Tall, Dark and Paranormal: 10 Thrilling Tales of Sexy Alpha Bad Boys
Page 12
At Cassandra’s, I burst in, then stared. Detective Sullivan appeared as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
“Ms. Malone. What are you doing here?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I have questions for Ms.—” He turned to Cassandra. “What’s your last name?”
“Priestess Cassandra is good enough.”
“I am not calling you Priestess.”
“Cassandra’s fine, too.”
Detective Sullivan’s face got so red I was tempted to help him loosen his tie. I didn’t think he’d appreciate the gesture. The man probably slept in a suit.
My gaze lowered to that tie, imprinted with a tiny Lucy holding a football for a clueless Charlie Brown—I was starting to think Sullivan wasn’t as humorless as he pretended to be.
“You two know each other?” he asked.
“Yes,” Cassandra and I said at the same time.
“How?”
“I came in to shop.”
“For what?”
“What are you, a cop?”
He blinked, a confused expression replacing his annoyance. “Well, yeah.”
Cassandra laughed, then turned the sound into a cough. I took pity on the man and answered his question—kind of. “I heard this was an interesting place. Came in, looked around, and—”
“We bonded,” Cassandra finished.
“Bonded,” he repeated.
“I liked her; she liked me. Pals.” Cassandra crossed her middle finger over her index finger. “We’re like this.”
Now I was the one who choked on a laugh.
Sullivan didn’t appear convinced, but he let the matter drop. “I’m investigating a missing person.”
I thought of Mrs. Beasly. The New Orleans PD was really on the ball.
“Well, not exactly a person,” the detective said.
Cassandra and I exchanged glances.
“At least not anymore. There’s a body missing from the morgue.”
I started, but the detective was staring at Cassandra and not at me. He didn’t notice my reaction. Cassandra did, but she was savvy enough not to ask why that information disturbed me.
“Whenever that happens,” Cassandra said, “the voodoo priestess is always the first suspect.”
“Because?” I asked.
“Zombies.” Cassandra rolled her eyes. “What else?”
“You can’t believe Cassandra is raising zombies,” I demanded, even as my mind raced. I’d come here halfway believing I’d chased a zombie out of Jackson Square. I should tell Detective Sullivan, but I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth.
“I don’t believe it,” he muttered.
“He’s from out of town,” Cassandra said.
I didn’t bother to point out that she was, too. Cassandra seemed as much a part of New Orleans as the humidity and the jazz.
“His superior ordered him to come,” she continued.
Sullivan made an impatient sound. “I don’t understand this place.”
“You’re not supposed to.” Cassandra patted Sullivan’s arm. “Since you didn’t find the body in my closet, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No.” He headed for the door, stopped with his hand on the knob. “I was going to come and talk to you tomorrow, Ms. Malone. Have you seen Adam Ruelle?”
“Yes.”
“And you gave him my message?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t call.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t have the manpower to beat the swamp for him. All I want to do is ask a few questions.”
“You really think Adam strangled a perfect stranger with his bare hands?” I asked.
“Someone did.”
True.
“Funny that you should call the victim a stranger,” he continued.
“Funny ha-ha? Or funny weird?”
Sullivan’s lips didn’t even twitch. “The victim had no ID. He doesn’t match any missing persons report; no record of anyone of his description entering town by public transportation; fingerprints don’t pop in the FBI files.”
“Maybe it was a plain old robbery on Bourbon Street,” Cassandra said, “and someone dumped the guy somewhere else so they’d have enough time to get out of Dodge.”
“Tourists have hotel rooms, rental cars. One thing they don’t usually have is a fully automatic rifle.”
My mouth opened, then shut. “Isn’t that illegal?”
“Extremely.”
“How do you know the gun was his?”
“His fingerprints were all over the thing. Besides, if it was a robbery, why leave a gun like that lying around? Thing has to be worth some money, even without the weird bullets.”
“What kind of weird?” I asked.
“Silver.” He opened the door. “Who uses silver bullets?” Without waiting for an answer, the detective left.
Cassandra and I stared after him, then looked at each other. “Uh-oh,” we both said at the same time.
“Appears you aren’t the only one searching for a loup-garou,” Cassandra murmured.
“I am now.”
“You should be careful. Someone doesn’t want the beast found.”
“Seems to me like someone doesn’t want the beast killed.”
Cassandra’s lips pursed. “You’ve got a point.”
I shook my head, gave a little laugh, even though I didn’t find much of this funny. “Is everyone around here nuts?”
“That’s rhetorical, right?”
“Silver bullets, missing bodies, zombies.”
“Welcome to New Orleans.” She tilted her head. “You look like you haven’t slept at all. Did something happen in the swamp?”
I’d planned to tell her of Charlie; I’d forgotten about the wolf and Simon.
“It was probably just a dream.”
Cassandra’s eyes sharpened. “Dreams have meaning. Tell me.”
So I did.
“The wolf sounds like a dream.”
