SEDUCTIVE SUPERNATURALS: 12 Tales of Shapeshifters, Vampires & Sexy Spirits (102 page)

I glanced at the shining pendant on his chest. The all-seeing eye.

“What did you intuit that made you pay a visit, Philippe?”

He stood away from the post, drawing himself to his full, muscle-and-might height. “You wouldn’t have heard this on the news yet, but there was a double murder in City Park last night after it closed. That’s my
maman
’s neighborhood. My people’s neighborhood now.”

Dread prickled up my spine. Even my boots shuddered just before he added one more thing.

“There’s a killer running around,” he said. “A phantom. And I aim to send this paranormal menace back to where he belongs with your help,
cher
.”

Shadows Till Sunrise: Chapter Three

A phantom.

Now this was something I understood. My magic boots clearly hadn’t sucked away any of the basic supernatural studies I had done while I was a Meratoliage, because I knew Philippe was referring to a ghost or spirit, or perhaps even an illusion.

At the very mention of “phantom,” my boots even seemed to perk up, tickling me, awfully interested for a pair of footwear.

“How do you know,” I asked, “that this killer isn’t a run-of-the-mill psychopath? A human?”

Philippe barred his chest with his arms. This serious version of him made my blood heat in my veins. Flirty was one thing, but this?

Manly. Primal.

“I had a vision,” he said. “It must have come to me right before the murders happened. In fact, it interrupted a session with a client in the voodoo shop.”

I frowned, trying to recall where he had worked.

He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s where we met? Where I pick up extra money when my other business is slow?”

My boots prodded me, and the word
carpenter
flashed across my mind.

Yet he had already moved on, almost impatiently. “Of course, the news reports haven’t mentioned the paranormal details I saw in the vision. So far, the police are saying that there were two bodies—a man and a woman. Tourists. I wouldn’t put it past our officials to keep the gorier aspects quiet, because this city needs its tourists. Why scare them off?”

I caught his facetious tone. “What precisely did you see?”

“The woman, Michelle Cumbridge, was tied to the Dueling Oak in City Park with a silken cord, and her neck was broken, as if someone with great strength had snapped it.” His expression was stony. “The man, Matt Mickelson, had been run through by a saber.”

“A sword?” Blimey.

“It was one of the types that the cavalry might have used during the War of Northern Aggression.”

The American Civil War. “That’s terrible, but, Philippe, there’s nothing paranormal about what you just told me.”

“Not on the surface. The scene could even be interpreted as a prank gone wrong—or a tableau set up to reflect the tastes of a sick human mind.” He shook his head. “But, in my vision, I saw the phantom that killed these poor people, and there was nothing human about it.”

I took in a slight breath as my boots pumped another helpful image into me.
A shadow, red-eyed night goggles…the Meratoliages
.

“No,
cher
,” Philippe said, as if reading me. “This killer is not one of your family, because after this menace challenged Matt Mickelson to a duel, then ran him through and broke Michelle’s neck, Matt heard a security guard come running at all the noise. Before the guard arrived and Matt died, the killer faded away into the landscape, as if he never existed. Your Meratoliages don’t have that power, as far as we know. But phantoms…?”

“Certainly would.”

I should have been relieved that my family had no part of this, but a weight still pushed down on me. Two tourists, full of life, who had no doubt been having the time of their lives in the Big Easy until the night went terribly wrong. Now they were two dead bodies.

So many questions. “How does a phantom murder someone? Wouldn’t it need a corporeal form for that?”

Philippe lowered his arms from across his chest, less guarded. Was it because I seemed compassionate? But there was still a defensive air about him.

“How a phantom murders is a question that still needs answering,” he said. “Most paranormal experts will say that ghosts don’t directly kill. That doesn’t rule out demonic activity, though.”

Oh, lovely. But I had more to ask. “This entity was definitely male?”

“Male shape, male voice…yes. And from what I know from the vision, I gather this much—he saw Michelle and was attracted to her, so he challenged her boyfriend for the pleasure of her company. After the boyfriend blew him off, the phantom disabled them and somehow brought them to City Park, where he tied Michelle to a tree so she could watch him defend his honor and win her.”

