by Mason, Nina
“Why? What happened to it?”
“The statue or the convent?”
“Both.”
“The statue was moved to the new convent on State Street,” he told her. “And as far as the old convent goes…well, the hurricane blew down a chimney, setting off the fire sprinklers. The water really messed up the interior.”
Mr. Armstrong stopped at the corner of Chartres and Ursulines before a low gray wall. On the other side, beyond a sizeable lawn and boxwood knot garden, stood a palatial three-story home with a gray stone face. A round window with a little cross ornamented the pediment crowning the roofline.
“This is the old convent.” He gestured toward the building. “Back in the eighteen hundreds, the French Quarter was a pretty awful place. The city’s leaders, hoping to attract a better element, encouraged the fashionable families of Paris to send their daughters here to find husbands. The young ladies arrived in great numbers, with trousseaus packed in coffin-shaped trunks. The sisters took them in and packed away their trunks until the girls got engaged. When the trunks were brought down, all were found to be empty. Rumors spread rapidly through the Quarter that the girls had smuggled in vampires.”
“It seems far more likely somebody broke into the attic and stole their belongings,” Vanessa offered.
“Maybe so,” he returned, pointing to the house, “but explain this if you can. The upstairs windows fly open sometimes for no apparent reason, despite being sealed with more than eight thousand screws that have been blessed by a priest.”
“That can’t be true,” she protested, despite the shiver inching down her spine. “Why would vampires open the windows?”
He shrugged. “Who knows why the undead do what they do?”
They moved up Ursulines, stopping at the corner of Royal Street outside an elegant but eerie-looking brick building with ornate ironwork and French doors.
“This is the house I’ve been watching for years. It belongs to one of the most infamous vampires ever to take up residence in New Orleans. Jack St. Germain.”
“Why have you been watching this house in particular?”
“First of all, please stop calling me Mr. Armstrong. I’m Beau. Mr. Armstrong was my daddy’s name and, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not be reminded of that lying scoundrel.”
Should she ask? Deciding she shouldn’t, Vanessa shelved the topic beside Callum, who she was doing her best not to think about, despite how much the old convent reminded her of Barrogill. He’d called last night while her phone was dead, but left no message. She’d considered ringing him back, but doubt and what she’d read about Leos stopped her from doing so. What if he’d hit the speed dial by accident? If he’d meant to call, he’d phone again, right? In the meantime, she’d throw herself into Mr. Armstrong’s—or rather, Beau’s—continuing orientation of the city.
“And to answer your question,” Beau went on, “I’ve been trying for decades to prove Jack St. Germain is a vampire.”
Vanessa knew the name. Well, sort of. Back in the eighteenth century, a count named Jacques Saint-Germaine visited the crowned heads of Europe claiming to have achieved “mastery over nature”—immortality, in other words. Accounts of the time claim he never took a bite of food.
“Is Jack St. Germain any relation to Count Saint-Germaine, the legendary alchemist?”
“He claims to be a descendent, but I believe they’re one and the same.”
“According to local lore, St. Germain showed up in the French Quarter around the turn of the twentieth century. He called himself Jacques Saint-Germain at the time and claimed to be descended from the notorious French count.”
Vanessa scrutinized the premises, looking for any sign of movement from within, but all was still. “What if we just went up on the porch and knocked on the front door?”
With a grin that said, “I dare you,” Beau gestured toward the house. “Be my guest.”
Vanessa, not about to be intimidated, strode up the front path and proceeded to knock like she meant business while Beau stood on the sidewalk, looking equal parts amused and impressed.
Unable to raise a response from within, she gave up and rejoined him. “Nobody’s home.”
“Nobody’s ever home…or so he’d like us to believe.” Still grinning, he led the way up Royal Street and drew to a halt before a grand house similar to, but even bigger than the one allegedly belonging to St. Germain.
“This place, reputed to be the most haunted house in the city, now belongs to the actor Nicholas Cage.” Turning to her, he added, “You might recall he played a vampire in a movie back in the late eighties.”
“Vampire’s Kiss,” she volunteered. She’d always loved vampire books and movies, another reason for becoming a paranormal investigator.
“That’s right.” He turned back to the house. “This place used to belong to Delphine LaLaurie, who did some shocking things within these walls. It’s said she witnessed the brutal murder of her parents by their slaves when she was a girl, but, in my opinion, that’s no excuse for the heinous things she did to her own.”
Vanessa could feel an energy emanating from the house, a dark, terrible energy that gave her the heebie-jeebies. “What kinds of things?”
He arched an eyebrow in her direction. “Do you really want to know?”
“Probably not.” She gulped. “But tell me anyway.”
“Well, as the legend goes, Madam LaLaurie moved here with her third husband, a physician, around eighteen twenty. The couple liked to throw parties. During one of these affairs, a fire broke out in the kitchen, which, as was the norm back then, was located across the courtyard. When the fire brigade entered, they found two slaves chained to the stove. In a state of near-hysteria, the slaves begged the firemen to look in the attic. Finding the door locked, the firemen broke it down with an axe.
