River Road

by R. C. Matthews

  The glass dome belched, and Emma’s eyes widened with terror as a torrent of frigid water crashed against Hatchet’s back, knocking him off their perch on the ladder. His body slammed into Emma’s against the nearby wall, and the pressure of her hold on his waist was gone in an instant.

  The rushing water flipped him over. He spun in all directions, his hands seeking Emma, but he couldn’t see a goddamned thing in the blackness surrounding him. His lungs began to burn, another body bumped against him, and he held on, but the arm was hairy, taut with muscles.

  He couldn’t tell up from down. Panic settled in his gut, and air seeped out of his mouth. The bubbles rippled over his chest. Follow the bubbles. He was upside down. Turning, he swam hard for the surface, but his soaked clothes weighed on him, sapping his energy. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs were a blazing inferno.

  Where was Emma? Oh, God, had he killed Emma?

  Hatchet sat up, heaving in a gulp of air. His throat felt raw. His pulse raced. Everything was black around him. Goose pimples covered his flesh, despite the clammy air. All he could see was the raw terror in his beloved’s eyes.

  “Hatchet?”

  “Emma?” he whispered.

  A moment of silence.

  “No, darling, it’s Hope.” She rubbed soothing circles on his back. “I’m here for you. Are you all right?”

  A sheen of sweat gathered on his brow, and he lifted his knees, propping his forearms against them, willing his thunderous heart to calm. He hadn’t dreamed of Emma’s death in more than a month.

  “I will be,” he said, wiping the corners of his eyes, where tears had gathered. He had saved Emma from falling to her death, only to lose her an instant later. Damned fool! Just one second . . . One second, he’d let down his guard. But his relief had been so great when she’d caught him on her fall. Still, there was no excuse, because he’d known the ceiling of the underwater ballroom was about to blow. The force of his own body had rendered her unconscious, and he’d lost his grip on her.

  Emma was dead because of his lapse of concentration. Another tear slipped past his eyelid, and he bowed his head, dabbing his face against the sheet. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he glanced outside, where a sliver of moonlight reflected on a pot, the delicate petals of the magnolias fluttering in the breeze. Her life had been as fleeting as those flowers.

  Hope wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek against his back. Her heartbeat was strong, her breathing steady. “Do you want to talk about your dream?”

  “Maybe another time,” he said, easing around to meet her concerned gaze. “When it’s not so raw.”

  She kissed him on the mouth, a slight touching of their lips. Her eyes shone bright, glistening with tears. So much sympathy in their depths, so much . . .

  Oh, no. He swallowed. What if she was wrong about the curse? He saw himself so clearly in that tarot card, hunched over, staring at three overturned cups, grieving the spilt contents. Nicolette. Emma. And . . .

  “I’m sorry, but I must leave,” he said, tossing his legs over the side of the bed. He couldn’t risk getting any closer to this beautiful, independent woman. “Goddamned curse!”

  Hope bounded from the bed, grabbing his shirt. She held it to her chest as though she didn’t want to let it go. Wouldn’t let him go.

  “Listen to me, Hatchet. You are not cursed. Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault. I’m not going to die because we’re falling—”

  “Don’t say it!” he shouted, tugging on his pants. “Don’t even think it!” He snatched his shirt from her grip and shoved one arm into a sleeve and then the other. The buttons could wait until later.

  Hope was wrong. Emma’s death was his fault. Nicolette’s death was his fault. The whispers of the curse echoed in his ears. Three overturned cups. Three women. The warmth in Hope’s gaze turned his heart to stone.

  “I feel nothing for you, nothing beyond physical attraction!” he shouted, pulling on his shoes.

  Her tears fell then, but he buried his heart in a ten-foot grave, far from his own reach. He stormed out of her bedroom without a backward glance. With the first rays of sunlight he would seek out Marie Laveau himself.

  Why had he allowed the widow to veer him off course?

  Chapter Nineteen

  A high, rickety fence shielded the quaint house at 152 Rue St. Ann. The street had been quiet since Hatchet arrived in his carriage at five o’clock this morning. He would find out whether or not he was cursed from the voodoo queen herself, regardless of Hope’s insistence that he wasn’t.

