Estelle’s hand went to her throat. “That bastard.” Then she shook her head. “I suppose one of us should have thought of that, but when the doctors kept finding nothing, I think I began to believe it was all in my head.”
“It was not.” Loc glanced from the mother to her daughter, whose previously troubled expression was now one of utter relief. Her mother’s illness must have weighed especially hard on her, since she would have become prima far too soon if Toulouse’s spell had been allowed to run its course. “You should be back to your normal strength very soon. But you asked earlier what I wanted. It has to do with Nicholas Toulouse. He has kidnapped a witch from the Castillo clan and is using her as a hostage to gain control over some very dangerous books. For obvious reasons, the Castillos cannot comply with his demands. I hoped you might be able to do something.”
“I?” Estelle gave a short, bitter laugh, then slowly got up from the chaise where she’d been lying. “I haven’t been able to do a thing to that devil since he came to my beautiful city. And since he also has my own daughter under his spell, you can see why I don’t dare lift a hand against him. While I know Celeste went to him willingly” — the prima’s lips tightened with long-buried anger — “I also know she did it to spite me. As upsetting as that is, I know her actions were more childish rebellion than anything else. But I also know Nicholas Toulouse does not love my daughter and wouldn’t hesitate for a second to hurt her if doing so served his purposes. He is a monster, but I am not. I can’t do anything that might endanger her.”
“If not you yourself, then someone else in your clan?” Loc asked.
“That would still come back on us,” Martine said. “Celeste is a spoiled brat who’s put all of us in a very difficult position. Besides,” she continued, giving him a speculative look, “why would you need our help? If you’re really what Roxanne thinks you are, then you should be able to handle that carpetbagger on your own.”
Loc was not sure he understood what “carpetbagger” meant, but, judging by the compressed set of Martine’s lips, he guessed it couldn’t be anything good. “Power against power, yes, I can easily best him,” he replied. “But a direct assault poses too much risk to Cat, and — ”
“Cat?” Estelle inquired.
“Catalina Castillo, the daughter of the late prima and sister-in-law to the current one,” he said. “She is being held captive in that house…or at least I believe she is. Toulouse has wrapped it with spell upon spell, dark enchantments that block even my sight. I could break them down, just as I destroyed the spell that was making you ill, but it would take time, and I would lose any advantage of surprise.”
“So you were hoping we might be able to provide some sort of distraction?” Martine didn’t look too pleased with that assumption, as though her clan wasn’t fit to engage in an outright magical battle.
“Something like that,” Loc admitted.
The two witches exchanged a glance. For the first time, he realized he hadn’t seen any men in this household, no consort for either the prima or her daughter. Possibly they were out, although Loc knew if Cat were ever as ill as Estelle had seemed to be, he would not leave her side until she had improved.
“Perhaps your consort…?” he began delicately, not sure of the best way to ask.
Estelle’s mouth tightened. “Edgar was a strong warlock,” she said, her tone quiet but hard. “And brave. He went to confront Nicholas Toulouse, told him to hand over our daughter.” She stopped there, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to go on.
“He didn’t come home,” Martine said then. “The police found his body in an alley off Bourbon Street. Not a mark on him. The coroner said it was a heart attack, but we knew better. Nicholas Toulouse killed my father.”
The grief in her face was plain to see. Even now, tears glittered in her big blue eyes, but through some sort of rigid self-control, she didn’t allow them to fall. Loc knew he should offer some words of sympathy, but he found himself unable to speak, sure that anything he said would never be enough to assuage their loss.
“And my stupid sister still stayed with that bastard,” Martine added. “Even then.”
“We don’t know that she knew anything about it,” Estelle said. Some of the pallor had returned to her face, but her voice was steady enough. “I am sure Nicholas Toulouse has plenty of secrets he keeps from Celeste.” A quick flicker of a glance at Martine, and she went on, “Martine’s consort is from the Calhoun clan in the southwest, along the Texas border. We sent him back to stay with them after we lost Edgar, because we feared Toulouse might strike out at him as well. It would be a good way to end our bloodline, after all, because Martine and Clay don’t have any children yet.”