“The space, to their horror, reeked of rotting flesh and human waste, but the stench was nothing compared to its causes. Slaves, most dead, some alive, were chained to the walls and floor. It looked as if they’d been subjected to bizarre medical experiments. One man had been castrated. A woman, locked in a cage, had her limbs broken and reset at all sorts of odd angles. Some had their mouths sewn shut. Half the flesh on the face of a boy had been peeled back to reveal the musculature underneath. The firemen also discovered teacups and saucers encrusted with the remnants of human blood.”
Callum’s story of the tortures he suffered in Avalon rose from her memory, giving her a chill. “And you think she was a vampire? Because of the blood in the teacups?”
“Could be,” Beau said with a shrug. “Or maybe she was just a psycho who believed drinking blood was the secret to eternal youth, like that Hungarian countess.”
He meant Elizabeth Bathory, who murdered hundreds of virgins for their blood, which she bathed in and drank to maintain her youthful appearance.
They walked half a block or so before he stopped outside a two-story structure with a wrought-iron balcony and shuttered doors. A sign hanging at street level, underneath the second-story terrace, read The Coffee Pot.
“Back in Victorian times,” Beau began, affecting an ominous-sounding timbre, “this was the home and office of Etienne Deschamps. The elderly physician, known around town as ‘the magnetic doctor,’ was a hypnotist and a magician of sorts.
“Shortly after befriending the Dietz family, he became enchanted, almost obsessed, with their twelve-year-old daughter, Juliette. Over time, he gained her trust and she allowed him to use her for some of his psychic tricks. One day, he took her to his home, where he chloroformed her, and, according to newspaper accounts of the day, ‘debauched her in a fiendish manner.’ By the time the police arrived, it was too late. Juliette’s nude corpse lay on the bed. The old man, standing over the body, stark naked, began slashing himself with a knife. He was arrested and eventually executed for the murder.”
Vanessa looked at him thoughtfully. “Can you execute a vampire?”
“There are lots of d
ifferent kinds of vampires,” he returned, looking serious. “Personally, I think Deschamps was a psychic vampire who didn’t mean to kill the girl, which explains his attempt to commit suicide over her body.”
Beau guided her across the square, around the corner, and down Bourbon Street to a less touristy end of the Quarter, before stopping in front of a building with rickety shutters and peeling stucco. The sign out front read “Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop.”
Inside, the bar was small, close, and sparsely furnished. The only light was provided by flickering candles and a central fireplace, lending the place both authenticity and mystique.
“No electricity?” she asked.
Beau chuckled and guided her to a corner table, away from the heat of the fire. “Can I get you a drink?”
“What do you recommend?”
“Anything with cherries,” he said, grinning. “They’re soaked in pure Ever Clear.”
Vanessa blanched at the thought. “As tempting as that sounds…I’d rather have whisky.”
“Coming right up.”
While waiting for Beau to return from the bar, Vanessa looked around at the flickering shadows, glad to see there weren’t many other patrons in the bar. She felt unsteady enough without having to fight the overpowering smell of human blood.
A few minutes later, Beau came back to the table and set down her whisky, along with a glass filled with cherries.
She cocked an eyebrow in his direction. “Tying one on?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
She picked up her glass and slugged down the lot. “No reason I can think of.”
Chapter 15
While Vanessa was drinking with Beau, Callum was drinking alone in the library at Barrogill. He was in a bad way. Every cell in his being ached for his butterfly and there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do about it short of getting pissed. Maybe he should just say screw it and call her…or, better yet, fly to New Orleans and show up on her doorstep unannounced.
Or would forcing himself on her only make things worse? He must not forget he was dealing with an unromantic water bearer. Grand gestures were sure to frighten rather than impress her. Feeling lost and frustrated, he downed the rest of his drink, poured another, and took the glass to the bookcase where he kept his reference material on horoscopic astrology. Taking down a sizeable manual, he turned to the relevant section:
The Aquarian need for independence cannot be overstated. Those reigned by Uranus are very private people who detest having their privacy invaded...
Nothing new there, nor anything to help with his predicament. With mushrooming angst, he skipped down to the paragraphs under the heading Partnership.
Of all the sun signs, Aquarians are the least likely to establish long-term romantic relationships. Their powerful need for freedom makes it especially difficult to allow another person into their lives. This stems from an unwillingness to share their personal space—be it their home or their psyche. Most water-bearers, who see romance as a trap and marriage as a prison, avoid commitment until they are so set in their ways making room in their lives for a companion becomes unthinkable.
Bitterness embalmed his heart. He’d known what Aquarians were like, knew they guarded their hearts and, like a daft prick, he’d let himself care for her in spite of that awareness. Well, at least it settled the issue of calling or dropping in uninvited. He’d simply have to wait for her to get in touch and pray her intentions toward him were sincere.
Someone knocked on the door, which he’d shut after saying good night to Duncan. Cursing under his breath, Callum downed his drink and set the glass on the coffee table on his way to see who it was.
Answering the knock, he found a fresh-faced young woman in a maid’s uniform with a tray. She was pretty, had large bosoms, and smelled like heaven. Hamish had mentioned in passing that he’d hired a new maid.
