Belle Sauvage needs cleansing. Guests feel evil presences. It is not unknown for a haunted house to draw evil influences. The house is said to be haunted by the ghosts of Thomas Sharman, his lover Camille, his wife, Susannah Sharman and their four children, who Susannah is said to have killed in a fit of jealous madness. Several people have witnessed the phenomena, including Auguste Duplessis. Their accounts are in the file.
A recent fire is said to be of ghostly origin. The house is currently being repaired, prior to its grand reopening.
Auguste Duplessis believes he is in danger from the ghosts and does not intend to return until the house has been cleansed. He has asked me to act as temporary manager, overseeing the repairs. I will investigate the phenomena and attempt to cleanse the house. The status of this project is ongoing.
Jordan stared at the screen. The picture of Karey on the company pages was her business look; carefully brushed hair, meticulous make-up, intelligence gleaming in the depths of her green eyes. However businesslike she looked, she couldn’t hide the fire in her thick, unruly locks, or the lushness of her lips. And Jordan had seen her in very different circumstances; hair spread over the pillow, eyes half closed, glazed with passion, lips parted for his kisses, that glorious body open to him, for him. He groaned and closed his eyes, fighting the desire that would never leave him as long as he lived.
And that, it seemed, would be a very long time. Better he broke with her now. He couldn’t make her happy in the ways he’d always dreamed of. He couldn’t give her children and she would age and die while he remained young. It was best if she hated him so she could get him out of her life. A clean break.
Jordan hadn’t wanted this existence. Recently he had begun to doubt the truth of everything Didiane had told him, and had done a little investigating of his own.
He was almost sure that his sire, the unfortunate Gillespie Cornell, Didiane’s late husband, hadn’t intended to bestow the Dark Gift on him. Didiane had caused it. Her impulsive, selfish nature pushed her into action after she had seen Jordan and wanted him. Jordan suspected there was more than water in the drink she had given him, and more than wine in Cornell’s glass on that fatal evening. Whatever it was had driven him to temporary madness and infected Cornell, so Cornell, instead of taking the small amount of blood that would ensure Jordan’s silence, had drained him, and Jordan had turned on his sire in the way all newly made vampires did. For a newly made vampire to live, his sire must die, giving his life’s blood to the new vampire. All those legends he’d read, all the novels, in his search for some clue to his life’s obsession, they’d been wrong.
After that there had been nothing Jordan could do except set Karey free. After his conversion he had become Didiane’s lover, her price for teaching him the ways of his new life, but all the passion was on her side, not his, and she knew it.
He’d give a lot to discover how Didiane had found out about Karey. Someone must have told her. One thing was for sure; Karey was no longer safe. He would have to face his wife again and somehow retrieve Didiane without showing Karey how much he loved her. How much he still loved her.
Cursing, he initiated a computer search for Karey’s name and left it to run while he showered and dressed. When he returned, he found no result. Didiane hadn’t received an email about Karey, then, hadn’t stored any records about her. He switched off the machine and picked up the phone to booking himself on the next plane to New Orleans, trying not to wince at the cost. Speed had its price and so did first class accommodation but he couldn’t bear the thought of twelve hours squashed in tourist class. Not that he needed to worry about money any more. He had inherited his sire’s vast wealth, accumulated over the four centuries of Cornell’s existence, but he still thought like a man who had to watch his budget.
He had three hours before the plane left. It would take all his powers of persuasion, which were now considerably enhanced, to get to Charles de Gaulle and get on to that jet in that time. After shoving some clothes into a bag, he went through to the lounge to find his phone and tablet.
He discovered that day’s Le Monde, crumpled and pushed hastily aside. It was open on an inside page, and there he discovered an article about great gemstones that had been lost. Not surprisingly, the Blue Star featured prominently, together with the stories about the house. That would have been enough to reignite Didiane’s interest in the gem.
