Bayou Nights (10 page)

“What about Dominique Youx? Does he have my father?”

“That I don’t know,” said Marie.

“Could it be Delphine LaLaurie?”

Marie rubbed her chin. “It’ll be a dark day if that spirit drinks the water in Lafitte’s treasure.”

“You know about that?” Drake’s voice was sharp.

“Every ghost in New Orleans knows about that.” She wrinkled the bridge of her nose. “Lafitte’s a braggart. When he first died he told everyone how he was gonna come back.” Marie chuckled softly. “He didn’t know Dominique Youx moved the treasure. I reckon the Lafitte brothers want to find it more than anyone.”

“Youx wants the treasure found,” said Christine.

“You reckon?” asked Marie.

“My father never wins at cards. Especially not when there’s something of value at stake. Youx fixed the game.”

“Could be.”

“Maybe he needed someone living to fetch the coin.” Drake’s eyes glittered like ice chips.

“Could be,” repeated Marie. “The question is, how are you going to find the treasure, stop a passel of powerful ghosts”—she wrinkled her nose again— “that
pretender
, and still save your daddy?”

Christine glanced down at the gravel and crushed oyster shell path then bit her lip. She had no idea.

“Tell you what, chére. I’ll help you.”

Christine looked up. Quickly. Hope flickered in her chest.

“You find my granddaughter and promise to teach her your trade, I’ll help when you need me.”

“Where is your granddaughter, Madame Laveau?” Drake asked.

Marie Laveau jerked her head in the general direction of Storyville.

Sweet Jesus. Her granddaughter was a prostitute?

Do-good ladies who tried to save prostitutes from their evil ways were about as welcome in Storyville as bastards at a family picnic. What choice did she have? Christine nodded. “It’s a deal. What’s her name?”

“Celestine. Celestine Paris.”

“Which house?”

The voodoo queen shook her head. “I don’t rightly know.”

“I’ll find her.” Christine’s voice sounded much surer than she felt.

Marie petted her snake. “You made the right decision, chére. I reckon you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

Christine reckoned that, too.

Chapter Eight

Christine had agreed to another trip to Storyville. Was she mad?

She was certainly angry. Steam seemed to rise from her delicate ears. “You could have gotten us both killed!”

At home, in Boston, such a sentence would arrive in a staccato burst. Christine’s words were languid, almost lazy. The drawl wasn’t fooling him—he could tell she was seething. For an instant, when he’d touched her cheek, she’d seemed to melt into him. No evidence of that now. She was as prickly as a rosebush.

This was his thanks for shielding her? He refrained—barely—from pointing out that it was she who had put them in danger. If Christine had done as he’d asked, Desdemona and her shades would have been easily dispatched.

They stepped beyond the walls of the cemetery onto Basin Street, and sound surrounded them. Birds chirped. Newspaper boys hawked the latest edition. Wagon wheels rolled over cobbles. His teeth ground together. The woman was a menace. If he hadn’t had to keep shoving her behind him, he could have reached for his gun. This could not go on. “I need to send a telegram.”

“That’s your answer? You need to send a telegram?”

He nodded. “It is and I do.”

“Now?”

Absolutely now. “Where’s the closest office?”

She huffed then led him to a Western Union office less than a block away. “Who are you wiring?”

“A colleague.” Brusque, almost rude. The vision of the giant snake ripping the spirit from the air danced a macabre tango in his brain. This—what was happening now—was more than a missing father. This was evil entities making plays for far too much power. This was his heart making decisions that should be made by his brain. He grabbed up the form and a pencil then wrote.

Christine peered around him, her chest brushing against his arm. He stiffened.

She read the address line. “Mike?”

He stepped aside and let her read the rest. Allowing her unfettered access to his correspondence was far better than the torture of feeling her breasts against him.

NEED ASSISTANCE STOP COME TO NEW ORLEANS IMMEDIATELY STOP SITUATION DIRE STOP

“Dire?” She stared up at him with those eyes, that hair, that
face.

“Dire.”

Her lips twitched.

She was amused? There was nothing remotely amusing about their situation. In fact,
dire
was an excellent description.

“Need I remind you that in the past day we’ve been set upon by a zombie, a mob, street thugs, and a voodoo witch?” He sounded pompous, even to himself. “From the sound of it, worse is coming.”

“You’re right.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper and the twitch on her lips fled. “And my father’s still missing.”

“That too.” The urge to shield her, to comfort her, to protect her nearly overwhelmed him. Drake closed his eyes, blocking out the worry writ across her face. He was losing his mind.

“Will he come?” she asked

“Who?”

