Crazy Like a Fox

by Anne Stuart

  Cousin Charlie looked up at him, his face bearing witness to his argument with Francene. Everyone argued with her, Wendell thought for a moment, distracted. She really was the most annoying woman.

  “She went off with Cousin Andrew,” she said shortly.

  “Which Cousin Andrew? We have seven of them at last count.”

  “Maybe more,” Francene conceded. “I don’t know if you’re acquainted with this one. He’s Andrew Delacroix from the Baton Rouge Delacroix.”

  “There aren’t any young Baton Rouge Delacroix,” Wendell said stubbornly. “At least, none named Andrew.”

  “Maybe I misunderstood him.”

  “Are you sure she went with him willingly? Margaret’s not used to our ways, and she might not have put up the proper protest if someone wanted to carry her off.”

  “Margaret?” Francene scoffed. “Cousin, I’ve only known her for a few hours, and even I can tell she’s not a willing victim. She went off with Cousin Andrew quite happily, let me assure you.”

  Wendell still looked doubtful, and cast a frustrated glance at Charlie. “Why don’t you go find something to do, Cousin?” he said finally. “I’d like to talk to Francene in private.”

  Charlie hooted with laughter. “There’s no privacy to be had on the streets of New Orleans tonight, Cousin. You may as well accept the fact—your little bird has flown the coop. I tried for her, but I was easily outflanked. You should have made more certain of her before you went off on your duties.”

  “I didn’t think there’d be a problem,” Wendell answered stiffly.

  Charlie still made no move to leave, so Wendell decided to ignore him. “What made you seek Margaret out, Francene? Did someone introduce you?”

  “We just ran into each other,” she said easily.

  Wendell knew she was lying, and his doubts and fears multiplied.

  “Don’t worry, Wendell. I know Cousin Andrew very well. He won’t hurt the good sister. He’ll show her some of the mysteries of the Big Easy, and then he’ll bring her back to the house safe and sound.”

  “I’ll be waiting for him.”

  “That would be foolish, Wendell. If I know Andrew, if I know any Delacroix worth his salt, he won’t show up till well after dawn. Go and enjoy yourself. Don’t moon around after Margaret. She’ll be perfectly fine.”

  “I just wondered . . . I mean . . .,” Wendell stammered, glaring at the eavesdropping Charlie. “Er . . . what did Cousin Andrew look like?”

  “The Phantom of the Opera,” Charlie supplied cheerfully. “A bit of a change from all these vampires, don’t you think? He must have been someplace where he couldn’t read the Anne Rice books.”

  Wendell’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Charlie’s expression was completely bland. He turned to Francene. “Damn it, Francene, was it . . .?”

  “It was Cousin Andrew, Wendell. Accept it, and leave it be.”

  A slow dread filled Wendell’s heart as his worst fears were confirmed. “If anything happens to her, Francene . . .” he warned.

  “Nothing will happen, except that she will enjoy herself.”

  Far more than she would with a dull stick like you, he could imagine her saying. But she didn’t voice her thought. “You were always too trusting, Francene,” he said heavily, turning away from her. A moment later he was gone, blending in with the crowds, his step slow and heavy.

  COUSIN ANDREW HAD placed her hand on his arm, the silver ring glinting in the bright streetlights, and he drew her off into the night. From beneath his cloak he’d unearthed two champagne glasses that looked like Waterford but simply couldn’t be, and he’d opened the iced bottle of Moet with one deft gesture, pouring it into the glasses without spilling a drop.

  He handed her one, lifting his own in a toast. “To your eyes, Soeur Marguerite,” he said in that raspy drawl. “They are far too dangerous for a nun.”

  “I can’t drink to my own eyes,” she murmured, looking up at him, mesmerized, as the noise and crowds flowed around them.

  “Then drink to the night, chère. I’m going to show you fantastic things that you never dreamed existed in your safe little world. I’m going to show you demons and monsters, angels and fairies.”