The temptation would have been too much for Didiane. But how had she found out about Karey?
* * * * *
“Ms. Murray, may I have a word?”
Karey turned her head to see who owned the unfamiliar voice and nearly tumbled off her stepladder. The African-American man who gazed up at her was a god in human form. He must be over six feet tall, and his eyes were a liquid invitation. She could lose herself in those depths. Under that police uniform burgeoned a chest she could rest on until morning.
She snapped back to her normal self. What was she, a frustrated virgin? Grimacing at her inappropriate response, Karey gave a final tweak to the camera and climbed down. “Good morning—er—officer.”
“Morning, ma’am. I’m Captain Armstrong, from the Indigette police force.” Indigette was the town in the other direction to New Orleans, a small, peaceful place. With, Karey thought, a good-looking police chief.
“How can I help you, Captain?”
“Well now.” The captain removed his hat and rubbed his forehead. The day was uncomfortably warm for late September. Karey walked past him to the little table, breathing in the delicious male aura of fresh sweat and spicy cologne.
Stop it, Karey! She had no idea where these thoughts had come from. Recently her libido had run on overtime, infusing her with lustful imaginings like never before. Her life had never been ruled by her crotch, and she was determined that wouldn’t happen now. It was probably a response to the trauma of Jordan’s rejection. It had to be, otherwise the explanation would be something she wasn’t sure she was ready to face. That someone was planting these feelings in her head. Her instincts told her that was what was happening, but her reason scornfully dismissed the notion, but she couldn’t deny her empathic response to undercurrents in places, especially old houses. One of the spirits infesting this place could be influencing her. The thought scared and excited her in equal measure. Scared, because nobody wanted another entity invading their head, but excited because she could be getting close to the truth she’d searched for all her life, and never found.
She kept all the speculation out of her face. Picking up the pitcher, she smiled at the police captain. “Lemonade? The cook makes it for us. It’s good.” At his nod, she poured out two glasses and handed him one.
“You could have him. Come on to him, I dare you!”
The wicked laugh resounded around her head. Her senses flared in automatic response and she caught a presence. A male presence, retreating fast. “Oh God!”
She was right. Excitement filled her, drowning the fear. Dumping the glass on the unfortunate police captain, she ran in the direction of the presence, followed it up the stairs and into the East Wing, but, quicker than she could run, it retreated. She waited, putting out her senses, but it had left nothing for her to trace.
She turned and went back to the room where she’d left Captain Armstrong, one of the once grand bedrooms on the first floor. The recent fire had blackened the walls of the once elegantly appointed room, now bare of furniture and fittings, but at least it was structurally sound once more. The electricians had been at work, and pieces of wiring still poked out of holes in the walls, ready to be tucked away safely to ready the room for the decorators, who were already at work on the upper floors. Karey had taken the opportunity to ask for them to install a few of her detection devices; surveillance cameras and infrared equipment. She had been adjusting the position of one of the cameras when the officer had arrived.
He’d already drunk his lemonade. She poured him another one. Now her flash of lust had gone, she saw him for what he was; a well set-up
police chief, waiting for her with a patience he must be far from feeling. “Sorry.”
She handed him the refilled glass. “If this were a science fiction film, we’d call that first contact. I was doing my job, just as you’re doing yours. I’ve been brought in to investigate the paranormal phenomena, and hopefully, put a stop to it.”
“I wish you would,” Captain Armstrong said, thin lipped. “I don’t care if it exists or not, but it might be drawing the criminal element here.” She shot him a questioning glance. “We have a serial killer on the loose. Now it looks as though there are vodun practitioners involved.” She’d heard about the serial killer, the person murdering vagrants in the area, but not the voodoo element.
“Vodun? Voodoo you mean? There’s a history of it in this house.” That was well out of Karey’s area of expertise, but her antennae sharpened at the word.