At my quizzical expression, Philippe explained more of his vision: Matt Mickelson waking up on the grass, holding the back of his head. Sabers clattering on the ground in front of him. A challenge. The all-too-short duel.

“Dueling for a woman,” I said. “That’s utterly insane.”

“A phantom would very well come from a different time, maybe from the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries, when dueling was the way gentlemen settled disputes. Young Creole males would attend quadroon balls in the Orleans Ballroom, and if a gentleman refused to relinquish his beautiful partner for a dance, there’d be a challenge for a duel. Or if a gentleman would accidentally insult another one’s sister at, say, a dinner, it would be duel time, too. There’s even a story that a newcomer in town was unfortunate enough to insult the Mississippi River, and a hot-tempered gentleman challenged him over that.” Philippe chuffed. “And these are my ancestors.”

I didn’t think he was amused. “So this phantom might be one of those young Creoles, continuing on with what he used to do centuries ago. He falls for a woman tourist, then goes after her boyfriend if the boyfriend doesn’t, as you said, relinquish her.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. And you’ve probably already guessed the site of many of those old duels.”

“City Park.” The scene of the murders.

He sent me a faint smile, but it was merely a validation, not flirtation or friendliness. My boots were actually more enthusiastic about my detecting skills, because they thumped against me, as if applauding.

Honestly, Philippe had mentioned a “dueling oak” in the park earlier, so the answer hadn’t been a stretch. I nearly felt as if I, the poor little amnesiac, were being coddled by my footwear.

Was this how Amari and my boots treated me every time I awakened?

As if vibing my thoughts, Philippe asked, “Do you have any memories about the history of dueling in New Orleans?”

“No.” At least he had asked before assuming I didn’t.

“Then I should explain more.” He was quite businesslike now. “Long ago, there were two oaks—the Dueling Oaks—where gentlemen would go to settle their differences. The challenged party would choose from pistols, swords, or even Bowie knives and poison pills to preserve their honor. Since dueling was banned inside the city itself, they had to meet outside its boundaries, and the Dueling Oaks fit the bill.”

I wrapped my hand round the swing chain. “No one stopped all the senseless death?”

“Sure, the authorities tried to enforce the laws, but dueling still went on in secret. Duels finally went out of fashion near the end of the 1800s, so I’m wondering if this killer died before then.”

He had apparently been turning this over in his mind enough to conjure theories. “And how would you do away with a phantom such as this one?”

“I have some ideas—using iron on him, or maybe even burning his bones, if we can identify him and track down his remains.”

We
.

This was all sinking in now, and fears began to edge into me. Philippe had come here to ask if I would join him in this phantom hunt. But I felt safe here, on this porch, in the bayous, living with Amari. I didn’t need memories to tell me that much. If I left, I would expose myself to those Meratoliages.

Fear seemed so alien to me, but there it was: red eyes, shadows, evil family…the whole lot.

I wasn’t going to show fear, though.

“So,” Philippe said, sending me a lowered glance that made something other than fright beat in my veins. “Are you coming to the Dueling Oak with me?”

“I thought there were two.” It was a stalling tactic until I could gauge myself further. Was I ready to face the night again? Perhaps I had become complacent these past couple months since I had been with Philippe the first time.

He didn’t seem to mind my question. “The second oak is gone now, after hurricane damage in the 1940s, I believe. The park itself is a real survivor—it was torn apart by Katrina, then revitalized. It’s a gem of the city, and to have it covered in blood like
this
…”

He was becoming emotional but didn’t want to show me—that was clear in the way he turned to stone again. It seemed we both were not about to reveal any weakness.

As if ignoring the emotion altogether, he said, “The men who dueled were often expert swordsmen, as most Creole gentlemen were in those days. Gentlemen took great pleasure in showing off for others, so our phantom will probably give us a run for our money. That’s why I need you, Lilly. I know firsthand what sort of ass you can kick.”

“I still don’t know how a ghost would hold a sword,” I said.

“I’ll be meditating on all that at the oak itself.”

