by Elle Thorne
Latrice clapped her hands together as if dusting them of dirt. “That's that.”
“Why did you never tell me?” Étienne could not tear his eyes away from the desiccated skin of the vampire lump on the dirt floor of the cabin.
She stood silent, her back stiff.
“You could have warned me.” Étienne began to pace the room. “You could have warned my grandmother.”
“There are some things I did not know.”
“I wish he’d died by my hand.”
“I could not afford to let you do that. You see, if you blood-shared with him, you’d have ended up a hybrid.”
Étienne looked up from the vampire’s husk of a corpse. “What is a hybrid?”
Latrice shook her head. “It’s a difficult way for a shifter to be in. I’ve only met one. He killed the vampire that he’d blood-shared with. Which in turn, killed him.”
Étienne winced. “So their lives were bound together?”
“Indeed.”
“I should thank you for saving me from that outcome.”
“It’s the least I could do since I put you into this one.”
“Why did you?”
“It was fated.” There was a sadness on her face.
It was a sadness that Étienne didn’t fully understand, but he wasn’t going to pry.
“My back, the bleeding.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
“Theories on that?” He had his own suspicions, they were obvious to him, at least, but he was interested in her opinion.
“Your tiger. He will not let it rest. There is no retribution for this, but he will not let it go.”
Étienne nodded. His thoughts as well.
“You should come to the cabin. I’ve got someone in from out of town.”
“Now? It’s well after dark.”
Étienne walked up the cabin’s ramp. The place he’d been turned looked the same. “So, about shifters. The ones in Paris, they said shifters were born, not turned.”
“Did you dispel their thoughts? Or did you tell them how you came to be one?”
“I did not tell them.”
The door to Latrice’s cabin opened.
Out stepped Lucia. “Tell them what?”
“You are eavesdropping,” Latrice said, hugging their daughter, fully grown, beautiful, her tigress’s spirit was a white glow in Lucia’s eyes. Her dark hair long, in loose braids.
“It’s not eavesdropping if you can’t help it.” Lucia gave a half-shrug that reminded Étienne of the time he’d been in Paris.
So very Old World European.
“You look well,” he told her, beaming with pride at the composed and confident woman before him. She was a full grown woman, that with her shifter blood and her witch blood, had barely aged.
“As do you. You hardly appear to be as old as you surely must be.”
“I didn’t know you were coming to Louisiana,” Étienne said, not trying to make her feel guilty, but definitely feeling slighted, since his only child didn’t tell him her travel plans.
“One could say the same of you,” Lucia countered.
Étienne nodded. She had a point.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Lucia added.
“I had demons to put to rest,” he said.
Lucia glanced between them. “I hope my mother isn’t one of those demons.”
“I bear no ill feelings toward your mother.” Étienne was puzzled. “What would give you that idea?”
“I was born a shifter,” Lucia said, her voice low. “You, you had… different circumstances.”
“You told her?” Étienne asked
“She deserves to know. Of all people, second to you, she deserves to know.”
Étienne pondered this. It was true. Lucia did deserve to know her heritage. “Anyone else?”
Latrice shook her head. “I’ll take it to my death.”
Étienne turned back to his daughter. “What brought you to New Orleans? How long will you stay? What are you doing with yourself these days?”
“Staying out of trouble.”
He picked up on the fact she was not going to tell him anything else, and still persisted. “Where are you headed after you leave here?”
Lucia studied him long and hard.
They’d never bonded the way he’d wanted to as father and daughter, but it wasn’t surprising.
“Quake, first. Then I’m going north again.”
Latrice gave Étienne a look as though she commiserated with him. As if she had the same sort of relationship with their daughter, who’d been conceived under odd circumstances, and raised in even stranger ones, spending more of her formative years with teachers at schools than she had with her parents.
Maybe one day, they’d have a visit about how his life had been, no mother, raised by a grandmother, becoming a shifter, being free.
One day.
Maybe.
Chapter Eighteen
And so Étienne spent the last few hours of the night in the company of the daughter he hadn’t raised, with the witch that saved his life, and yet changed it in such a way he wondered if he were cursed or blessed.
They talked about nothing, really, and yet about tiny things, when at dawn, Lucia stood and announced she was leaving.
Étienne rose, not only to walk her out, but also to leave. He’d never felt close to Latrice, and several short hours did nothing to change that.
“Be well,” he told the witch, not planning to see her ever again. He shrugged his jacket on.
“And you.”
Latrice understood, it seemed.
Étienne had barely started the trek through the wooded undergrowth, ready to find the car he’d parked not far from his grandmother’s grave when he felt eyes on him. His shifter senses were back in working order, thankfully.
He scanned the area as casually as he could to ascertain the intent of whoever was watching him.
He saw the hair first, and bit back the smile that came to his mind and his heart. And his tiger’s heart it would seem, as well, for the beast chuffed with something very close to happiness.
“The dew is still on the leaves, Miss Arceneaux.”