  “I don’t have a safe little world,” Margaret said prosaically. “I haven’t in years. I’ve lived with gamblers and gangsters, the wealthy and the homeless. No one’s ever protected me from real life.”

  “But no one’s ever shown you dragons,” he said, touching her cheek with his gloved hand. “No one’s shown you magic.”

  “I don’t believe in magic.”

  “I know, chère. After tonight, you will.”

  By the time they started on their second bottle of champagne they’d lost the crystal glasses, and Margaret remembered hoping they weren’t really Waterford. They drank from the bottle, a sacrilege as far as Moet was concerned, but placing her mouth where he had placed his was somehow part of the magic. She followed him willingly, keeping her hand in his as he drew her through fanciful private bails, joined in parades, both rehearsed and impromptu, danced in the streets to the joyous sounds of Dixieland jazz, waltzed by the river to the strains of a Cajun band. At one point her body melted into his as they danced to the Neville Brothers, and all the time his hands never left her, always keeping contact, and she told herself it was because she could get lost in the crowd. She knew that wasn’t true. If they’d gotten separated, even for a moment, he would have found her and claimed her as surely as he had earlier that night.

  They stopped at a street vendor for the traditional pancakes of Fat Tuesday sometime before dawn. Sorghum syrup was a far cry from Vermont maple, but it went well with the champagne they’d been drinking all night long. It wasn’t until dawn that he took her away from the throngs, into the slightly less-crowded side streets, where their own voices could be heard without shrieking.

  She’d been on her feet all night long, but she didn’t notice any discomfort. A damp chill had settled into the predawn air, but as the wind whipped her enveloping habit around her she scarcely paid any attention. Her skirts blew against his booted ankles as they walked, and he wrapped his dark cape around her shoulders, drawing her close.

  “Where are we going now?” she asked, feeling the first tendrils of uncertainty. The night was over, Cinderella was about to turn into a pumpkin, and she hoped and prayed he wasn’t going to make some clumsy pass at her, wasn’t going to try to turn this night of magic into a mundane hookup. Because it was tempting. She could almost pretend he was Peter, and after tomorrow she’d never see him again. No harm, no foul. No!

  “Where would you like to go?” His voice was low, hypnotic, uncannily like Peter’s.

  “What are the options?” she asked warily.

  “I could return you to the Delacroix House on Dumaine Street. You could try to get some sleep, and maybe even succeed before Cousin Wendell takes you home. But the sun hasn’t risen yet. There’s time for one more thing.”

  Daylight was just beginning to touch the city. Tired revelers were straggling past them, no one noticing the nun and the phantom. Far more fantastical creatures had prowled the streets that night, and now everyone was ready for rest.

  “Or you could come home with me,” he said. “But that would be far too prosaic an ending to a night like this, pleasurable though it might be. Besides, Francene would be there, and we’d have to get rid of her.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she said, her voice scratchy.

  “No.” His voice was regretful. “I suppose not. We’ll do something far wiser.” He took her hand again, tugging her gently along the sidewalk.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To visit Marie Laveau.”

  “She’s dead,” Margaret said flatly, pulling back.

  “I wouldn’t have thought you
’d even know who Marie Laveau was.” he chided.

  “I read a lot. The queen of voodoo is very famous.”

  “Then you’ll want to see her grave.”

  “Not particularly.” She still held back. In the growing light she could see his dark eyes, mesmerizing eyes, and she realized with a start that they weren’t brown at all. They were green.

  “You can’t spend time in New Orleans without seeing one of the famous Cities of the Dead, and you can’t visit our cemeteries without looking for our most famous resident. Come, chère. Don’t you have any wishes for the old lady to grant? She still answers requests, even from beyond the grave.”

  She could feel her resolve slipping. Somehow it seemed appropriate, ending the night in a graveyard with a phantom by her side. “I have a request,” she said, her voice slightly raw in the early-morning dampness.

  “Then come away with me, Sister Margaret. And I’ll show you the most mysterious sight of all.” Wrapping his cape around her shoulders, he pulled her along the crowded New Orleans street.

