by Lynn S.
Anderson considered calling Marissa, but there was a fine line between investigating and harassing that might bring precious findings crashing down. The woman was not a suspect, and she had been cooperative. Still, he rang, and after a couple of tries, he let it go to voice mail.
***
Anderson and Carter were never meant to find their answers, at least while using the tools of their trade. A long time ago, in a book already forgotten, another type of investigator had filled their gaps with information two cops might have found unreliable at best.
Annotations of the Order, obtained in the vicinity of Newgrange, Ireland, upon the excavation of a fairy mound, in the year 1632. Property of Sebastian Salgado, observer in charge.
“All mortals be wary
As one must concede
The touch of a Sidhe
To never endure
If this were to happen
It can be assured
That memories gathered
Will all soon be scattered.”
Chapter IV
Azure on Frenchmen Street
New Orleans
The French Quarter had been the heart of New Orleans since the foundation of the city in 1718. Jazz was born in those narrow alleys, spilling in notes of vibrant brass, ebony and ivory—the feeling of a city bestowed with different sensibilities. For years on end, Bourbon Street was the epicenter of all things music. The street flanked by Royal and Dauphine, in its time, crowned artist with laurels of glory and destroyed the dreams of many.
As it happened, Bourbon also changed, becoming a haven for tourists. Balconies and lamps forged in wrought iron found their exquisite craftsmanship hidden under colored beads, gleaming in cheap metallic, bits of gold, purple, and green. Bars open from dusk until early morning soon replaced their live musicians with sound systems spewing Top 40 hits. The storm didn’t help much either. Katrina swept away the last of the jazz joints holding to a bit of local flavor. There was not much left of those dimly lit clubs with fixed clientele of people with discriminating taste in music.
But nothing in New Orleans ever died. It just moved around and found a new home in some other corner.
Frenchmen Street inherited the inclination for melody that once made Bourbon Street stand out. There were bars on that street that opened at six and closed at midnight, considering that the best cure for intoxication was a walk down narrow alleys, trying to find a way home. There were still owners who believed people should just shake it off while there were stars peeking through the clouds above the Mississippi.
Garan Nolton arrived in town in 2010, and there was still work to do as far as rebuilding was concerned. Before that, he had lived all his life in Louisiana without the need to step into New Orleans. His home was Lafayette, place of all things Creole and French Acadian, what the rest of the state had grown to call Cajun.
He came to work in construction, and decided to stay for another reason. As it often happened with young men who didn’t deserve it, he fell in love with a girl who broke his heart. She had also gone to New Orleans to work, but then decided to move back to Texas with no other excuse than not being able to get used to the pace of the city they had been living in together for a little over two years. Wherever she went, he was not in her plans. Those things he figured out in retrospect, but back then, when his heart couldn’t take it, that was when he discovered a bar on Frenchmen Street.
Azure, a building from the dawn of the nineteenth century, was one of the few in the city with a Gothic design that did not lend itself to ecclesiastical purposes.
Contrary to what ill-conceived movies make believed, Gothic structures were not the depository of all that was dark and sinister. Cathedral ceilings and the narrow yet beautifully adorned arches that comprised the bar’s windows played with natural light. The stained glass threw soft colored patterns over the floor during the day and sparkled at night. It might have been quiet at times, but somber, not so much.
Garan went in for a couple of drinks and ended up getting a job. The bartender, a woman in her fifties who claimed to have been a beauty queen, was also the owner. Between pouring a shot here and there, the barkeep found a way to make one of those hard to refuse offers.
“But you are all I need, darlin’. Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
Veronica, Azure’s owner, crossed to the other side of the bar, giving her patron a gleaming smile. Last call had passed already and there were but a few regulars nursing glasses while employees had started cleaning out in the back. Garan was a little surprised when the woman threaded her fingers through his messy dark hair. It was not an insinuation as much as a little dramatic scolding from someone with an oddly nurturing vibe.
