“You got it, Detective, there’ll be one waiting for you after you finish up there and get back to the station. And stay in the damn house until the units arrive!”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. This is the sergeant’s way of saying he’s sorry. “Yes, sir.”
The call disconnects.
I stand there with the phone still held in my hand, in the middle of this historic mansion, with a man who completely owned my body not even an hour before.
I can feel Ignatius’ eyes on me, waiting, watching. Observing.
I turn my back on him. How could everything go from what happened between us upstairs in his bedroom not long ago, to the horrors that brought us together practically banging on his door looking for me?
I need a moment. I don’t want him to see the vulnerability that’s pouring from my eyes, or the residual fear that clawed gouges into me when I saw the message on my car. I need a moment to gather my false bravado and my faux indifference.
Because inside I’m not brave, and I’m so far from indifferent. Because everything I ran away from has found me, beckoned me back. It left its calling card at Ignatius Beauchamp’s home.
Six
What Legends Are Made Of
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
I know the history of this place. I know what happened here, I know the blood that was spilled and seeped into the ground, forever becoming a part of the Beauchamp plantation, staining it, imprinting the damnation into every grain of sand and each blade of grass.
I know about the Beauchamp curse.
You hear legends and folk tales and think it’s all just old wives tales that got exaggerated over the years, something to tell the children to make them behave. New Orleans is full of them. Ghost stories about haunted houses, warnings of voodoo spells and hexes. Every single home has wards and protection to keep out anything or anyone that would mean you harm.
The Beauchamp plantation has its own stories. One would think they were about two different places, one of a thriving plantation where bad luck seemed to visit its inhabitants frequently. The other had elements so bizarre, the stories seemed made up. They had to be. No normal person would behave that way.
However, the stories tell that a human was not responsible for the makings of the legends.
According to lore, hundreds of years ago in a hidden place at the edge of the swamps, the colored people gathered. Fires blazed in the dark and bones were beaten on skin-covered drums in a steady rhythm. They stripped from their clothing and tied loin cloths around themselves and weaved tiny bells strung together around their ankles. There was an altar, and on the altar was a box with particular carvings. Inside the box was a holy serpent, they say it was a python. Its name was Vodu, a Zombi. One by one, the people all went and laid their hand upon Vodu, pledging their loyalty to their serpent god, swearing to kill or die if need be. After they’d all sworn their devotion, a beautiful young woman was chosen to become the queen. She was placed atop the serpent’s box, where she danced and chanted. Her body began to shake and writhe. She flung her arms up into the night and her head rolled wildly upon her shoulders until a scream tore from her throat.
Invocations, curses, and sacred words poured from her lips. The serpent god had possessed her and accepted her as his oracle, his chosen one. The words she was chanting were not her own, but of the snakes. She was the vessel by which the power was being passed to all who were there, until everyone was writhing and chanting, until they’d all been possessed. They moved as one giant wave as the drum beat like a thunderous heartbeat in the black of the night.
The woman was first given the bowl of blood to drink from the animal that had been sacrificed, then it was passed to each person.
On one particular night, at one particular ceremony, the oracle had another offering for the holy serpent. She had hair clutched tightly in her grip which she flung into the fire, then anointed it with the blood of the sacrifice.
That was just before Bertrand Beauchamp’s family began to fall ill. A week before his wife died.
A week before Bertrand Beauchamp dragged the beautiful young slave woman from her room, the very room he’d visited her at often. Seven days before he’d beaten her unconscious near the bonfire the slaves had lit. When he burnt her alive.
The night the Beauchamp curse began.
That was then. This is now.
Some motherfucker came onto my property and did that to Dominique’s car. In broad fucking daylight.
It was all I could do to remain calm and not tear through the neighborhood looking for the sick fuck. I had to for her. She was terrified.
Not from the spray paint.
Because she was targeted. They sought her out, they obviously followed her here, and made their intentions known loud and clear in broad daylight. In broad fucking daylight at my house!
After the uniformed officers came by and searched the property, and the surrounding area, the crime scene investigators came and did what they do, took photographs and collected samples. Dominique’s car was towed to the station as evidence. I stood silently in the background and watched her as she worked. She couldn’t sit by and do nothing, regardless if she had a job to do or not. Even though she had been terrified when we found her car, she would not let that stop her. She was not going to sit back and not do anything. She was going to fight the bastard. I’m going to be right there with her.
The thing I found interesting was that Dominique didn’t seem to be focused on the same things as the other detectives. She took photographs and made notes of the symbols on the hood of her car. The others marked the indentations on the ground, footprints, tire tracks, hell, probably even the acorns and pinecones and anything else lying around the vicinity.
Not Dominique.
The only thing she had eyes for was the symbols.
It should strike me as strange, however, it doesn’t. Not knowing who her family is and where her blood comes from. The newspaper article had referred to her as an expert investigator. An expert on Voodoo? The occult? Magic? What does the sultry beauty know that makes her so important to this case, and so interesting to the perp?
Dominique is still a woman, alone, and some psycho has her on his radar. Which is why I drove her to the precinct.