So much loss, almost as terrible as what the Castillo clan had suffered at the hands of Simon Escobar. “This has been going on for how long?”
“Almost a year,” Estelle replied. “My illness…less than a month. I suppose Toulouse began to grow tired of the status quo and wanted to see what other mischief he could cause.”
Very likely. Or perhaps he had thought to rid the clan of their prima, then capture Martine before she’d come into the full strength of her inherited powers. It sounded like something the dark warlock might try…and after all, Joaquin Escobar had done much the same thing to Marisol Gutierrez of the Santiago clan in California, proving that it was possible to suborn a newly minted prima if you got to her quickly enough.
“So you see, we don’t dare do anything more,” Martine said. “Nicholas Toulouse has no scruples, doesn’t care who he hurts or kills. We’re a small clan. We just can’t afford to get involved in that kind of fight.”
“I see,” Loc said, and indeed he did. These women had suffered enough; he couldn’t ask them to take on any more risks, not when the very survival of their clan was at stake. Whatever he did to Nicholas Toulouse, he would have to do it on his own. “Then I won’t trouble you any further. I will find a way to defeat this man and return your daughter to you.”
Estelle offered him a sad smile, while Martine still looked angry. He had a feeling she wouldn’t be particularly happy to see her sister again.
Well, that was a family conundrum they would have to manage on their own.
In the meantime, he had a dark warlock to defeat.
Sometime after dusk, the blonde girl appeared at Cat’s door, a plate with a sandwich on it in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “I’m Celeste,” she said as she set the food down on the nightstand next to the bed. “Don’t try anything.”
“Or what?” Cat returned, eyeing the other woman. Celeste was several inches shorter, and very slender. Cat figured she could take her in a fight, if it came down to that.
“Or this,” Celeste said. She raised a hand and made a pushing motion, and the next thing Cat knew, she was flying backward a good three or four feet before landing on her ass — luckily on the big faded Aubusson rug, and not the hardwood floor.
Damn it. That had hurt, but not enough to cause any permanent damage. Holding back a wince, Cat pushed herself upright. “Handy talent.”
The girl shrugged. “It’s okay. Anyway, enjoy your dinner. Nicky says if your clan cooperates, you could be home by this time tomorrow.”
“Cooperates with what?” Cat asked, trying to play innocent.
However, it seemed Celeste was on to her game, because she just sort of rolled her eyes and walked back out again without replying.
“Bitch.” Cat went over to the door and tested the handle, but of course it was just as locked as the windows.
Scowling, she crossed back over to the nightstand and inspected the sandwich on its plate. Muffuletta, she realized, only recognizing it because one of the local breweries served the cold-cut sandwiches there. She supposed it could have been poisoned, but she didn’t think so. Nicholas Toulouse probably had about fifty different ways of killing her, none of them as clumsy as poison.
The sandwich was good. Since it had been partially wrapped in wax paper, Cat g
uessed it had been ordered from a local restaurant.
And thank God for that, she thought as she munched away, glad of the food after a nearly eight-hour fast. Because after hearing Loc talk about what “Nicky” Toulouse cooks up in his kitchen, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to eat anything prepared there.
She finished the sandwich and drank about half the water. Already she was beginning to feel as though she needed to pee, but this room didn’t have an en suite bathroom. Maybe Celeste would come back at some point and provide an armed escort so Cat could go take care of business.
In the meantime, she would just have to hold it. In terms of problems she had to deal with, going to the bathroom wasn’t even at the top of the list.
After throwing away the sandwich wrapper in the trash can next to the nightstand, she got up from where she’d been sitting on the bed and went back to the window. Now that night had truly fallen, there wasn’t a lot to see except the warm glow of the street lamps and the occasional headlights of a passing car. It was strange to think that there were people driving down this street, maybe even taking their dogs out for walks or whatever, with absolutely no idea that a woman was being held captive in this house.