“So it is, Mr. Arceneaux.”
“Do you always take constitutionals at this time of the morning?”
“Do you always trespass at this time of the morning?”
Her wit, her snappy repertoire, it did nothing more than endear her to Étienne. Her loveliness was outshined by her cleverness.
“I was on an errand, and now I’m making my way back to the car so I may trouble you and trespass no more.”
It saddened him to speak the words, for he wanted to trouble her. He wanted to be the source of many things for her, and if one of those was troubling, so be it.
“And your errand was at Latrice Mathieu’s cabin? A suspected witch?”
His gaze snapped to her eyes. “How is it you know where I was? Were you following?”
Surely he’d have known or noticed?
“I was on my way to see her myself.”
“You have business with a woman who lives in a dilapidated cabin on the bayou? One who is suspected of being a witch?”
“I was hoping to get healing herbs and some advice from her.”
“Advice? Is it love potions you desire, Miss Arceneaux? I would think those would not be needed. Not by you.”
He was rewarded with a tinge of pinkness in her cheeks, and he enjoyed the discomfort of her modesty, not to mention her humility.
“No. Mr. Arceneaux, I was seeking assistance for one of the young ones at the orphanage.”
He cocked a brow. What did he not know about her? It occurred to him there was much he did not know about her. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to be in her head, in her body, in her presence.
Forever.
“What orphanage?”
“The one where I volunteer.”
Now he was beginning to like this woman even more. “Could I see the
orphanage? See what you do there?”
“To what end?” She eyed him suspiciously, but there was a gleam in her gaze, one of admiration, and… something more. He hoped it was a lot of somethings more.
“Perhaps I’d like to volunteer.”
She let out a tiny laugh.
“With you,” he added.
She smiled, and his tiger’s chuffing became so loud, he feared he’d not hear her if she spoke. He calmed his tiger, advising him to lower the volume.
Then he added, “Perhaps I’d like to invest in the orphanage. I am not a poor man.”
“No, but you are a man of mystery. And I have questions for you.”
“I as well. Why is a young lady out, alone? The woods are not safe.”
“Why would I have needed a chaperone on my father’s property?”
“That was yesterday,” he reminded her. “But today, you’re not on your property, not right now.”
“Perhaps I have secrets of my own.”
“Your father does not know you visit the witch?”
“No. And does not know the extent of my volunteering at the orphanage. At least, he doesn’t think I do what I do. He thinks I help with the administrative duties.”
“But you prefer to work with the children?”
She nodded, her face serious. “It seems we both have secrets, Mr. Arceneaux.”
“Étienne,” he corrected her.
“Étienne,” she repeated
His body stiffened in the best of ways when his name slipped off her tongue, the way her lips were left in the tiniest of moves.
It would not be easy to spend time with this woman and not want her. He wanted her in the worst of ways.
“So perhaps I could visit the orphanage with you, sometime?” he persisted.
“Sometime.” She took a few steps toward the direction of Latrice’s cabin. “And perhaps that day you can tell me why your shirt was bloody. And why you visit a witch.”
“Your orphans may not be the only ones that need healing, Miss Arceneaux.”
“Celine,” she turned to tell him.
“Celine,” he amended.
Chapter Nineteen
Étienne decided to wait a week to make his first move. He waited a week for several reasons. Not because he needed time for his back to heal, but because he had to be sure about his feelings for Celine.
The healing wasn’t an issue because thankfully, one of the perks of being a shifter included accelerated healing.
And so for that week, every day, without fail, Étienne followed her. He followed her when she went to the orphanage, traveling in her father’s car driven by the family chauffeur. She spent all day at the orphanage, every day. He watched from nearby as she brought one child after another out to the playground and visited with them, bringing them toys.
He noticed there was one little girl she spent the most time with. And though he was afar, his shifter hearing and vision allowed Étienne to hear and see as if he were there.
The little girl was named Claudette and she couldn’t have been any older than Lucia was when he first met her.
Claudette clung to Celine’s skirt. “Please, don’t go.”
“I have to. I’m having dinner with my father.”
“You don’t understand how hard it is here for me.” Claudette stared up at Celine’s face. The timbre of Claudette’s voice had changed, as had her accent.
He studied the little girl, watching her closely.
Suddenly, her eyes flashed a deep indigo, transfusing her native color, overtaking it, then subsiding.
Étienne stared.
Claudette’s eyes, they had gone through the color changing occurrence the way shifter eyes did, but not exactly. Similar, but different. If she wasn’t a shifter—and she wasn’t, then what was she?
He shook his head. Surely he was imagining things.
“What about I bring you along to dinner one day? I’ll get special permission from Mrs. Brown.”
Étienne surmised that must have been someone in charge at the orphanage.
Claudette jumped up and down with glee. “Today?”
“No. But soon. I promise.”
Claudette nodded and took Celine’s hand, allowing her to lead her inside the three-story red brick building.
