Laura visibly shuddered.
“It’s why you should leave the search for your mother to someone who knows these people and their customs. Contrary to popular belief, not all voodoo is evil, nor are all the people who practice it.”
She turned to him, her eyes wide. “Do you practice it?”
“No. But I’m not afraid of it.
“It had been a part of my life when I was growing up. And yours, too, for a little while. Apparently you don’t remember.”
Laura stared at him with surprise widening her eyes. “All I know is that when I see items of the occult or I’m in a shop like Voodoo Mystique, I feel evil touching me. It scares me.”
“Mary was your mother’s best friend. Most likely she has the answers you’re looking for. Go home. I’ll talk to her, find out what she knows.”
“That’s all right. I’ll talk to Mary. Just not right now.”
“Then when?” he pressed.
“What about my mom’s stuff? Is any of it left at the house?” she countered.
Drew turned back in his seat so he was facing forward and rested his hands on the steering wheel, deliberately, casually, as anxiety tightened his chest.
“Maybe looking at her things will help jog some of my memories,” she continued. “Then I’ll talk to Mary.”
He was not going up there.
“I suppose I should ask your mom. She could probably show me.”
“In the attic,” he said, pushing the words past clenched teeth. Better to leave his mère out of it.
“What?”
“Your mother’s things. They’re in the attic.”
Excitement flared across her face. “Great! Let’s go.”
Damn.
While Drew went searching for Martha in her private rooms that she kept in the back wing of the house to confirm her mother’s things were still in the attic, Laura headed up to her room. She hesitated at the top of the stairs when she spotted her mother’s door at the end of the hall. If she could just force herself to enter that room, maybe more of her memories would come back to her.
And maybe if she remembered, she could go home.
She focused on her mother’s door at the end of the hall and hurried toward it, even as her stomach tightened and churned. No more being a wimp. She had to get through that door. Chances were there was nothing even in there. The only thing holding her back was her stupid fear. And there was nothing to be afraid of. She took a deep breath and willed her insides to calm.
She could do this. She had to do this. If something had happened in that room, something she’d buried in her mind, she was going to have to pull it out and face it or she’d never remember.
A cramp sliced through her stomach. She clutched at it, but continued forward. Almost there, she told herself. No need to stop now. Five feet. Three feet. She could almost feel the doorknob in her hand. She could do it this time. She would do it this time.
Beads of sweat formed on her forehead and rolled into her eyes, blurring her vision. If she could just get through her mother’s door then everything would be okay. She knew it. She’d be able to breathe. The pain would cease and everything would be as it should be.
She’d remember what had happened in that room and she’d know why her mother had left her all alone. She’d know her mother hadn’t left because of her. Because she hadn’t been good enough.
Or loved enough.
Stopping in front of the door, Laura took a deep breath and curved her hand around the knob. The knob’s metal seared her palm. Shooting pain shot up her arm. Yelping, she yanked her hand back. The acrid scent of burning flesh filled her nose. A stinging throb pulsated through her. In shocked disbelief she watched raw blisters rise on her skin.
Tears swam in her eyes. She stared at the ugly, oozing burns then fell back against the wall, clutching her hand to her chest, her eyes squeezed shut.
How could a doorknob burn her hand?
Slowly, the pain faded. Laura opened her eyes and looked once more at her palm. Horror rolled over her as the blisters began to disappear. The bright red tinge dulled until finally her hand returned to normal.
She rubbed her hand where the blisters had been but felt no pain, not even the slightest sensitivity.
How was that possible? Was she losing her mind? This house, this place… She turned back to her mother’s door. Something was very wrong here.
Laura heard someone coming up the stairs. She turned and saw Drew step onto the landing and walk toward her down the hall. She looked back down at her hand. The marks were gone, her palm, smooth.
She wanted to say something, but what could she say? How could she explain the unexplainable? It couldn’t be real. She glanced back at her mother’s door and reached for it, her hand hovering over the knob. But she couldn’t make herself touch it. Not again.
Was she going crazy?
She turned back to Drew and, for a second, he had that same pinched look he’d had earlier, then the coldness touched his eyes. Warning bells clanged in the back of her mind.
Was anything in this house what it seemed?
He stopped in front of her. “You sure you don’t want to rest awhile?”
Was that hope she heard in his voice? Or concern? She looked at her palm once more, debating whether or not to tell him what happened, but decided it was too bizarre. “No, I’m ready.”
“All right. The attic is this way.” He gestured down the hall and gave her a hesitant crooked smile that was both boyish and charming. For a second, as she looked at him, she forgot the uncertainties ringing in her mind.
But only for a second.
He placed a guiding hand on her arm. She wondered why his touch and his silly crooked smile would affect her the way it did. And why, for just that second, the sadness and the fear disappeared along with the absolute certainty that she was losing her grip on reality.
They reached the far door at the end of the hall. Drew’s shoulders tensed and his face paled.
Fear nudged her. “What is it?”
“I—uh—should have brought a flashlight. You’ll be all right here a minute?”
