Drake entered his room. Asleep? Dead? The poor man.

  When death came for Drake, he hoped it was quick—not the slow wasting Simms had endured.

  Slowly, Drake cracked the door to the hall—the darned thing had to be three inches thick. If Yvette and Christine had descended from the attic, he might have missed the sound. Where were they? He should have watched over the hallway instead of the goings-on in front of the house. With a last glance at Simms, Drake slipped into the hallway and headed for the front door.

  Mike met him at the bottom of the stairs. The wrinkles in her brow smoothed when she saw him. “Thank God, you’re all right. Where is Christine?”

  “Yvette was holding her in the attic.”

  Mike’s lips thinned to nothing. “That woman has to be stopped.”

  Leaning on Mike’s arm, Granny Amzie looked as if she was ready to keel over. She mumbled incomprehensible words under her breath, her gaze focused on the stair-riser in front of her.

  “Thank you, Granny,” he whispered. Her breaking the ward gave them much better odds of rescuing Christine.

  The old woman looked up from her muttering and narrowed her yellowed eyes. “I ain’t gonna lie, that took something outta me.” She waved her free hand. “This here house is full up with evil.”

  He didn’t disagree.

  “Can’t go on like this.” She shook her wrinkled chin. “It’ll poison the well.”

  Mike nodded. The movement of her chin had a stubborn quality. The same quality Joan of Arc probably wore into battle, or Carrie Nation wore into a saloon right before she wielded her axe. Mike wouldn’t leave without bringing Yvette Simms to justice.

  Admirable, he was sure. But if it came down to defeating Yvette or rescuing Christine…well. “Where’s Warwick?” The ghost at least would be more interested in saving his daughter than in apprehending Yvette.

  Granny glanced up then down the staircase as if she expected him to appear. “I reckon he’s around here somewhere. Who else is in the house?”

  “An old man who can’t get out of bed, Yvette, and Christine.”

  “You left them up there?” Was that judgment in Mike’s voice?

  “I had to. Yvette was using me for target practice. I told her if she wanted the water, she had to bring Christine downstairs.”

  Mike grunted softly. “Smart. Has she descended yet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  That response earned him a raised brow.

  He hadn’t accounted for the thickness of the door. Plus he’d been watching Granny work her voodoo magic. But the judgmental arch of Mike’s eyebrow was right. He should have been looking out for Christine. His stomach flipped and bile burned the back of his throat.

  Lambert appeared at the top of the stairs. “There’s an old man in the front bedroom, the Simms woman is in one of the back bedrooms, but I can’t find Christine.”

  Drake gaped at him. What did Lambert mean he couldn’t find her? Where was she?

  Bang!

  The gunshot echoed down the staircase, through Drake’s chest cavity, and into his heart. He ran toward the sound.

  “Drake, slow down. Use your head.” Easy for Mike to say. She wasn’t…well, she wasn’t…she didn’t have feelings for Christine.

  He reached the top of the stairs. The hallway was empty. Nothing had changed—nothing except for the sharp smell of cordite. All the doors remained closed except for the one to Simms bedroom, the one he’d left cracked. Drake tightened his grip on his gun.

  He pushed the door farther open with the muzzle.

  Christine stood alone, her hands held awkwardly behind her back, her gaze fixed on the man in the bed.

  Incredibly, Simms held a gun and he’d pointed the weapon at Christine.

  Drake glanced at her again. Blood colored the side of her face and her skin seemed too pale. Even her eyes seemed to have lost their golden sparkle. She leaned against the wall rather than standing straight. Was she hit? For the first time since he’d arrived in New Orleans Drake felt cold—a cold that began in his heart and radiated through his veins.

  He pointed his gun at Simms. “Drop your weapon.”

  The old man ignored him.

  Worse, metal grazed Drake’s jaw.

  “Drop your weapon, Mr. Drake.” Yvette Simms’ voice was still polite, still refined. She was still a pretty, delicate woman. Drake wanted to beat her to a pulp. He kept his gun aimed at her husband.

  “You can’t win, Mr. Drake. I don’t care if you shoot him or not.”

  Simms’ eyes widened but the gun he pointed at Christine didn’t waver.

  Warwick arrived, dove between the bed and Christine, and opened his arms wide as if his ghostly body could somehow stop a bullet. “Shoot him.”

  Drake swallowed. A bead of sweat trickled past his temple. What was taking Mike so long?

  There it was. The cock of another pistol. The sweetest sound he’d ever heard—better than church bells, better than rain after a dry spell, better than the way Christine whispered his name when he kissed her. “Took you long enough.”

  Mike regarded him with a long-suffering glare. “I had to help Granny with the stairs. She’s resting on the landing.” Then Mike turned her attention to Yvette. “I’ll take that.” She relieved Yvette of the derringer she’d held against him.

