by Jan Eldredge
But Julian didn’t budge. “I’m not leaving without my mother.”
With a loud rumble, the tractor and its empty float pulled away, continuing down the roadway and disappearing into the depths of the darkened warehouse. Evangeline grabbed Julian by the ear and crawled backward, dragging him out from beneath the jazz musician float as he winced and batted at her hand.
“Goddess,” Laurent’s voice rang out, stopping them as they climbed to their feet.
Evangeline tiptoed over and peeked around the rear of the float.
Across the way, Laurent stood before the tall statue towering at the base of the staircase. The flames from the firepots and flambeaux threw shadows over its bronze face, half shrouding its snarling expression. Cradling his black scepter in his arm, he bowed deeply before it. Then as he ascended the steps to the balcony, the men on the lawn turned. With the firelight bathing their faces, they too bowed toward the statue.
Gazing out alongside Evangeline, Julian gasped, his posture stiffening. “They’re part of it too?” He directed a trembling finger at the thirteen men on the lawn.
A sludgy uneasiness oozed into the pit of Evangeline’s stomach. “You know them?”
“They’re Circe krewe members, the men who ride on the float with my father.” Julian’s shoulders slumped. “Men my father considered friends.”
“Circe,” Evangeline murmured. She glanced at the statue baring its teeth in a snarl, the cords straining in its neck. “Would that happen to be Circe?”
Julian peered toward the towering bronze woman he obviously hadn’t paid attention to before. He nodded miserably. “That’s her. Mythical Greek goddess, witch, enchantress, sorceress—take your pick. It was believed she held an extensive knowledge of magical spells and possessed the power to transform men into swine or wolves.”
“Wolves,” Evangeline muttered. She pursed her lips, not surprised to discover such a connection. “Come on.” She tugged his arm, trying to drag him toward the shelter of the numerous floats lined up behind them.
Julian fixed a serious gaze on her. “Please note my use of the descriptor mythical. That means she didn’t really exist.”
Before his words could cause even the slightest ruffle to Evangeline’s feathers, his watch beeped. The eleven-o’clock reading-time reminder punctured the stillness of the warehouse with a rapid-fire round of chirping.
Julian fumbled to shut off the alarm, but it was too late.
All heads turned toward them, standing there exposed at the rear of the float and in plain view of Laurent and his men.
Evangeline’s heart squeezed to a stop.
“Guests,” Laurent called. “Join us.” He beckoned them over, his regal demeanor never wavering at the discovery of two intruders, as though he’d been expecting them all along.
For a fraction of a second, Evangeline’s mind evaluated her choices, weighing the options of fight against flight. Flight won.
“Run!”
She and Julian bolted away. They rounded the back of a Viking-themed float parked in the long line behind them and nearly plowed headlong into two men in gray. She spun Julian around. Another pair of the gray-clothed men stepped around the corner of a float fronted with a colossal figure of Cleopatra.
Two of the thugs lunged forward and grabbed Julian’s arms. They hauled him away, struggling and squirming, and crying out like a cat getting dragged toward a tub full of water.
The other two clamped their grips onto Evangeline, but she shook them off. “I can walk on my own!”
She marched between the lines of floats and toward the fake house, her boots tapping hollowly against the floor, the men closely trailing her.
They crossed the green carpet of artificial grass, and the traitorous krewe members parted, allowing them to pass through their midst, their hungry gazes crawling across her and Julian’s throats.
Despite her trembling, Evangeline forced her shoulders straight and lifted her chin. She wouldn’t give these monsters the satisfaction of seeing her fear.
Their captors brought them to a stop between the two sweeping marble staircases. The flames of the flambeaux and firepots crackled in the silence around them.
Laurent peered down from the balcony, his impassive expression a far cry from the breezy friendliness he’d displayed that morning in the Midsomers’ dining room. How had she not seen him for what he was? Even the most naive middling should have been able to sense such treachery.
“Let me go!” Julian struggled against the men restraining him. “I want to go home.”
Laurent gave a disappointed shake of his head. “He who fears the wolf should not go into the forest.”
