Crashing porcelain shattered the stillness of the air, followed by the unmistakable clamor of a serving tray. Lord Mercier’s right eye twitched.
“I should go.” Dominique bolted out the door with as much dignity as she could muster, not wanting to compromise her reputation by running, but not wanting to compromise it by laughing herself silly on the floor, either.
She emerged from the manor’s heavy doors, and warm, balmy air enveloped her like the embrace of a family member who always overstayed their welcome. Lord Mercier’s manor was located right at the edge of town, close enough that the sounds and scents of the village danced in the air. They called to Dominique, leading her down the path from the manor to the main road that wove like a writhing serpent through the center of town and all the shops that fought for space on this most precious real estate.
Lifting her face to relish a passing breeze, she inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of freshly baked bread, the musk of livestock, the perfume of liquors and wines, and the myriad odors of herbs and plants. The Midsummer Celebration was approaching.
Of all the celebrations that lit up the calendar, Midsummer was her favorite. It was a time to worship and praise not one, but all the spirits. A time when the most important thing was joy. Joy for everything they’d been given, joy for everything they loved. There would be food, dancing, games, and costumes. It was a time for pleasure and fun. Class and status didn’t matter, and behind the safety of masks and the dark of night, the wealthy would mingle with the poor, strangers would become friends, and the entire village would be…free.
Her smile grew brittle as a memory threatened to sour her good mood. A Midsummer Celebration that had been both the best and worst of her life. The night that—
Stop it. Stop it or you’ll make a fool of yourself.
Dominique slid her hands into the pockets of her apron, doing a spontaneous inventory of the various objects she carried with her. Satchels of powdered herbs, bits of string, a few coins, slivers of wood and bone, two small empty bottles, and a hodgepodge of stones and pebbles. Each one gathered at the subtle guidance of the loa to be used when the time was right.
As she made her way through the village to her home on the edge of the bayou, she took the time to acknowledge every individual she passed. If she knew a person’s name, she used it—first if they were a friend, first, middle, and last if they were not—and she stopped to chat and introduce herself if she didn’t know them at all. The former was more common than the latter, a fact that filled her with a deep sense of satisfaction. She wasn’t royalty by blood or combat, no, but here? In this part of Sanguennay, among these people? She was a queen. The voodoo queen of Sanguennay.
“Madame Laveau!”
Monsieur Hugon swept out of his tavern with a broad wave, large hand obscuring his face as it passed. The wedding ring on his finger caught the sunlight, a pleasant golden glow that took the edge off his gruff demeanor and mitigated his above-average stature. Dominique deviated from the cobblestoned road, keeping her strides slow and measured, not rushing nor dawdling. She would come at his summons, but she would arrive in her own good time.
“My throat is a bit dry,” she said as she approached. Her practical flat-soled shoes were silent on the wood porch leading up to the tavern.
“Allow me to offer you a drink then.” Monsieur Hugon stepped back and gestured for her to enter ahead of him. “You are, of course, always welcome here.”
The scent of the tavern was a personality all its own. The robust character of liquor, the teasing perfume of wine, and the frothy aroma of beer tickled her nose and mingled with the scent of wood polish and clean silver. She seated herself on a stool at the long bar that stretched from the wall near the door across to the other wall where a door led into the small kitchen. As Dominique settled her skirts around her, Monsieur Hugon bustled around on the other side of the counter, drawing out a plain, but clean glass from its fellows lining a shelf beneath the bar. He filled it with two fingers of bourbon.
The rich, amber colored liquid glittered behind the glass like a precious stone. Dominique waved it under her nose, inhaling the bouquet with an appreciative sigh. “Soft, mild with very light oak, subtle sweetness and herbal grass notes. Such a heavenly scent.”
“Only the best for you, Madame Laveau.”
She took a sip, holding her tongue to the roof of her mouth to fully appreciate the flavor. It was the best bourbon—but then she’d known that already. She was the one who’d supplied it.
“I hope you’ll enjoy a glass yourself, Monsieur Hugon.”
The large man leaned on the bar, the wood creaking in muted protest. “Would that I could, Madame Laveau. But I’m afraid our stores are rather low, and I would not want to take such fine liquor from the mouths of my customers.”
Ah. “Have a glass, Monsieur Hugon. The loa always provide for the faithful.”
“From your mouth to their ears.” The tavern owner cleared his throat, the sound louder than it needed to be.
Madame Hugon appeared a moment later, so quickly one might have thought she was fey and had simply been hiding behind a veil, waiting for her husband’s signal. Her red hair had long ago faded to a tarnished blonde, but there were still rich streaks of auburn combing through the waves pinned close to her head in a casual plait. Her dress was plain brown cotton, but it was clean. Her cream-colored apron bore stains like badges of honor, marking the proud woman as someone who worked for a living. She beamed at Dominique as she set something colorful on the bar in front of her.
