by KD Robichaux
There’s a gasp throughout the crowd, including one from me, and when I glance down at Erin, she’s watching me with an amused glint in her eye.
“How are you smiling right now? You have no soul. She was twelve,” I hiss quietly.
“I’ve heard this story so many times I could tell it forward, backward, and upside down. I guess I’m jaded. Also, I’m a tad tipsy. But it’s fun getting to see your reaction to hearing it for the first time.” She shrugs.
I shake my head at her before my eyes are drawn back to Ronnie as he continues his tale.
“Witnesses later reported seeing LaLaurie burying the girl’s mangled body, so she was given a fine of $300 and was forced to sell her other nine slaves. This was actually a big deal back then. Seeing as this was the South during slavery times, punishments against owners who treated their slaves badly was extremely rare.
“But alas, like rich people everywhere during that time, she was able to buy her way out of trouble. And that wasn’t the end of her slave ownership. Obviously, or we wouldn’t be standing here nearly three hundred years later, telling these stories about her. Marie’s family members simply repurchased the slaves and, to the slaves’ utter horror, they got sold back to LaLaurie.” Ronnie shakes his head, a sad look crossing his face. “Can you imagine being one of those slaves? You think you’ve finally escaped this evil woman, hoping to be sold to anyone else, because anything would be better than this crazy bitch. And just when you believe your luck has changed… you’re sold back to the one person on earth you’d rather die than be owned by.”
I lean sideways to whisper to Erin, “Damn, that sucks.”
She giggles. She actually… giggles, and I turn my shocked face toward her.
“Just wait,” she says ominously, and gives me an evil grin.
“You know, you’re a little scary right now,” I tell her, even though secretly I think she’s fucking adorable. I’m sure the first time she heard these tales, it freaked her the hell out, but living here in New Orleans and hearing them over and over again, she’s become desensitized to it all.
“Then came the infamous party that took place here on April 10, 1834. A fire broke out in the LaLaurie mansion. When the firefighters arrived, they discovered the fire had been started by a slave who was chained to the stove and left to starve. The servant woman confessed later that she set the fire as an attempted suicide, because she’d rather die than be taken to the attic,” Ronnie says in an eerie tone, pointing up toward the mansion’s top floor. Everyone’s eyes follow his direction as he adds, “She said no one who was taken up there ever came back down.”
A shiver runs up my spine, and I’m grateful when our tour guide tells us, “There’s no one coming, so let’s cross over real quick.” And then he hurries across the street, our group following before stopping to turn and face the mansion. “This gives us a better view, so you can picture the horrors that took place that night.”
“Oh, goodie. Exactly what we needed. A clearer picture of that shitshow,” I murmur, and Erin giggles beside me again. When I look down at her, she gives me a lopsided grin.
“Pussy,” she whispers, and I raise a brow at her, unable to make a comeback as Ronnie tells the rest of his story.
“As Marie scrambled to save her valuables, the townsfolk and people at the party tried to help her. But no matter the awful screams coming from the slave quarters, she wouldn’t give up the keys, so they had to break the doors down to rescue all of them that were locked inside. The terrified slaves, finally being able to speak to guests in the pure chaos of the night, begged them to go up to the attic, to rescue their friends and family members inside.
“When they entered the attic, they found a scene from the most gruesome nightmare imaginable. According to Martineau, Seven slaves, more or less horribly mutilated… suspended by the neck, with their limbs apparently stretched and torn from one extremity to the other. The slaves who could speak said they’d been imprisoned there for months. Recounts of Marie’s abuse have grown more fantastical over the years. You might’ve heard stories of the victims’ limbs being broken and reset at odd angles and such. Not to mention how American Horror Story embellished the tale. But newspaper accounts paint a gruesome enough picture without any need for exaggeration. In fact, the rescued slaves from the attic were put on display, so the people of New Orleans could see the evidence of Marie’s cruelty for themselves. This was not the work of a sweet and charming woman they all thought they knew. Oh no. These poor people had deep lacerations and scars from repeated floggings. They were skeletal in appearance from starvation. There was even a hole in one man’s head wriggling with maggots.”
