“We know one. Thanks.” He’d have to get Sean over to check things out again before the museum opened.
The detective strode through the living room toward the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Beaumont. Ms. Park. We’ll be in touch.”
Blake closed the door behind her and turned to Sydney. “She was mysterious.”
She nodded. “I get the feeling she knows more than she’s letting on.”
“When you make that standing appointment with the priestess, will you see if she can help me too?”
“Sounds like we’ve both got a lot to learn about our abilities.”
He sidled next to her, taking her in his arms. “And we have all the time in the world to do it, right?”
Sydney smiled. “I believe we do.”
Epilogue
One Year Later
“That was an event worth waiting for,” Blake said.
“It was fun, wasn’t it?” Sydney picked up her mask and slipped her hand into Blake’s as she stepped out of the mule-drawn buggy. “Thanks, Jack.”
The driver smiled. “Always a pleasure, Ms. Sydney.”
“We appreciate it, man.” Blake shook Jack’s hand and guided Sydney up the sidewalk toward his home.
A warm March breeze tickled her bare shoulders as she admired the full moon glowing dimly in the cloudless sky. Finally attending her krewe’s Mardi Gras ball with Blake had been magical, and she swayed softly to the music still playing in her mind as they made their way up the path.
She adjusted her tiara and smiled at the crown sitting crooked atop Blake’s head. She’d dressed like a queen for the Regal Royalty-themed masquerade, but Blake had treated her like one every day for the past year.
They’d postponed the museum opening until things settled down, but once Sydney had healed and the trial concluded, they moved forward, and the most popular tour company in the French Quarter became even more popular.
After riding in the parade last year, she’d thought the ghost would have moved on quickly, but Bernadette enjoyed the parade so much she decided to stick around. She haunted the museum, teasing guests who visited her Mardi Gras artwork with chills and cool breezes. Sean checked in with her occasionally, reminding her of her promise to stay quiet after closing time, and the spirit seemed content to remain in the museum.
Claire spent the past year in a psychiatric facility, hopefully getting the help she needed. It had taken a while to process everything that happened, but things were slowly getting back to normal, and Sydney treasured every minute she spent with Blake.
He walked past his front door, pausing by the gate that led to the back courtyard. They wouldn’t be heading up to his apartment yet, and she’d seen the reason why in a vision. She’d have preferred the surprise not be spoiled, but that was what she got for poking around in her own future.
“I want to show you something.” He rested his hands on her hips and placed a soft kiss on her cheek.
She bit her bottom lip, fighting her smile, and pulled him into a hug. “Okay.”
“You know, don’t you?” he whispered into her ear.
“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
He leaned away, narrowing his eyes at her, and she batted her lashes, feigning innocence as anticipation wound tight like a spring in her core.
She’d kept up her weekly appointments with the Voodoo priestess, and while learning to control her gift often felt like riding a bicycle with a flat tire uphill in the mud, the progress she’d made astonished her.
The vision she’d squelched during last year’s Mardi Gras parade, while dire, had been her first foray into taking control and not blacking out randomly. Now, she was learning how to feel the visions, paying attention to the vibrational energy to determine if what the universe wanted to show her was urgent or if it could wait for a more convenient time. The urgent ones—like the Mardi Gras vision—had a sharp, stinging sensation when they pulled her under, while less pressing matters felt soft and vibrated slowly.
Blake took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “If you’re telling the truth, I might have a surprise for you.”
She grinned. “I can’t wait to see it.”
He gave her another skeptical look before leading her through the gate and down the alley toward the back of the building. He paused before rounding the corner, facing her and brushing her hair from her forehead. “Don’t fake being surprised if you know. I want your real reaction, cher. It’s important.”
She rose onto her toes and kissed his lips. “I promise.”
Part of her psychic training included bringing on premonitions purposely. It felt wrong to pry into other’s lives without their permission, so she’d been practicing on her own future…which was why she knew exactly what she would see when she stepped around the building.
She couldn’t wait.
“No peeking.” Moving behind her, Blake put his hands over her eyes and guided her into the courtyard.
The uneven cobblestone threw off her balance, so she reached behind to hold Blake’s hips as they shuffled forward. The sound of water bubbling from a fountain and cascading down into a pool drifted toward her, drawing the corners of her mouth into a smile.
Blake stopped, and, keeping her eyes covered, he pressed his lips to the back of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. That, she hadn’t seen coming.
“Are you ready, cher?” he whispered against her ear.
She nodded, and he uncovered her eyes.
Though she’d seen it in her premonition, her breath caught at the beauty of the fountain. A series of lights installed in the reservoir illuminated the structure, making the water glow as it tumbled from pedestal to pedestal before splashing into the pool at the bottom. A stone rabbit wearing a waistcoat sat atop the center column, its pocket watch tucked neatly into its vest.
Blake slid his arms around her from behind. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful. I love it.”
“Good. I had the rabbit commissioned just for you. It’ll be nice to sit out here in the springtime.” He kissed her cheek and stepped back as she took in the rest of the courtyard.