  He wanted to trust in his lover’s abilities, but the consequences were fatal, should she be wrong. That is, if he ever fell in love with her, which he had not.

  The tick-tock of his pocket watch throbbed in his head as the minute hand crawled around the face of the clock. Cursed. Cursed. Cursed. He glanced at his fob and swiped it off the bench into his fist, jumping out of the carriage. Nine o’clock in the morning would have to suffice. He couldn’t endure another minute without knowing the truth.

  With a deep breath, he pounded his fist against the door. And waited. An eternity passed before the door opened a crack.

  “Mrs. Legendre, good morning,” he said, bowing. “My name is Hatchet. I’m a friend of Mrs. Leblonc. She recommended I speak with your mother, the Widow Paris. Please excuse the early hour. May I come in?”

  Mrs. Legendre eyed him warily, from the silver hoop in his ear to the fine fabric of his clothing. Had Hope already spoken to her mother’s former mentor about arranging a meeting before they’d gone to the auction?

  “Where is Mrs. Leblonc?” the woman asked, her gaze flickering to the carriage.

  “I’m afraid she couldn’t leave Le Havre.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “She’s attending to one of the tenants, something about a fever. Please, may I come in?”

  “You fit her description,” Mrs. Legendre said as she stepped aside, allowing him into the small foyer. “My mother is weak. Do not overstay your welcome.”

  “Of course.”

  The house was cozily furnished, filled with knickknacks, and a hint of cloves and cinnamon tickled his nose. In the corner of the parlor was an elaborate shrine, though he could not make out more than the Virgin Mary in the center.

  His hostess led him to another room down a corridor and paused outside the closed door. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes to escort you out.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, entering.

  A frail woman sat in an overstuffed armchair, staring out the window. Snow-white hair peeked from the edges of a multicolored tignon wrapped around her head.

  “Who’s there?” Her eyes raked over him, from head to foot. “Hatchet. I’ve been waiting for you, boy.”

  Tingles rippled over his skin. There was unspeakable knowledge in the depths of her black eyes.

  “Are you going to stand gawking all morning, or do you plan to sit with me?” She gestured to a chair. “Come, ask me your burning question.”

  He stumbled forward on shaky legs, glad for the short distance to the chair.

  “I need to know why I’m cursed,” he said, meeting Marie’s rheumy eyes. “And how to reverse it. I’m not certain, but I believe the curse may extend to my family. You see, my brother and sister have suffered great loss as well. Pardon the offense, but rumor has it you cursed us.”

  A spark of recognition glowed in her eyes. “You are Charles Moore.”

  He nodded.

  “You don’t strike me as one to believe in rumors. Take the chalice.” She gestured to a simple wood cup on the table beside her before she laid out a cloth. “Tell me your date of birth.”

  “The fifth of April.”

  What an odd question. But then, the whole situation was insane. Before him, spread on the table, was a cloth with a crude drawing of a human skull in the center, its mouth gaping. He grabbed hold of the chalice stem in one hand, the surface cool and smooth to the touch.

  “Shake the content
s five times and toss them on the skull.”

  His gaze held hers as he held the top down and shook the bones. The contents rattled against the lid, vibrating against his fingers. With each shake, he severed the delicate bond he’d forged with Hope. He didn’t trust her gift. So why did he place his trust in the stranger sitting across from him?

  Because she is the voodoo queen.

  After one final shake, he cast the bones on the cloth. The contents scattered with a dull thud. Each piece was unique, ancient and worn. Scattered between the brittle bones were more than a few curious objects. A rabbit’s foot. A gold sovereign. And a skull, perhaps from a rodent. But the article that turned his blood cold was a red die sitting dead center in the savage mouth of the human skull.

  Three dots. Three cups. Three women.

  “No, please,” he whispered, his heartbeat erratic.

