His touch had ignited an awareness of her loneliness and aroused her senses in a way she’d never known. So primal and intense. And it was terrifying, because she didn’t want to revive her heart again or expose herself to pain. A life of serving others through her religion was enough.
And recovering her family’s asson was paramount to that cause.
With that goal, Hope pulled herself out of bed and dressed to meet with her best friend. Early mornings in April were cool, so she grabbed a shawl on her way out, though Consuelo’s Book Shop was but a few blocks away. She clung to the box of sweets Cook had prepared the evening before. Maple pralines with extra pecans would put Roxie in a conciliatory mood.
At 518 Chartres Street, Hope knocked crisply on the door before entering. Rows and rows of bookshelves greeted her, along with the heavenly scent of aged leather and parchment. She ran her fingers over the tomes as she headed toward the back of the shop. Shakespeare, Wordsworth, and Miguel de Cervantes—the store carried all the significant works, many of which she had studied under the private tutelage of her governess.
“The crack of dawn,” Roxie barked from the back room of the small shop. “Why must we always meet before the rooster crows? And you call me friend.”
Anyone who called Roxie friend knew she was all bark and no bite. Once she sank her teeth into Hope’s offering, she would be purring like a kitten with her belly being scratched.
“We don’t have roosters in the French Quarter,” Hope replied, setting the pralines on the table. “Besides, I’m here on an urgent matter.”
As soon as the package met the wooden surface, Roxie flipped open the lid and grabbed one of the morsels, nibbling on the edge.
“Must be important,” her friend said with a moan of pleasure. “You brought my favorite treat in all the world.”
Hope perched on an empty stool and nodded. “My family’s sacred rattle has gone missing. How fortunate for me that my best friend is talented in the art of dowsing.”
“Hence why you did not mention the reason for your visit in your note.” Roxie cleared a space on the long wooden table. “An asson that old must be worth a fortune on the black market.”
A slight shudder coursed down Hope’s back. “Hush! Please, you mustn’t say such things aloud. What are the chances of discovering its location?”
“That depends on how far the bloke has taken it.”
Roxie unrolled an intricate map of New Orleans and the surrounding areas, securing the edges with candles. She pulled open the top drawer of a nearby desk and rummaged inside.
“Ah, this one will do,” her friend said, holding up a cottonwood rod wrapped in copper, with a few quartz inlays. “I’ll need a necklace or another personal item. A ring, a bracelet.”
The first dim rays of excitement tingled in Hope’s belly. She unlatched a ruby pendant from around her neck, the one her father had given her upon her sixteenth birthday.
Roxie held the dowsing rod in her left hand over the map and suspended the pendant from her right hand, breathing evenly. She closed her eyes and hummed. The gentle sound was relaxing, offering a sanctuary for the body and mind to become one. A true art form, one Hope had tried to master without success.
Less than a minute passed before Roxie’s left hand swayed over the map then plunged to one spot like nickel to a magnet.
“Tell me,” Hope whispered. “Where is my asson?”
Gripping the edge of the table, her friend glanced up with a bleak stare. “Harmon Grove.”
“The dowsing rod lies!” Hope cried, hopping to her feet. She rounded the table and examined the map herself. “Damn Isaac Moore! Why does the man meddle in my affairs? I told him to leave me in peace. He may own Le Havre, but he does not own me.”
Her friend snorted. “That’s a matter of interpretation. But why does he care about a ceremonial drum?”
Oh, Hope knew why! Blackmail. He wanted her to cease practicing voodoo on the premises of Le Havre. What better way to gain her compliance than steal her most precious piece? The tyrant was well connected in the shipping business, even with privateers and pirates. But he would not get away with thievery simply because he was one of the wealthiest men in New Orleans.
Hope turned on her heel. “If I’m to think of a plan out of this debacle, I must have sugar and coffee. Come, a visit to Café du Monde is in order. When was the last time we visited the French Market together?”
“Months ago. Pralines and beignets in one morning?”
Hope grinned. “And coffee.”
They strolled down Chartres Street, stopping to chat with friends and merchants showing their wares in front of Jackson Square. The jaunt to Café du Monde was short, but the line for a table long.
Roxie wrapped her arm around Hope’s and leaned in. “Perhaps you might confront Isaac on the matter?”
“That would show my hand. He won’t be moved by my pleas. Obstinate, headstrong man. What if he relocates the asson after I approach him? No, best to keep that knowledge to myself.”
“Then what’s your plan?” her friend asked, nudging them up the line. “You can’t stroll onto the property and search the big house.”
“No, but I can pay a man for the job. This is the French Quarter; everyone is for hire.”
“Still, you won’t find many men willing to go against Isaac Moore.”
A waiter waved them over to a table and promptly took their order.
“Of course, you’re right,” Hope said, deflating in her seat. “Only a man with no morals, or a death wish, would consider ransacking Harmon Grove.”
Only two men met that definition: Captain Corbin and Omére Allemand. The first had lost her treasure to begin with, and the second would extract too high a price for rendering the service.
Deep laughter drew Hope’s attention to the neighboring table, the sound melodic and lovely. She glanced over and found herself unable to look away from the man being seated with a child.