  Yvette looked mad enough to spit nails, her pretty face contorted by rage.

  “Drop your weapon.” He’d shoot the old man if he had to.

  With a gun pointed at his wife’s heart, Simms finally complied. He lowered the Colt to the counterpane.

  Christine slid down the wall.

  “She’s still handcuffed.” The outrage in Lambert’s voice reflected Drake’s feelings exactly.

  He took a st
ep toward her.

  “Wait,” said Mike. “He hasn’t let go of his gun. I bet this one”—she jabbed her gun at Yvette—“has the keys to those bracelets. I’ll take care of it.” She propelled Yvette toward Christine.

  “Let go of the gun,” said Drake.

  The old man shook his head.

  Dammit. He didn’t want to shoot a sick old man.

  A jangle pulled Drake’s attention away from Simms. Yvette held a chain hung with more than twenty keys of varying sizes.

  “Can you get up?” asked Mike.

  Christine’s eyes narrowed and she pushed herself back up the wall.

  “Unlock her. Now.” Mike held her gun steady.

  Yvette fumbled with the keys. “My stars. How did I ever acquire so many of these things?” She stepped closer to Christine, a key that looked much too big for handcuffs clasped in her fingers.

  “Careful,” said Drake.

  The single word came too late. Yvette sidestepped Mike, pulled a knife from her sleeve, and grabbed Christine. She held the knife at Christine’s throat, standing behind her, blocking any possible shot with Christine’s body.

  “You”—Yvette jerked her head toward Mike—“over by him.”

  Mike did as she was told.

  “Now drop your guns.”

  “Not going to happen,” said Mike.

  Yvette’s lips thinned and she tilted her head as if weighing her options.

  “Mr. Drake, put the water on that dresser then stand back. I’d hate for your pretty hat-maker to get cut.”

  “Don’t.” Christine’s chin shook slightly. “Don’t give her the water.”

  “If you don’t do as I say, she dies.” With the tip of her knife Yvette drew Christine’s blood. It beaded where her set jaw met her graceful neck then trickled toward her dress.

  What could he do? How could he save her? He felt as if he stood at the edge of a bottomless chasm, seconds from falling.

  “The water, Mr. Drake.” Yvette traced the knife across Christine’s neck.

  He took a step toward the dresser.

  Christine’s eyes grew wide as if she couldn’t believe he’d trade the water for her life. Again she shook her head.

  He followed Yvette’s directions, pulled the bottle from inside his jacket pocket, and placed it on the dresser’s mahogany surface.

  “Both of them. I know you brought a decoy.”

  “Oh?” His attempt at sangfroid failed miserably.

  Yvette donned a kittenish smile. “It’s what I would do. Both bottles or she dies.”

  He stared at Mike and after a moment she reached into the pocket of her dress, withdrawing the second bottle. He pulled it from her unyielding fingers and put it on the dresser next to the first. Fury made him precise. Fear for Christine made him notice everything—how closely Yvette held her, the glint of the knife blade, the distance between them.

  “Now step away.”

  Drake stepped backward. If Christine slumped he might have a shot. He sent her the thought slump. For a second, she stared at him as if she was trying to read his mind, then her eyes fluttered shut. This one time she failed to read his mind. Why now?

  With her free hand, Yvette reached for the first bottle and froze…grunted. “Bitch!” She bent from her waist, clutching her stomach as her hand turned red with blood. She lost hold of Christine, slashed at her as she fell.

  Crimson bloomed across Christine’s ribs.

  “No!” Lambert’s bellow echoed throughout the house.

  Christine gasped and collapsed onto the floor.

  The world—time—slowed. Drake ran. The second it took to reach Christine lasted an eternity.

  He kicked the knife out of Yvette’s hand then knelt and gathered Christine into his arms, propping her against the front of his legs. A small pearl handled knife fell from her hands and clattered against the planks where the rug ended.

  “Talk to me. Say something.” His voice shook.

  “Undo the handcuffs.” Her whisper—that she could speak—was sweeter than the pralines she liked so well.

  He yanked the keys out of Yvette’s hand, the force strong enough to send her colliding with the floor, and searched one-handed for a key small enough to open the cuffs. “How badly are you hurt?”

  “Just a scratch.”

  A scratch that was soaking her dress. The bark of laughter that escaped his lips sounded raw.

  “Help her.” Lambert whirled around the room, ruffling the curtains and chilling the air.

  He fumbled with the blood-slick keys. Had her breath grown shallow? He leaned close to her ear. “Don’t leave me.”

  She looked into his eyes and her lips twisted. A grimace? A smile?