  Chapter Eleven

  SHE’D ALREADY LEARNED enough about New Orleans not to be surprised that a graveyard wouldn’t be deserted at five in the morning. To be sure, it wasn’t crowded, but as she followed her companion’s tall, cloaked figure through the monoliths, tombs and sepulchers, she could see other couples wandering with just the same sort of morning-after ambivalence she felt.

  They threaded their way through narrow alleys, past the wall, boxed tombs New Orleans was famous for, moving deeper and deeper into the shadowy confines of the old cemetery. A few short blocks away the revelers still partied, ignoring the insidious dawn, but here all was quiet, the silence broken only by the murmur of voices as they passed other sightseers, and the early sounds of birds.

  The phantom halted in front of a wall of tombs that looked nothing so much like pizza ovens. There was no engraving on the wall, just a series of red crosses. “Here she is,” he murmured, some of the raspiness leaving his voice. “Or so some people believe. Others insist she’s in another cemetery a few blocks away.” He released her, stepping toward the wall and touching a red cross. His gloved hand came away stained, and he stripped off the white cotton, tucking the gloves in his pocket.

  “What do you believe?” she asked, staring at the blank wall, the red crosses that looked like blood.

  “I don’t believe she’s in either one. But her magic is. As long as you believe.”

  “I don’t.”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t taught you to believe in magic tonight? Then I’ve failed.”

  He knew as well as she did that he hadn’t failed at all. “What are the red crosses for?” she asked, instead.

  “Petitioners, asking favors of Marie. I imagine some of them are made in chicken blood, but that one looks like crayon wax to me.”

  Margaret moved closer. “Do you have a red pen?” She didn’t look at him.

  “How could you doubt that I wouldn’t?” He placed a red marker in her hand and stepped back.

  She could feel his eyes on her, watching, but for the moment she ignored him. Kneeling on the stone walkway, she drew a red cross, going over it twice, deepening the color, and she asked for what she couldn’t have. Then she rose and turned to face her companion.

  “What did you ask for?”

  His voice was low, seductive, and she had to remind herself that this was a Baton Rouge Delacroix, a Louisiana bachelor out for a mystical night of revelry. He had nothing to do with the request she’d made. Only an accidental kinship.

  She shook her head. “Just the impossible. Marie knows.”

  Taking her arm, he pulled her away from the tomb, away from an approaching group of tourists, back into one of the shadowy alleys. They were alone, sheltered from sight, separated in time and space from the crowds around them. “That’s Marie’s specialty,” he said, reaching his hands up to cup her face. “Trust her.” His mouth moved down to touch hers, softly. “Trust me.” And he kissed her again, just as lightly, his mouth teasing hers, drawing her into a response she couldn’t help but give.

  He tasted of champagne and pancakes. He smelled of the night and smoke from the ceremonial flambeaux. He felt warm and solid and real, no phantom after all. Sliding her arms underneath his cloak, she made a small, whimpering sound of a longing so deep she couldn’t begin to understand it. All she wanted was his mouth, his hard body against hers, the strength of him, the slow drugging certainty of his mouth. He might have had all the time in the world as he kissed her, with careful thoroughness, with soft bites, a tug of her lower lip with his teeth. She’d never been kissed like this, and she wanted to close her eyes and let go, sink into his hard body without the constant wariness that stayed with her.

  She felt the ground give way beneath her, and it took her a moment to realize he’d lifted her, in immensely strong arms, and set her on the flat top of one of the raised tombs, bringing her face on a level with his. He stood between her legs, trapped in the voluminous folds of her black costume, and his cape was wrapped around both of them, concealing their embrace, concealing the deftness of his hands as they stripped open the front of her costume.

  She reached to push his hands away, but when he touched her flushed skin she melted against him, her hands covering his, pressing them against her. She felt dizzy, wanton, lost, as his mouth took hers, as his hands claimed the soft, warm skin, touching her, stroking her. She slid her arms around his neck, levering herself closer still, no longer caring if she was mad, no longer caring that she was on the verge of making love with a total stranger. Marie Laveau hadn’t answered her petition. Instead of making Peter sane, she’d made Margaret crazy.

