When the young man was finished, Priest passed out appropriate penance and left the booth. He stroked the silky surface of the huge silver cross hanging from his waist as he walked down a dark corridor to the bell tower stairs. He climbed slowly. Age and arthritic knees were constant reminders of his failure. At the top, he walked around the great brass bell to the east side of the tower and stared out on the city. It was evening and the sun was slowly setting, turning the sky purple and the clouds an evil red. He stared down at the noisy streets, imagining where she was and what she was doing.
He knew about Abraxas, her jewelry shop. He knew she made jewelry in the basement where her fiendish partner Samantha Kennis invented crazy machines run off tiny steam engines. Samantha was a genius, working with a jeweler’s loupe to place each tiny piece. He possessed one of her amazing lock boxes, and had seen a flying machine she’d created powered by a steam engine that weighed only thirty pounds. He’d lost Bryn in England because of Sam’s infernal flying machine, but would not do so again.
Priest flexed his gnarled hands and cursed the demon who’d made him immortal after he’d reached his seventieth year. Living forever was a curse when you already suffered the infirmities of old age. He hadn’t slept a full night in three hundred years. His bowels were in a constant state of disorder. He could eat nothing with milk in it. His joints ached in the cold and damp. His left knee clicked when he climbed stairs. Oh to be young again, or maybe just dead. Then he could finally sleep. The emerald would remove the curse and then maybe he could die a natural death, or as he hoped, return to his youth.
This promise had been whispered into his ear by Garyx, god of all dragons, when Priest lay in his lair on top of Mt. Drakensburg. All he needed was the stone. Garyx had promised Priest youth in return for the emerald known as the Coeur de Flamme. The stone was here in New Orleans. Bryn had led him here and if he didn’t find it first, he would take it from her. Her obsession with curing her sister would allow her to stop at nothing. She would persevere, steal the stone, and try to use it to cure her sister because the stone was rumored to have great power.
When the sun’s warmth was gone and the sky a deep blue, he climbed slowly down the winding stairs to the sanctuary. He was in time for eight o’clock Mass. Genuflecting before entering a pew, he knelt on the velvet kneeler and bowed his head in prayer. All around him his fellow priests prayed for salvation while Priest prayed for a gem to present to the devil. The irony of it made him smile.
When Mass was over, he bowed his head and left the church. Hacks parked at the curb in front of the church waited to take the faithful back to their homes. He climbed into one and told the driver 332 Chartres Street. This was the first time he’d been to Bryn’s store. He just wanted to see it, to feel her presence so close yet so far away.
He stroked his crotch surreptitiously. He desired Bryn Sahir as he’d desired no other woman in his life. She was incredibly beautiful, possessed of the blackest hair and the whitest skin. Her eyes were like amethysts, her cheeks a delicate rose, her lips like plump berries. When he closed his eyes, she came to him naked, her full breasts tipped with dusky pink nipples, her pubic area smooth and hairless, her arms outstretch as she reached for him.
Priest growled. He both hated her and loved her. It seemed to him she had become another part of his curse. His lust for her had grown daily until it was now an unendurable ache he was unable to assuage with other women. When he tried, he could not complete the act. Only when he was alone and thought of her was his manhood hard. This forced celibacy only increased his desire for her, and his frustration, tenfold.
When the hack pulled up in front of the store he had the driver wait while he climbed down and walked to the lighted display window. Bryn’s jewelry was always exotic and unique. Her designs reflected the cultures of her Egyptian father and her Celtic mother. A golden dragon with gemstone scales and ruby eyes hung from a thick gold chain. Priest reached out his hand as though to touch it. A gold filigree tree blossomed with emerald leaves. The display case was filled with fairies, flowers, ankhs and cat brooches with blue topaz eyes.
When he placed his hands on the wall, he felt her inside. She was with someone, a man. He concentrated. She was with the detective from Scotland Yard. Priest didn’t know his name. He must have followed her to New Orleans. She was also with Samantha. How he hated and envied Samantha who was privy to all Bryn’s secrets and who slept in her bed.