  “I mean it,” he told her. “There are more snakes to toss and mobs to outrun. Don’t leave.” There was also a lifetime of mornings to be spent waking up to kisses, travels around the world, moonlit strolls, and maybe even children to look forward to. His throat tightened.

  Her lashes fluttered, but not in the flirtatious way that drove him to distraction. They fluttered as if it cost too much effort for her to keep her eyes open.

  Something wet rolled down his cheek. He dashed it away. Where was the damn key?

  There!

  Drake took the cuffs off Christine’s wrists and she sighed softly. He pulled her against his chest and held his hand over her wound. How deeply had Yvette cut her?

  How deeply had Christine cut Yvette? He glanced at the woman on the floor. Blood bubbled from her stomach and her skin looked pale and waxy.

  Mike stood above her, looking as pale and remote as a Nordic ice queen—one with an icicle in her chest instead of a heart. “She’s dying.”

  Drake cared not at all for Yvette’s fate. He slid one arm under Christine’s knees, the other under her shoulders, and stood.

  Christine’s head dropped against his shoulder and the floral scent that was uniquely hers reached his nose and grabbed his heart. She was everything that was pure and bright and brave. He loved her. He knew that now. Now that it might be too late to tell her. His throat tightened.

  Bang! A bullet whizzed by his head. By Christine’s head.

  “Bring me the water.” Simms’ hand shook slightly. There was no telling what his next shot might hit.

  “You want the water?” asked Mike. “Why? It won’t give you youth or vitality. It just gives life. Do you want to live forever as you are now?”

  Mike knew the bare minimum about how the water worked. She was lying.

  Too bad she was a terrible liar.

  Simms steadied his hand and pointed the Colt at Christine. “The water.”

  “Just do it,” said Drake.

  “I want the bottle you brought.” Simms used the gun’s muzzle to point at the rum then returned his aim to Christine.

  Mike snatched the bottle from the dresser and approached the bed.

  “Open it,” said Simms.

  Mike removed the cap.

  Simms held out his free hand but Mike shook her head and held the bottle beyond his reach. “Put down your gun.”

  Simms’ gaze remained fixed on the bottle. He licked his lips as if his throat was parched.

  Mike tilted the bottle and poured a generous tot onto the floor.

  “Fine.” Simms lowered his gun.

  Drake hesitated. Getting help for Christine was more important to him than breathing but he couldn’t leave Mike with a potential killer.

  “Go,” said Mike. Her tone was the equivalent of an eye roll. It told him she could take care of herself and she didn’t appreciate him thinking she couldn’t.

  He carried Christine into the hallway where Granny waited. The old woman took one look at Christine and said, “You get her to a doctor, right quick. You hear?”

  His heart contracted, with a bleeding, unconscious woman in his arms, he heard all too well.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Christine’s eyelids felt heavy, as if someone had weighted them down with river rocks. He
r head hurt. Her ankle hurt. Her heart hurt. Her ribs screamed.

  The lavender scented sheets that covered her were familiar. So too was the tick in the fan’s whirring. She was in her own bed.

  How?

  She pondered. She’d sunk the knife into Yvette’s stomach. That she remembered, then…nothing.

  “Is she waking up?” Her father sounded worried.

  There was no answer but whoever was holding her hand tightened their grip.

  She really ought to open her eyes but sleep called, singing a song worthy of the sirens. She sank back into its embrace.

  Minutes later…hours later? She woke. Her head and ankle still hurt. Her ribs still screamed. Her heart still ached. And someone still held her hand. She found the strength to slit her eyes.

  Drake was next to her bed—close enough to have laid his head on the edge of her mattress. Somehow, despite the uncomfortable position, he slept.

  “He hasn’t left your side in three days.”

  Christine slowly turned her head and looked at her father. Rather than displaying fatherly outrage that a man had taken up residence in her room, he looked…indulgent. Almost as if he approved of Drake. Well…Warwick wasn’t in possession of all the facts.

  “What about the woman from up north?” Lands, her voice sounded as creaky as old hinges.

  “He’ll explain.” Incredibly, Warwick’s expression softened even further. “And you’re gonna listen.”

  There was no explaining another woman—not after what she and Drake had shared. Suddenly her heart hurt worse than her ankle, head, and ribs combined. She shook her head. Hard for emphasis. A mistake since a wave of pain washed over the area above her left ear. She reached up and touched a goose egg of a lump.

  “You will listen.” Warwick crossed his arms and donned a stern, fatherly expression.

  Christine closed her eyes and snorted softly.

  Warwick sighed, the put-upon sigh of a man with a recalcitrant daughter. “I betrayed you and your mother.”

  That was not news, not worth the effort it would take to open her eyes again. Plus, the word betrayal tore at her heart.

  “Your grandfather betrayed your grandmother.”