by Jan Eldredge
Mr. Midsomer cleared his throat. “Evangeline, I hear you’ve met Julian.”
“Yes, sir, I did.” She paused, struggling to find something nice to say about the persnickety boy. “He, uh, certainly seems to like building those wooden models.”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Midsomer agreed. “He has quite the interest in model making . . . this month.” He forced another tight smile. “Julian’s had many hobbies over the past year: soapmaking, yarn bombing, turnip carving, collecting those little stickers they put on bananas, making shoes out of duct tape . . .”
Evangeline couldn’t fault the boy for having a penchant for duct tape. Percy was often using it to repair broken parts on his pickup truck.
Mr. Midsomer cut off a bite of steak and raised it to his mouth. “I apologize that Julian’s not able to join us. He prefers to take his dinners in his workroom.”
“No need to apologize, Mr. Midsomer,” said Gran. “We’re here on business, not to socialize.”
As Gran and Mr. Midsomer went on to eat and make polite conversation, which seemed a lot like socializing to Evangeline, she stared down at her plate.
When Mr. Midsomer had finished his steak, he wiped the corners of his mouth with his white linen napkin. “Mrs. Holyfield, perhaps your granddaughter would like to retire to her room, so we might discuss my wife’s . . . uh . . . treatment.”
If Evangeline had been a cat, her fur would have bristled. She opened her mouth to protest, but Gran spoke before she could sputter her first word of objection.
“Evangeline’s my assistant. She stays with me. I assure you, you can trust in her discretion.”
Mr. Midsomer nodded. He took a deep breath and then took a sip of wine. He shifted in his chair. He tugged on his earlobe. “I feel you should know, I uh . . . I don’t believe in religious or supernatural phenomena. It was a friend of mine, a professor of folklore studies at the University of Louisiana, who recommended I seek your help. I’ve had nearly every medical specialist in the state examine my wife, but no pill, therapy, or procedure has worked. I even asked for help from a friend who’s an herbalist, but he couldn’t cure her either. She grows weaker every day and suffers most terribly at night with . . . well, you’ll soon see.” He rubbed the sides of his face and sighed wearily. “I don’t believe in your line of work.” He looked up, right into Gran’s eyes, and his voice cracked when he spoke. “But I don’t know where else to turn.”
“That’s okay.” Gran gave him a pat on his arm. “You don’t have to believe for our methods to work.”
Mr. Midsomer offered her a grateful smile. His hand shook as he refilled his glass, and a trickle of red wine dribbled onto the tabletop.
Evangeline winced. Spilling wine was a sign of bad luck.
An unearthly shriek sounded from down the hall, freezing Evangeline’s blood and raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck.
Mr. Midsomer glanced out the window at the setting sun. He looked wearier and more broken than any man Evangeline had ever seen, as though his heart had been snapped right in two.
The terrified shriek sounded again, so out of place in the beautiful, stately mansion.
“Well, let’s get to it.” Gran pulled her napkin off her lap and set it on the table. Tucking her talisman inside the neck of her dress, she rose and grabbed her cane.
Evangeline’s insides writhed like a tangle of earthworms. Her stomach grew queasy despite her not having eaten anything.
With a sad sigh, Mr. Midsomer showed Gran from the dining room. Evangeline followed, grabbing the wine cork from the tabletop and dropping it into her dress pocket. She’d add it to Gran’s supplies later. A cork wasn’t just useful as a token of good luck. When placed underneath a pillow, it was also quite helpful in warding off intestinal cramps.
The three of them made their way down the wide hallway and toward the back of the house, Gran’s cane tapping along the hardwood floor like a clock ticking toward the thirteenth hour.
Mrs. Midsomer’s bedroom was fit for a queen. Lush rug, antique paintings, velvet drapes. The mahogany four-poster bed she rested on was so large, the entire Arseneau family could have slept in it with room to spare for their four hunting dogs. Mrs. Midsomer lay tucked beneath the white silk covers, her eyes closed. And despite her slightly sunken cheeks, Evangeline thought she still looked very beautiful.
Camille sat at the bedside, brushing the woman’s long black hair.
“Camille?” Mr. Midsomer raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I thought you’d gone.”
“I was just finishing up a few things, Mr. Midsomer.” She set the hairbrush aside. “I wanted to make sure everything was in order for the new nurses.”
