The Seventh Night (18 page)

Hours passed.

I sat reading, completely absorbed.

Finally, when the clock on the mantel struck midnight, I closed the book, stunned by all I had learned. Chills swept over me as I recalled my father’s image in my dream. His eyes had been empty, soulless. Dear God, could any of this be true? Could Vinnia be right?

No, of course not.

I didn’t believe in voodoo.

I didn’t believe that a person’s soul could be captured by another.

I
did not
believe in zombies.

But what if someone else
did
believe in all those things?

What if someone “close to me night and day” was a true believer who held my father prisoner?

What if on the Seventh Night, my father was murdered because someone believed they could capture his soul?

I put my hands to my eyes, trying to erase the horrible images that swam before them. It was all so fantastic. So incredible.

And yet, what else made any sense?

Where else could my father be?

As I sat there, puzzling over all the events that had happened since I’d come to Columbé, my eyes were drawn to the masks on the wall above me. They seemed to be laughing at me, mocking me, whispering secrets that only I couldn’t know.

The Seventh Night, they chanted. On the Seventh Night it will happen.

This was the fourth night. I had only three more days to find out the truth. Three more days to find my father. Three more days…before it was too late.

“Christine?”

I spun around. Reid stood in the doorway, watching me with an odd glint in his eyes. Perhaps it was the way he stared at me, but for some reason I became oddly aware of my appearance—my mussed hair, my wrinkled dress, my bare legs. The skin along the column of my back tingled—with apprehension or anticipation?

He was wearing a black cotton sweater and jeans, a look I’d never seen on him before. He must have just come from outside because his dark hair glistened with mist. Crossing the room to where I was sitting, he leaned
down to retrieve the book I’d been reading. He gave it barely a glance. His eyes remained on me. I grew even more nervous.

“A little light reading before bedtime?” he asked, his eyes hinting at his amusement.

“Hardly light,” I said, making an effort to smooth some of the wrinkles from my dress. “But enlightening nonetheless.”

“You never cease to surprise me.” He sat down beside me and draped an arm over the back of the sofa. I could feel the touch of his fingers, whisper-soft, against my hair.

I gulped. “
I
surprise
you?
How?”

“You always struck me as such a practical, down-to-earth sort of person, but since you’ve been here, I’ve glimpsed another side of you.” He cocked his head slightly, as though appraising my attributes—or my shortcomings. “I can’t help wondering if I’m seeing the real Christine Greggory.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” I said sharply, knowing exactly what he meant. But the ‘new me’ was still a bit frightening. Right now, I felt it desperately important to cling to the old me.

That
Christine wouldn’t allow herself to be swept off her feet. She wouldn’t forget her primary concerns, her suspicions, by simply gazing into a pair of the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

I gulped again. “Have you read that book?” I asked, changing the subject.

Reid glanced down at the book he still held in his hand. Deliberately he set it aside. “I’ve read most of the books in this library.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Believe what?”

“In voodoo,” I said, my tone urgent.

“I’ve told you before, I’m not a
serviteur.
”

“Meaning you
don’t
believe in it.”

He merely smiled.

Frustrated, I stood up and began pacing the floor. “Have you any idea how maddening this is? All the things that have happened to me with no logical explanation?”

He got up and walked toward me. “What things?”

Shrugging helplessly, I turned away from him. “You know—the attack my first night here, and then the dreams, the…visions…” I trailed off, realizing how all that must sound to him. I tried to shrug again, but it seemed more like a shudder this time.

He touched my arm and turned me to face him. Shivers raced through me at even so light a touch. I looked up at him, and his dark blue gaze held me entranced. There was something so mesmerizing about his eyes, something so very seductive.

“What dreams?” he said softly. “What visions?”

“I…see things. Feel things. Sometimes I’m not even sure if I’m asleep or awake. Sometimes I think…” I lowered my gaze from those penetrating eyes.