At that, a woman in the group steps aside and gags, and I can’t say I blame her. I’m feeling a little queasy myself, hearing that story while standing directly in front of the location where it happened. Even Erin, who’d been all smiles through the darkest of stories tonight, except for that one time during the boarding school tale, had a sorry look on her beautiful face.
Ronnie continues, “Slavery was already a brutal, dehumanizing practice during this time period. They used spiked collars, iron masks, and beatings on the regular, but even in the South, what they discovered at LaLaurie mansion was more than even they would tolerate.
“When word spread of Marie’s cruelty, a crowd of locals of all classes and colors descended on the mansion and demolished and destroyed everything upon which they could lay their hands. After they destroyed most of the mansion, a local paper released articles stating there had been two more bodies found buried on the LaLaurie property, including one of a small child.”
At that, Erin leans into me, and my arm automatically wraps around her as she shivers. I try not to look too much into her reaction. After all the wicked grins and giggles she’s been sending me while listening to her city’s dark history, it makes me wonder why this—the mention of two more bodies being found on the property—is what still gets a reaction out of her, even as she’s heard these stories a hundred times over.
And then it dawns on me.
The two times she had this sad response were when small children were the victims.
What’s up with that? I ask myself, and I make a mental note to pry later.
“Unfortunately, there is no great tale of justice being served. In order to get that, you’ll just have to watch that third season of AHS and pretend it’s real. In reality, Marie escaped with her driver, a slave named Bastien, where she lived out the rest of her life in comfort and freedom in Paris. When she died December 7, 1849, she was first buried at Montmartre—the area of Paris where the beautiful Sacré-Coeur is, along with the nightclub district, which includes the world-famous Moulin Rouge. Some people believe her body was later exhumed and returned to New Orleans, though it can’t be proven.”
“Is it true Nicholas Cage owns it now?” someone in the group calls out.
Ronnie smiles. “Sometime around the year 1888, the mansion was restored to its former glory. Over the years, it was used as many things. It’s been a public high school, an apartment complex—twice, actually— and a halfway house for young delinquents. It’s been a bar, a music conservatory, a furniture store, and yes, it was even previously owned by movie star Nicholas Cage, but only briefly and it’s rumored he never even stayed the night. I know y’all are shocked to find out that it’s terribly haunted.” The crowd gives an uncomfortable laugh in unison. “In fact, it is named the most haunted house in New Orleans, which is a damn impressive title in a city known for being overrun by ghosts. But today, LaLaurie Mansion is a private residence; it’s owned by an energy trader from Texas. It is closed to the public, but the owner frequently leaves all the lights on so tourists can get a peek inside.”
“The final stop on our tour is a story of pure passion and love that turned into nothing but tragedy. A real-life Shakespearian tale that will live among these streets until the end of time. But before I begin—” Ronnie takes a look around the group, bobbing and weaving his bo
dy around to see between all the tourists before saying with a look of relief, “—good. No children amongst the crowd this time. Years ago, I made the mistake of telling this gruesome tale in full detail once, when I didn’t realize there was an eight-year-old little ghost hunter here with her family. I will never forget little Elizabeth and her look of shocked fascination followed by all the questions she had until we parted at the end of the night.”
The tourists chuckle, shaking their heads. Erin leans up to tell me, “I wasn’t on that tour, but Ronnie told me about it later, asking if I had any advice. He said the mom of little Elizabeth friend requested him on Facebook and gives him updates. Apparently, it sparked a huge interest in the girl, whose probably like twelve or thirteen by now, and to this day she’s determined to be a psychologist who helps survivors with PTSD. If she’s still interested when she gets old enough, I’m funding a scholarship for her to attend college here in New Orleans at the same school I went to.”