“Mike.” She sounded exasperated.

“Mike’s never let me down before.”

“And he’s human?”

Apparently she was losing her mind as well. “Of course Mike’s human. What were you expecting, an angel?”

“Angels are real?” Her hand rose to her throat.

“Maybe in heaven. What else would Mike be besides human?”

“Zeke Barnes travels with a ghost.”

“I’m not Zeke Barnes.”

“No,” she agreed. “You’re not.”

Given that every woman he’d ever met found Barnes wildly attractive, Drake wondered if he’d just been insulted.

Christine rubbed her chin against the back of her hand. Her lips pursed. “We’re definitely going to need Marie on our side.”

“You want to go looking for her granddaughter? In the red light district? Do you remember what happed the last time you went to Storyville? What are you going to do? Knock on doors until you find her?” She really was mad. There was no other explanation.

“I don’t see that we have much choice. Hopefully Celestine doesn’t work for Josie. I doubt we’d be welcome there.”

Not only was she mad as a hatter, she was a master of understatement.

“We’ll need to fetch a hat. I know just the one.”

A hat? He gaped at her.

“Will that be all, sir?” asked the clerk.

Drake handed over the telegram and the payment.

They stepped out onto the banquette and he drew humid air deep into his lungs. “So you want to go to your shop?”

“Yes.”

“And then the district?”

“Yes.”

He’d rather walk barefoot through a blizzard than take Christine back to a brothel. She was a
lady
. Who was to say another lout wouldn’t decide he wanted her? What then? Another fight?

“We have to be in Jackson Square tonight to trade for my father. If it’s Desdemona who’s holding him, do you want to be there without Marie’s protection?”

Not if she insisted on being there. And she would. He might argue that she’d be safer elsewhere but she’d insist on coming. Forged steel was more pliable than Christine Lambert once she’d made up her mind. Drake huffed then raised his hand and flagged down a carriage.

“I can walk,” Christine insisted.

“Humor me.” Drake helped her into the carriage. He felt too exposed on the banquette, unsure of the next threat or how to protect Christine from Desdemona or her own foolish bravery.

The ride ended too quickly.

Christine unlocked the door to her shop.

“Wait.” He stopped her with a touch on her shoulder. “Let me go first.” Without waiting for the inevitable argument, he slipped past her, his fingers on the holster of his gun.

The shop didn’t look any different than when they’d left it. Hats, bows, feathers, flowers, even the birds remained the same. Drake breathed a relieved sigh then turned and beckoned for Christine to enter.

Crash!

The sound came from above them.

“Saints!” Christine’s voice sounded peeved. It should sound frightened.

“What’s upstairs?” he asked.

“I live upstairs.” She hurried past him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Drake caught her arm and felt her muscles tense.

She pulled against his grasp. “Upstairs.”

“Haven’t you been in enough danger today?”

Christine pulled her gun from her pocket. “Everything I own is upstairs. Every memento. Every photograph. Every heirloom. My cat.” Ornery mules looked less stubborn.

“Fine,” he ceded. “I’ll go. Where are the stairs?”

“You’re not going without me.”

He stared at her. She stared back.

A standoff

He ceded an inch, pushed past her, and drew his gun. “I go first.”

She stood aside but the roll of her eyes and the tilt of her head told him she acquiesced not because she thought he should be the one in the line of fire, but because she didn’t want to spend time arguing.

The door at the top of stairs stood cracked.

“I’m sure Molly would have locked that,” she whispered.

He pushed open the door and surveyed the room. It was filled with the sort of elegant chairs he could reduce to matchsticks just by sitting down. Sunlight spilled through the French doors, pooling on the carpet in golden puddles. An enormous striped cat with a twitching tail sat with its gaze fixed on a closed door.

“Stay here,” Drake whispered.

He took a step forward and sensed her right behind him. He looked over his shoulder, drew his brows, and added some growl to his voice. “I mean it, Christine.”

Her brows rose at the use of her first name. He’d kissed her. He wanted to kiss her again. Damned straight she was Christine and not Miss
Lamb-bear
. “Please, stay here.”

She nodded. Once. Then he stepped inside.

Like her shop, Christine’s home smelled of flowers he couldn’t identify. Sweet, delicate, exotic. Drake drew a deep breath into his lungs then tiptoed past a spindly side table that begged to be destroyed in a fistfight with an interloper. The damned thing was probably a priceless antique that had been in Christine’s families for five generations. She wouldn’t thank him for saving her from the intruder, she’d blame him for the table’s destruction. The cat gave him a quick, sympathetic glance then resumed its staring contest with the door.