“Thank you,” Gran said. “My assistant and I can take over from here.”
“I don’t mind staying a bit longer if you’d like.” Camille patted Mrs. Midsomer’s perspiring forehead with a white cotton cloth. “Just until you get better acquainted with the missus.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Gran said. “You go on. We’ll take good care of her.”
Camille set the cloth aside and rose from the bedside chair. “Are you sure?”
“We’re sure.” Gran gave her a terse nod.
“If you need me—”
“We won’t.” Gran held her hand out toward the door.
“Well. Good night, then.” Camille gave them a parting nod, and casting a last look back at her patient, she left the room.
“Amala.” Mr. Midsomer drew his wife’s slender hand from beneath the blanket. Threading his fingers between hers, he leaned close. “Amala, this is Clotilde Holyfield, and her granddaughter Evangeline. They’ve come to help you.”
When she didn’t respond, he repeated her name.
Her eyes fluttered open, and he stumbled back, dropping her hand.
Mrs. Midsomer gazed at him for a moment before recognition filled her bright-blue eyes. “Did you say something, John? Or was I dreaming?”
He took her hand again, relief settling over his face. “I’ve brought Mrs. Holyfield and her granddaughter, Evangeline, to see you. They’re here to help you get better.”
“Mrs. Holyfield. Elizabeth.” She spoke the names as though trying to commit them to memory.
“It’s Evangeline, ma’am,” Evangeline corrected her. “My name’s Evangeline.”
“Evangeline. You’re very kind. Thank you for coming.” Mrs. Midsomer glanced past them, sweeping her gaze around the room as though searching for someone else.
Mr. Midsomer cleared his throat. “Julian sends his love.”
Oh, I seriously doubt that. Evangeline fought back a frown of skepticism. If that boy had any love for his mama, he should be here bringing it himself.
Mrs. Midsomer’s face brightened, and she squeezed Mr. Midsomer’s hand. “How is Julian today?” Her slight smile revealed a heart brimming with affection. “Has he finished that new crossbow?”
“If you want, ma’am, I can go fetch him and bring him here to see you.” Evangeline motioned toward the bedroom doorway.
“No.” The light in Mrs. Midsomer’s face dimmed ever so slightly. “It’s best for him not to visit during the evenings. It hurts him to see me this way. Especially when . . .” The corners of her mouth turned down. “Especially when I have an outburst. He does come to see me, though.” Her face lit again. “Every day after school he sits and reads aloud while I sleep.” She gazed toward the copy of Pride and Prejudice sitting on the nightstand.
A bookmark protruding from between its covers indicated only a few pages remained before they reached the story’s end. Evangeline didn’t know for sure, but it certainly appeared to be a sad omen.
“Julian can’t stand Pride and Prejudice.” Mrs. Midsomer smiled wistfully.
“Then why does he read it?” Evangeline asked.
“Because I adore Pride and Prejudice.”
Evangeline’s eyebrows shot up before she could stop them. Maybe, just maybe, Julian wasn’t quite as pigheaded as she’d supposed.
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“And even though I’m asleep”—Mrs. Midsomer’s words slowed, and her voice grew fainter—“I hear every word he reads about Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.” Her eyes grew droopy, and Evangeline barely heard her when she murmured, “He’s really not as disagreeable as many people believe him to be. He has a good and caring heart, even if he doesn’t always show it in the normal ways.”
Evangeline wasn’t sure if she was referring to the fictional Mr. Darcy or Julian. She thought on it for a moment, then decided Mrs. Midsomer most surely had meant the man in the book.
Mrs. Midsomer’s eyes closed, and her breathing grew relaxed and steady, but Evangeline doubted things would stay this way for long.
Mr. Midsomer remained by the side of the bed, clutching his wife’s hand and resting his sad gaze on her. He ran his other hand through his thinning hair. “I was away on business a month ago, only for a few days. And when I returned, she was already so ill. Feverish and shivering, always wrapped in a blanket or sweater.”
Taking him by the arm, Gran tugged him away and escorted him to the bedroom door. “Let us do our work. We’ll let you know if we need anything.”
He paused, looking a bit like a lost child. “You’ll take good care of her, won’t you?”
“We will.” Gran shooed him off, and with head and shoulders bowed, he moved away and left them to their work.