“He’s a handsome one,” Roxie said, her voice wistful. “You have a sweet spot for the bald ones. The young girl doesn’t resemble him in the least. An excellent sign.”
Hatchet. A third man she knew who met her needs. He might be agreeable to her proposition, except for the fact that she’d maligned his character two evenings ago. Wrongly so, if the dowsing rod was to be believed.
Merde. He was handsome, and his attention flattering. She had been under a trance from his exquisite, gentle kiss. Most men devoured her mouth in their efforts to seduce her. Hatchet was not like most men. With that accusation, she had lied.
He made her feel cherished. Even her late husband had never kissed her as though it would be his last. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she blinked them away. Hatchet had ruined the moment with his obscene admission; he had come to Le Havre intent on paying her for a gift she would’ve shared with him of her own free will.
Perhaps if she apologized . . .
The waiter arrived with their order, and she paid him a bit extra to deliver a message to the gentleman across the way.
Tonight, nine o’clock. Please allow me to apologize.
Knots formed in her stomach as the waiter spoke with Hatchet. His head snapped up, and his ashen eyes met hers.
She lifted an eyebrow, all the while holding her breath. He had to come, if only to relieve her conscience. For a moment, she thought he meant to deny her request, but then he nodded. And she could breathe again.
Tonight, she would make him an offer he would not refuse, and soon her family’s sacred rattle would be ensconced in her home, well before the ceremony that would bind her to the asson forever.
Chapter Six
The old grandfather clock gonged nine tolls of the bell. When the sound of the last chime faded, Hope hung her head, disheartened. Hatchet wasn’t coming, after all. The fault lay on her shoulders for offending him during his last visit.
She trimmed a rectangular piece of paper no larger than her palm, writing Daughters of Dorcas across the center. Next, s
he crossed over the temperance group’s name with her own given name three times. After sprinkling a pinch of devil’s dung on top, she folded it away from herself until it was a tiny square. She dressed the paper with oil and shoved it inside a black leather bag, together with devil’s bit root, devil’s shoestring roots, and a devil pod. That ought to be enough to keep the women’s temperance group off her hide.
A sharp knock sounded, and her heartbeat stuttered. He came! She rushed toward the door, glancing in the mirror on her way. Her cheeks were flush with anticipation, and she smiled inside while swinging open the door.
“Albert, show Ha—”
She halted one inch short of barreling into Hatchet’s chest. A smug smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he sauntered past her, his hands tucked in his trouser pockets. His attire was tailor fitted, fine enough to mingle with the local aristocrats or dine at their tables. He stood as still as a panther scouting his prey, waiting for her to make the first move.
Her tongue felt like a wad of cotton, forcing her to swallow. “Please, won’t you have a seat?”
“Don’t think so,” he said, staring into her eyes. “Your apology will only take a moment. Let’s hear it.”
Damn his stubborn pride. He wasn’t going to make this easy on her, though she didn’t blame him. She’d been adamant that he stole her property, and her instincts were usually dead-on. But he’d rattled her from the moment she met him. Best to spit it out so she could get on with the real purpose for inviting him over.
“I’m sorry for accusing you falsely, Hatchet. I was wrong.”
He strolled closer, until she could feel the heat radiating from his body, and she was forced to glance up to meet his gaze. Her blood sizzled, and she breathed in his musky scent.
“That admission must’ve cost you dearly. Apology accepted.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and exited, leaving the door wide open in his wake. When he disappeared down the hall, she regained her senses and jolted into action. He couldn’t leave without listening to her proposition.
“Wait, please,” she said, running to his side. She grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop at the head of the stairs. “Can we start over?”
“Why?”
His question caught her off guard, and she blinked. In his current annoyed state, he wouldn’t wish to hear the truth. She needed to ply him with a few drinks, allow him to relax.
“I just thought—”
“That we could be friends?” Hatchet asked, a sharp edge to his words. He dislodged her hold on his arm and started down the stairs at a fast clip. “You made your feelings known, Mrs. Leblonc. You despise men like me. So let’s cut through the bullshit. Tell me what you want, because we both know you wouldn’t apologize to a stranger passing through town if you didn’t have an ulterior motive.”
Damn his perceptive soul.
She lifted her skirt and chased after him. “I never said I despise you.”
A bark of laughter assaulted her when he glanced over his shoulder. “You’re wasting precious seconds, love. If I walk out that door, I’m not coming back. What do you want?”
Once his feet hit the foyer, he whirled around, and she fell into his embrace, panting from her effort to catch up. His arms encircled her as he leaned closer, allowing her to whisper into his ear.
“I want you to steal my ancient relic back.”
“Ah, the truth comes out.” He rubbed his thumb over her cheek. His eyes filled with amusement and a bit of warmth. “That wasn’t so difficult. Who is the bastard I must hunt down?”
She glanced sideways at the parlor full of guests, shaking her head. “I’ll tell you everything in the privacy of my room.”
He slammed her body harder against his. “You’ll tell me now, or I’m leaving.”
Heat flared in her cheeks. She was of a mind to tell him to go to hell, but she had no other viable alternatives.