His fingertips caressed my face, smoothed back my hair. I wanted to die from the exquisite tenderness of his touch. “Sometimes you think what, Christine?”

That
I’m going crazy, I thought helplessly, my eyes filling with tears.

Oh, why couldn’t I just confide in him my fears, my doubts and suspicions? Why couldn’t I tell him
everything,
and then let him reassure me that all my suspicions were groundless? That everything would be all right? That my father would come home, safe and sound, and that Reid and I could…could what?

“Could live happily ever after?”
It was my grandmother’s voice, screeching with laughter.
“Christine, you’re so full of delusions.”

“Sometimes I don’t know what to think,” I finished lamely. “Reid, do you know about the Seventh Night?”

“Ah,” he said, “So now
you
know. Question is, what do you plan to do about it?”

His query shocked me. I gazed at him, my heart thundering in my ears. What did he mean? Was he saying it was all true? Was he admitting…?

He traced a fingertip up my arm, and chill bumps raced along my spine.

“After reading that book, you now know how to capture another person’s soul, Christine. Then again…I suspect you may have known how to do that a long time ago,” he murmured, his voice low and deep and full of mystery.

I looked into his eyes, trying to read
his
soul. Was there darkness inside? Light? Or an intriguing mingling of the two?

I shivered as I tried to look away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? I’m talking about us, Christine. Then and now.”

“There is no us. There never was. We hardly know each other.” I was babbling, and couldn’t seem to stop. What he was saying,
implying
…? And the tone of his voice…the way he kept looking at me…Did he
know
what he was doing to me?

The little light in his eyes told me he did. “That’s not altogether true. We’ve known each other for years.”

“We met in Chicago ten years ago,” I said, then wished I could take it back, for
my
tone implied I’d been counting the moments. I cleared my throat, glanced away. “That hardly counts.”

“I think it does,” he said, his voice wrapping around me like rich, warm velvet. “We’re not strangers, you know. We have a history, you and I. You can trust me, Christine…confide in me.”

“There’s nothing to confide.”

His eyes compelled me to look at him. Something flickered in those blue depths, an emotion that seemed—
if I hadn’t known better—almost like a plea. What was it he wanted me to confide? My feelings, then and now?

But that would mean that he, too, had felt something during the week he and my father had visited me, and I knew that couldn’t be true. I’d only been eighteen at the time. So nervous and unsure of myself. And Reid…Oh, even then he’d been devastatingly handsome, breathtakingly sophisticated, everything an immature, foolish young girl could dream of.

There was no way he could have been attracted to me then.

Was there?

And what about now? What about with the “new me”? Could I believe his attention was sincere? Heartfelt? I closed my eyes briefly against the sudden anguish because deep down, I still couldn’t let go of the notion that he must have an ulterior motive for wanting me.

But what could it be? What could he want?

Your soul.

God help me, I was afraid he already had that.

“I have to go,” I said quickly. “It’s late.”
Too late.

Something moved in his eyes, a flash of anger—no more—then he said smoothly, “I’ll walk you out.”

He walked me to the door of the guest house and, as if sensing my confusion, chastely kissed me on the cheek. I thought he was still annoyed with me for some reason, but as I turned to go in, he held my hand, drew me back. His eyes looked dark, fathomless in the moonlight. Mist swirled around us, isolating us, enveloping us in a sort of dark intimacy that nothing could penetrate, except the ever present and distant sound of drums.

“Tomorrow, I think we should have a talk.”

“What about?” My heart was starting to beat its own rhythm as I gazed up at him.

“A lot of things. Perhaps I haven’t listened to your concerns as closely as I should have. Perhaps I haven’t given you sufficient reason to trust me.”

The rhythm of my heart sped up. “Are you saying you now believe something’s happened to my father? Reid, have you found out something you’re not telling me?”

His eyes were shuttered, remote. Any emotion I’d witnessed earlier might have simply been imagination. “I’ve told you everything I know. Perhaps there’s something you haven’t told
me.
”

“About my father?”