“Look at you. Broken heart or not, you have cheekbones built for success, sweetheart.” Her hands brushed away the hair that had been blocking half his face. His dark eyebrows framed blue eyes that seemed to sparkle silver. A narrow nose and generous lips stood against suntanned skin, giving him an almost foreign look. There were also a couple of scars, some childhood mischief gone awry that left a thin, almost ghostly slash across the eyebrow and a small indentation on the cheek that could be mistaken for a dimple. “You have the most intriguing face. You know, cut out for stories. If I were some twenty-five years younger, I’d be thinking of some indecent proposals right now, but I’m feeling motherly, and quite observant today. I have seen the way you look at the stage, with a bit of longing, and even when slightly drunk, you don’t miss a beat. You keep track of the score with your right foot. I bet you play.”
“Nothing jazzy, lady. I play the violin.” Garan was starting to feel embarrassed. He didn’t pretend to be a man of mystery, but neither did he care much for being an open book. A couple of employees were tickled by Veronica’s new project and just hung around, blatantly listening in. It made him much more self-conscious than when he decided to walk into the bar that evening. His hair was heavy and greasy and he wore work clothes splotched with cement, not particularly job interview material. Nolton realized that it was a little more than just letting himself go—it had reached pathetic levels. Veronica was right. He came in for the music. It was the one thing that made him smile, even if he didn’t mean to. It had become evident to the point that all this awkwardness might end up becoming an opportunity.
Veronica exhaled, back to her business demeanor. The woman narrowed her eyes, and it was evident she had some plan.
“We are about to close, and one should never make decisions after last call. Let’s do something. Walk it off, think about it, and bring that violin tomorrow.”
Garan left and the woman waved goodbye. Benny, the bar’s accountant, who happened to hang around Azure as a fixture, touched the tip of his hat at Nolton as he walked out.
“Are you sure about this, Vicky?”
“Whatcha mean, Benny? You talking about bringing a string musician?”
“I’m talking about that one. Boy might end up spelling trouble.”
“They all do. That’s what being young is all about, Ben, and you’ve forgotten, ol’ man.”
Nolton came back the next day, violin in tow. Three years later, he still played at Azure every Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, and on Sunday brunch. Veronica declared that every establishment thrived after finding its interesting guy, and Garan Nolton, dressed head to toe in black, chin touching the rest piece of a violin, was Azure’s.
“I’m not one to forget Benny’s warning, though,” she advised him. “You are getting the decent basic plus tips and that is enough for me to ask one thing of you. One of these days that broken heart of yours will stop bleeding, and then you’ll start working your way up to something. Good for you, but don’t bring it here. One never drags complications to the work space.”
Garan had learned to take Veronica’s words in good stride. He simply smiled and promised to keep out of trouble. He managed all right, until trouble came knocking.
***
The women got to the bar along with a small group of to
urists looking for a good time on the fringe of the French Quarter. Without giving it a second thought and not quite waiting to be seated, they took hold of a private booth. If Benny had anything to say about, no one knew. The old man just kept staring at one of the two with what struck Garan as curiosity and a bit of apprehension in his eye. They were both gorgeous, each in a particular way. Where one stood taller than most of the patrons, ivory skinned with blond locks piled up and eyes demurred and shaded, the other was petite, dotted with sumptuous curves and easy smiles with skin that reminded one of coffee with just a touch of cream.
The leggy blonde didn’t order anything for herself, she didn’t even take a sip of the complementary glass of water. Her friend, though, placed quite an extravagant order. The woman, who identified herself as Brigitte, asked the server to bring to the booth their most expensive bottle of spiced rum. She was served a bottle of their finest aromatic, aged in acacia wood and made fragrant with infusion of Eastern Caribbean spices. Setting aside the offered tumbler, the woman drank straight out of the bottle, giving Azure patrons a run for the most sensuous imbibing of liquid ever conceived between lips and glass.
Garan found it all quite amusing, but Benny didn’t. Still the violinist observed that the old man was not as irritated with the woman as he was with some of the patrons who whistled and cat called.