“I know. Most of it is harmless, but there is a branch that goes after the black side. We have an expert on call, and she confirmed this is the work of a caplata—that’s a practitioner of the left handed arts.”
“I know what a caplata is,” Karey snapped. She wasn’t entirely ignorant. Her response had been too harsh, but the surge of lust that struck her when she’d looked at the captain for the first time unnerved her, put her off-balance. She’d never felt anything so strong before. “A mamba is a female priestess, right?”
He caught her point. “Okay, so you’ve studied voodoo.”
“Only the basics, to research the history of the house. You still haven’t told me exactly what you found.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I’ll try to be brief. I can see you’re busy.”
She had upset him. Perhaps he’d noticed her inappropriate reaction. She owed him an apology. “Please call me Karey.” Her approach was entirely friendly now, whereas a few minutes ago, that sentence would have had an entirely different connotation. “Ma’am makes me feel so old!”
He nodded and smiled to acknowledge the thawing of the ice between them. “We found a body, ma’am—Karey. On the road outside the house. That doesn’t mean it has anything to do with the people here but we have to make enquiries.”
Horrified, Karey said, “Oh, I’m so sorry! Who was the poor person?”
“Another vagrant. He used to hang around Indigette, and he’s quite a well-known figure in our town. Totally harmless. Or he was. As far as we know he hadn’t left Indigette for years. They called him Roobie.”
The ugly words came out in the beautiful accent of the south, seductive in its lazy drawl. Karey pulled her thoughts together. “Why do you think he was a vodun victim?”
The captain’s mouth tightened now, lines of strain appearing at the corners. “Signs on the body that he had been sacrificed. Someone had tied him up tight before his death. There are rope burns on his body but the person who killed him removed his bonds before he or she dumped him. He was naked, probably for the first time in years. The murderer had cut his throat and his blood was used to mark his body. And there were traces of cornmeal.”
Karey frowned. “Cornmeal?”
“It’s often used to mark the veve pattern on the floor. Each loa or god has his or her own veve.”
Karey sipped her lemonade. “You know a lot about this. Are you a believer?”
He shook his head vigorously. “Not at all, but we can’t ignore its influence. Most police officers around here need to have a working knowledge of the religion.”
Karey felt slightly disorientated. Of all the topics she might have expected to discuss with a police officer, voodoo hadn’t been one of them. “Camille Benoit, one of the ghosts supposed to haunt this place, was a vodun priestess. Thomas Sharman made Camille his lover, then murdered her for the necklace. Then he gave the necklace to his wife and invoked the curse. The stone should only be given in love, you see, and he took it by force.”
Armstrong looked interested, not skeptical, as she had expected. “What happened to the wife?”
“She went mad and killed her children before killing herself. Or that’s what the story says.”
The captain’s expression sharpened, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “Is there any doubt that she killed the children?”
“Who knows?” Karey turned away to put her glass down on the only furniture not covered in tarps, a rickety table used for wallpapering. “The records are extremely sketchy and officially I can only find a mention of their deaths and the wife’s suicide. I don’t really know, but I’m investigating the possibility. It could make a difference to how I approach cleansing the house.”
The police captain nodded, and she could see no hint of skepticism in his eyes. “I shouldn’t say this but I find it all fascinating. I’ve lived here all my life, grown up knowing vodun and I’ve seen some weird things, but I’ve never seen anyone take the scientific approach to ghost hunting before.
They shared a friendly smile. “Your secret’s safe with me, captain. Hosts to Ghosts has always taken the scientific approach alongside the intuitive. We use mediums in the TV programs, but we back it up with hard research. We’ve made several discoveries in the last few years. We know some people are sensitive—I’m one of them. It acts as a kind of radar, but we need the scientific equipment to refine the findings. So I’m setting up some cameras and other equipment, to see what turns up. I have cameras, infrared equipment and sound equipment that can hear frequencies higher than a bat’s.” She stopped, and smiled. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t let me run on. It’s not just my job, it’s my passion.”