Priest could only read the thoughts of those he’d had contact with and only when he was within fifty feet. It was such a handicap.
He gleaned no information from her. When his mind touched hers, she felt him and built walls to keep him at bay. Just knowing he’d disturbed her pleased him immensely. Priest thought for a moment and made a decision. He backed slowly away from the window and held his hands out in front of him. The loose sleeves of his robe suddenly began moving. A thick, black snake dropped out of each sleeve and fell to the ground. Each snake opened its mouth and hissed at Priest who hissed back. The snakes slithered into a street drain and disappeared.
Pleased with himself, he climbed back into the hack and told the driver to take him across town to a small dwelling on the waterfront. He planned to meet Papa Boukman, a renowned voodoo priest. With this evil worshipper of black demons’ help, he would recover the Flaming Heart before Bryn had her slender white hands on it.
* * * *
Bryn stared at her sister’s pale face across the dinner table. Fenix was fire where she was night. While her hair was as black as a crow’s wing, Fenix’s hair flamed red with golden lights. While Bryn’s eyes were the color of purple jewels, Fenix had the gilded eyes of a hawk. Fenix’s skin was golden. Bryn’s was cream. Fenix was slim and wraithlike, moving as though floating, while Bryn was tall and strong, her movements lithe and catlike. Her sister preferred warm colors. She currently wore a low cut dress of jonquil silk with long white lace sleeves, a tight bodice of white ruched silk embellished with tiny orange grosgrain ribbons and a treble-flounced skirt of more jonquil silk.
Bryn preferred richer colors and often wore black or deep purple which set off her creamy white complexion to perfection. Her high-necked dark purple lace dress was drawn tightly in at the waist where it flared into a modest bustle and a narrow skirt. The purple lace skirt flowed over an underdress of lilac silk. Bryn rarely decorated her dresses with bunches of ribbons or other trimmings, but preferred slim lines and often wore a split skirt under everything to aid her in quick getaways. She currently wore a wide filigree silver belt that tapered to a point at its center. Several weapons were secreted inside this belt. Bryn never went anywhere unarmed.
Poor Fenix drooped with fatigue. She ate with her head resting on an open palm and her eyes half closed. When she picked at a slice of chicken breast, Bryn encouraged her. “Eat, dear sister, you need to keep up your strength.”
Quinn watched this with amused eyes. Bryn knew he still didn’t believe her story. Suddenly strange thoughts intruded into an unprotected corner of her mind. She shivered as she recognized the thoughts…Priest! He was close enough to penetrate her mental walls. She quickly fortified her mind against him, leaped to her feet and swept to the window that overlooked Chartres Street.
Quinn moved behind her. She felt his heat burning into her back. “What’s wrong?”
“Draak Priest is down there. I felt him.” She pointed to a hackney cab disappearing around the corner onto Ursulines. “He’s inside that hack. I’m sure of it.”
Quinn knew of Priest from their sojourn in London. He was suspected of multiple murders in a seamy section of the town. Eleven prostitutes had been strangled and dismembered. Witnesses described an elderly man with incredible strength. Quinn had been on his trail when he encountered Bryn and Fenix for the first time. She’d been planning to steal a crown jewel, the Stuart Sapphire, which now rested in her safe in the basement.
Quinn placed his large hands on her shoulders and squeezed, she shivered with desire. “You’re imagi
ning things,” he whispered into her ear. “On top of your other accomplishments, do you read minds as well?”
She pushed his hands away, went back to the table, sat down and stared into his steely eyes. “Yes, I do.”
“So you truly believe Priest is here in New Orleans.”
“Yes, Quinn, he was outside in the street only moments ago,” she said.
Quinn backed up and stared at her. “I find this very hard to believe. Have there been any murders?”
“None that I know of, but the man is evil incarnate. If he is here, women will die.”
“Then you must be mistaken. If you can read minds, what am I thinking?” His grin was cocky as he resumed his interrupted dinner.
Bryn’s answer was a fiery blush.
He nodded, his expression rueful. “I see it is very likely that you are indeed able to read me, but then you knew what I wanted already so it should have been no challenge.”