Julian took a step back, his shoulders drooping.
A wave of misery swept over Evangeline. Gran had been right. She should’ve returned home to the swamp. She touched the outline of her mama’s talisman hanging beneath her shirt, hoping to draw whatever comfort from it she could, and a sudden stillness settled over her, blanketing her with a calm, cool layer of confidence she’d never experienced before. Her pulse slowed. The colors and smells all around her came into sharper focus, as did the inflections in the tone of Laurent Ardeas’s voice.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Julian.” Laurent’s face grew stony. “Cowards like you, so self-centered and oblivious to the world around them, seldom exhibit such reckless behavior.”
Julian didn’t reply. He kept his gaze glued to the ground.
Laurent turned and pointed at Evangeline with the heavy black scepter, its top ornamented with the shape of a snarling wolf’s head. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you. Your kind have a great deal of difficulty staying out of business that’s not their own. I sent Randall to get rid of you, and he tracked you to the Midsomers’ house this evening.” Laurent pursed his lips with dissatisfaction. “While he came close to doing away with you, obviously, he wasn’t successful.”
So someone had been following her when she’d left the hospital. A smidgen of pride swelled inside Evangeline, and she almost smiled. An alpha rougarou had believed her to be a threat to his pack. She glanced back at the men on the lawn, her eyes stopping on the tall, dark, and grumpy Randall Lowell, particularly at the bandage wrapped around his ham-sized left hand. He curled his lip, glowering at her from beneath his dark, bushy eyebrows.
She was glad the grim had bitten him. And if she was the one Randall had been after, that meant Mr. Midsomer and Camille would be safe from any more rougarou visits this night.
“However,” Laurent said, reeling her attention back toward him, “I’ve since thought of a more appropriate use for you.” Firelight danced in his dark-blue eyes. He pointed the wolf’s head scepter at her again. “You’re going to play a significant role in tonight’s ceremony.”
Evangeline’s legs went weak, and her newfound swell of pride fell away.
“Separate them,” Laurent ordered.
With Julian giving a half-hearted struggle, his captors dragged him toward the left staircase. Evangeline’s guards grabbed her arms and pulled her to the right.
“Let go of me!” She tugged away, but they dug their fingers in deeper and hauled her across the pavement toward the towering bronze figure with the cold, hard eyes.
“Dispose of her knife.” Laurent swept his fingers toward Evangeline’s feet. “And her boots. Their silver tips offend me.”
Evangeline tried to squirm away. More men in gray rushed over. She bucked and thrashed and called them names Gran wouldn’t have been happy to hear come from her mouth. But she was too outnumbered. They ripped her bowie knife from its sheath and wrenched off her gator-skin boots.
“Get rid of that handbag, too,” Laurent added. “Goddess only knows what sort of contraband she carries inside it.”
Strong hands pulled away her satchel. Then one of the men strode across the road and the lawn and flung her things away. They slid beneath a float spangled with stars and fronted with an immense bearded wizard clutching a crystal ball in one giant hand.
&nb
sp; Evangeline had never felt so exposed, as defenseless as a rabbit trapped inside a wolf’s den.
Somewhere in the dark depths of the warehouse, another tractor engine rumbled to life, leaving her no time for self-pity.
The machine slowly rolled out of the shadows and up the roadway toward the house, its mechanical purrs echoing off the walls as it pulled a new float behind it. Evangeline’s stomach roiled, dreading whatever surprise would be revealed this time. She, along with every other set of eyes there, watched as the lavish vehicle inched closer and eased to a stop within the light of the flambeaux. With its cream-colored pillars and gilded trim work, this float also appeared to be worthy of royalty.
A woman stood atop it, and Evangeline’s heart sank at the sight of her—though she couldn’t say she was completely surprised. Puzzle pieces were snapping into place, forming a very worrisome picture.
From the base of the other staircase, Julian’s confused voice rang out. “Mom?” He lunged toward her, but his captors held him back.
