Grabbing her box from the counter, she carried it into the living room and set it on the floor. She smiled at the grand mantle on the enormous wood-burning fireplace. The dark-wood ledge stretched across the entire front of the brick hearth and wrapped around the sides to meet the doorframes on either side. The first time she’d stepped foot inside the house, the mantle had called to her—the perfect place to set up the altar honoring the loa who walked with her.
She glanced at her watch and quickened her pace. The movers would arrive within the hour.
Pulling a deep-purple scarf from the box, she shook it with a flourish and draped it across the front of the mantle. Then she hung the Baron’s vévé, the spiritual symbol to represent the loa, on the wall behind it. Composed of a cemetery cross, which represented the crossroads, and two coffins, the hand-stitched vévé had been a gift from Natasha after Odette’s initiation into the Mambo’s House of worship.
She continued setting up the items to represent and honor her guardian Spirit: a human skull replica with a top hat and dark glasses, purple and white candles, a small bottle of rum, and a fine Cuban cigar. A string of silver and black Mardi Gras beads completed the altar, and she stepped back to admire her creation. “That’s a beautiful testament to my servitude, don’t you think, Baron?”
A heaviness in the air formed behind her right shoulder, and a woodsy scent, both familiar and foreign, crept into her senses. She turned, and though she couldn’t yet see him, the presence of her resident ghost was unmistakable. “I’m not scared of you. Why don’t you show yourself to me?”
The presence drifted closer, until the empty energy of the entity reached her skin. She sensed in her mind an arm reaching toward her, and the sensation of fingers gliding down her cheek raised goose bumps on her arms. For a dead guy, he sure was warm.
Her heart thrummed, and she swallowed the dryness from her mouth. “Who are you?”
A deep, musical voice danced through her head. “Have you forgotten me?”
Chapter Three
James Malveaux scanned the crowd, searching for the woman of his dreams, but the likelihood of finding someone in a dress that looked like it came straight from the set of Gone with the Wind in a crowded nightclub was nil…even in New Orleans.
The DJ played a mix of modern music, the heavy bass line masking the melody so that it sounded more like he stood inside a giant heart beating an irregular rhythm. Bodies gyrated on the dance floor, moving in time to the vibrating tempo, and the scents of alcohol, sweat, perfume, and Axe body spray swirled through the air.
His friends Noah and Cade had wandered off to hit on women, and James would have normally been right in the middle of it, but that damn dream had him so confused he didn’t know his head from his tail. The mystery woman was all he’d thought about since the dreams started three weeks ago. Every time he managed to get her off his mind, his wolf would throw her back into his thoughts front and center…as if he’d already claimed her…but how could he claim someone he’d never met?
And that dress… He rubbed at the scruff on his chin. He hadn’t planned on attending any costume balls in the foreseeable future, but plans could change.
Leaning an elbow on the bar, he tossed back a double-shot of whiskey and focused on the warmth trailing down to his stomach. He needed to get out of his head and into the moment. Or at least dull the thoughts with a little libation. Unfortunately, it took three times as many drinks to get a werewolf buzzed. His body processed the alcohol at lightning speed, so the buzz—if he managed to get one—wouldn’t last half an hour.
“You okay?” The bartender, Nikki, a witch from the local coven, leaned toward him, her shoulder-length earrings swishing as she tilted her head. “You’ve usually found a date by now.” She grinned and popped the top on an Abita beer, sliding it to the man next to him.
He chewed the inside of his cheek. He should have found a date by now. “Give me a rum and Coke. Make it a triple.”
“Who is she?” Ice clinked in the glass as she filled it.
“Who?”
“The woman who broke your heart.” She held up a bottle of Captain Morgan. “The usual?”
James huffed. His heart couldn’t be broken when he’d never been in love. He’d never allowed himself to even come close to that emotion. He glanced at the rack of liquor behind her and focused on a bottle with a purple label. A skeleton wearing a tuxedo jacket and a top hat stared back at him. “Is the rum with the dead guy on it any good?”