He closed his hand on the crystal knob and turned slowly.

On the other side of the door lay Christine’s bedroom. The waft of scent, the ornate bed swathed in mosquito netting, and the drawers hanging open, spilling a collection of intimate apparel across the floor, made his jaw tighten. A stranger had violated her inner sanctum. A stranger who’d apparently fled. The doors to the balcony stood open. Gauzy curtains fluttered in a light breeze.

“What?” she said from her post near the front door. “What happened?”

The one time she followed his instructions and stayed safe the threat was gone.

“He’s gone.” Drake stepped inside, crossed to the balcony, and gazed down onto a street where no one looked out of place.

Snick.
The sound of a wardrobe opening.

Drake spun.

A man leapt out of the enormous piece of furniture and ran toward the front room, toward Christine.

Drake’s heart stopped but his body kept moving. His legs carried him after the intruder. His hands fisted in anticipation. His lungs drew breath. Shallow breath. Don’t-let-him-hurt-her breath.

Crash!

Drake flew the remaining distance to the door in half a heartbeat.

Christine stood at the top of the stairs, her mouth hanging open, her brows drawn together. The cat sat at her feet, licking its paws.

“What happened?” he demanded.

She held up her father’s cane. “I tripped him.” Then she looked down the stairs. “He’s not moving.”

Drake started down the stairs.

“Is he—” Christine began. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. She squeezed her eyes closed. “Is he dead?”

The body at the bottom of the stairs groaned. The man struggled to his knees then his feet. He glared up the stairs, a dark gaze filled with darker intentions, then lurched down the back hall.

Drake raced down the remaining stairs.

“Let him go.” Christine’s voice carried down the steps, sounding wounded and raw. “Please. I know him. We can find him easily.”

The back door slammed shut. The man was gone.

Drake secured the lock then climbed the stairs to Christine’s home.

She sat on one of the too-delicate chairs. She looked almost frail. Her cheeks had paled white as snow. The hand that clutched her father’s cane showed tendons and her bones seemed intent on poking through her skin. She stared up at him with hollow eyes. “I thought for a moment that I’d killed him.”

No such luck. “He’s very much alive. May I get you something? A cordial or a brandy or a cup of tea?”

“Bourbon.” She pointed to a table holding an assortment of bottles and a collection of crystal glasses.

Drake poured two drinks then handed her one. “Who was that?”

She sipped then sighed. “Bony LeMoyne.” Her voice was so quiet he had to lean forward to hear her. So close he caught the scent of her hair and the bourbon on her breath. “He’s like Desdemona except he’s a man and he’s nowhere near as powerful.”

“You think he was looking for the coin?”

“Probably. Everyone else is.” She took another sip of bourbon, drew a deep breath, then straightened her shoulders. “What kind of mess did he make in my bedroom?”

“He went through a few drawers.” Better to say that than catalogue the bits of lace and lawn strewn across the floor.

“There was nothing to find.” She thrust her hand in her pocket and withdrew the little bundle that held the coin. “Who did he want it for?”

“Pardon?”

“Bony is alive. He doesn’t need the water.” She tilted her head. “Maybe he’s working for Delphine.”

Drake selected the sturdiest of the chairs and sat. “Tell me more about her.”

“She was born in New Orleans.”

“Do you need more to drink?” asked Drake. Christine’s face was far too pale. He could listen to the story after the roses returned to her cheeks.

She shook her head. “No, thank you.” Then she peered into her glass. “There were rumors about her.”

“Rumors?”

Christine nodded. “Rumors that she was cruel to her slaves.”

“How long ago was this?”

“The fire broke out in 1834. Lord only knows how long she’d been carrying on before that.”

“What fire? Tell me from the beginning.”

One of her brows rose. “I’m trying. The first hint that things weren’t right came when a slave girl, Leah, leapt to her death.”

“Why did she do that?”

A bit of color returned to her face. “Are you going to let me tell this story? We’ll be here all day if you keep interrupting.”

“Sorry.” Except, he wasn’t. He’d keep interrupting all day if it meant that the fragile-ready-to-break expression disappeared from her face.

“The girl jumped off the roof. The story is that she’d been brushing Delphine’s hair and hit a snag. Delphine snatched up a whip and the girl ran.”

“How old was she?”

“Twelve.”

“I meant Delphine.”

“Why does it matter?”

It didn’t, but annoying Christine brought her back to herself. Her eyes now looked like eyes instead of empty buckets and her cheeks had lost their dreadful waxy paleness. He waved his fingers. “Go on.”