“My dead husband at the window doesn’t?”
“In this town—not so much.”
A chill passed over me that had nothing to do with the overactive air conditioner. Simon was dead. I’d buried him years ago. I didn’t believe in ghosts or zombies or werewolves. Really.
“You said there weren’t any tracks.”
“There could have been. The ground was all turned up.”
Cassandra frowned. “Maybe it was like that even before your dream.”
Maybe. But I doubted it.
“You’re intent on finding a loup-garou,” she continued. “You see one at the window. Simple wish fulfillment.”
“And Simon?”
“Could be the same thing. You miss him, he’s there.”
I wrinkled my nose. “His ghost?”
“Why not?”
“Why now?”
“Guilt?”
I hadn’t told Cassandra about doing the horizontal mambo with Adam Ruelle, but from the lift of her brow, she knew anyway.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty, Diana. Your husband’s gone; you’re not.”
“I understand that here.” I pointed to my head. “But here?” I patted my chest “Not so much.”
“I know.”
From the expression on her face, she did know, and I wanted to ask who she’d lost, how long it had been. After all, we’d bonded. But she shook off the sadness, smiling brightly, and I got the distinct impression her past was off-limits.
“You want to tell me why you came careening in here like something was chasing you?”
“Oh, yeah! Charlie Wagner.”
Cassandra’s smile faded. “How did you—?”
“What?”
“His body is the one that’s missing.”
“Which might be why I saw him on Jackson Square.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Did you use the powder?”
“He took off. Disappeared.” I paused. “Can a zombie disappear?”
Was I having this conversation?
“Where did you lose him?” Cassandra asked.
“Frenchmen Street.”
She grabbed a huge purse from under the counter, then chose items from the shelves and shoved them inside. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Frenchmen Street”
“Because... ?”
“Zombies aren’t the smartest beings on the planet. They follow orders, then return to their master.”
“I don’t believe this,” I muttered.
“You do, or you wouldn’t be here.”
The woman was right too often for her own good.
“You have the powder?” She locked the door behind us.
“Yep.”
“Okay. We find him, reveal him, put him back where he belongs.”
“Which is?”
“Good question. I’ve never heard of a zombie being raised before they were buried. But then again, bodies aren’t exactly buried around here. They’re encrypted. Is that a word?”
“Got me.”
Cassandra moved at a fast clip down Royal Street, turning on St Peter and heading for Jackson Square. Night had fallen; the moon that rose was just over half-full. I’d need to wait over a week to search for the loup-garou again.
Was I really adjusting my job because of the phases of the moon? Yes. The unbelievable became more believable with every passing hour.
“Can’t we do this in the daytime?” I asked.
“No.”
“I saw him in the daytime. Well, not exactly daytime, but it wasn’t night, either.”
Cassandra stopped, turned, and put a hand on my shoulder. “It isn’t that we can’t wait; it’s that we shouldn’t. Zombies are rarely raised for the good of mankind. The longer Charlie’s waltzing around, the more trouble he’ll cause.”
“You’re the expert.”
We started walking again.
“What did he look like?” she asked.
“Charlie.”
“I mean was there any decay? What about his throat wound?”
I shook my head. “He looked the same as the day I met him.”
She stopped again, right inside Jackson Square. The artisans and psychics were still there; the music had stopped. “You’re saying his throat wasn’t bloody and gaping? His body hadn’t started to rot?”
“I think I’d have noticed.” Along with everyone else on the street.
She bit her lip and stared at the ground. “Weird.”
“What are you getting at?”
Cassandra lifted her troubled gaze to mine. “Ever seen Night of the Living Dead?”
“No.”
“Zombies aren’t supposed to appear alive. A zombie is a walking corpse.”
“The movie could be wrong. And wouldn’t that be a shock?”
She didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“You don’t think so.”
“No.” She cut past the cathedral, and I followed. “Maybe Charlie is too newly dead to decay.”
“Then how did he heal his throat wound?”
“Yeah.” She glanced at me. “How did he?”
“You’re the voodoo priestess.”
“Whoever did this has power beyond anything we can imagine. Not only was Charlie raised; he was healed.” She shook her head. “I don’t like it.”
I had to say I wasn’t crazy about it, either.
Chapter 19
Frenchmen Street was deserted except for bartenders, waitresses, and local musicians ready to play a set for tips.
“Won’t get busy here until after nine or ten,” Cassandra said. “If you like, once we’re done, we can hang out and listen to the best jazz in town.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. We’d come after a zombie, and once we put him back... wherever... Cassandra wanted to listen to music and drink wine spritzers.
When in Rome ... By then I probably would need a drink.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now we start walking through alleys, peeking in bars.”
“Seems a little half-assed to me.”
“You got a better idea?”
Actually, I did.
“Hey, Charlie!” I shouted. “Chaaaaaaarlie!”
One bartender and two waitresses stepped onto the sidewalk, saw us, shrugged, and went back to work.
I glanced at Cassandra. “You said names have power.”