Mrs. Midsomer gasped. Her eyes flew open, and she stared up at Evangeline and Gran, her gaze round and terrified. Her mouth opened and closed as though she desperately wanted to tell them something but had forgotten how to speak.
The sight stirred a mixture of pity and horror within Evangeline.
“Evangeline, what do you see?” asked Gran, ever the teacher.
Evangeline snapped to. She had a job to do. She swept her gaze around, taking in the crystal vases of pleasantly scented white roses placed throughout the lavish room. On the fancy French-style dresser sat a copy of the same family photo she’d seen hanging on the wall of Julian’s workroom. She turned her focus to Mrs. Midsomer. Despite her being bedridden for over three weeks, her hair was brushed to a shiny gleam. Unlike her appearance in the family photo, her complexion was now pale and drawn, and dark circles ringed her eyes, but her gown and bedding were as clean as fresh-fallen snow. Whatever was going on, one thing was certain: Mrs. Midsomer was very well cared for and very loved.
Beneath the covers, Mrs. Midsomer’s arms and legs suddenly shot outward, her limbs as straight and stiff as if they’d been made of wood. She screamed another bloodcurdling scream.
Evangeline wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and cover her ears, but that was not the haunt huntress way. Haunt huntresses were strong, capable of facing whatever unpleasant circumstances a job presented.
Panting short, rapid breaths, Mrs. Midsomer closed her eyes. She moved her lips, murmuring words Evangeline did not understand. She glanced to Gran for an interpretation, but Gran’s mouth was drawn tight, her eyes studying the woman.
Mrs. Midsomer spoke again, and this time her words were clear as glass. “I’m sorry.” Her eyes opened and filled with a sorrowful lucidity. “I’m sorry.”
Gran patted her hand. “It’s okay, honey.”
With a grateful smile, the woman closed her eyes again, and this time, she slept.
“Is it a case of Moonstroke, Gran?” Evangeline’s heart thudded so hard, the vibrations knocked against her eardrums.
“No.” Gran shook her head. “Evangeline, go fetch my bag, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Evangeline shot off, up the stairs and down the hall, and almost ran right into Camille as she stepped out of her room.
“Oh! Miss Evangeline, you startled me!” Camille pulled the door closed. She straightened her black uniform dress, patted her hair into place, then adjusted the unattractive paisley-print scarf tied at her throat. A silver choker-style necklace peeked out beneath it, thick and plain and ugly. Evangeline tried not to grimace. She herself certainly wasn’t anything close to being stylish, but poor Camille had no taste at all in fashion.
“Excuse me.” Evangeline motioned toward her and Gran’s room. “Gran needs her bag.”
Camille smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, dear.”
Evangeline dashed to their room. She slung her satchel over her shoulder, grabbed Gran’s old valise, and dashed back out, passing Camille on her way down the staircase.
Evangeline handed Gran her bag. Mrs. Midsomer’s eyes were still closed, but she tossed her head from side to side. Gran pulled a pungent garlic poultice from the valise and dabbed the woman’s neck and forehead, to calm her hysterics in addition to giving her an extra boost of protection from evil.
“Rye, please.” Gran held out her hand.
Evangeline dug through Gran’s bag and passed a stalk to her.
Gran placed the piece of grass on the white pillow. Mrs. Midsomer whipped her head away from it. Gran removed the stalk and gave it to Evangeline. “Mistletoe.”
Evangeline pulled out a dark-green sprig and passed it to Gran, who held it two feet above Mrs. Midsomer’s head. Mrs. Midsomer moaned and raised her hands, trying to swipe it away. Gran handed the mistletoe to Evangeline. “Silver, please.”
Evangeline hesitated. Showing a similar aversion to silver would not bode well for Mrs. Midsomer. Silver was one of the most powerful forces in nature. Its touch was capable of causing excruciating pain to those possessed by evil, the very reason haunt huntresses kept their silver talismans hidden inside their shirt or dress collars when dealing with such afflicted patients.
“Evangeline?” Gran glanced over at her. “The silver, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Evangeline rummaged around in the bag, took out the doubloon, and passed it to Gran.
Pinching the coin between her thumb and index finger, Gran lowered it toward Mrs. Midsomer’s forehead. Long before it could make contact with flesh, the woman let out a shriek and slapped Gran’s arm away.