“You!” The short-haired petite woman pointed at the musician. “I want you here at our table.”
Garan opened his eyes wide and pointed toward himself, concealing a smile. It was obviously their first time at the bar. Everyone knew there was a strict no fraternization clause between clients and musicians, other than taking requests. However, Veronica gave her approval with a nod before getting back on bar duty.
“My friend here,” Brigitte pointed to the tall one, “has been down in the dumps and wants something to make her feel at home. They say what makes you good is that you always find the right tune. I’ll be damned if I have not found one to give us a bit of Irish violin.”
Brigitte’s hazel eyes felt like a stab, locking on to Garan’s baby blues. It physically hurt to keep eye contact with her. The musician felt he was losing balance.
While steadying himself against the table, Garan felt something stirring inside him. His heart beat faster and he could hear a murmur, close to a second heart, racing along in a gallop. He blinked rapidly, trying to keep focused, but soon enough the dark-haired man felt as if his eyes were not his own. Much as if someone inside him was looking out, not quite pleased with what was being shown.
The woman seemed to know, as she made space for him at the booth. Her eyes, now glimmering gold, didn’t so much look at his face but deep within. “I’m quite a jazz gal myself,” she snickered. “If I’m to bear strings, make it interesting. What about “The Rose of Allendale”?”
Garan’s face contorted into an angry scowl, his mouth became a trembling thin line. Not afraid, but furious at the thought of being commanded. So much so that Garan was no longer himself. Once seated and out of Brigitte’s thrall, he fixed his eyes upon Bansit, who had kept silent all along.
““The Rose of Allendale” is not an Irish song, and neither is your friend. I’m afraid she’d need to be human to stake a claim. But I’ll humor a tune if that will get you off my back. Sounds a lot better in keys, but you leave me no choice.” He touched bow to strings and started playing a melody that was familiar to the quiet Morrigan. After all, it was up to Bansit to know all mourning songs ever conceived.
““Between two Worlds,” what a curious choice…” The blonde woman leaned in.
“Ah! The Phantom Queen utters a word! I’m glad the Lady of the Cemetery is not talking all by herself.” The entity living in Garan now had full control of his body. The blood thirsty creature within him had over fifteen years to get used to his every move. Garan was possessed by a vampire spirit that had laid dormant within, lulled by the dullness of human life. Once, the musician had objected, but now he slid confidently into the booth, to keep the conversation at an appropriate, intimate level.
“Then you recognize who have come asking for you.” Bansit removed her glasses, her eyes iridescent lilac between thick, dark lashes.
“Recognize? Yes. Respect? Not a bit.” The possessed extended his hands and grabbed each woman by the wrist. His eyes looked hungry as he followed the blue trace of veins in the arms of both Morrigan and loa, entertaining the idea of drinking blood a step beyond human. Smiling, he just kissed the backs of their hands in a most suggestive manner. Bansit kept her face the standard of equanimity, while Brigitte found it all quite tickling.
“I know you, Brigitte du Cimetière. You never help if there’s nothing in it for you. Decades after you expelled me from this city, you allowed me to return, wearing this young man’s skin. I’ve been wondering since then when you’d come knocking. But I was good on my promise, and that makes it unwise to come for me. I hid so well and slept so long that you must have used your shells to find me. What will you ask of me now?”
“Well, here’s the deal, honey,” Brigitte answered without missing a beat. “The Morrigan have a couple of souls trapped behind the mirror. I need you to open a bridge. Adriana Popescu and Sebastian Salgado need to connect with the world and only a dweller can do the trick.” Brigitte loved to push buttons whenever she could. Taking a swig of the bottle, this time she purposefully let a drop trickle down her chin. An illusion made it look thick, sluggish, and crimson. Bansit didn’t judge it wise, and perhaps she was right, because the expression on the man’s face changed completely.
Gone was the posture that indicated control and confidence. If anything, now he looked desperate, and alarmingly dangerous. His nostrils flared and his eyes turned icy-blue, almost crystalline.