“Please accept this gift, Madame Laveau.” She caressed the material with the back of her fingers, holding Dominique’s gaze as she did so. “I wove it myself. A token of our appreciation for all you do for our community.” She patted the material again. “I hope it pleases you.”
Dominique amicably stroked a hand across the wool. Something hard and curved met her fingertips—gold coins wrapped in the scarf, tucked carefully into the pocket created by Madame Hugon’s clever folding. The amount felt right for two cases of bourbon.
“It is beautiful, Georgina.” She lifted the garment, careful not to jar the coins from their nest as she gently tucked it into a large pocket in her thick skirts. “I will wear it tonight for the festival.” She swirled her glass, watching the play of liquor against the sides. “You’ll be going to the festival as well, won’t you? I’m told there will be a stunning display of fireworks by the harbor tonight. I have friends who will be there at eight o’ clock. They’re coming all the way from Dacia and their ship is called the Adze. Do say hello to them for me if you see them.”
Monsieur Hugon bobbed his head, eyebrows knitted as he focused on trying to memorize the ship and the time. She would have told him to write it down if she weren’t so certain his wife would remember.
“Excited about tonight, I hope, Madame Laveau?”
“Of course.” Dominique took another sip of her bourbon. “The loa have been very good to us, I look forward to showing my gratitude and celebrating with my people. We must always be careful to remember from where our good fortune comes.”
Madame Hugon nodded, but it was an absent-minded gesture. “Of course, of course, but I was referring to Monsieur Marcon.”
The whiskey scalded Dominique’s windpipe as she gasped mid-swallow. Her eyes and nose burned, and she blinked slowly, clearing the sheen of sudden tears from her eyes as she fought off a deep cough.
Madame Hugon appeared blessedly unaware of her struggle and bunched her hands in her skirts and leaned forward, waiting with bated breath for Dominique’s response.
Marcon. Julien Marcon. He’s back? When? Why? It can’t be him.
She hushed the voice in her head brimming with questions and painted serenity over her face in as thick a layer as she could manage. “As you know, I have a great many duties to perform tonight for the Midsummer Celebration.” Despite her intentions, emotion made her voice hoarse, threatening to betray her calm facade. She took another slow sip of whisk
ey. “I cannot promise my time to any one person.”
“Oh, but Madame Laveau, you being one of their most dedicated priestesses, surely the spirits would be only too pleased to witness your engagement during this special time.”
“It’s unseemly for a gentleman to announce his engagement without his bride being present.” Monsieur Hugon scrubbed at a glass that was already clean. “And that beard of his—”
His wife slapped his stomach, the lines in her face suddenly deeper, her other hand tightening on the edge of the bar in a white-knuckled grip. Monsieur Hugon’s eyes bulged. “I-I of course meant no disrespect,” he rushed to add. “I’m sure he would not have announced such a thing without your blessing, Madame Laveau. And his beard—”
The glass of whiskey in Dominique’s hand shattered. Warm blood seeped through her fingers, mingling with the stinging bourbon as it pooled on the surface of the well-worn bar.
Bluebeard had returned then. And he’d claimed to be her…fiancé.
I’m going to kill him.
Download BLUE VOODOO
Other Books by Jennifer Blackstream
Blood Prince Series
Before Midnight
One Bite
Golden Stair
Divine Scales
Beautiful Salvation
Additional Books Featuring Characters From the Blood Prince Series
Dead To Begin With
What Sharp Teeth You Have
The Hidden Kingdom series
All for a Rose
Blue Voodoo
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About the Author
Jennifer Blackstream is a psychology enthusiast with both a B.A. and M.A. in Psychology. Her fascination with the human mind is most appeased through the study of mythology and folklore as well as any novel written by Sir Terry Pratchett.
Jennifer enjoys listening to Alice Cooper, trying new recipes (to which she will add garlic whether it calls for it or not), watching television with her family, and playing with her woefully intelligent young son. She lives in Ohio.
Jennifer spends most of her time drinking coffee from her X-Men mug and desperately trying to get all her ideas written down before her son can find that all magical button on her laptop to make her latest work vanish.
To learn more about Jennifer Blackstream and her novels, visit her website at http://www.jenniferblackstream.com.
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Copyright
All for a Rose
©Copyright Jennifer Blackstream 2015
Skeleton Key Publishing
Cover Art Clarissa Yeo of Yocla Book Cover Designs
Edited by Sharon Muha
This is a work fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
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Published in 2015 by Skeleton Key Publishing, Norton, Ohio, United States of America
Table of Contents
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Preview of BLUE VOODOO, book two in the Hidden Kingdom series
Other Books by Jennifer Blackstream
About the Author
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All for a Rose Page 31