  “You’re gifted in the language of the bones, are you?” The old woman cackled, bending closer to the table. The censure in her tone was thick, and Hatchet drew in a breath. Hope had scolded him as well for seeing what he wished to see in the tarot cards.

  “You must forgive me.” He gripped his knees to keep his feet from tapping. “My nerves have taken hold of my senses.”

  She glanced at his forefinger that beat incessantly against his knee. “With good reason.”

  His stomach flipped over, as if he had leaped from the bow of a ship, plunging to the icy depths of the sea.

  “Then I am cursed? Two women I have loved perished. The red die, the number three. Why does the number three keep appearing? Hope cannot die.”

  Marie’s eyes flashed to his. “You are in love with her?”

  He swallowed hard and sat back. Had he fallen in love? The feelings blossoming between them were tiny buds. “I don’t know.”

  “The bones always speak the truth,” the voodoo queen said, slumping into her chair, as though spent. “Your family is cursed. The Widow Leblonc is your death or your salvation. Only time will tell.”

  Hatchet stood, the nervous energy vibrating throughout his body too great to contain. “My death? The widow’s life isn’t in danger?”

  She nodded. “So say the bones.”

  His life was in danger, not Hope’s. Thank heavens! He buried his face in his hands, able to breathe freely for the first time since he’d woken from his nightmare. Seconds passed before the full weight of her words registered. His entire family was cursed.

  “Tell me what to do. My sister is engaged. I don’t even know why we’re cursed. Can you help me, please?”

  Patting his hand, she shook her head. “You are not the root of the curse, but you may be the end. Go home, Charles. Only the one wronged can make this right. Seek forgiveness from the slave girl.”

  What slave girl? Slavery had been abolished for more than a decade. There were no more slaves living at home. Living . . . He grabbed a note tucked inside his jacket and reread Maribeth’s message.

  I kept my promise. But she came to me. Please come home soon.

  The ghost haunting Harmon Grove. Oh, bloody hell. Jenny Cobbs. He would find out why she had cursed his family and beg for her forgiveness if he must. Maribeth was his conduit to the dead. And to think he’d been furious when she’d snuck aboard The Savior. Eveline always preached of God’s grace, and for once, she might have a point.

  “And if I gain her forgiveness,” he said, thinking aloud, “the curse will be broken?”

  Marie pointed to the bones strewn on the skull, tapping her finger on a bronze key resting in one of the eye sockets. “Forgiveness is the key to unlocking the crossroads in a spiritual ritual with Kalfu. Gain the slave girl’s forgiveness, and Hope can communicate with the keeper of the crossroads, beg him to banish the bad omen back to the underworld.”

  Kalfu, the spirit embodied in the voodoo doll found on the grounds of Harmon Grove. Of course, the pieces fit together.

  “What happened to Jenny Cobbs?”

  Marie stared out the window and waved him away. “That is her story to tell.”

  “Thank you,” Hatchet said, tossing twenty dollars on the table. What did a dead man need of money?

  Chapter Twenty

  Thunder crackled, and Hope turned her gaze skyward. The courtyard of Le Havre was blanketed by heavy, dark clouds. She would have to hurry if she wished to visit St. Louis Cathedral before the downpour. With extreme care, she scraped bark off a hydrangea bush and into a small canvas pouch. When it was full, she hurried through the house and grabbed one of the umbrellas stored in the closet beneath the stairwell.

  The doorbell chimed, and Albert’s greeting filled the foyer. “Good afternoon, Hatchet. She’s in the courtyard. Please, wait here.”

  He came back! Whatever he’d endured, whatever had befallen the women he’d loved, the memories haunted him. Perhaps one day he would confide in her. But until then, she might ease his worries a little, if he would let her.

  “I’m here,” she said, hurrying down the short corridor to the main entrance.

  Hatchet stood with his hands braced at the base of his back, his face set in stone. His cold, steely gaze cut her to the core.

  “Thank you, Albert,” she said, fiddling with her bonnet.

  The butler nodded and disappeared through the library door.

  Hope gestured to the parlor. “Shall we have a seat, or would you care to walk with me in the direction of the cathedral?”