“You can’t do this to me! You can’t force me near the mirror realm!” His tone became agitated and the words came rushing through growls. “You know what will happen if I risk too much. I might stay trapped in that hell which is a thousand times worse than the long sleep. At least inside this body, even if I keep quiet, I get to live. The dark forests make eternity unbearable.”
“We can guarantee you a complete pardon.” The Morrigan who watched over water crossed her heart in promise. “If you help restore the balance, you won’t have to stand in judgement of any offence against the mirror folk. My sisters and I will pay any debts owed on your name to Light or Shadows and you won’t have to run anymore.”
The dweller looked at her with undisguised scorn. Excusing himself from the booth, he let them know, “It wouldn’t be the first time a second-rate deity fails me. As far as I’m concerned, ladies, this conversation never took place. I’ll take my leave now…”
Chaos. Heart about to jump out of his chest and a pain in his temples like a blow on an anvil, Garan Nolton found himself, barely able to stand, thankful for the table to keep his balance. He had forgotten the women and they came back in bits and pieces as he looked at both of them, bewildered, as if they had not been there a second before. He didn’t remember exchanging words with them, after all, the conversation was not his to recall.
“I…I’m sorry. It looks like I had a dizzy spell there for a minute.”
“It is all right, love. It was not the best idea to call you over. We are all a little tipsy.”
Brigitte placed her hand upon Garan’s. It was diminutive and barely covered the musician’s fingers. Bansit observed, wondering at the reason for that brief, intimate gesture. For the first time in a long time she saw the Lady of the Cemetery soften, giving a compassionate look and touch to another creature. Had she not known the oracle was always working on secretive devises, she would have been touched.
The dark-skinned beauty slipped a substantial tip into the musician’s pocket before standing on her toes to kiss his lips. It was a quick, friendly kiss, one of those that tasted of carnival mischief and adventure. Then she called upon her friend and left the building. As she crossed the threshold, her eyes stopped on Benny and Veronica
.
“Old man, beauty queen. Everyone gets a drink on me and the tab will be settled later.” Brigitte walked out without turning, knowing the bar would pour to her heart’s content and then, along the way, she’d bestow a blessing. Glass tinkled, voices raised, and laughter soon drowned any questions.
The night went by without any other event unfurling. Veronica closed at the stroke of midnight. Wise woman, six hours of debauchery were more than enough in a town where people needed to keep their senses sharp. While cleaning up, Benny, born and bred in the French Quarter, got close to Garan, who still had a long way to forget the encounter with the women.
“Listen to me.” Benny was old, his skin looked almost leathery, stuck to his lean frame. Regardless, his advice was good, and Garan always paid attention. “I might not make a lot of sense, man. But that girl you spoke to, she’s as much joy as she is trouble. I don’t know what you talked about and I don’t wanna. If you said no, though, lay low and take it easy for a while. Split town, go back home to Lafayette for a while…”
“It was nothing, old man. Weird, but nothing. The girls couldn’t make up their minds about a tune. I ended up making a fifty and gettin’ a kiss over nothing.” Garan shrugged his shoulders and wondered what the fuss was about two slightly drunken college girls.
Benny sighed. Everyone knew that when Madame Brigitte was bent on taking something, she’d only be happy with a yes, and her smile was nothing but a mask.
***
Bansit, sweet and shy Morrigan, had to get used to her new companion. She missed Mikka and Annand, but it was forbidden for her to return until all things pending were solved. So she opened herself to Brigitte and embraced the city the Lady watched over. The walk on the river boardwalk was nice enough. She loved the proximity to water. A couple of times the sound of rushing currents paired with a lonely instrument playing a song in the distance. As they got closer to the center, the sounds of street carts and people entertaining music, late coffee, and conversation masked every possible worry. Yet it felt like a hundred years since Brigitte had pronounced a word on the incident. Bansit knew quite well that only one of the two could afford the luxury of being introspective.