  He released her mouth, trailing kisses across her heated face, and she could hear the rough rasp of his breathing against her ear. “Much as I’d love to push you down on this tomb and make love to you here and now, Marguerite,” he whispered, “I think there might be a better time and place.”

  Margaret froze. A moment later she pulled her arms from around his neck, trying to scramble away from him. But her legs were still trapped on either side of him, and he held her there, his long fingers caressing, imprisoning her black-robed thighs.

  “Let me go, please,” she begged, her voice rough and hurried, her face lowered in embarrassment. She had been ready to do the unthinkable with a man she’d known for only a few hours, a man whose face she hadn’t even seen. Never, ever had she come close to such wanton behavior, and the thought of it made her shake in sudden panic.

  He caught her under the chin, tipping her face up to meet his. “Don’t look so distraught, chère,” he murmured. “It’s not your fault. I led you astray.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “Of course you do. Look in my eyes and tell me that I’m a stranger.”

  His voice was low and persuasive, and she found herself doing just that. He was wrong; he was a stranger, a dangerous, mesmerizing stranger, but she suddenly realized why she’d been about to throw a lifetime of caution out the window. He reminded her of Peter. He reminded her very strongly of Peter, and by giving in to a moment of madness with Andrew Delacroix, she could pretend she was having what she really wanted, and what was out of reach. Peter.

  “I must have had too much champagne,” she said, reaching out to push his hand away. Instead she wrapped her fingers around his as she stared into his eyes. “And too much Mardi Gras.”

  “One can never have too much Mardi Gras. But you’re right. The sun has risen. Time for fasting and repentance. Unfortunately we have nothing to repent.”

  He released her, moving away, and she slid off the tombstone, reaching for the front of her costume with numb fingers. A breeze had blown up, a cool one, snaking through the opened front of her habit and chilling her.

  He stepped forward, brushing her hands away and fastening the front
with devastating tenderness. “I want you to realize, Marguerite, that no one in New Orleans would have been offended if a nun and a phantom had made love atop a tomb in Saint Louis Cemetery. I just didn’t want to be interrupted.”

  He’d managed to get a laugh out of her. “I think the cement might have been uncomfortable. Besides, the time for pleasures of the flesh is over. We’ll have to wait till next year.”

  “Don’t count on it,” he said under his breath as he led her through the narrow alleyways of the ancient cemetery. “We only have to repent for six weeks. Then I’ll come and get you.”

  She took it in the spirit she was certain it was intended. Andrew Delacroix wouldn’t even remember her in six weeks, or if he did, it would be with a wry amusement, and she’d be safely back at Maison Delacroix, or even, with real luck, on her way to Florida, with Carrie safely by her side.

  By the time they reached the town house on Dumaine Street, the French Quarter was almost unnaturally quiet. Not empty—Margaret doubted that the streets of New Orleans would ever be empty—but the crowds were sparser, moving more slowly, accepting the fact that the season of revelry was over.

  There were two vampires passed out on the front steps of the Delacroix house. Margaret stepped over them gingerly, her black skirts brushing them, but neither of them moved. Neither of them was Wendell, though they both looked vaguely familiar. She ought to have gotten used to that by now. She’d spent the night with a stranger who felt as if she’d known him forever.

  “Do you want to come in?” She’d pitched her voice low, but she hadn’t really needed to. Nothing outside of the second coming would have woken the undead sleeping so peacefully on the broad steps.

  The phantom shook his head. “There wouldn’t be a spare inch of space anywhere in that house, if things are running true to form. Go and try to get some rest.”

  “I need it.” Her hand was on the unlocked door handle, but still she hesitated. “Aren’t you going to take off your mask?”

  He shook his head once more, but his slow grin beneath the strip of white leather was beguiling.