The shutter opened a mere whisper, tantalizing me with the briefest glimpse of another, even more indefinable emotion. “What else?” he said, so softly I thought the mocking sound of his voice might be yet another product of my imagination. But if anything about this evening had been real, if there was anything about our conversation I
could
believe, it was probably the derisive way he smiled at me as I turned to go in.

He waited until I was inside and had bolted the door before he left. Through the wooden barrier, I listened to his footsteps echoing across the veranda. Then I turned and went upstairs to bed.

The room was bathed in moonlight. I stood at the window, drenched by the pale light, as I gazed down at the shadowy garden. The drums had drawn me to the window. Their sound echoed through the night, a dramatic entreaty to the spirits. How could they resist that call? How could the
loa
fail to respond?

A movement at the edge of the woods caught my gaze. Not a flash of white this time. No hooded specter this. The figure I saw now was dressed in dark clothing that blended like a shadow with the night.

As I continued to watch him, Reid disappeared into the woods, heading toward the sound of the drums.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Fifth Day

R
eid looked a little tired the next morning, a little less than perfect. His dark hair appeared as though he’d raked his fingers through it recently, and the knot in his silk tie was just the tiniest bit askew, as if he’d had something on his mind when he’d dressed. His eyes, however, were still clear and alert as he met my gaze across the width of his desk.

“I hope you don’t mind that I asked you to meet me here, Christine. I had some pressing business that couldn’t wait, but I did want us to have our little talk.”

Little talk?
What I’d had in mind was a bit more than a “little talk.” I’d thought, perhaps foolishly so, that we might clear up some of the ambiguities of our conversation last night. I wanted to tell him all my concerns and doubts. I wanted to tell him about my dreams and visions and everything Mama Vinnia had told me about them. I wanted to tell him I’d been up all night, thinking about him—about
us.

I wanted to tell him all my fears, and then I wanted him to do the same.

But seeing him now, in the cold, sobering light of day, everything on my mind seemed so impossible, so completely…insane.

I got up and walked over to the window, staring out at the lush grounds of the St. Pierre. A mild breeze played with the leaves of the coconut palms, forcing
them to dip and bow to its capricious will. Tiny chattering birds flitted from limb to limb.

I took a deep, nerve-gathering breath. “Where did you go last night when you left me?”

Even though I had my back to him, I knew my question surprised him. He paused, then said, “Why, Christine. Are you checking up on
me
now?”

He had the most infuriating way of turning the tables on me, of making me seem foolish and obvious.

I crossed my arms, not caring if it seemed defensive or not. “I saw you go into the woods, and I heard the drums.”

The chair squeaked as he got up, and I braced myself for his nearness. The very air seemed charged with his presence as he came up behind me. I had the almost overwhelming urge to lean against him, to place all my cares into his very capable hands.

I resisted, because I knew I had to.

“Did it ever occur to you that I might have been looking for Christopher?”

I whirled, my tone pathetically hopeful. “
Were
you? What did you find out? What did you hear?”

The blue eyes flickered…only briefly. “Nothing. As I suspected, no one had seen him. But I…well, I had to make sure. For your sake, Christine.”

He seemed so sincere, so genuinely concerned. And in truth, I had no reason to distrust him. He’d done nothing to arouse my suspicions except carry on business as usual. If I’d been in his place, maybe I would have done the same thing. Dozens of people were employed by the hotel. Livelihoods depended on the smooth operation of the St. Pierre. Should I suspect Reid of anything more than doing his job?

It was hard to, especially when he was gazing down at me with a warmth that had me melting.
When you want something badly enough,
I thought,
you can make yourself believe almost anything.

Right now, I could almost believe he cared for me.

“Do you know what Mama Vinnia told me yesterday?” I forced myself to ask him. “She told me all about the Seventh Night before I ever read it in your book. She thinks my father is being held somewhere…by someone…until the Seventh Night.”