She shrugged. “The Baron? I like it. The distillery is here in New Orleans. Been around since the late eighties, I think. It almost went under a few years ago, until the owner sent his daughter in to whip it into shape.” She poured in three shots and topped it with a splash of Coke before sliding it to him.
Gripping the drink, he focused on the chill seeping through the glass. Beads of condensation formed on the surface, and he wiped them away with his thumb. “You know a lot about your liquor.”
“I’m a bartender. It’s my job.”
He took a sip and swished the concoction around in his mouth. Warm, earthy tones greeted his taste buds, with an undercurrent of cinnamon and some other exotic spices he couldn’t place. The Coke added a touch of sweetness to the robust aroma of the rum. He closed his eyes to savor the flavor and took another sip.
Nikki chuckled. “Good, huh?”
He opened his eyes. “I’ve found my new favorite drink. You said it’s called The Baron?”
She held up the bottle. If O’Malley’s didn’t stock it, he’d have to convince the pack’s headquarters to start. Where had this delicacy been all his life? “The woman who runs it now…do you know her name?”
“She’s a vodouisant, and everyone calls her the Baroness. She comes from money, and she runs a tight ship.” She leaned in closer. “I’ve heard rumors that some kind of black magic was involved. Baron Samedi is the Voodoo god of death, after all. I don’t know much about Voodoo, but why would you dedicate your business to death? Sounds dangerous to me.”
He took another sip of his drink. “Sounds like my kind of woman.”
Nikki arched an eyebrow. “No offense, but a woman like that wouldn’t bat an eye at a werewolf construction worker. You wouldn’t have much to offer someone who’s made a deal with the devil.”
He straightened his spine. “I’ve got plenty to offer. Werewolves are known for our stamina.”
She snorted. “Was that supposed to be a reference to your prowess in the bedroom? If so, you’ll have to forgive me. The only wiener I’m interested in is the kind that’s smothered in creole mustard and comes on a bun.” She returned the rum bottle to the rack and nodded at something behind him. “Speaking of vodouisants. There’s the Queen herself.”
James turned to find Natasha, the Mambo of the biggest New Orleans House of Voodoo, waltzing through the door, followed by six other vodouisants.
“I bet she’d know who the Baroness is,” Nikki said.
James downed the rest of his drink and slid off his seat. His head spun as the buzz he’d been so desperate for finally fogged his senses. His interest in the distillery owner dissolved as he strode toward Natasha. He had another question for the Mambo.
He waited until she finished saying hello to a woman near the bar before offering his hand to shake. “Hi, Natasha. I’m James Malveaux. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
She accepted his outstretched hand and paused as his magical signature registered on her skin. “Werewolf?”
He nodded. “I need your help.”
“You’ve visited my readers at the temple a few times. I remember seeing your name on the books. Did they not answer your questions?”
He raked a hand through his hair and tried to collect his muddled thoughts. “They did. Kinda. Not really, but I’ve been having these dreams…”
“Why don’t you stop by the temple tomorrow around seven, and I’ll read your cards?”
His heart sank. “Yeah. Okay, I will.” He blew out a bre
ath and shoved his hands in his pockets, kicking a flattened plastic cup toward a trash can.
Natasha sighed and motioned for him to follow her. She disappeared into the crowd, and he stumbled around the patrons, catching up to her as she went out the back door.
Two wrought-iron tables occupied the small, grassy area of the courtyard, and a cobblestone path led to a separate building that housed a storage area for the club and the restrooms. A thin layer of wispy, white clouds stretched across the crescent moon, and pale stars twinkled in the midnight sky.
The humid, summer air clung to his skin, and the vibrating bass from the club muffled, giving his ears a reprieve from the incessant noise as he strode deeper into the courtyard.