He’d had the whole space renovated, with new greenery planted along the walls and strings of lights draped across the center. A stone bench sat against the back wall, and an elaborate wrought-iron table with two chairs stood in the corner beneath the shade of a massive magnolia tree.
Her pulse quickened, her hands trembling as she prepared to turn around. She knew exactly what to expect and what her answer would be, but that didn’t take away from the thrilling excitement rushing through her veins.
She turned and bit her bottom lip as she found Blake on one knee, a black velvet box in his hand. Her legs wobbled, and she sank onto the edge of the fountain.
“I may not be able to see the future like you, but I do know one thing for certain. I can’t even imagine a future without you in my life. This courtyard is yours, and so is my heart.”
Her throat thickened, and tears collected on her lower lids.
Blake opened the box and pulled out a diamond ring. “I love you, Sydney. I will love you for the rest of my life, and then some. Will you be my wife?”
“Yes,” she whispered, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
He smiled. “What was that? I’m not sure I heard you.”
She laughed. “Yes. Yes!”
He slid the ring on her finger and stood, pulling her into a tight embrace. “You’ve just made me the happiest man alive.”
“I love you, Blake.”
“I love you too.” He linked his fingers behind her lower back and leaned away to look in her eyes. “Be honest. Did you know it was coming?”
She nodded. “Doesn’t make it any less special, though. I see how things are going to turn out a lot, and there’s something you should know.”
“I’m listening.”
She smiled. “For you and me, there’s no end in sight.”
Sydney was
right when she thought Macey, the mysterious detective, knew more about the paranormal than she was letting on.
Macey knows a lot more.
Get Werewolves Only to read her story now.
Reviews and word of mouth are the best advertisement for books. If you enjoyed Love & Omens, please let others know by leaving a review.
Want to stay up-to-date on all of Carrie’s new releases and promotions? Become a VIP Reader, and you’ll receive a free short story as a thank you gift!
Sample a chapter of Werewolves Only now:
Detective Macey Carpenter ducked under the police tape blocking off an alley on St. Peter Street and smoothed her hair toward the tight bun she wore near the nape of her neck. Storm clouds gathered in the darkening sky, and the summer air hung thick and wet. It was a typical steamy August night in the French Quarter, but the heavy humidity did nothing to quell the chorus of offending odors dancing in the air. She wrinkled her nose.
Slipping her hands into a pair of blue latex gloves, she snapped them at the wrists. The slight sting helped to separate the gruesomeness she’d soon see from the ordinary life she’d return to later. Disconnecting the good from the bad in her mind kept the nightmares at bay.
She paced into the alley, and three men in blue nodded curtly as they passed. “Carpenter,” the blond with a crew cut muttered.
She nodded back and inhaled a deep breath. Angling up her nose to catch the wind, she rifled through the array of scents it presented her. The overpowering aroma of the female victim’s Chanel couldn’t cover the metallic reek of blood. Lucky for the woman, most of the blood seemed to belong to the attacker.
Macey shook her head. Seven sexual assaults in three weeks’ time. In each case, the victims described a different man. Different, yet similar enough that they had to be connected. But how? The assailant had disappeared every time but this one. What the hell was going on in this town?
She stepped into the courtyard and took in the landscape of the crime scene. Six nineteenth-century buildings backed onto a shared park. Willows lined the square, their sorrowful branches looming over the grief-stricken scene. A weathered stone fountain bubbled at the center of the wooded garden, and a thirty-foot magnolia tree towered in the corner, the perfume of its citrusy, white flowers mingling with the stale stench of death, creating a sickly-sweet fragrance that made her stomach turn.
“It’s about time you got here, boss.” Bryce Samuels winked and sauntered toward her.
Macey stopped and put her hands on her hips before shaking her head at her partner. “Traffic. What have we got?” After dropping her bag near a wall, she knelt to examine the alleged rapist’s body. A series of jagged, foot-long gashes stretched from chest to pelvic bone, almost as if it had taken three slashes with the blade to lay the guy open. The pupils were dilated—the blood-red eyes frozen in a look of surprised terror.
“Victim’s over there.” Bryce gestured with his head to a stone bench near the common’s entrance. A green-eyed redhead sat, wrapped in a stiff blanket, giving a statement to a uniform. “Same story as the others. Difference is, this time…there’s evidence.”
Macey followed his gaze to the body that lay before her. “Unless it was a sloth, I don’t see how a dog or a bear could’ve done this with only three nails. Look here.” She traced her gloved hand along each rip in the flesh. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Bryce crossed his arms. “No, it doesn’t. But this is the first time the attacker is actually still at the scene.”
“I know.” Macey pulled off her gloves and dropped them in a trash bag. “Let’s talk to the victim.”
“Shall we?” Bryce motioned with his hands, and Macey took the lead. The uniform had finished his questioning, and the woman sat alone, shivering in the sweltering August heat. Funny how shock could do that to a body.
Her dark green blanket slipped off one slumped shoulder, revealing a black T-shirt with a restaurant name embroidered on the breast. The woman inhaled a shaky breath as Macey approached, but she didn’t lift her gaze from the cobblestone path.
