Highland Pull (Highland Destiny 2) (2 page)

Gabhran finished packing his suitcase and locked up his Edinburgh house. Now that he knew about the hidden vault of family secrets in the library, he suspected that even if he found himself transported to another reality, another life, his memory of this house would remain intact now. If so, he could return later, but it was not safe to stay here now. He didna know if it would be the police or Worthington coming for him after what happened to Brianna, but he knew he had to get away. Besides, he had grown weary of waiting for the change to come; he could use this time to search for answers.

In the random way things sometimes happen, he’d recently come across an article in a medical journal about a mentally unstable woman who reported multiple realities. The medical team treating her had many theories, not one of which included the fact that she might be right. Gabhran suspected the paradox she presented was the same one he was living. He was headed to New Orleans to the state hospital where she was housed. He needed to talk with her, and it gave him someplace to go.

Gabhran stepped off the plane at the Louis Armstrong International Airport. After eighteen hours, even the extra space offered by the first class seat had cramped his nearly six and a half foot frame. He stretched his legs, walked out into the waiting sunshine, and was struck by the wave of heat and humidity that rolled over him. He gasped with the effort of drawing a breath, and his clothes instantly stuck to his body.

He stepped to the first cab in the line and asked for the French Quarter. The driver asked about reservations, but Gabhran had none, having left Edinburgh in rather a hurry. “Take me to a place near that famous street in the French Quarter, where ‘tis likely they will have a decent room available.”

The cabby didna answer immediately.
Instead he scanned Gav from the tips of his leather-clad feet to the wilted dress shirt and loosened tie. Then their gazes locked for a long moment before the old man nodded, as if to something only he could hear.

“You look like money ain’t a problem. Hope you got American.” Then he pushed a button and popped the trunk lid. Despite the heat, the man’s dark skin looked cool and dry below his white tight curls, but his thin frame didna look strong enough to carry the heavy bags
. Gav tossed them in the trunk himself, then climbed into the backseat.

Ignoring the near-constant quiet murmur from the front seat, Gav occupied himself with looking out the windows and absorbing the feel of the city. It startled him when a dark hand with papery skin slapped down on the back of the bench seat.

When Gav turned his head, he caught sight of a broad grin in the mirror. The cabby cranked up the rear air, fished out a business card, and passed it back. With an accent full of vowels and sugar, he said “Call me Alfred. Now why don’ you tell me awhile what it is you be looking to do?”

“I’m a doctor. I’m here to do some volunteer work at a little clinic on Governor Nicholls Street.”

“Is that so?” He got another long look in the mirror, but then Alfred pulled out a cell phone and made a call, abruptly ending their brief conversation. Gav went back to looking at the narrow streets and garishly decorated shops. It seemed to him that the cab was deliberately turning up and down the narrow, one-way streets, giving him a look at the shops selling souvenirs, bars, clubs, seafood restaurants, tattoo parlors, and Voodoo fortune tellers. As they drove, the darkness within him swelled, poked its head up, interested and hungry. It liked the atmosphere of the French Quarter, the mystery of the place; the darkness felt at home.

The old man nodded to himself once again, and pulled up in front of a single-family dwelling on Burgundy, deep in the heart of the French Quarter
.

“Is this an inn?” Gav asked, confused by the lack of a sign.

“No, sir. You din’t have no reservations, and when I asked you yo’ business, you told me you was going to be doctoring near the Quarter. Doctor’s need they own houses. And if you don’ mind me saying, your eyes are real careful-like. You sho’ did look behind to see we wasn’t being followed. I would care to wager you don’ want no one to be knowing where you’re staying for now. Am I right?”

Gabhran met Alfred’s wise gaze in the rearview mirror before answering
. “Aye. So what
is
this place?”

“My daughter, she sells and manages real estate. You come talk to her a while, and see if you don’ like what she has to say.
You and she don’ deal? I’ll be taking you just down the road a block to the Royal Sonesta. Now let’s go, Marion is waiting inside. And don’t you be worrying none, the air conditioning, she be working jes’ fine.”

Although the French Quarter teemed with people, this particular cobblestoned block was lined with homes and was free of the tourist trade. The front of the house was a plain, traditional Creole townhouse, a pale pink with black shutters and wrought iron railings surrounding second and third floor balconies.

A lovely woman in her early fifties waited just inside the door. She glowed with rich mocha skin, light brown eyes, and chin-length dark brown hair streaked with delicate white strands. “How do you do? I am Marion Gauthier.” She held out her hand for a handshake.

Her voice was a rich contralto, her accent barely perceptible, and she eyed Gabhran with interest. “It is a pleasure to meet you. My father tells me you are interested in a long term rental, and prefer privacy to the convenience of a hotel?”

Gabhran smiled at her. “Aye, your father seems to know a great deal about what I want. Maybe more so than I do. He says this is a private residence. Are the owners letting a room? I doona think that interests me over much, I am a verra private man.” His brogue sounded strong to him…a sign of stress? Or perhaps just a natural contrast to this woman’s gentle tones.

“Sugar, the owners cannot afford this place any longer. The price has dropped nearly in half since they put it on the market a year ago. They would take most any offer to get it off their hands, but I was under the impression you were looking to rent not buy. This is a much more private arrangement than a hotel, and they would be grateful for any income, so I could arrange a lease. How about you walk around on your own, since you appreciate your privacy. I will wait on the patio, in case you have questions.”

The simplicity of the exterior gave no hint of the luxurious interior. Gabhran walked through the house, enjoying the wood floors, the surprisingly large rooms, noting ceiling fans and fireplaces in each room. He knew he would take the place. He wasn’t sure how long he would need to stay here, but he needed to make contact with the mysterious patient, and spend enough time with her to determine if she experienced the same sensation of changing realities that he did. He expected to be here several months, at a minimum.