She made a wee curtsy and lowered her gaze. “Good evening, my lord. I’ve come to clear up. Is this a good time?”
“As good as any.” He stepped back to give her room to pass. “I was just about to retire.”
He did not, however, go up. Instead, he followed her into the room, reclaimed his seat and his cigar, and poured himself another scotch.
She leaned over the table, collected Duncan’s empty glass, and dumped the ashtray. The potent aroma of her blood teased his cock like fingers. He crossed his legs and shifted his body away from her.
Still bending over her work, she lifted her gaze to his. “Can I get you anything, my lord?”
“Nay, but do close the door when you go, if you would.”
After she’d gone, he took a deep whiff of the scotch in his glass to clear her scent from his sinuses. After gulping it down, he reached for the bottle, but stopped his hand before seizing the neck. Should he have another? More whisky would numb his feelings, but wouldn’t solve his problems. Rather than wallow in misery, he should look for the good in the situation. However things with Vanessa turned out, he’d learned from their acquaintance. He’d grown too removed, too complacent, too willing to let others fight the fight while he stood on the sidelines, afraid to get his hands dirty.
Was it too late—and too risky—to climb back into the ring and throw a few punches? If he ran, he could push to put more power in the hands of the Scottish Parliament, restore the old-growth Caledonian forests, crack down on polluters, preserve Scotland’s public services, and channel some of the profits from the harvesting of natural resources back into Scotland’s coffers.
Suddenly, he felt excited, empowered, and inspired—a palpable energy that expanded his heart and electrified his blood. That settled it, then. He would run for Parliament, and damn the consequences. He pulled out his cell, eager to call Duncan and share his decision. How he wished he could share the news with his butterfly as well.
Was she glad to be rid of him? He hoped not, but must not push too hard. Let her call when she was ready. In the meantime, he had better things to do than pine away like a lovesick schoolboy, especially for someone who valued her freedom more than she valued him.
He had another drink and then another. Inhibitions numbed into silence, he pulled out his mobile and pressed the button he’d programmed for her cell. When the call went straight to voicemail, he had to stop himself from hurling the phone at the bookcase. Just as he reached for the whisky to pour himself another, his mobile sounded, giving him a start.
His hope burst when he checked the caller ID and saw it was Duncan, not Vanessa.
“I’m glad you called, because I’ve got something to tell you.”
“I hope it’s that you’ve decided to run.”
“It is.”
Duncan, as expected, was both ecstatic and bursting with ideas for his campaign—speeches, meetings, interviews, posters, billboards, and public appearances at everything from recycling centers to homeless shelters. Callum, feeling like he’d been broadsided by a lorry, took a deep breath and blew it out. It seemed he’d gotten his wish. If Duncan had his way, he’d be far too busy to dwell on Vanessa’s desertion.
“I’ll call Randy first thing and see about setting up an interview.”
Callum, preoccupied, didn’t know who he meant. “Who’s Randy?”
“Miranda Hornsby from the Caithness Crier. You met her at the book signing. Don’t you remember?”
Flinching, Callum called from his memory the journalist and her insult. I believe your astrology to be—now how can I put this delicately?—a lorry load of New Age horseshit.
Bloody hell. If that was Miss Hornsby’s idea of delicacy, what might she be like when she took off the gloves?
“I don’t know, Duncan. I don’t think she liked me all that well.”
“She liked you fine,” the wolver countered with a shrug. “She just doesn’t believe in astrology.”
He chuckled sardonically. “Or pulling punches, apparently.”
* * * *
The following evening, after hunting in Bayou Manac, Vanessa heard the same ee
rie howl as before. This time, however, it sounded much closer. Chilled, she quickened her pace. Just as she reached the car, the snap of a branch broke through the symphony of insects. Fear quickened her pulse and tightened her stomach. With trembling hands, she groped in the pocket of her jeans for the keys.
The creature wailed again, even closer than before.
Holy shit. I need to get out of here and fast.
A loud rustle of vegetation very nearby startled her so badly, she dropped the keys. As she bent to pick them up, she heard a growl, low and threatening. Petrified with fear, she turned toward the sound, expecting to find a coyote or feral dog with its teeth bared.
What she saw was much worse. There, close enough to pounce, stood a shaggy-haired human-sized wolf creature on his hind legs.
Terror sliced through her like a chainsaw. Before she could react, the wolfman lunged, knocking her to the ground. She tried to throw him off, but he was too heavy. Claws tore at her back, shredding her clothes and skin. He flipped her over and ripped open her blouse, sending the buttons flying. His eyes were lambent red beams, his teeth were sharp, and drool was dripping from his jowls. His hairy hands pawed her breasts. She punched and kicked for all she was worth, but couldn’t get him off her. He was too big, strong, and determined.
“What the hell are you?” she demanded through her panic.
He surprised her by answering in a Southern drawl, “What the hell are you?”
She didn’t answer. Why should she tell this motherfucker anything? He got up. She rolled over and struggled to get her legs under her. He grabbed her ankles, knocking her back down, and started dragging her toward the swamp. She dug her fingernails into the mud, kicked wildly, and screamed for all she was worth.