Macey sat on the edge of the bench, the cool stone taming the Louisiana summer. Bryce leaned against the wall behind her.
“Hey there. I’m Detective Macey Carpenter, but you can call me Macey.”
The redhead sniffled and wiped her eyes.
Macey folded her hands in her lap. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Amy. Couldn’t you read that in your report?” Her sarcasm didn’t mask the fear in her voice. She wiped her eyes again and stared straight ahead.
Macey’s chest tightened. She’d dealt with her own personal grief, so she could imagine what this poor woman was going through. Although, Macey had spent more than her fair share of time in denial, and Amy seemed to have skipped that stage and plowed straight into anger. “I could have looked at the report, but I’d rather hear it from you. You know…since you were here and all. I want to help.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Amy wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her bobbed hair swishing forward to cover her face as she stared at the ground. “Everyone says they want to help, but when you tell the truth, do they believe you?” She blinked at Macey. “Hell no, they don’t. And why am I not in the hospital? I was raped, for Pete’s sake. Just because some…thing saved me and killed the asshole, I have to be questioned first? What? You think I killed him? I didn’t, but believe me, if I could’ve…I would’ve in a heartbeat. Men like that don’t deserve to live.”
Macey took a deep breath. She understood anger. Resentment. Desperation. Those feelings were nothing new to her, though she’d buried them long ago. And though they rarely reared their ugly heads anymore, she still hadn’t mastered acceptance. “What thing saved you, Amy? Was it an animal?”
Amy scoffed. “Animal. Man. Alien. It doesn’t matter. No one believes me anyway.”
Macey placed her hand on Amy’s. “I believe you. Trust me. I’ve been on the trail of this thing for weeks. You aren’t the first victim to tell me this story, but you are the first to have evidence. Please…I need you to tell me everything.”
Amy took a deep breath and looked her square in the eyes. Holding her gaze, Macey gave her all the trust and reassurance she could without words. Amy exhaled and slumped her shoulders. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”
As Luke Mason stepped through the door of O’Malley’s Pub, a curtain of cool, crisp air blasted his sweat drenched skin. At ninety-eight degrees and one hundred percent humidity, the Vieux Carré felt more like a Dutch oven than a French Quarter. He closed his eyes and let the coolness soothe his aching limbs as he entered the building. The low ceiling and bare brick walls were typical of the nineteenth-century structures in the Quarter. Shaded lights hung from exposed beams, casting a smoky glow over the bar.
He sat on a stool and took a long, refreshing gulp of the Blue Moon beer that sat ready on the counter, waiting for him.
“Rough day at the office?” Chase, the bartender, cocked his head toward the scar across Luke’s bicep. Luke looked at his arm and shrugged. The thin, raised scab had been a gash two hours ago.
“Piece of scaffolding jumped out and got me. No biggie.” He downed the rest of his beer and asked for another.
“Well, if that’s all.” Chase set down the mug he was polishing and poured another Blue Moon. At six foot one, he stood several inches shorter than Luke, but his height didn’t make him any less of a fighter. If Luke trusted anyone to have his back no matter what, it would be him. An intricate series of tattoos sleeved Chase’s arms, and he sported piercings in his ears and eyebrow.
Luke’s only tattoo occupied his right shoulder. A fleur-de-lis designed from a wolf head signified his allegiance to the pack. The star in the center symbolized his bloodline—a direct descendent of the first family. And he wasn’t just a descendent; he was next in line for pack leader. He finished his beer and slid the empty glass to his friend.
“What are you gonna do about James?” Chase placed the glass in th
e sink.
Luke wiped his hand down his face. “Is he back there?”
Chase nodded. With his hands on the bar, Luke heaved himself from the stool and shuffled toward the back room. He chuckled at the sign on the door—Employees and Werewolves Only—written in marker on a piece of cardboard. It came about as a joke from the customers—that his father, with his long, salt-and-pepper beard and almost-furry arms, looked like a wolf-man. They didn’t know how right they were.
The Crescent City Wolf Pack—at two hundred members strong and growing—was the sixth largest in the nation. Werewolves tended to congregate in towns with immense wooded areas. While New Orleans itself consisted of more city than forest, the vast swamp lands surrounding the area made for prime hunting grounds. And for tough wolves.
Hunting gators wasn’t any easier than it looked on television. While a bite rarely killed a werewolf, it sure hurt like hell. But the thrill of the hunt was worth double the pain. What other choice did they have? Nutria? The beaver-sized swamp rats satisfied the hunger, but they did nothing for the rush. Deer were abundant—and fun to chase—but nothing beat the thrill of hunting gators. They made worthy opponents.
The door shut behind him with a thud. Bright fluorescent lights hummed from above, giving the stone corridor a greenish glow. He turned the corner and descended a short flight of brick steps to the office.
The blinds drawn over the window blocked his view of the scene inside. He tried the knob but found it locked. It must’ve been more serious than he’d thought. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a key to unlock the door. When Luke stepped inside, James sat slouched in a chair, shaking his head. Stephen, third in command and Luke’s cousin, leaned against the oak desk, his arms crossed over his chest.
Love & Omens Page 24