During the last week, Étienne had noticed every morning that Celine would go into the orphanage fresh-faced and with impeccable clothing, and every evening she’d come out, her hands raw, her sleeves wet. Her hair would be pulled in a bun, though many tendrils had escaped and were plastered to her forehead and temples. He suspected Celine spent much time cleaning after she’d had her visits in the playground with the children.
He smiled, watching from afar, as he took note of how she spent her days.
No wonder she didn’t want him going with her. She did not want her secret out.
He waited for her as the late afternoon hours cooled and yielded to the evening’s temperature. She was usually out by this time and getting into her father’s chauffeured car. But no sign of her yet.
He wasn’t concerned.
Who was he kidding?
Yes, he was.
Another ten minutes and I’ll go in after her. He took the timepiece out of his pocket.
Ten minutes. That’s all he’d give her. He had cause for concern; he was not popular with at least one vampire. Who knew what other beings wanted to see his demise. And if they wanted to see him dead, it would stand to reason they’d exact the same on those who he was close to.
Ah! There she is.
Celine strode out of the orphanage, took the steps hastily, and then to his surprise, rather than getting into her father’s car, she said something to the driver, then headed down the sidewalk.
Straight toward the park bench where Étienne was seated pretending to read a newspaper.
He kept the paper up, his nose buried into it, blocking her vision of him, and his of her.
He felt her weight as the park yielded to the pressure, but pretended he was oblivious.
“Étienne.”
“Hmmm?” He lowered the paper, raised his eyes. “Miss—I mean, Celine! Fancy meeting you here.”
She shook her head, mirth in her eyes. “If this had been the only day you’d been here, I’d understand the surprise. Or maybe you’re astonished that I know you’ve been here all week. Why are you following me?”
“Who said I’ve been here all week?” He hoped that denial or at the very least, a question, would divert her attention.
“My little friend Claudette is very, very observant.”
And not what she seems. He wondered if Celine was aware of that.
“I see. Perhaps I should have bribed her.”
“She’s extremely loyal to me.”
“I can certainly see why. I would be.”
Her cheeks gave in to a blush as she chewed on her lower lip. “I think it’s time you stop by Arceneaux Plantation.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, for dinner. I told Cookie to set an extra place.”
“That sure of my answer?”
“I won’t take no. And you should meet my father.”
“Why is that?” He smiled at her sassiness.
“Because you’re going to court me.”
Indeed, he was.
Étienne nodded, enjoying her strength and her headstrong ways.
Étienne had given the cabins a wide berth so as not to arrive at Arceneaux Plantation with a bloody shirt. He made his way up the imposing stairway that led to the massive front door. He’d never been in the house when he was here before, so he had no memories of it.
And hopefully nothing that will start that infernal bleeding again.
He’d thought when he’d left Boston to come to New Orleans that he’d buy the property so he could ensure Nana’s grave would always be cared for. He hadn’t expected his reaction to the cabins. He’d never have thought he’d end up with the problem he had. It made him rethink the idea of buying and li
ving here. He’d have to come up with another solution.
But for now, he told himself, he’d put it all on hold and enjoy an evening with Celine.
And my father.
That thought was as foreign to him as the word father was. He had no feelings for Phillip Arceneaux. As far as Étienne was concerned, he was no different than any other stranger.
The door opened before he knocked. The man who opened it was the driver. It made him wonder if finances were not what they appeared, if the butler doubled as a driver.
“Étienne Arceneaux, for Miss Celine,” he told the man.
“She’s in the sitting room.” He gestured for Étienne to bear right.
Celine appeared in the doorway of the first room. “Étienne. So happy you could make it.”
“Thank you for inviting me. I hope I’m not late.”
“Just in time. Perfect timing, actually. Bart just brought Father downstairs. He usually takes his meals in his room.” She leaned close. “He’s blind. I don’t know if I mentioned that.”
Étienne was taken aback. “No, you had not.”
“Yes, it set in about a decade ago. It’s why he is housebound, refusing to leave. That and age…” She shook her head.
Étienne waved for Celine to precede him, taking a second to compose himself from the surprise of that while he followed behind her. He wouldn’t have wanted to admit it, but he’d been nervous with the idea of meeting the man who loved his mother—a woman he never met, the man who should have been his father, but instead was not.
“Celine?” That was definitely an older man’s voice coming from the room.
Étienne entered, glanced right.
The man had once been good-looking; it was clear in his bone structure. The eyes, unfocused and unseeing, were a greenish blue, the hair a dark brown. Étienne couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to himself.
“I hear someone. Something,” Phillip Arceneaux said.
“I told you we’d have company tonight, Father, remember? A distant cousin.”
Phillip moved his head left and right, as if trying to determine where Étienne was. “Good to meet you.” He held his hand out. “Phillip Arceneaux.”
Étienne took that hand, old and wrinkled, he shook it. “Étienne Arceneaux. Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard—” What could he say? Good things? No. What should he say? “My grandmother mentioned you more than once.” He breathed out.