What if she broke the window and started screaming for help? Glaringly obvious, true, and something that would have Nicholas Toulouse on her ass in a heartbeat, but….
No, that wouldn’t work. Cat had a feeling that if he’d enchanted the window latches so they wouldn’t open, he would have also done something to the glass to ensure it was unbreakable. Even if she did manage to break the glass, and even if someone actually heard her and called the cops, she guessed that Toulouse would come up with some story to explain everything away. Maybe offer a little bribe; she seemed to recall reading somewhere that New Orleans cops were pretty corrupt, but that story could have been just internet rumor-mongering. Either way, things weren’t looking so great on the escape front.
And beyond her worry and her fear was her longing for Loc, her need to have his arms around her again. They’d barely had a chance to spend any time together, and then Nicholas Toulouse had to come along and screw everything. If only she’d taken Loc along when she went to the gallery…there was no way that bastard Toulouse could’ve gotten the drop on her if she’d had her demon lord lover along. What would the dark warlock have done then?
Retreated and waited for another opportunity to catch you alone, she thought, going back to sit down on the bed. Sooner or later, something would have come up. A trip to the salon, or another shopping expedition to the home design center where she’d already dropped an alarming amount of money. It didn’t really matter.
How he’d managed to track her at all was another mystery, but once you were dealing with someone whose magical gifts went far beyond those of other witches and warlocks, then all the cards were on the table, weren’t they? In the end, the how of the situation didn’t matter all that much, only that she needed to find a way to get herself out of this.
After what felt like hours and hours but was probably about forty-five minutes or so, Celeste returned, a smirk on her glossy lips. “Need to pee?” she asked.
“Yes,” Cat said shortly, and got up from the bed. Without saying another word, she followed the other witch down the hall to the bathroom.
“Don’t try anything funny,” Celeste said. “You have two minutes.”
Good thing all she had to do was pee. The bathroom didn’t have any windows, and, unlike the bedroom where she was being held captive, it appeared to have been updated fairly recently, with yellow paint on the walls and a newish-looking vanity with brushed-nickel fixtures, not a very good match for the overall character of the house.
Like it mattered one way or another.
Business taken care of, Cat came out into the hallway. Celeste was leaning against the wall, looking bored. “All right,” she said, “time to go back to your room.”
“How long are you planning to keep me here?”
Another smirk. “Well, I guess that depends on your clan, doesn’t it? You’d better hope they think you’re more valuable than those moldy old books.”
Cat knew she was, but the math of this particular situation wasn’t quite as simple as that. Instead of replying directly to Celeste’s comment, she said, “What is it with you and this Toulouse guy? He’s a little old for you, don’t you think?”
The contemptuous look disappeared, and Celeste’s mouth thinned. “Nicky is a very great warlock.”
Yeah, a great big asshole, Cat thought.
“Besides,” the other witch went on, “you’re not exactly one to talk. Aren’t you shacked up with a demon?”
“Demon lord,” Cat corrected her.
“Whatever. If he was that great, he would’ve rescued you already.” By that point, they’d reached the door to the bedroom that had become Cat’s prison. Celeste opened the door, one corner of her lip curling. “Have a nice night.” And as soon as Cat was inside, the door shut behind her and the lock clicked.
She didn’t bother to try it, because she already knew she wasn’t getting out that way. Frowning, she went over to the bed and paused to take off her boots, since she figured she should try to get some sleep. However, just as she bent over to tug off the second one, a pale figure appeared before her.
The boot dropped to the rug.
“Shh,” said the apparition. “It’s only me.”
Standing there — this time with both her feet firmly planted on the rug — was the Southern belle ghost Cat had met earlier that day. “Oh, hi,” she said. “I was just getting ready for bed, since there doesn’t seem to be much else I can do.”