“Of course. But are you sure everything is okay?” She got the distinct impression his hesitation had nothing to do with a flashlight.
“Fine.”
“Okay,” she muttered, and watched him walk back down the hall.
While he was gone, Laura studied the attic door and its worn brass knob. Should she chance touching it? Somehow it seemed as if the house itself was trying to stop her from discovering the truth about her mother.
Drawing a deep breath, she brushed the tip of a finger across the knob’s surface. Cold. Quickly, she grasped it, turned then yanked the door open. Pulling her hand back, she exhaled a relieved breath and peered up the darkened narrow stairwell.
There was nothing sinister here, nothing to be afraid of. She flicked the light switch on the wall to her right. Nothing happened. She glanced up at the old bulb in the ceiling and flicked the switch again. The wooden steps lay hidden in dark shadows. The bulb must need replacing. No wonder Drew wanted a flashlight. But it really wasn’t that far to the top, and there was plenty of light filling the narrow corridor through the opened door behind her.
Frowning, Laura stepped inside and up a couple steps. She should wait for Drew. She knew that, but instead she climbed a couple more. Then another. An icy breeze touched her cheek. Her heart stilled. Behind her, the door swung shut, throwing the stairwell into pitch darkness.
Shit! Laura spun toward the door, but saw only darkness. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then eased her way back down the stairs. After reaching the last step, she felt for the knob. Groping along the door, running her hands across the entire surface, she searched but found nothing.
Where was the knob?
“Hello? Drew!” She pounded on the door.
Nothing.
Then she heard something behind her. A step on the stairs. She froze. When it didn’t come again, she contin
ued her perusal of the door.
Then she heard a scratch along the wall.
Knowing it was useless, she turned to look behind her.
She felt something—a presence in the darkness. All around her. Smothering her. Panic scraped the edges of her nerves. She tried to concentrate on listening, but couldn’t hear a thing over the roar of blood rushing through her ears.
She turned back to the door and pushed at it, trying to force her way out.
“Drew!”
Another step. She pounded on the door. Scratched. Her fingernail snapped. Behind her a loose board squeaked and echoed in the stairwell.
Then a thump.
Thump.
Thump.
“Drew!” Laura hit the door with both fists.
A light touch skittered across the back of her neck. She screamed.
The door flew open.
She fell forward, stumbling into Drew’s arms. She clung to his shoulders, gulping in deep breaths, trying to still her racing heart, and block her panicky tears.
“What happened?” Drew pulled back and placed his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to his. “You’re shaking.”
“I couldn’t get the door open. I…I heard something.”
Something was in there with me.
He looked down into her eyes, and there it was again—that concerned look. He was worried about her. She was worried about her. What was going on in this house?
What was going on with her?
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” he demanded.
Was he angry?
“I…I was curious. Everything was fine until the door blew shut.” She shivered and looked behind her toward the attic door.
It was closed again. Had it blown shut?
She hadn’t imagined something in there with her. Had she?
Drew stepped away from her and opened the attic door. A baseball bounced down the last few steps and came to rest between his feet.
A ball?
“Oh my God,” she cried, choking on a laugh. “That must be what I heard. I was afraid of a baseball.”
Drew wasn’t smiling. In fact, he didn’t say anything, just stood there staring at the ball.
Her smile died. “It’s okay. Really. Isn’t it?”
He stepped over the ball and turned toward the door. “This door opens with a latch, right here.” He showed her a latch built into the top of the door. “If it shuts on you again, just pull it, and the door will swing open.”
“I felt over the whole door and didn’t feel that latch.” I should have felt that latch.
“These old houses can be spooky.”
There was an unfamiliar tension in his voice. And he wasn’t looking her in the eyes. Something was definitely wrong. A shudder moved through her.
Drew peered up the stairwell. “These old houses are always creaking and shifting. That’s probably what you heard.”
“That and the ball. I wonder how a ball got lodged at the top of the stairs?”
His lips thinned as his jaw tightened. He turned on the flashlight and stepped into the stairwell. Laura stared after him, reluctant to follow. Something was bothering him and he wasn’t sharing. She rubbed the back of her neck. She might not want to believe it, but she hadn’t imagined that icy touch. Something had been in that stairwell with her.
Drew turned, his face ghostly pale in the wan light.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
No!
She pushed the protest aside and nodded, then climbed toward him up the stairs.
Chapter 6
Laura followed Drew into the darkened attic and stood in awe as he swung the beam of the flashlight over boxes, pictures, clothes, hats—years’ worth of dusty discarded items.
“Look how many of these boxes have my mother’s name written on them.” Laura hurried past him toward the boxes. She fought an urge to sit on the floor and start digging through her mother’s life, searching for answers. “Why would she leave all this stuff here?”
Drew shrugged and walked into a shaft of waning sunlight streaming from a window covered with years of dust and spiderwebs.
“Look over here.” He gestured toward large bolts of fabric hung on racks fastened to the wall next to an old sewing machine.
