by G A Chase
Myles turned to look downriver. “Okay, but I don’t want to spend all day talking. Kendell needs help now.”
The sometime professor snatched his top hat from a skull near the door. “Until we hear from her or are contacted by the kidnappers about what they want, there’s not much we can do. I promise you’ll find what Madam de Galpion says enlightening.”
Though it was only a half-mile walk from the wharf in the Bywater to the creepy old house in the French Quarter, Myles felt every step took him farther away from helping his friend. However, he couldn’t come up with an alternative plan of action. No matter how many times he played out who would be behind their latest misfortune, and why, all he could see was the dreaded facial features that distinguished the Laroques—the most direct descendants of the baron Malveaux.
Madam de Galpion didn’t look any more awake than the professor had. Her nearly black eyes glared first at Myles and then at the professor. “If you insist on continually waking me up at this ungodly hour, I’m going to have to change my shop hours.”
The professor didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. “Four in the afternoon is hardly ungodly.”
“It is when I don’t open until nine at night. Not many strippers are out shopping for perfume in the afternoon. This must be important.”
At least the shop didn’t reek of incense as it had on Myles’s last visit.
Professor Yates closed the door after Myles. “I’m afraid it is, Delphine. Our Miss Summer has gotten herself involved in another intrigue. If we’re to save her, Myles is going to have to know the truth.”
Madam de Galpion drew the lightweight fabric of the Haitian wrap tight around her body. “That is unfortunate.”
Myles had suspected the two knew more than they’d let on. Maybe if they’d been more forthcoming earlier, Kendell wouldn’t be in trouble now. “I’d really like to keep this short if we can. She needs my help.”
“Impatient as always, mon cher. Unfortunately, mine is not a short story. I too have a role to play in the Malveaux saga. My ancestor was the voodoo queen who cast the curse—Marie Laveau.”
In spite of his need for action, Myles took a seat on the rickety wooden chair in front of the chemical-stained and burned table. “I’d always heard you were from Haiti.”
“After Marie’s fame, her daughters took up the business, but they were more interested in profits than reverence. My foremother moved back to our ancestral home to pursue voodoo in its pure form rather than be corrupted by greed. Haiti, however, is not a pleasant place to live. My mother brought me to New Orleans when I was a small child.”
Myles searched for the creole features of the woman’s face. Though her skin was blacker than that of any woman he’d seen, the telltale high cheekbones and aristocratic long neck spoke of a mixture of ancestral heritages. “But if you were removed from Madam Laveau’s family, what would you know of her curses?”
“You’ve worked in the Quarter long enough to realize that most voodoo shops are little more than shadows of the true religion. My relatives had no idea what they had in their back rooms. Mother was able to gather Marie Laveau’s possessions from her cousins with little effort. Mostly, she focused on anything Marie wrote. That turned out to be quite a lot.”
Myles wondered how much of that effort was conventional and how much involved the dark arts, but it seemed impolite to ask. “Do you have her journals?”
Madam de Galpion pulled out a ring of keys from her desk and selected an old, rusty skeleton key. “I have more than that. Come with me to the back library.”
He’d seen her workroom before, but he’d had no idea that behind the glass display case filled with totems was a door covered in Xs and foreign writing. He squeezed behind the floor-to-ceiling display to join her in the long walk-in closet lined with bookshelves. “What is this place?”
“These are all of the curses that have been cast by my family over the last two hundred years. Most of the recent folders are filled with fake incantations. I keep them categorized in case someone comes after one of us for misrepresenting our abilities. Of course, there is also the possibility that one of my cousins might stumble across a useful combination of babblings.” She reached for a leather-bound journal that had dozens of companions along the back wall. “Marie was meticulous at recording as much information as possible—the backgrounds of both the one commissioning the curse and the person under the spell, potential side effects, results, and strange cryptic sayings that I’ve been unable to decipher.”
Myles stared in wonder at all of the paper folders, journals, and heavily bound textbooks. “And she recorded what happened to Kendell’s family?”
Madam de Galpion motioned him to a worn red-leather reading chair opposite her ornately carved wooden throne inside her mystical library. “It’s all here. Kendell Summer’s forefather was Louis Broussard. He’d borrowed heavily from the bank for some agricultural experiment he was conducting on the Westbank of New Orleans. As that endeavor failed, he deeded more and more of the land to the bank as payment.”
Myles knew enough of the history to know who sat in the head office at the time. “In other words, he deeded it to the baron Malveaux.”
“Precisely. But as Mr. Broussard sold off his prime land first, eventually he was left with only swamp—not exactly the type of property the baron wanted for his new housing community. Instead of accepting the deed as payment, the banker demanded Mr. Broussard’s wife and children to be used as indentured servants. The women were used in the baron’s brothels, and the son was sent to work the docks.”
Kendell had relayed much of the same information after her visit with her mother, but Madam de Galpion’s version was less discreet.
“They became prostitutes?” Myles asked.
“Yes. Mr. Broussard, being a man of New Orleans, knew exactly what his family would be forced into. The baron had a preference for young, innocent girls. He would often keep a daughter of one of his indebted customers as his personal concubine for months before turning her over to one of his establishments.”