Mrs. Midsomer didn’t appear to have heard him. She stood motionless up on her float. With a diamond tiara topping her midnight-black hair, white satin evening gloves to her elbows, and the rhinestones of her glittering white ball gown sparkling in the firelight, she looked like something straight from the pages of a fairy tale. Only one item marred her ethereal appearance: a black leather belt secured around her waist and connected to a T-shaped metal stand to keep her from toppling over.
Evangeline wanted to yell to her, tell her to leap down and run away. But then what? Come midnight there would be nowhere to hide, no escape from the devastating change that would overcome her.
From out of the shadows of the fake oaks, a woman in a gray skirt and gray turtleneck scurried forth like a gray rat. With head bowed, she climbed up to the float and unbuckled Mrs. Midsomer from the stand. She curtsied to her queen, then lifted her adoring face and smiled.
“Camille!” Evangeline’s gut clenched as though she’d just been sucker punched.
“I told you!” Julian cried, his voice rising with hysteria. “I told you Camille was up to no good. I told you!”
When Mrs. Midsomer didn’t move, Camille took her by the gloved hand and carefully led her down into the glow of the orange firelight.
Evangeline stood rigid at the base of the staircase, fuming at herself for not having detected this deception either.
The man pulled the empty float away, driving it slowly down the roadway, the drone of its engine fading into the depths of the warehouse as Camille arranged Mrs. Midsomer’s hair and straightened the dress’s long white velvet train.
From his place up on the balcony, Laurent cradled the black scepter in one arm and offered his other hand down to Mrs. Midsomer. “Come, my dear.”
But she remained where she stood, staring vacantly ahead.
Camille took her by the elbow. “Right this way, my lady.” She led her up the set of stairs, the velvet train trailing behind her. She guided Mrs. Midsomer to a position beside the king, the white swags of fabric and lines of firepots forming a regal setting behind them. Camille bowed and stepped away. Careful not to turn her back to the royal couple, she descended, keeping her eyes downcast.
“Camille, you snake in the grass,” Evangeline whispered through gritted teeth. And when the housekeeper stepped from the staircase, Evangeline lunged from her captors and seized her by the left arm.
Camille yelped and tried to tug away, but Evangeline had already pushed up the long gray sleeve. She glared down at the fang and blood droplet tattooed on the housekeeper’s inner wrist, the marks no longer hidden beneath the cover of a Band-Aid.
“A rougarou’s human familiar,” Evangeline growled.
No doubt all the men in gray were familiars too, the assistants to Laurent’s pack members. Though in some of their cases, prisoner might have been the more accurate term. Familiars were often forced into servitude through threats to themselves or their loved ones.
“Take your vile hands off me, little witch,” Camille hissed.
Evangeline narrowed her eyes. Then again, there were those familiars who willingly served for their own dark and twisted reasons.
While the guards struggled to pry Evangeline’s hand away, she used her other to tug down the high neck of Camille’s shirt. Instead of an ugly choker-style necklace, as she’d thought of it back at the Midsomers’ house, a thick silver collar lay fastened around the housekeeper’s throat.
“That’s why you’re all wearing turtlenecks!” Evangeline nearly spat the words with disgust. “To hide your pet collars, to conceal the silver’s offensiveness from your masters—silver that’s protecting you in case one of them goes moon-crazed, forgets who you are, and lunges for your throats.”
Camille shoved her away, and the guards gripped her wrists, but Evangeline didn’t fight back. She’d seen what she’d needed to see. She glared after Camille as she scurried off, straightening her shirt, then joining the other familiars waiting obediently beneath the trees.
Evangeline frowned at the realization of her own foolishness. Fader had tried to tell her about the deceit when he’d brought her the Band-Aid. He knew Camille was covering the tattoos. She’d even spotted a clue for herself when she’d peered into Camille’s messy bedroom and seen the opened box of bandages on her dresser. And this morning when Laurent and Randall had stopped by to visit, Camille had made sure she removed all the offensive silver from the dining room, even going so far as to make sure Julian wouldn’t be using his favorite silver spoon.
From his position at the bottom of the left staircase, Julian turned his pale face up to the balcony. “Mom! What’s wrong with you?”