“You can’t do the things you are thinking about with me, Quinn. Not only would they be entirely improper, but you would die. I told you, I am accursed.”
Fenix smiled. “You two shouldn’t exclude me, you know. I’m not invisible.”
Bryn apologized and shot Quinn a look filled with reproach. When dinner was over, Bryn and Fenix went into the parlor to pour over plans to acquire the emerald. Quinn brought his glass of cognac into the parlor and sat on the settee next to Bryn as Samantha came up from the basement covered with soot.
“What happened?” Bryn asked. Seeing Samantha covered with strange substances was not an occurrence of such note as to startle her.
Sam grinned and brushed some of the black stuff off her white lab coat. “Just a minor setback. I hope to have a working bomb shortly that is capable of destroying an entire city block. I’ve invented an explosive by mixing nitroglycerine with oil, a binder of my own devising and a chemical that causes it to become soft and malleable. It’s very powerful and only requires a wick to set it off.”
Bryn surged to her feet. “I thought you were inventing a better engine for zeppelins.”
“Oh, I am. I hit a rough spot and was enjoying a brief interlude by playing with fire.” Her rueful grin highlighted her cheery dimples and her pug nose.
“If you will, please stop trying to blow up my shop. Go upstairs and have Selina draw you a bath. I will be up directly to help.”
Sam grinned. “Will you wash my back, dear Bryn?”
Bryn’s face flamed. “I will wash whatever you desire.”
Quinn had been following this exchange with intense interest. When Sam went upstairs, he grabbed Bryn’s hand. She was trembling with excitement. Maybe entertaining herself with Samantha’s lithe body would erase her increasing desire for Quinn. She didn’t want to kill him. At least, not yet.
“I might not be able to read minds, but you’ll not wash any part of or cavort with your doxy while I am present.”
“Samantha is not a doxy. She is my very dear friend.”
“So I see.”
Their eyes met and a battle of wills ensued. Bryn felt his desire and knew he would not be denied. She really had no wish to deny him. He’d been chasing her for over a year, pursuing his interest as well as trying to catch her in the act of stealing, and she believed him when he told her he loved her. She sighed. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me and help me wash Sam’s back?”
“I’ve no desire for a squab of a woman with short hair and a pug nose,” Quinn snapped. When he pulled her into his embrace, she fought to disentangle herself. “It is you I desire.” He buried his face in her hair. “Oh God, I love you to the edge of madness.”
“You can’t,” she protested. “Loving me will kill you.”
“I’ve reached the point where I no longer care. Do with me as you will.”
She allowed his kiss, but when it got too deep and she felt the familiar fire building inside her that indicated the curse was about to incinerate him, she pushed him away and pointed to Fenix. “Stop, Quinn, you disturb my sister.”
Quinn took a deep ragged breath. His laugh was breathy and edged with a note of desperation. “Nothing short of one of Sam’s bombs would wake her.”
Poor Fenix was dozing in a chair by the fire. This close to her death, she slept a lot. Bryn took Quinn’s hand. “I know you do not believe in my curse, but never-the-less, it is real. If, as you say, you wish to be with me, you must allow Samantha into our coupling. She will have to be a surrogate at some point, for me.” She stroked his hand with her eyes downcast. “Truly, Quinn, if you take me you will die. I care for you.”
He groaned and pulled her tightly to his body. She was a tall woman but the top of her head only reached his chin. He ran his hands down her back and cupped her round ass through the fabric of her bustle. This close, she could feel his arousal against her stomach. It only stoked her desire and added to her fear that this would end badly. She’d seen it before.
Chapter 3
Draak Priest urged the hack down a dark alley close to the waterfront. The jarvey hadn’t wanted to go into this part of town. Priest had taken control of his weak mind and forced him here. The cob between the shafts jibbed at its bit while Priest climbed out of the hack. He walked to the jarvey and waved his hand over the man’s eyes. Immediately, the jarvey wakened and bolted upright, took one look around and began backing the cob. Priest felt no need to compensate him but stepped into the shadows until the hack was gone.