However, the fact he chose the Beauchamp house to make his mark on Dominique is very peculiar.
Up until now, we believe, I believe, every move the perp made was methodical and with purpose. With these types of crimes, they always are.
So why did he choose to make his interest in Dominique known at my house? There’s a reason, a very powerful reason, at least to the perp.
There’s a link somewhere, some kind of connection, I just have to figure out what it is. Is it between me and Dominique? Between the Beauchamp house and her?
So many goddamn questions. But the walls don’t talk, and the ghosts hate any Beauchamp that walks on the face of the earth.
We need answers, and we need them now. We’re in a race of life, death, and torture, and we have no clue who we’re running from. With Mardi Gras coming, I think the grand finale is already planned, and the queen has been chosen.
They can’t fucking have her.
She’s mine.
Seven
11 Days Until Mardi Gras
“Get in the car, Dominique. It’s not a request.”
I knew she was a strong woman. I’d hoped she wasn’t going to be as much of a pain in the ass as I was afraid she was going to be.
I was wrong.
“Ignatius, go home.”
I chuckle. She’s cute, I’ll give her that. “I’m not asking again.” I round the corner of the Charger the department supplied her with while her car is otherwise indisposed.
She backs away in the opposite direction, eyes flashing at me. “If you come near me, I swear to God…”
That really makes me laugh. “You’ll what?” I ask, and it only succeeds in pissing her off more. I�
�ve got to admit, I kind of like her mad. I kind of like her wild. I kind of like her ready to fight me. I wonder how she’d react to the filthy ideas in my head of exactly what I’d like to do to her when she’s just like this.
“What’s so funny?” she snaps.
“You are, cheri.” I can’t contain my smirk.
Her nostrils flare as a flush explodes on her cheeks. “What exactly do you find humorous?” She continues to circle the car, and I continue to follow her, thoroughly enjoying this little game we’re playing.
We’re in the parking lot of the precinct. I came to get her when I knew she’d be getting off. She’s not leaving my sight. I’m one phone call away from calling into the firehouse and taking an indefinite leave of absence. Honestly, I don’t trust a soul, and I especially don’t trust anyone to watch over Dominique. The fucker followed her to my house, so as far as I’m concerned, that makes her my responsibility.
My steps widen as I close the distance between us. “I think it’s cute that you actually believe you have a choice in all of this.” I reach across the car and almost get her wrist locked in my grip.
She squeals and takes off running, and fuck me, my dick is so hard, it could saw a hole through my pants right now. One, two, three long strides and I’ve got her with an arm like an iron band around her waist. She lets out a shrill shriek and thrashes in my grip.
I clamp a hand over her mouth and grind my erection against her firm ass. She freezes with her body pressed against mine. I press my lips against her ear and breathe in her scent. It’s intoxicating, that and the feel of her curves against my hardness is almost enough to push me over to losing all sense of proprietary. I whisper roughly with all the simmering need inside me, “I’m sure you can tell I’m rather enjoying this. We can do this all day if you’d like, but I can’t guarantee that I won’t bend you over the car right here and fuck you like I own you, mon cheri. The choice is yours.” I feel her quick intake of breath and a slight tremor ripples through her body as her eyes cut sideways to peer at me. “Now that I have you where I want you, I’m going to take my hand from your mouth, you’re going to behave, and you’re going to listen. We don’t need the boys in uniform getting any wrong ideas.”
Her chest is rising and falling with her rapid breathing and her eyes are wide. She gives me a slight nod, and son-of-a-bitch, I think she presses her ass into my hard-on.
“Don’t tempt me, Dominique,” I growl, and I swear to Christ I feel her grin against my palm.
Slowly, I lower my hand and loosen my grip around her waist. I don’t let her go because I’m not sure she wouldn’t take off running, probably to test me to see if I’d make good on my threat. I’m sure she doesn’t realize it’s a promise, one I’d actually like to fulfill.
“Are you going to behave?”
She draws in a long breath. “Are you going to be a barbarian?”
“Yes, Dominique, I am,” I whisper in her ear. “I think you like it.” I tighten my grip again. My eyes drop to her mouth as she drags her lower lip between her teeth. Yes, indeed she does like the primitive barbarian. He quite likes her too. “Now get in the car.” I grin as I open the passenger door for her to slide her sweet ass in. She glares at me as she folds herself onto the seat, but her eyes glint with mischief. The kind of mischief that asks to get her ass spanked.
As I circle the front of the car and get in the driver’s side, I visualize my handprint on her ass cheek. Fuck, this is going to be harder than I thought. After I slam the door closed and arrange my hard-on so it doesn’t feel like it’s going to snap in half, I turn to face Dominique. “Just so you know, if you keep fucking with me, you’re going to pay for it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
A sly grin tugs at the corners of her mouth as her gaze drops to the uncomfortable bulge in my pants. “Do you think you scare me, Mr. Beauchamp?”
As I pull out of the police department’s parking lot, I reply, “My intention is not to scare you, Miss Chavelle. It’s to prepare you of what’s to come.”
“And what might that be?”