Natasha settled into one of the metal chairs and gestured for James to take the other one. As he lowered into the seat, she chuckled. “Your eyes match your shirt.”
He glanced at his pale-blue button up. “I’ve been told I look good in blue.”
“My Spirit Guides approve.”
“Spirit Guides?”
She nodded. “They’re the reason I’m out here, about to give you a reading, instead of having drinks with my friends.”
Thank goodness for Spirit Guides, then. “What else did they tell you?”
“That I should talk to you. What have you seen my readers about?”
He swallowed and glanced up as two women, walking arm-in-arm, disappeared into the restroom. Talking to a vodouisant in the privacy of a reading room at the temple had been hard enough, but to spill his guts out here in the open? He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed; I won’t tell a soul. We take our readings seriously.”
He ran a hand down his face. How could he explain this without sounding like a complete wuss? “I’m having these dreams about a woman, and…” Heat crept into his cheeks, but he couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or the alcohol. He blew out a breath and looked into the Mambo’s eyes. “I feel like I love her. My wolf does anyway. It feels like he’s claimed her.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Claimed her?”
“It’s a werewolf thing. My wolf wants me to take this woman as my mate. He’s telling me she’s my fate-bound…my soulmate. But I’ve never met her. I don’t even know if she exists.” Saying it out loud made it sound more ridiculous than it already was. His wolf couldn’t claim a woman he’d never met. It wasn’t possible.
“Mm-hmm.” Though her tone sounded doubtful, with her blank expression, the woman was impossible to read.
“Anyway, all the readings have said the same thing. That I have to break the cycle, but I don’t know what the cycle is. I just want to know who this woman is. My wolf won’t rest until I find her.”
Natasha held his gaze for what felt like an eternity. His buddies inside must have been looking for him by now, but he had to hear whatever the priestess had to say.
He’d been perfectly happy living his life as a bachelor, seeing a woman a time or two and then ending it before any emotions had time to bloom. He’d been counting on his wolf to let him know when it was time to settle down. Mating with anyone but his fate-bound was out of the question. If fate didn’t have a specific mate in mind for him, he’d rather stay single for the rest of his life. He’d seen what could happen to a werewolf who mated with someone fate didn’t choose. His dad was a broken man because of it.
Natasha inhaled deeply and swayed slightly, almost as if she were slipping into a trance. Then, she straightened her spine. “Let me see your hands.”
Reaching across the table, he placed his hands palm up in hers. Her magical energy pricked at his skin as she gazed at the place where his right pinkie finger should have been.
“I thought werewolves were fast healers.”
He fought the instinct to jerk his hand away. He’d been asked that question so many times, he’d lost count. Most werewolves were fast healers. “We can’t regrow limbs.”
“You couldn’t reattach it?”
If his body worked like a normal werewolf’s, then yeah, he could have. “It got caught in a cement mixer. There wasn’t much left to reattach.”
She frowned. “This makes sense. My guides told me a piece of you was missing, and here it is.”
He ground his teeth, trying to quell his frustration. His buzz was already wearing off, and he needed answers. “What’s the cycle people have been talking about, and who is the woman from my dreams?”
With a sigh, Natasha reached into her purse and pulled out a deck of tarot cards. She shuffled them and then offered the stack to him. “Mix them up, and I’ll do a quick card reading. Don’t expect much though. The alcohol you’ve drunk is mucking up the waters.”
He shuffled the cards and handed them back to her. “I didn’t drink that much.”
“You’ve had enough.” She turned over three cards and narrowed her eyes at them. “You are stuck in a cycle that needs to be broken. Not just for your sake. There are others involved.”
His heart raced. “What’s the cycle?”
“It’s unclear.” She turned over a few more cards. “Your dreams are trying to tell you something.”
No kidding. “Who is the woman?”
She turned over another card and frowned. “Also unclear.”
“Damn it.” He fisted his hands and slammed them on the table.