Myles looked at the journal, but it didn’t appear to be written in English. “Marie Laveau wrote all that down?”
“To cast a spell, she often spent entire nights with a customer to get the full story. After leaving the bank, Louis Broussard spent the last of his pocket money on alcohol instead of using it for the ferry ride home. Marie found him nearly passed out on her front steps. He traded the deed to his remaining property for the curse.”
Though Myles still worried about what Kendell was up to, the story of her family began to make more sense. “What exactly was the curse?”
“Though Marie was already legendary in New Orleans, so was the baron. She couldn’t curse him directly without unwanted ramifications from the city’s elite. Cursing his offspring was also problematic. Many of them, like Miss Summer’s ancestor, were the result of unions with women who’d been kept as the socially acceptable version of white slaves.” Madam de Galpion grew quiet as she read the journal.
Myles had done enough investigation with Kendell to know it was the baron’s legitimate son who carried the heaviest burden for his father’s actions. “We found out that his legitimate daughter, Serephine, was the first to fall under the curse, but his son seems to have taken it on himself to protect the family to the best of his abilities.”
Madam de Galpion nodded as she continued to study the writings. “That would make sense. Marie cursed the items in the baron’s immediate possession. Those would be things he regularly carried with him. But the curse would only affect those of the Laurette-Malveaux union—in other words, his legitimate children with his only wife, Fleurentine Laurette.”
“We’ve got a pretty good handle on who those people became, the Laroques being the most notable family,” Myles said.
She continued staring at the journal. “Being the illegitimate result of both Baron Malveaux and Louis Broussard, Kendell is the key to the curse. The objects are merely tools. She ha
s the power to turn the curse.”
“What does that mean?”
Madam de Galpion finally lifted her face from the pages. “With the correct key, a lock can be turned one way to seal a door or the other way to open it.”
Myles began to experience the familiar frustration he had any time someone tried explaining something they didn’t understand. “That’s not terribly helpful.”
“In her hands, one of the baron’s cursed items could be especially dangerous to any member of the Laroque family. But she also has the ability to free anyone from that destiny. Marie left one other comment. It’s not one I understand. ‘Once unlocked, the door can be opened from either side.’ I’ll have to give that one some thought.”
Myles noticed an envelope tucked into the pages of Marie’s journal. “What happened to the deed to the property?”
Madam de Galpion pulled out the yellowed parchment from between the pages. “Even with Marie’s fame, a free woman of color taking possession of so much land next to a white neighborhood would have put her in danger.” She opened the papers to show the original deed carrying the name Louis Broussard. “I fear it’s not worth anything more than historical value. After the War Between the States, the land was confiscated by the northern army.”
It was a link to Kendell’s past. “I’d be happy to buy it from you, provided it’s not needed for your Marie Laveau collection of documents.”
She rubbed the paper between her fingers and took a long sniff of the worn parchment. “It’s part of Miss Summer’s history. I’ll trust you to return it to her. Marie lists in the ledger that payment for the curse was satisfactory even though she didn’t claim the property. I’ll warn you: she wouldn’t have said such a thing out of the goodness of her heart. There’s more depth to this curse than we know.”
Professor Yates, who’d been silently filling the tight doorway like a spectral ghoul, spoke up. “Sounds like we’re going to need another of the baron’s artifacts if we’re going up against the Laroques. Once a paranormal object is surrendered to Mr. Noire, it’s almost never seen again. So it’s pointless for you to return to the old World Trade Center for the pipe tool you two were playing with before.”
The only alternative that Myles knew of wouldn’t be much more helpful than Mr. Noire in his mostly empty building. “I know a place where more of the baron’s old possessions could have ended up, but the nuns aren’t fond of letting men into their compound.”
Madam de Galpion returned the journal to the shelf. “Unfortunately, they’re even less welcoming to a voodoo priestess. With your skills at reading an object’s past human energy, you should be able to identify something under the curse. Once you have it in hand, bring it to me. Perhaps we can sneak a little surprise into the Laroques’ plans.”
* * *
Kendell stayed as deep in the life raft as she could manage while still lifting the cover a sliver to see who returned to the riverboat. Only two hulking figures walked up the makeshift wood-plank gangway. That would leave two thugs watching over her friends. Two guarding seven wasn’t bad odds, but as those two undoubtedly had guns, she hoped Polly wouldn’t take it on herself to do something foolish.
She lowered the cover back in place and tried to envision the dynamics in the crude warehouse. What Polly lacked in musical ability she more than made up for in commanding presence. The girls would follow whatever half-baked plan she thought up. And it wasn’t as if the Mutants at Table Nine would have anything to say. Like Lars, none of them looked to have gotten laid on a regular basis in their lives. The three guys cooped up with four women would be too hopped up on hormones to think clearly. Guys like that were putty in the hands of self-confident women. Hell, Polly could ask the trio to be half-naked male dancers for the act, and they’d agree.