Laura approached a large bin full of faceless rag dolls. Heartache squeezed her chest as she picked up one of the small eight-inch dolls. She ran her fingers over the tiny yellow yarn braids. “I remember these. She called them pocket dolls. I still have one that I took with me when I went to live in San Francisco.”
“I don’t remember her making the dolls.”
She looked up at him. The tension that had hardened the lines around his eyes seemed to dissipate as he stared into the bin. “Why would you?”
“Your mother meant a lot to me when I was growing up. I missed her when she left.” His gaze held hers. “I missed you both.”
He’d missed her? He’d thought about her? She wanted to hold him, to rest her head against his chest, to feel his heart beating, and smell his warm male scent.
But she couldn’t.
Something was going on with him. Something that scared her.
Come on, Drew, make a move.
They stared at each other until an awkward tension stretched between them.
Drew turned away. He couldn’t seem to stop himself. He couldn’t be there for her. He couldn’t let himself get close to her. It didn’t matter that he wanted to spend more time with her, to see how far their connection would take them. They had no future together, because she had no future. Damn him for an idiot.
He watched her walk around the attic touching her mother’s things, her soft cotton blouse clinging to her body, outlining her breasts. If he closed his eyes he could still smell her light scent, and feel her soft touch. She was beautiful, desirable with her long dark hair dancing around her shoulders. And when her eyes met his…his heart skipped.
He wished he could stop watching her, stop thinking about her. Stop wanting her. For her sake he hoped Delilah was out there somewhere. But what were the odds? Mothers usually didn’t run out on their kids and disappear for twenty years.
Unless something terrible happened to make them.
Something terrible was going to happen to Laura if he didn’t get her away from there.
Laura knelt down, her hands trembling as she opened another box. Drew turned away. Reluctantly he walked toward the shadows in the back of the room, his gut twisting with each step. He hated it up here, always had. He could remember the odd sounds reverberating from the ceiling in his room—the pounding, the chanting. And then there was the time he’d gotten out of bed to investigate an odd smell that had drifted down the hall from the opened attic door and sickened his stomach. He’d thrown up, and his mother had kept the door locked from then on.
He played his flashlight beam over the darkened corner then entered another room. Paul stood in front of him. Only this time he wasn’t holding Drew’s old baseball and he wasn’t smiling. His face was twisted in anger, even as his eyes widened with desperation.
He lunged forward and seized Drew’s arm. Horrified, Drew tried to pull back, to shake him loose, but Paul’s grip was too tight. Images filled Drew’s mind: Candles flickering, black smoke rising through the air, the overpowering scent of incense. Randal holding a squirming eight-year-old Laura down. Dousing her forehead with some kind of oil. And blood.
So much blood.
“Drew, what is that?” Laura’s voice, her slight touch, brought him reeling back from the vision.
He faltered. Laura grabbed hold of him.
Paul was gone.
“Are you all right?” Her large blue eyes bored into his.
He let himself get lost in them, and then it seemed things would be okay…for a moment.
“Drew?”
He straightened. “Yes, fine.” But he wasn’t fine and from the look on her face, he knew he wasn’t fooling her. The visions Paul had shown him, they were fro
m that night he and Laura almost drowned. What had Randal done to her?
“I don’t like it up here,” he admitted.
“I can see why.” She nodded toward a table covered with a long white cloth. It held several thick, half-burned candles of different shapes and colors, and a scattering of statues of what looked like Catholic saints. Dried herbs and dead flowers hung upside down, dropping small pieces to litter the cloth.
Drew’s stomach turned.
“Do you smell that?” she asked.
“What?” He didn’t smell anything other than years of dust and stale air, and perhaps the faint hint of incense.
“Nothing,” she whispered, but he could tell she was hiding something from him. He thought of the way she’d reacted at her mother’s door, and earlier in the stairwell with the ball. For the second time, he couldn’t help wondering if perhaps this house and the spirits in it were having an effect on her. If maybe she was a touch intuitive herself.
“It’s a voodoo altar, isn’t it?” Her voice broke.
“Yes.”
To his surprise, she stepped toward the table. He placed a hand on her arm to stop her. Suddenly he didn’t want her to remember. To touch it.
“You don’t have to go near it.”
“But I do. If I want to find my mother, I’m going to have to face my fears and remember what happened to us.”
For an instant, he wanted to tell her, to reveal the horrible truth of that night, at least what he could remember from what Paul had shown him. But he couldn’t seem to make himself form the words.
He followed her to the altar and watched her gaze take in the scattered herbs and spilled candle wax; the dried, severed alligator head and the chicken feathers strewn haphazardly around the floor.
“Is that blood?” she asked.
The few drops on the cloth did look like blood. “Most likely rooster or some other animal blood.” He hoped.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and vulnerable and he stopped himself from pulling her into his arms and holding her tight. He knew he wouldn’t be doing it for her, but for himself. He wanted so badly to hold her in his arms, to try and forget that horrible night. To do what he’d always done, to push it all out of his mind and move forward.
Black Magic Lover Page 6