The captain peered up at the camera. “It’s always good to hear an enthusiast. Your equipment sounds state of the art.”
“Oh, it is. We believe the key is to combine human instinct with the best science can provide. We don’t just do the programs, we undertake serious research.” She shut herself up this time, before she could bore him any more. Once on her favorite subject, she could go on for hours.
The captain returned his gaze to her, and his attention sharpened. “I have to ask you. What were you doing the night before last?”
She flushed, then brought her mind into order and thought back. “I was here, going over the recordings for the day.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Yes. A couple of the workmen passed through. Then I had dinner in the dining room, and said hello to a few people there. After that, I went back to the computer.”
He nodded, and pulled out his notebook to jot down what she had said. She watched, fascinated that he was still using paper. When he had finished, he thanked her and went to the door. “By the way, you will tell me if something suspicious, and not supernatural turns up on your tapes, won’t you?”
She didn’t remind him that she took digital recordings, not tapes. “Of course.”
When he had gone, Karey hurried up to her room and booted up her computer. That surge of lust she had felt wasn’t only untypical, she was sure it was imposed on her. Someone had made her feel that way. Or something. She spent the next couple of hours researching, finding other instances of hauntings and recording them carefully. She would have missed dinner, had Bernard not come looking for her.
* * * * *
The next day a guest arrived. Karey was crossing the hall in the direction of the East Wing when she became aware she wasn’t alone.
A shadow stood against the light, and at first Karey could only see a female silhouette. When she stepped further inside, Karey caught her breath at the sheer, ethereal beauty of the woman before her.
The visitor was a blonde woman, with fine, fair skin and the bluest eyes Karey had ever seen. Her hair was long, straight and would have been flyaway had her style not been so very well cut. Her clothes oozed style and panache, the short blue skirt revealing glimpses of long, straight, gleaming legs under the longer overcoat, left carelessly open. The woman looked younger than Karey, so she was perhaps in her mid-twenties. Or perhaps the money that had undoubtedly promoted that glossy appearance had also helped the youthful look.<
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From the arrogant tilt of the delicate chin, this visitor was also used to getting her own way. Waves of confidence and prosperity coming off her, as definite as radio waves. Karey acknowledged her own unwilling jealousy and guessed this woman evoked that reaction in a lot of other women. She was just too perfect.
“Can I help you?”
The woman stared at her for a few seconds. “Oui, I think so.” Not only beautiful, but French. Karey got the feeling that this woman rarely put a foot wrong and then regretted her petty desire to see the newcomer trip over the rug that covered the polished wooden floor.
The blonde showed no sign of noticing Karey’s reaction. “I would like to stay here. I have heard that there are ghosts here, and I am an investigator.”
Karey forced a smile. “I can hardly say there are no rooms available, can I?” She wished she could. “However, the hotel isn’t open yet. We had a fire recently, and we’ve put the opening back to allow for repairs to be made.”
The stranger arched a finely plucked eyebrow. “Was the fire from natural causes?”
“Probably.” Though she had her doubts, Karey wouldn’t tell a stranger.
“Ah!” The woman smiled in what looked like genuine pleasure. “Probably. How delightful! I have the permission of Dr. Jordan Arcenaux to come here.”
Shock jolted right through Karey like a flash of lightning. “You know Dr. Arcenaux?”
“Ah yes. I met him in France. He gave me permission to come here, but I have to work with his other operative. Would that be you?”
“Yes.” Karey hissed the word through her teeth. How dare he, how dare Jordan give someone else she had never heard of a remit he must know belonged to her? “I fear Dr. Arcenaux overused his authority.” She heard her clipped words, and knew she had to be careful. If she lost her cool, she would lose this battle. Was this woman a sightseer, someone—she stopped there. Even now, it was too painful to think of Jordan with anyone else. “I’m in charge here.”
Hosts to Ghosts Box Set Page 24