  “A walk, if you please,” he said. “I’ll accompany you as far as St. Louis and Royal.”

  “Do you mind?” she asked, handing him the umbrella before pulling on her bonnet and tying a jaunty bow under the left side of her chin.

  They took to the street and walked at a steady pace, the tip of her umbrella clicking against the pavement with each step. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Why was he so closed off? Distant. He must have something to say, else he wouldn’t have come.

  “My departure this morning was abrupt,” he finally said, stopping to face her. “The nightmare . . . I’m afraid I wasn’t in my right mind. You were kind, but I was not.”

  She took his hand and placed the palm-sized canvas bag there, covering it with her own hand. “Please, don’t apologize. You were shaken. I’ve no hard feelings. In fact, I have a gift for you.”

  He peered inside with a comical look of indecision furrowing his brow. “What is it?”

  “The bark of a hydrangea bush. You’re to sprinkle some inside the doorway to your bedroom and burn a bit in your hearth. But take care to keep a little with you always. Carry it in your pocket.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “This will ward off bad dreams?”

  “No, but it’ll ward off evil spirits sent to torment you,” she said, rubbing his cheek. “You believe you’re cursed. I don’t know the source or if it’s true. The tarot cards say no, but readings can be false. So this will suffice to protect you until we learn more. Last week I spoke with Marie. She has agreed to see you.”

  He looked away, running a hand over his head. “I saw her this morning.”

  So that’s where he’d run off to. He expected her to be insulted that he hadn’t trusted her reading, but he should never ignore his gut instinct.

  “Will you tell me what she revealed?”

  “You were wrong!” he spat. His jaw tightened, and he took a deep breath. “An innocent man might pay with his life. Dammit! My sister is engaged to be married. I shouldn’t have let you throw me off course. The truth always resided with Marie Laveau.”

  Her stomach twisted in knots, and tears welled in her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. “Hatchet, please, tell me everything. I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

  “You cannot help me, for now. This is my battle, and the answers reside at my family’s plantation. I’ll work it out and contact you again soon. But know you’re safe.”

  Why was he speaking in riddles? “How long will you be gone? Where are you going? How will I know you’re alive?”

  “Not long, n
ot far,” he said with a sad attempt at a smile. “If you don’t hear from me by the end of the week, contact Mercy or Victor at the Claiborne Inn. They know how to find me.”

  He was far too calm. Aloof. Something wasn’t right. “Hatchet . . . ”

  His fingers covered her lips. “Hush. I’ll be back.”

  But he didn’t promise. Instead, they strolled along St. Louis Street, she a bundle of discontent, he an icy calm. Why hadn’t she plied him for more information on his family before? He would never answer her questions now.

  When they arrived at the crossroads, Hatchet walked backward, heading for Canal Street. “Stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”

  His receding figure was lost in a watery haze. “I’m on my way to pray. What sort of trouble could await me there? I would say the same back to you.”

  He waved one last time and turned away. She watched until he blended in with the crowd on the sidewalk, waited for glimpses of his broad shoulders and bald head, never letting him out of her sight until he disappeared around a corner.

  Another ominous rumble of thunder rolled in, louder this time, and the wind kicked up her skirt. She walked with purpose. Her prayers took on greater meaning: a plea for the saints to watch over Hatchet’s family and guide him in his endeavors. Of course, she could’ve directed her prayers better had he confided in her. Obstinate man.

  Hope wended her way through a throng of people. Thunderstorms in New Orleans were harsh but short-lived, so folks didn’t shy away from their business. But this madness . . . on a Tuesday . . . midday.

  “Excuse me,” she said, stretching on tippy-toe to see over the crowd while she continued to push in the direction of the cathedral. Being tall for a woman had its advantages.

  With a final shove, she burrowed through to the front row of a crowd gathered directly opposite the cathedral. At least twenty women stood at the entrance to God’s house with signs. By the cut of their gowns and the style of their bonnets, these women were the cream of Society.

  “Mrs. Leblonc, good day to you,” said the man at her side.