If I hadn’t already decided before, then this would’ve been the final straw. Without a doubt in my mind, I know right then and there, Erin is mine. My yaya always told me that when I found the one, I would just know. There would be a woman out there for me who would check every single one of my boxes when it came to the perfect person to spend my life with, and Erin is all those things and more. And there’s no way I’ll ever let that go.
I wrap my arm around her back and spin her to face me then bury my hand in the back of her hair. Bending her backward, I seal my lips to hers before she can even make a sound of surprise to match the look in her eyes. And when I finally pull my lips away from hers, I say against her mouth, “You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met in my life. How did my soul get so lucky to be mated to yours?”
She gasps, her eyes turning intense before her features soften. And like she’s done frequently throughout the night, she makes a joke. But even it can’t hide the fact that she’s feeling the same connection I am. “I think these scary stories of ghosts, lost souls, and vampires have muddled your brain, mon ami. Either that or the Hurricanes are doing their job.”
I grin down at her, where I’ve still got her dipped back and held securely over my arm. “You can ‘mon ami’ me all you want, sugar. But we both know we’re way more than just friends. Like I told you in the bar. Never letting you go.”
A sad look crosses her face, and everything in me wants to whisk her away from the crowd to kiss all her pain away. What happened to my woman to make her so determined to close herself off? What has she gone through to cause pain to flash in her eyes at the mention of children and a chance at a happy ending with me?
And for the first time, she gives me a breadcrumb I immediately snatch up and store to later dip into the soup of Erin’s past. “You say that now. But you don’t know hardly anything about me. You don’t know the whole truth. And when you find out, find out how broken I am, you’ll leave me too, just like he did,” she speaks quietly, and then with a side-eye to the crowd listening to Ronnie’s story, she takes hold of my neck to help stand herself back up, but surprisingly, she doesn’t close down or move away.
I situate us to where she’s standing in front of me, and I wrap my arms around her middle, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Whatever you think is broken about yourself, I’ll spend a lifetime helping you fix. And if there are parts of you that can’t be repaired, I’d be willing to bet the jagged edges and gaps fit together with mine just right. Our jigsaw pieces could make a beautiful picture, as long as we’re together.”
She doesn’t say anything then. Just leans back against me, giving me most of her weight as she relaxes into my front. And I think to myself, Well, that’s a start, as she doesn’t make any joke to blow off my words.
Chapter 11
Erin
WHEN THE TOUR ends back where we started at the beginning of the night, it feels like a decade has passed since I stood outside this building, not just two hours. I feel like a different person, as if some of the weight I’ve been carrying around for the last several years has fallen off my shoulders. Those fortified walls around me don’t feel quite as suffocating as I’ve allowed Curtis to chip windows into their stone, giving him a peek inside. And the more we talk and touch and kiss—oh God, his kisses—he’s turning those windows into full-on doorways, passages into my heart.
“How about those beignets I promised you?” I suggest, feeling much different than I did passing the outdoor café on the way here. Before, I wanted to end the night as quickly as possible. I didn’t want to give him the chance to wiggle his way beneath my skin, making it hard to get rid of him later.
But now… now, I never want this night to end. I want this night to last forever. Because as long as I never fall asleep, I won’t have to wake up alone as I always do. I won’t have to wake up and realize this was all a dream. I won’t have to gain consciousness to the fact that everything I’m feeling with Curtis was nothing but a fantasy I conjured through a potent mix of adrenaline and alcohol.
Without thinking, I say out loud, “In order to make sure this night lasts as long as I can make it, I need coffee. Coffee with chicory to be exact, with a shitload of lait and sugar. Lots and lots of sugar. Sugar in my coffee, and sugar piled a mile high on my beignets. Sugar, sugar, sugar…” I chant as if it’s a voodoo spell that will conjure the energy-boosting substances right before my eyes, not stopping until Curtis’s arm halts my hurried pace. I hadn’t even realized I was moving, and my hand goes to my startled heart when I see I nearly ran into one of the poles holding up the green canopy of Café du Monde.