A curse word slipped from Evangeline.
“Language, Evangeline.” Gran furrowed her brow, muttering to herself, then returned the doubloon to Evangeline.
“Should I sprinkle holy water in the room’s corners, to keep any more demons away?”
Gran kept her gaze on Mrs. Midsomer, who’d resumed her rapid panting. She took the woman’s hand, pushed up the sleeve of her gown, and turned her thin arm side to side, examining it. She repeated the same inspection with the other arm. Finally, she lowered the shoulder of the woman’s gown and peered closely at the exposed skin.
“Gran? The demon deterrent?” Evangeline motioned toward the corners of the room. “Should I sprinkle the holy water?”
“This isn’t the work of a demon.”
Evangeline drew closer and gazed down at what it was that had caused Gran’s eyes to narrow and her face to cloud over.
There on Mrs. Midsomer’s shoulder were two short jagged marks, now puckered white and well on their way to healing, barely visible to the naked eye, certainly invisible to the untrained eye. Something had punctured Mrs. Midsomer’s flesh weeks ago, no doubt shortly before her illness began.
Mrs. Midsomer’s head snapped backward, and her muscles trembled. Her body erupted into a violent, wracking seizure. Spittle and foam seeped from the corners of her mouth.
While Gran administered drops of owl egg tonic, Evangeline snatched a blue velvet ribbon from her satchel. She tied it around the wrist of the woman’s fluttering hand, then dropped to her knees and set an iron nail underneath the bed, doing what she could to keep any other evil spirits at bay.
“No need to bother with that. There are no evil spirits in this room.” Gran set the tonic aside and wiped the corners of Mrs. Midsomer’s mouth. Her convulsions had eased, but her eyes raced back and forth beneath her closed eyelids. Gran pulled out a fresh cloth, along with a bottle of salt water. She sighed wearily. “We have a long night ahead of us.” She set about bathing their patient’s face and hands with the salty water.
Of all the unea
rthly cases Evangeline had assisted Gran with, none had shaken her as much as this one. Maybe it was because they were dealing with someone’s mama. Someone’s mama who was at a very real risk of dying. Evangeline looked at the family photo on the dresser, and a pang stabbed her heart. She knew what it meant to be without a mama. And, as annoying as Julian had been, she decided she wouldn’t be quite so terse the next time she saw him. A Gran lesson came to her: Everyone has burdens and troubles. Some folks just hold theirs inside better. Others let them out in the form of anger or other sorts of unpleasantness.
From somewhere in the distance, in the darkness of the humid New Orleans night, a canine howl rose, piercing the air and seeming to seep through the very walls of the house.
Gran glanced toward the window, a shadow of fear creeping across her face.
The blood drained from Evangeline’s limbs. In all her years, she had never, not once, seen even a flit of fear cross Gran’s features. Worry, yes, but never fear. She’d never known Gran to be afraid of anything.
“What is it, Gran? What’s got ahold of her?” Terror squeezed Evangeline by the throat, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe.
Gran’s frightened brown eyes met Evangeline’s.
“Gran?” Evangeline’s voice trembled.
“Rougarou,” Gran whispered. “We’re dealing with a rougarou.”
A rougarou.
Evangeline’s legs threatened to buckle, and she clutched one of the bedposts for support. “But the full moon won’t rise until tomorrow night. The only rougarou who can morph on the night before or after a full moon is . . .”
“An alpha,” Gran finished her sentence for her. She cast another worried glance at the window, as though she could see into the distance beyond it. “And if he’s an alpha, his pack is most likely nearby.”
Evangeline felt sick to her stomach. “Another three or four rougarous in addition to the alpha,” she whispered.
Gran’s face grew graver. “Some alphas have been known to expand their packs to as many as six. Anything larger would result in too many members to keep under control. Remember, it’s not a rougarou’s goal to draw attention to himself and his family. He wants to hunt unhindered. He wants to be the hunter, not the hunted.” She withdrew two handfuls of dried red beans from her pocket. “But first things first.” She murmured a blessing over the beans, then poured them into Evangeline’s palms. “Place thirteen of these at the doorway and thirteen on each windowsill in this room.” She reached into her valise and took out a bulb and tassel perfume bottle filled with yellow liquid.