Natasha arched an eyebrow at him. “If the Spirits say it isn’t time for you to know, then it’s not time.”
“I’m sorry.” He opened his fists and folded his hands on the table. Being an ass to a priestess wouldn’t get him anywhere.
“I’m sensing an unrest.”
He’d never felt more restless in his life.
Placing two more cards face up, she shook her head. “This is bigger than you.”
She turned over another card, and his heart sank. The most recognizable card in the tarot deck stared up at him, and he could barely force the word through his tightening throat. “Death.”
Sympathy softened her eyes. “In tarot, the death card rarely means literal death. It’s the end of one cycle and the start of something new. Whatever cycle you’re stuck in, you gotta end it soon.”
“But you can’t tell me what the cycle is? What I need to do to stop it?”
She stacked the cards and returned them to her purse. “The Spirits ain’t sharing that information with me. It could be something you’re supposed to discover on your own, or it could involve another person, and you’ll have to end it together.” She rose to her feet. “Or it could be the alcohol. The waters around you are murky. Come see me when you’re sober, and we’ll try again.”
“Thank you.”
She bowed and shuffled into the club. With his elbows on the table, he held his head in his hands. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. And the fact that the Mambo, the most powerful vodouisant in New Orleans, couldn’t give him any new information didn’t make him feel any better about his problem.
Natasha was right when she’d said a piece of him was missing, but it wasn’t his finger like she thought. He’d always felt that way, even before he’d lost it in a construction accident. A piece of him was missing from somewhere deep in his soul. He’d never felt whole, and he blamed it on his mother. If she’d been around more, maybe he wouldn’t be so opposed to love and his wolf wouldn’t have claimed an imaginary mate.
His mom had cheated on his dad more times than he could count. Probably a lot more than James was aware of, since it started when he was a kid. There was no guarantee that a werewolf would find a fate-bound, so many chose to mate with whomever their human side fell in love with, rather than waiting to see if their wolves would bond with anyone. His dad mated with the first woman he fell for, and look how that worked out for him.
James shook his head. A fate-bound mate would never cheat, and he wouldn’t settle for anything less.
Of course, his mom being human didn’t help his circumstances either. He was already slow to heal because he only ha
d his father’s magic running through his veins. Maybe his human side made him incapable of finding his fate-bound too.
“There you are, man. I was starting to think you jetted on us.” Noah, a second-born were with auburn hair and dark-brown eyes, sauntered into the courtyard. “He’s out here,” he called over his shoulder to Cade. With a flick of his wrist, Noah dragged the chair through the grass and plopped into it.
James glanced through the doorway, but luckily no one had seen his friend’s display. “Are you drunk? Don’t use your power where people can see.”
Noah grinned. “I checked. No one saw.” Second-born werewolves lacked the ability to shift, but most of them had some sort of psychic power. Telekinesis was a rare talent for a were, and Noah’s cocky attitude about it grated on James’s nerves.
“It’s not parlor magic; it’s a unique werewolf gift. Don’t flaunt it like it’s cheap.”
“When did you become a grumpy old fart?” Noah crossed his arms.
When indeed?
“Cade’s holding down the fort in there. We met a group of three, and they’re up for leaving the club. We need you.”
A quick glance inside revealed Cade standing near the doorway, a mug of beer in one hand, his other arm wrapped around the waist of a tall blonde. Cade’s own blond hair had that mussed, just-got-out-of-bed look, but James knew better. He’d seen the amount of hair products his friend used to make himself look thrown together.
James held in a groan. With his buzz gone, he wasn’t in the mood to play wingman. “You can handle two, can’t you?”
Noah narrowed his eyes. “What’s wrong with you? You—”
“Hold on.” James inhaled deeply, and the distinct scent of rotting garbage and death assaulted his senses. “You smell that?”
Noah sniffed. “Is that…demon?”
He rose to his feet. “Sure smells like it. Get Cade.”
A Deal with Death Page 3