My wide eyes lift to the sexy chef, his expression a little worried through his smile.
“You all right, sugar?” he asks.
“Uhhh… yeah. Yes,” I state more firmly. “Sorry. I think I just need some coffee.”
“I got that. As you said it about fourteen times between the tour place and here.” He chuckles.
My face warms a little. “It’s been an exciting day.” At a little after one in the morning, the line for a table is minimal and we grab two seats within seconds. “The menu is tiny, but it’s right there on the napkin holder. One side is the souvenir list and the other is the actual beignets and beverages available. But I suggest just sticking to the classics. An order of beignets and coffee. The café au lait is the best though.”
“I am not too proud to let my woman order for me. You go ahead.” He gestures to the young Asian man headed our way, his white paper hat sitting squarely atop his head, notepad in hand.
“What can I get you?” he asks, reaching behind him to grab a rag to wipe off the powdered sugar covering the top of the table.
“We’d like one order of beignets, two café au laits for here, and two to go, please,” I reply, and he disappears into the building that houses the kitchen of the bakery. “When it comes, the coffee will be hot as fuck, so it’s better to order your refill ahead of time so it can be cooling off.”
“Noted,” Curtis says with a smile. “So, while it’s still fresh in my mind, I’d love to hear a psychologist’s take on the last story of the tour.”
I quirk my head. “That’s a little dark for donut conversation, isn’t it?”
He shrugs. “I just find all of it fascinating. And I find you fascinating. So lay it on me.”
“You’ve already made me display all sorts of affection in public tonight, Chef. And I’ve totally decided to lay it on you… just not right here in the middle of the most famous bakery in the world,” I admit, giving him a wicked look, and I love the expression on his face when he realizes what I just told him.
“See? Unlike any woman in the entire world, sugar. Most women would play it off like they didn’t know how the night would end. They’d act coy or hard to get, even if they’d already decided how they wanted things to go. You just lay it out there. And you know what? It’s fucking refreshing. Now we can just enjoy the rest of the night without the immature games,” he states, reaching out to toss my ponytail
behind my back that had fallen over my shoulder.
“Or… I’ve imbibed just enough alcohol to no longer have a brain-to-mouth filter,” I admit.
He laughs at that. “Yeah, or that.” He shakes his head. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.” I sit back in my seat as the waiter appears, setting our coffees and plate of beignets between us on the table. When he leaves, I grab the glass sugar dispenser, turn it upside down over my small mug of coffee in the center of its saucer, and prop my opposite elbow on the table, leaning my chin on my open palm. My eyes lift to Curtis as I begin to speak, his eyebrow lifting as his gaze goes from the sugar flowing into my coffee, up to my eyes, then back down to the sugar again. “Poor ole Zack and Addie. What a hot mess express those two were. The perfect storm. I mean, I know I’m not supposed to judge, and you should never speak ill of the dead and all that, but goddamn. For real. They didn’t stand a chance. It’s a miracle they lasted as long as they did—”
“Um… baby. Would you like some coffee with your sugar?” he interrupts, gesturing toward my cup.
I glance down, unfazed. I pooch my lips, righting the sugar dispenser for a moment, before tilting it once more for good measure. I begrudgingly hand the container over to Curtis, picking up my spoon as he chuckles, shaking his head. I stir my coffee, watching the steam rise for a moment before I lift my eyes to watch him.
He pours in just a little, what would equal maybe one packet of sugar, stirring and then taking a tentative sip. He makes a face, wincing a little, and I can’t help but laugh. “Note to self,” he starts, “listen to your woman when she tells you the coffee will be hot as fuck, and take heed when she pours in half the container of sugar. This is the darkest freaking coffee I’ve ever tasted in my life.”