For just a moment she wondered if any member of the all-male band thought he had a shot with her. None of them could stack up to Myles. Poor foolish boys.
As the steamship began churning up water, she checked her watch. So long as the ship travelled at a constant speed, she might be able to figure out the location of the warehouse by timing exactly how long it took to return to the French Quarter.
Once the footsteps had receded, she lifted the cover a smidge to look at the river. Beyond the bayou, she saw the upper deck of a freighter. That could only mean the paddle wheeler had taken one of the tributaries that led off the Mississippi. There couldn’t be many such rivers that were large enough to accommodate the tourist vessel. As the steamship rounded a bend to rejoin the major river, she checked her watch again. Fifteen minutes from warehouse to Mississippi. She sang the words in her head to make sure she’d remember.
Out on the river, boredom was her biggest threat. With only two thugs and two people working the boat, she had plenty of opportunity to get out and sneak around the vessel. Time after time, she resisted the urge.
What do I know? Figuring out her resources might help with the wait. She could estimate where her friends were being held. That wasn’t something the thugs would anticipate. Getting there and freeing them would be a challenge, but with only two guards, they probably wouldn’t be keeping a close watch outside of the warehouse. With such a quiet tributary, they’d be listening for any boat that might come along rather than hanging out on the dock, getting eaten by mosquitoes.
She kept coming back to who was behind the abduction. The Laroques wanted to use her for some purpose, and though she prided herself on her mastery of the guitar, she had to believe they were after her for her connection to that fucking curse. Just one day. Why the hell couldn’t I have had just one full day with Myles to explore our love? Best not to think about it. After six months of working together, he wasn’t likely to lose his passion for her. She checked her watch again. Half an hour gone. They had to be about halfway home.
The smell of cigarettes made her lower the cover just before she heard the sound of footsteps on the deck above her.
“Not a bad outing. The boss will be happy.”
“She’s never happy. You’d better pray that little girl is able to perform her duty.”
“Hey, don’t turn this on me. If you had retrieved that pipe tool, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
A cigarette butt landed on the canvas cover over her head.
“Like I was going to push my way through Big G’s goons? Cops were all over that parade.”
“Okay, I’ll drop it. You did manage the death of that busybody reporter. That was a thing of beauty with all those witnesses swearing it was an accident. I’m just not crazy about kidnapping a bunch of kids. We’d better get back inside. If someone on one of those tugboats recognizes us, we’ll be in deep shit.”
“Please don’t say shit. I can still smell that demon dog’s crap in my sleep.”
Though the dognapping of Cheesecake wasn’t a night Kendell wanted to remember, she silently promised her dog a special treat for the lasting impression she’d made on her abductors.
As the grassy wetlands transitioned to wharfs and brick buildings, she breathed a little easier. Even with a segment of New Orleans’s most powerful family stacked against her, civilization beat the bayou any day.
The ship would be docking soon. Her mind told her to follow the goons for as long as possible, but her heart told her to run to Myles as soon as she could safely get off the boat.
22
As Myles stood in front of Our Lady of Mercy convent, he reconsidered waiting for Kendell to return. She’d had enough of a challenge getting through the gates the previous time they’d been there, and she was a woman. Without her, he doubted he had a chance. However, he had no way of knowing when or even if she’d be returning with the riverboat.
Summoning up his courage, he rang the bell. People walking along the street gave him suspicious glances as he waited. The convent, with its towering brick-and-plaster walls, presented as stern a look to the outside world as the nuns themselves. If it hadn’t been for Kendell, he’d have skipped out before anyone made it to th
e front gate. But she was in trouble, and that meant he had to buck up. Minutes passed without any indication his request had been heard within. He stared up at the security cam as if to say, I’m not leaving.
The heavy eight-foot-tall wooden gate opened only wide enough for a nun’s face, draped in a black habit, to peek out. “We’re not open to the public.”
“I’m aware of that. I’m a friend of Kendell Summer. She visited you recently. Lance Laroque vouched for her.”
“I remember her. We let her in, but that one-time courtesy doesn’t extend to her friends.”
Myles knew that at any moment the woman might shut the door in his face. He didn’t have long to make his plea. “She’s in trouble. It has to do with what you two talked about. I’m not asking to come in, but it’s vitally important that I get hold of the box that was left for Fleurentine Laurette-Malveaux on the death of her husband, the baron. You know what I’m talking about. I have a place where the items can be secured.”
The woman’s glare softened only slightly. “Have you considered that those people who inhabit the abandoned World Trade Center might not be your friends?”
From what Luther Noire had told him and Kendell about the founding of his organization, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the reverend mother would know of him. Blessed items and holy relics remained with the church. Items of a darker paranormal nature typically ended up in his care. “You don’t trust him?”
The door stayed open only a sliver. Myles considered that a major accomplishment. “That’s a long story—one that goes back thousands of years. Like two foreign countries, we often have our differences.”
“If you’d prefer, we can return the items once we’re through with them. You know Kendell’s connection to the past.” He caught himself and just avoided using the word curse.
“And why should I trust you? If Miss Summer wants the objects, she should come here in person.” The door began to close.