When he stepped outside, he was surprised to find a lush brick lined courtyard, with stairs leading to another balcony on the second floor. The walls were lined with planters filled with tropical plants, banana trees, palms, ferns, and many he didna recognize. The center of the courtyard had a large, ornate four-tiered fountain, complete with a musician perched on top playing a trumpet, and water trickled from the bell of the instrument. Across the bricked expanse was a small building.

When he joined Marion on the patio, he asked about it. She told him there was a garage, which was a premium in the French Quarter, and a small apartment above it. The apartment had a separate entrance and the tenant was seldom around and as a local detective, was never any trouble.

The damp courtyard air lay heavy on him, as comforting as an old blanket after a bad dream. The darkness within him couldn’t compete with the earthy smells of compost, greenery, and the sweet honeysuckle that climbed toward the sunlight on a corner trellis. Everything about this house offered comfort, freed him from the tumult of his soul. The moment Gav had stepped through the front door, the darkness within him had quieted. That was all the encouragement necessary to decide this house was meant for him. He needed to feel free of the darkness, and the house seemed to tame it somehow.

Marion assured him she had already spoken to the owners and he could stay there starting that night. Before they finalized an agreement on the cost to rent the house for a month, Gabhran surprised them all when he made an offer to purchase the place outright, including the furniture. There was a sense of peace in the house that he found restful. After one more phone call to the owners, there were handshakes all around. Alfred said he would return in the morning to take him to visit his nephew, who just so happened to be an attorney who specialized in real estate.

“Just
lookin’ to help you out, boss,” Alfred said with a wide grin splitting his narrow face.

Finally, Gabhran was alone. He unpacked, showered, and headed out into the sultry New Orleans night to see what he could make of this place he was suddenly prepared to call his home, even if it was only temporary. The pull of the highlands in his native land would always be first in his heart, but for now he let the party atmosphere of the French Quarter wash over him
. The streets were crowded, everyone had a drink in hand, and laughter layered over the ever-present music. Heads turned as he cut a swath through the crowd, and Gav assumed the tourists weren’t used to seeing someone of his size.

As Gabhran walked along the banks of the Mississippi, he wished he’d brought some money to drop into the open cases of the street musicians. Music was everywhere, carried on the breeze, floating over the water, perched on street corners. Gabhran watched a full moon rise, reflecting off the river in a thousand pieces and wondered where he would be, come the next full moon.

As he approached a small table set in the shadows surrounding Jackson Square, a young woman dressed in a flowing garment whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

A prostitute, he thought, and instinctively he widened his berth.

Her voice cut through the night, “I know you have magick, and there are things I must read for you, but not tonight. You will find me any day at the Voodoo Museum. Do not be fooled by the appearance, it is designed to appeal to tourists.”

Her words intrigued him slightly, but only because she’d mentioned magick. He supposed it was all part of a gimmick to lure in tourists. She was just a walking billboard. He tossed his head, his long, black hair falling lose, and began to circle around her, to continue on his way
. “Out of my way, woman. I am not interested in your wares.”

The air around him suddenly grew chilly despite the sultry night. His heartbeat slowed painfully in his chest. She had magick. Not Druid, but something that made the dark within him roar to life and push back. It wanted this woman now. It craved her blood, and he took an involuntary step toward her, his fingers curled in anticipation.

Her voiced whipped with the force of a hand across his face, and he froze in his tracks. “Make no mistake, I do know you, Gabhran MacLachlan. The dark within you is strong tonight. Seek me in the daylight.” Her skirt swished as she turned and faded into the shadows, leaving him wondering if she’d really been there at all.

He staggered as he forced himself not to follow her…hunt her. Her words had stunned him.
She was waiting for me, and she knew my name. And the darkness wanted to kill her. I have to be very careful now.
He veered down a brightly lit street closed to vehicular traffic, so his mind could wander, without fear of being run over.

The street was lined with bars and masses of people covered the street and sidewalks. Men stood outside clubs and pressed pieces of paper in his hands, encouraging him to step inside. Women stood in doorways
, speculatively eyeing all the males who walked alone. Everywhere he looked nubile young women kept blatantly flashing their breasts at him to his utter bewilderment. The area reeked of alcohol, tobacco, and desperation, surrounded by an atmosphere of never-ending party. This was the famous Bourbon Street.

Gabhran passed a group of four beautiful women standing in the doorway of a club, dressed to kill in evening gowns, with flawless makeup and hair. One of the women playfully reached out to touch his arm, while the others made bawdy promises, suggesting a man of his size could surely handle all four of them at once. Oh yes, the darkness had liked that idea. They were as lovely as any lasses he had e’er seen. His gaze drifted to their breasts
.
Good Christ, they have chest hair! What the hell is this place?
He swiftly continued walking.

Around the next corner, he passed another club with windows and doors open to the night, and the tones of a lone trumpet flowed out and over him. Without stopping to think, Gabhran entered and was encased in pure New Orleans Jazz. People were seated on benches, folding chairs, and the floor. He squeezed into a spot against the wall and leaned back as the music washed over him, stilling the darkness that had raged on the street. He loved it all, fast, slow, syncopated, smooth. This was a place to which he would return often.  

A young woman sat on a bench in front of him, honey-blonde hair in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Her profile was all that was visible, and he rested his eyes on her, cleansing his mental palate. When she stood to clap after the last set, he was relieved to see her camisole showed her to be all woman, down to the natural jiggle of her luscious breasts. Her nipples were small, sweet buds pressed against the cotton fabric and he was struck with a strong desire taste to them. He was slow to avert his gaze when she turned to leave, and she raised a brow, gave a half smile but kept walking.