Evangeline knew full well what was wrong. Mrs. Midsomer was in the early trancelike stages of the metamorphosis. If Julian didn’t like her behavior now, he wasn’t going to be pleased at all come midnight.
Laurent placed a bouquet of white roses in the arms of the zombie-like Mrs. Midsomer, and a single white petal fluttered to the ground.
Evangeline’s heart dropped with it. A fallen petal from a held rose was a sure sign of death. And if Papa Urbain was right, not one, but two people would die here tonight.
“The white rose!” Laurent proclaimed. “A beautiful symbol of purity, for our beautiful queen.”
“She’s not your queen!” Julian cried out.
“But why?” Evangeline shook her head, truly perplexed as she peered up at Laurent. “Why Mrs. Midsomer?”
Reverence filled Laurent’s face as he gazed at his future queen. “Because she is descended from the pure bloodline of Jacques Roulet, one of France’s earliest known werewolves. With ties to such royalty, she’s more than worthy to be our queen.”
“There’s no such thing as werewolves!” Julian called, yet the slightest hint of doubt sounded in his voice.
Ignoring him, Laurent smiled shyly, then added, “The white rose is also known as the bridal rose.”
Evangeline’s lip curled. What a smooth liar he had been, bringing white roses throughout Mrs. Midsomer’s illness, explaining how they were a symbol of good health, and all along planning to steal her away from her family.
Mrs. Midsomer remained motionless. Laurent took her hand and turned to address his audience below. “After years of planning and preparation, tonight we will finally be wed!”
Pack members on the lawn and familiars beneath the oaks applauded politely.
“She’s already married!” Julian cast a glare up at Laurent.
“Not in the eyes of Circe, she’s not,” Laurent replied coolly. “And with the aid of one of our goddess’s potions, come sunrise, she’ll be born again, beginning a new life and new memories, with no recollection of those of her past. She will love only me.” He caressed a lock of Mrs. Midsomer’s dark hair. “I’ll dote on her every wish. She’ll have the best of everything. She’ll be revered and worshipped and answer to the title of queen rather than the labels of Mrs. Midsomer or Mom.”
Evangeline’s hea
rt wilted for Julian. Laurent Ardeas truly was a monster.
“That’s not how love works!” Julian’s scowl deepened. “You don’t choose someone with the best qualifications and expect her to fall in love with you just because you want her to.”
Laurent didn’t reply. His eyes lit up as he gazed beyond his pack down on the lawn. “At last.” He smiled the slow smile of a poker player who’d just been dealt the winning card. “Our other esteemed guest has arrived.”
Evangeline followed his gaze. She tried to cry out, but the breath caught in her throat, and she could not draw air.
Clutching her firmly beneath the arms, two familiars pulled Gran across the lawn and over the roadway. Her head sagged. One bare foot and one cast-covered foot trailed behind her, scraping against the pavement. The men drew her to a stop below the balcony.
Someone had dressed her in a man’s shabby bathrobe to cover her hospital gown. In her hands, she clutched the barely conscious Fader.
“Gran,” Evangeline whispered feebly.
A crestfallen look washed over Julian’s face. “Mrs. Holyfield?”
“Delivered as promised,” a voice boomed from the darkness, “the old haunt huntress and her familiar.” Out of the shadows stepped a portly gentleman with a bushy walrus mustache. “You can always depend on G. B. Woolsey.”
“Mr. Woolsey.” The name fell from Evangeline’s lips in a hoarse whisper as he strode across the lawn. Mr. Midsomer’s friend and fellow krewe member, the hospital president, the man who’d assured her Gran would receive the very best of care his institution had to offer.
And pack member number fourteen.
Mr. Woolsey stopped before the fierce bronze figure of Circe. “Goddess.” He bowed deeply to the statue, then turned and bowed toward Laurent up on the balcony. “Alpha.”
“Bring her to me.” Laurent motioned to the men holding Gran.
As Mr. Woolsey joined the other pack members on the lawn, the pair of familiars dragged Gran up the stairs. Her cast-covered leg bumped along behind her.
Evangeline’s stomach plummeted. She could hardly bear to look upon the sight.