As he gazed at me, nearly daring me to turn him down, I swallowed. “You’re certain of what you saw? There’s no way this killer could be human and the authorities will find him?”

“I’m certain.”

My adrenaline was sawing at me. But why? I had beaten the Meratoliages before. So why was I reluctant to venture away from my safe place now?

My boots answered for me, showing me visions of nights I had spent cooking for Amari and Jean-Marie, nights sorting the herbs and animal bones they used for good spells, nights I spent quite happily polishing the mirrors Amari shrouded underneath covers…

During these past couple months, I had found a home, hadn’t I? And I was reluctant to leave it, now that I had one.

But…the dragon. I had been on the wrong side—the Meratoliage side—when I had been the master’s keeper, and I felt guilty for being a part of the entire scheme, now that I was surrounded by Amari’s white magic. I could make up for my sins.

Besides, how wonderful would it be to kick this killer’s arse?

Next to me, the screen door groaned open, and Amari appeared, knowing her way round, in spite of the linen blindfold with the burn marks taking the place of her eyes.

“Couldn’t help but hear,” she said. “I tol’ you more than once, child, I been havin’ plans for you the moment you came to me all charred up. You crawled up my road, needin’ me, and I felt you’d be a help someday. This is that day, Lilly.”

From the way Philippe didn’t speak, I knew that Amari had already approved of this mission, and that was the reason he was here. Otherwise, he might have never returned to this place, although I suspected Philippe Angier normally did whatever he wished to do.

Amari smoothly walked over to the swing, and I stood, giving her my seat. It creaked along with the night creatures as she sat and fixed those burnt eye marks on me.

“I aim to do a protective spell for you, and I’ll be keepin’ eyes on you, sure ’nuff.” She pointed to her blindfold and grinned at her jest. It was as if she was giving me the strength to separate from all this comfort, all this security.

Meanwhile, Philippe barely smiled, clearly hoping I would say yes. He needed my brawn to go along with his brains. Together, we could make the world a bit righter.

I had already made my decision, hadn’t I? But his almost-smile was what forced my feet to move, taking me over to him. I had the feeling he had smiled a lot in life in order to show the world he was fine when, truthfully, he carried scars he would never reveal.

What were they?

I stood in front of him, looking up until our gazes met. If I could have fallen into the gray of his eyes, I would have, fully and completely. The sensation made me tremble in the pit of my belly, and along with the suddenly warm tingles from my boots, I nearly melted.

But Lilly Meratoliage did not melt. I wouldn’t have still been alive if that were so.

* * *

While Jean-Marie fed Philippe a bowl of gumbo, a blush covering her teenaged face as she tried to hide it by lowering her head, I left her so I could wash up, dressing into an olive-green singlet—or what Yanks called “tanks”—and cutoff jeans. All dark colors to blend with the night. Then I wolfed down gumbo before saying my goodbyes to Amari.

We ended up in the bedroom where I’d awakened earlier, and I realized that the witch most likely slept here during the nights when I was up and about. It didn’t seem like she would get much slumber tonight, however, because she was lively, collecting crystals from a drawer that would help her to “see” me.

“Amari,” I said, interrupting her.

“You best get a move on,” she said, the crystals clacking in her hands. “You’re burnin’ the night.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jean-Marie had laid out a spread of small weapons on the bed—an iron dagger, herbs from Amari with incantations to go along with them, salt, plus an improvised flamethrower that Amari said I had built one night. It was made of a decently sized water gun, a metal bracket, tinfoil, a candle, and lighter fluid and would come in handy for burning bones…or perhaps a phantom. The weapon was frigging dangerous, so it was there for emergencies only.

I shoved those, as well as a mobile phone Amari had given me, into a bag that I strapped over my shoulder so it hung over my chest, then went to her. I didn’t know how intimate our relationship was—did she merely tolerate me because I was part of a do-gooder white-magic plan or did she sincerely like me?—but I gently turned her round to face me. It didn’t matter that her eyes were hidden, because it was as if I could still look into her, seeing that she was slightly worried about me.

“Philippe and I will get to the bottom of this,” I said. “And keep your chin up if I don’t make it home by dawn. I’ll be fine.”