“About that,” the girl said, then paused. “I realized that I hadn’t told you my name before. It’s Elizabeth — Elizabeth Beaufort, but my father always called me Lizzie.”
“Well, hello, Lizzie,” Cat responded. Sure, it was great that she now knew the girl’s name, but that wasn’t going to help her get the hell out of here.
“I didn’t come here to tell you only that,” Lizzie informed her. “I was thinking about what Mr. Toulouse had done to you. I thought I should do something, but I still worry that he might banish me from the house. Then I realized that even if I couldn’t help you directly, I could find someone who would. That’s why I brought him along.”
Out of the shadows came the shape of a tall man. As he approached, he seemed to solidify slightly, but his feet hung about an inch off the carpet, indicating that he was no more mortal than Lizzie herself. He wore modern clothes, a white shirt and charcoal slacks, and was handsome in a distinguished way, with his hawkish nose and the streaks of gray in his dark hair.
“Hello,” he said. “My name is Edgar Dubois.”
18
Cat blinked at this new apparition. “‘Dubois’?” she repeated. “You’re part of the witch clan here in New Orleans?”
The man offered her a sad smile. “I was the prima’s consort. I came to take my daughter away from Nicholas Toulouse — ”
“ — and he stopped you.”
“Killed me, actually.” Edgar’s gaze shifted downward, as if he was looking at the ground floor of the house. “Down in the foyer. He is…very strong.”
Well, Cat knew that already. “Does Celeste know?”
“As far as I can tell, no. While she might have gone with him to spite her mother and me, I know she wouldn’t remain loyal to him if she knew the truth.” He paused for a moment, mouth tight, as though he wrestled with inner doubts that he didn’t want to share with her. “I can only imagine what you must think of her, but remember, she is very young.”
Not that young, Cat thought. Although she had to guess at Celeste’s age, she thought the Dubois witch must be at least twenty-one. Old enough to vote, to drink, to get married and do a whole host of other things that constituted acting like a proper grown-up. No, sorry…she didn’t have a lot of sympathy for Celeste or her shitty choices.
But since arguing with a ghost about what a crummy human being
his daughter had turned out to be felt like a very low blow, Cat thought it was probably better to move on to something a little less fraught. “Lizzie said you could help me?”
He glanced over at the girl ghost, who suddenly appeared nervous, hands in their crocheted mitts smoothing down the silken folds of her oversized skirt. “I said I thought you might be able to help her. You want your revenge against Mr. Toulouse, don’t you?”
“Very much,” Edgar Dubois replied, his face set and grim. “But I don’t see what I can do. Unfortunately, a ghost doesn’t have too many options when it comes to harming the living.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Cat said. For the first time, she experienced a flicker of hope, a way they might be able to retaliate against Nicholas Toulouse. “Ghosts can act against physical objects if they’re motivated enough. My cousin Tony’s house is haunted by a ghost named Victoria. Before Tony took over the house, his uncle Max lived there. He tried to turn the dining room into a game room, and that seriously pissed her off. She took all his new furniture — including the foosball table he’d just bought — and dumped it in a big heap in the backyard. Needless to say, Max put all the original furniture back.”
“What’s a foosball?” Lizzie asked, but Edgar Dubois now appeared thoughtful, one hand rubbing his clean-shaven chin.
“A ghost really picked up all that furniture and moved it?”
“Oh, yes,” Cat replied. “She came right out and told Max she’d done it, and that she’d do it again if he messed with anything in ‘her’ house. He didn’t try any redecorating after that, but I guess he got tired of the situation after a while and sold the house cheap to Tony. Anyway,” she went on, realizing that certain bits of family history really weren’t germane to the current discussion, “Victoria is a ghost, and she moved big pieces of furniture around.”
“Inanimate objects,” Edgar pointed out.
“I don’t think it matters. Victoria wouldn’t assault a person because she’s way too ladylike for that, but I’m pretty sure the same principle applies.”
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