“Isaac Moore,” she said, her lips a hair’s breadth away from his ear.
An instant later, Hatchet grabbed hold of her hand and stormed up the stairs. She fought to keep up with his quick pace. What thoughts were racing through his head? He must have comprehended the danger of the task, else he wouldn’t have sought a private venue to continue the discussion.
At the end of the hallway, he guided her through the doorway to her sitting room and slammed the door shut.
“You are insane,” he hissed under his breath, stomping past her. “You want me to steal from Isaac Moore—arguably the wealthiest man in the State of Louisiana, maybe even this half of the hemisphere. Have you discussed this with anyone else besides me?”
Her mind was fully intact. He had forgotten the facts in this matter. “That bastard stole from me, not the other way around. I only seek to recover what is rightfully mine.”
“Who knows of your plan?”
“No one, except you. And . . . and Roxie.”
His brows furrowed. “A tenant?”
Best that he not know of her deep friendship with Roxie, lest he use it against her in the future. As a confessed pirate, she could trust him only as much as she could lift him, which was not at all.
“Roxie doesn’t live here. She discovered the location of my missing object; it’s somewhere on the premises of Harmon Grove.”
“How can you be certain?”
“I’ll tell you on a need-to-know basis,” she threw his words back at him. He couldn’t expect her to divulge all her secrets. Roxie didn’t flaunt her talent, and if known, the truth might land her in jail alongside Hope.
“Well, I need to know. Or you can forget about getting help from me.”
Beads of frustration prickled under her skin, and she stalked to one of the leather chairs at her table, plopping onto it with a loud groan. “Are you familiar with the art of dowsing?”
He nodded, taking the seat opposite her. “Psychics use a rod and map to locate lost objects.”
She clapped her hands. “Now tell me you’ll help me for the right price.”
He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the table. “Maybe. What do you believe is fair?”
Grabbing the deck of tarot cards, she began to shuffle them. “I’m going to tell you whether or not you’re cursed. You seemed quite concerned the other evening, and I can ease your mind. Or confirm the worst.
“Curses are a form of black magic. Damning another soul comes at a great cost to he who invokes the power of the spirits. Truth be told, voodoo is more a peaceful religion than witchcraft. Few people would sacrifice the gift of communicating with the spirits to invoke black magic, unless the crime for which they seek justice was horrific. We normally pray for spiritual guidance in matters of love, health, or wealth. Still, evil may be called upon. So, tell me, Hatchet, what have you done to deserve a curse?”
He gritted his teeth, looking away.
“The more information I know,” she offered, “the more directed the questions we can ask, hence the more accurate the end result.”
He sighed and stared at the pile of tarot cards on the table. “On my last visit, a friend spoke of a rumor that Marie Laveau had cursed my family.” His jaw tightened, and he looked up. “Superstitious sailor nonsense, I thought.”
Her hand snaked across the table and rested on top of his. “Until?”
“Both women I have loved died brutal deaths,” he whispered. “I should’ve listened.”
His hand trembled beneath hers, and her heart ached a little. He had cared for these women deeply.
“That’s most likely a coincidence,” she said, cutting the deck once. “I’ve yet to uncover such a potent curse. But we’ll ask your question and let the cards speak.”
Holding the cards steady in her hand, she tuned in to the energy vibrating within the deck and shuffled them once more. Then, with great care, she fanned them out facedown in front of him.
“Please select six. Study the spread, and choose the cards that speak to you here,” she said, pointing to her heart. “Ke
ep them in order, and do not turn them face up.”
He didn’t crack a smile or snort with disbelief but rather bent forward and scanned them from one end to the other. One by one, he pushed them in her direction.
When all six lay before her, she scooped them up and placed them in the correct formation. The first four formed a rectangle, with the fifth card above, and the sixth below, almost like a cross.
“The first card will reveal whether you’re cursed,” she said, tapping it. “The second by whom, the third why, and the fourth tells if the curse originates in your current life or a past one.” She met his pensive stare. “Are you ready?”
He nodded, swallowing hard. A breeze suddenly wafted through the window, swirling around them. The flames of the candle waned and then spluttered back to life, casting eerie shadows on the wall. Were the spirits listening in on their conversation? Papa Loco often rode on the wind.
She flipped the first four cards. “Ten of swords, strength, the devil, and the nine of cups.”
Just as she had suspected. Hatchet had nothing to fear. The devil card should’ve occupied the first position. Standing, she walked to the window and stared into the black night. What sins did the pirate refuse to confess that plagued him so much he suspected himself under a curse?
She glanced over her shoulder, and his intense gaze unnerved her. He believed himself cursed with all his heart. Telling him the truth might not sway his deep-rooted belief. A selfish part of her wished he were, if only to motivate him while hunting for her asson. She could tell him she needed her family’s ancient rattle in order to rid him of the hex, which was true. Only a powerful mambo could save his family, if they were cursed. Then he would move mountains to find it.
Tell him he is cursed.
The blasphemous thought took hold of her mind, but a boulder weighed on her stomach. In doing so, she would spit in the face of her craft. Not to mention violating the trust placed in her hands by her patron saint, Papa Loco, something she had never done in the past.
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