I turn to face her. “You coming very hard, and very often.” I watch as her mouth drops open in shock. I face forward again. “There may or may not be some pussy slaps involved, and fair warning, I will be playing with your ass.” I flip the switch for the turning signal. “Now tell me where we’re going so we can leave and I can take you back to my house, tie you to the bed, and feast on your cunt until you pass out.”
I think I actually hear her mouth clamp shut after she picks it up from the floor. “Ignatius Beauchamp, you are the dirtiest talking man I have ever met.”
I tilt my head back as a laugh bursts from my chest. “That may very well be true, Miss Chavelle, but there wasn’t anything I said that will not guarantee your utmost satisfaction.” And getting you off gets me off.
She shakes her head slowly, and I swear there’s a dare in the surprised cool blue of her eyes. “You’re mighty sure of yourself,” she goads me.
“There is no room for uncertainty.” I turn my head to face her again. “You will be coming all over my face, fingers, and cock. The question is how soon.”
Her mouth drops again, but her eyes glimmer with lust.
She’s fucking intoxicating, the weight of her beauty hits me in the middle of my chest like a lead ball and practically knocks the wind out of me.
Fuck.
Pushing aside the thoughts of all the ways I want to fuck her, I ask, “Where would you like to go?”
I hear her take in a slow breath, and instantly I feel the shift in energy within the confinement of the car, tense and uncomfortable. “Tante Hattie’s. I want to ask her a few questions.”
It should strike me as unusual, but it doesn’t. I remember how Dominique had only focused on the pentagram on her car, how she’d photographed it, and scribbled notes. It seemed nothing else existed to her, nothing else in the crime scene, or the surrounding area. Nothing.
I recall the article had said she’s an expert criminal investigator. Are the Voodoo and supernatural symbols what she’d been called in to work on for the case? Is that her area of expertise? Is that what she wants to talk to Hattie about? The woman everyone went to at the back of the restaurant, like my mother did to get her fortune told?
Eight
Sacrifice Or Madness?
It takes character to admit when you need help.
I need help and the only person I know who has the knowledge necessary for any understanding of the symbols and markings from the crime scenes, the message they might have been sending, especially the one left on my car, is Hattie. I know this is an ongoing investigation and only people in the department should have access to the information, but she’s the only person I trust. Especially with this.
It’s not clinical, or intellectual, or even systematic. It’s not science, nor can it be broken down into its individual parts to get to the base of it. Sometimes it’s not the why’s or how’s, because magic just is. It’s desire and want, it’s sacrifice and deliverance, it’s a request fulfilled, and payment rendered. There’s a balance that must be kept at all costs, a give-and-take. Too often, though, you aren’t prepared for what you come face-to-face with. If you survive, you do not leave unscathed.
The women were made to look like a payment, a sacrifice, but I think Ignatius was right. There was more to the crimes than what was on the surface. A message in the crimes themselves.
The Seven Deadly Sins.
The way Ignatius laid it out made it so clear, so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t see it myself.
What most folks don’t know is that Louisiana Voodoo is a folk religion originally brought over with the Haitian slaves in the 1670’s. Over time, and through blending with other cultures and religions, Catholicism primarily, it has evolved into what it is today. A diverse convergence of every single person who has ever practiced. It is as multicultural as the society in which it dwells. There is no one way to do it right. That’s why it’s virtuall
y impossible to decipher the symbols and markings. It’s a boiling cauldron of every single type of magic ever practiced, and the cherry on top is religion.
It’s a mess.
However, with Ash Wednesday quickly approaching, and the basics of the crimes, the tie-in to The Seven Deadly Sins makes complete sense.
And Ignatius was the one to see it first. The Beauchamp heir.
He’s a beautiful devil with a mouth that could back up the dirty things that flow from it. He is sin in the flesh with a body and face of a god. You’d beg to do unholy and very bad things with him.
As I sat in the car, Ignatius’ presence was enough to awaken everything from earlier. I felt the firm press of his fingers into my flesh, my lips ached from our feral kisses, but my sex? It still throbbed from the intensity of my orgasms. And, Christ, did I ever come. After our…whatever that was at the precinct between Ignatius and me, the ride over had grown quiet and somber, like the air was heavy and fat with the monsters that lurked in the shadows. I held onto the banter that had passed between us, and the filthy promises Ignatius made. I needed them to keep me grounded and in the present. Because this mess could suck you in and destroy you. That is precisely why I left New Orleans.
When we get to Hattie’s place, the hair at the back of my neck stands on end. I get a sense someone is watching me, that something is out there. Granted, this is New Orleans, one of the most haunted cities in the world, but this is somehow different. My eyes scan the area for anything that might be suspicious, for anyone I might recognize from the other crime scenes. Really for anything at all. Even as I do, I know I won’t see anything. I shake it off and chalk it up to jumpy nerves.
At the restaurant, Ignatius is already out of the car and on his way to my side of the car before I get out. He opens the door and extends his hand to me. My eyes meet his as I place my hand in his. His expression is tense, his brows are pulled together, and his gaze is hard as stone.
Voodoo Burning Page 5