“I did, didn’t I?” She took a deep breath and shouted, “Charlie!”
Farther down, past the jazz clubs, a head poked out between a grocery store and an abandoned building. I recognized that head even before Charlie stepped into the flare of a streetlight.
“That’s him,” I whispered.
“Get the powder.”
I did as she said, and each of us took a little into our hand.
“Remember, blow it right into his face.”
We took one step in Charlie’s direction and he ran.
“Hell!” Cassandra started to run, too. “He isn’t supposed to run.”
I hustled after her. I had longer legs, but Cassandra had less weight on hers. “Why not?”
“Because it should be all he can do to shuffle. This guy is weird.”
“This guy is dead.”
She didn’t bother to answer. Charlie was too fast to keep up a conversation and keep up with him.
He led us away from the dewy lights of Frenchmen Street, down roads I couldn’t name without a sign, past signs I couldn’t see without a light. Cassandra didn’t seem disturbed, but she probably knew where we were going. Nevertheless, I didn’t think it was a good idea to chase a corpse all over New Orleans when all we had for protection was a zombie-revealing powder that might or might not work.
“Maybe we should let him go.” I wheezed.
“Not on your life.” Cassandra wasn’t wheezing. “This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to a zombie. I’m not giving up the chance to—”
Ah, she did have to take a deep breath. I felt so much better. “To what?”
Her gaze flicked past me. “That’s Louis Armstrong Park.”
I stopped running.
Louis Armstrong Park was not a place we wanted to be after the dark. The only place worse was—
“He’s going into St. Louis Cemetery Number One.”
That.
All the guidebooks said, in big, bold, red letters, not to enter any of the cemeteries at night. And not because of a zombie problem. There was a certain diceyness, even in the daytime, that made it best to visit in groups.
Up until about eighty years ago, this part of New Orleans had been known as Storyville and was the only legal red-light district in the country. Customers could peruse a book that listed the bordellos and even had pictures of the prostitutes. Jazz flourished, too, since the musical movement was not considered legitimate until much later. Even after prostitution became illegal again, Storyville remained the place to find a certain kind of girl well into the 1960s.
A police station had been built nearby. However, the area still had a dangerous aura that never seemed to go away.
“Let’s go back to your place.” I tugged on Cassandra’s arm.
“No.” Her mouth thinned into a stubborn line.
“Why are you so obsessed with this?”
Her face took on a faraway expression, and for an instant I thought she might confide in me; then the stubbornness returned. “I have my reasons. You still have your powder?”
“Yes. But I’d feel better if I had a gun.” The one Adam had given me was still locked in the trunk of my car, where it was going to be of so much use to us.
Without commenting, Cassandra reached into her bag and withdrew a very long knife. I gaped. Who was this woman?
“It probably isn’t a good idea to walk around with that.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Believe me, in this neighborhood, it is.”
“There’s no one here but us.”
The back of my neck tingled. Who were “they”?
Not wanting to be left alone, I scurried to catch up just as Cassandra reached the front of St. Louis Cemetery Number One. Barbed wire lined the top of the stone fence. The front gate was iron and sported a big lock. I breathed a sigh of relief, then Cassandra reached out and gave it a shove. The gate slid open.
“Damn it,” I muttered.
She cast me an amused glance. “How do you think Charlie got in?”
“He couldn’t just slide through the walls?”
“He’s a zombie, not a ghost.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Cassandra lifted a palm filled with powder. “Let’s find out.”
Without waiting for me to agree or disagree, she slipped through the gate. I glanced longingly at the street, which was lit up like the Superdome on Super Sunday. There were lots of cars and even a few non-zombie people; I wanted to stay. But I couldn’t let Cassandra go alone, so I followed her inside.
The half-moon only shone enough light into St. Louis Cemetery Number One to make the shadows dance and the white stone gleam. Other than that, darkness reigned.
“Watch your step,” Cassandra said. “A lot of the old markers are crumbling. Easy to trip.”
“Where are we going?”
“Best place to look for a zombie would be Marie Laveau’s tomb.”
“If you say so.”
The crypt of the New Orleans voodoo queen wasn’t very far from the front gate. Tall but otherwise unimpressive, it was tucked among many others. I wouldn’t have taken the white boxy monument for anything special if not for the flowers in front of the door and the Xs drawn on the walls.
“What are those?” I whispered.
“People believe if they mark three Xs on Marie’s tomb, scratch the ground three times with their feet, or rap three times on the grave, their wish will be granted.”
I started to hum “Knock Three Times.”
Cassandra made a soft sound of amusement, then moved closer to the tomb and rapped on the door. Once. Twice. Three times.
I froze as the sound echoed in the stillness of the night. As I half-expected someone to answer, my head snapped around when a bell began to ring somewhere in the cemetery.
“Dead ringer.” Cassandra started in the direction of the sound. Since I had no desire to stay behind and see if her rapping had woken the voodoo queen, I did too.