When the clip clop of the cob’s hooves died away, Priest walked down the alley and into the main road. The river flowed deep and dark just on the other side. Docks jutted into the flow. Paddle wheelers and fishing boats were tied to wharfs littered with crab traps, fishing nets, barrels and carts filled with coal. The crescent moon emerged from behind a cloud and lighted the road, revealing a small pub between two warehouses. Dim light shone from filthy windows in the front of the establishment and the sound of fiddle music wafted on the fetid night air. A wooden sign swung in the breeze coming off the river. It read Salon de Grande-Borie.
Priest lifted his robes to pick his way along the garbage-strewn street and across a foamy puddle of horse piss. He stood for a moment outside the pub, looked once down the road and ducked inside.
The smell was powerful. Priest removed a handkerchief drenched in scent from his pocket and held it to his nose. A negro woman danced on a platform while two fiddlers played. She lifted her multi-colored skirts exposing lithe brown legs and sweet ankles. Priest imagined what lay at the juncture of her thighs and felt his manhood stir.
Three men watched her dance from stools set close to a rough plank bar. They drank beer from grimy glasses. One of the men wore a cord around his neck with a gris-gris bag dangling from it. He had a gold earring in his coffee-colored ear and long matted lengths of black hair woven with brightly colored thread. When he clapped to the music, Priest spotted a bulky gold ring on his thumb with a huge blood-red stone at its center. That was Papa Boukman, the voodoo priest he had come to meet.
Priest skirted the dance floor and took a stool next to Boukman. He said nothing, just flicked his silver cross out of the folds of his robe and began stroking the sleek finish. Boukman saw it and nodded. In a minute, he excused himself to his friends and went outside. Priest followed.
They walked across the road to stand on the banks of the Mississippi. The sliver of moon gleamed off the ruffled surface of the black water. The muggy breeze was filled with the scents of dead fish, manure and wet mud.
“I brought what you asked of me,” he finally said, breaking the silence.
Boukman held out his hand. Priest took a small package of brown paper out of a pocket hidden on the folds of his robe and handed it to Boukman. The voodoo priest opened it and examined the shriveled penis laying in the paper. “This be from a church man?”
Priest nodded. “I cut it off him myself.” The item in question was the appendage of a Jesuit monk who had just arrived from France. Priest hated the Jesuits. Many years ago, one had tried t
o burn him at the stake in France. This was a small payback for that offense.
Boukman wrapped it back up and stuffed it in the pocket of his revolting black cotton pants. “The woman you be asking about be very powerful. She would kill me or worse, make me her slave, if she found out I done give her up to you.”
“All I wish to know is where she will hold her next ritual. It seems a small thing. You need not attend.” Priest returned the handkerchief to his nose. Boukman was none too clean.
The black voodoo man pursed thick rubbery lips and rubbed his flat nose with a thick finger while he thought. Priest wanted him to hurry, but refused to allow his impatience to show. When Boukman did not give him the information, but stood staring at the water for over ten minutes, Priest had waited long enough. He half-closed his eyes and murmured one word. Boukman’s thoughts immediately became clear. Madam LeVeque would be holding her next ritual the first night of the full moon on the banks of Bayou Tigre. She currently resided in the carriage house of the Maison de Ville.
Free of the necessity of courting this buffoon’s good intentions, Priest took his rosary out of his pocket, stepped behind Boukman, flipped the thin wire containing the beads around Boukman’s neck and dropped him to the ground before he even realized he was in trouble. Boukman kicked and clawed at his throat for several seconds. When the wire had cut into Boukman’s neck deeply enough to draw a steady flow of dark blood and the voodoo priest had stopped kicking, Priest released the tension and flipped the rosary off his neck.
“You should have worried about me, my friend,” Priest said to the corpse. With great distain, he fumbled in the man’s pants and retrieved his package. He held it up, laughing silently at the memory of the day he’d harvested the organ. Then he tossed it into thick bushes on the side of the alley. Leaving it on the voodoo priest might in some way reveal his identity. It was better to dispose of it.
The Flight of the Zeppelin Page 2