“Yes, I think it might be. I just might have found something.”
“If you did, I’ll put you on my goddamned altar as my personal Goddess.”
“Let’s not go that far just yet,” she replied. “I put some feelers out in the Vodoun community and started getting a few interesting calls. But, one that came in yesterday really stuck out, so I ran it down. There’s a tomb in New Orleans that has been having offerings placed on it on a fairly regular basis starting a few years ago. Not unusual in itself, but none of the locals were familiar with the ancestor, so that was curious. Still, not that big a deal, but then over the past year, they noticed that the activity had increased significantly.”
“Did this tomb survive Katrina?”
“Yes, it is in a part of the city that didn’t flood.”
“Has there been activity there since the disaster?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Okay, sounds promising. So, in your opinion do you think this might mean someone has made this ancestor a personal Lwa?”
“It’s possible, but let me finish because here’s the interesting thing. The tomb had been damaged at some point, so the name was only partially legible, but it started with an M and an I…”
“You’re getting damn close to a place on that altar, Velvet.”
She ignored the comment and rushed into an explanation. “Just to cover the bases, I went ahead and got the location for the tomb and had a friend with the Louisiana Division City Archives look into it for me. Listen to this. The remains interred in there are of one Miranda Blanque, date of death on or around September fourteenth, eighteen fifty-one.”
I felt the thud in my skull ramp up a notch then send a hard stab of pain lancing beneath my scalp. A wave of gooseflesh followed it as the hair along the back of my neck rose to attention. I knew then that this wasn’t a case of finding some thing.
This was the thing.
It was she.
“How does it feel?” I asked.
“How does what feel?”
“To be a Goddess,” I replied. “Because you just got a promotion.”
Wednesday, November 30
7:17 P.M.
Lambert Saint Louis International Airport
Concourse C, Gate C3
Saint Louis, Missouri
CHAPTER 34:
Felicity had been in much better spirits when I had visited her earlier in the day. Apparently, a good nights sleep and some time chatting with Helen had done wonders. I didn’t want to second-guess someone with a laundry list of credentials that I, myself, didn’t possess, but I was betting my wife had far more resilience than she’d been credited.
Helen had objected to me coming to the hospital at first, feeling that my presence might upset some of the balance they had reached. For once, I actually agreed on that point and would have bowed to her wishes had it not been for the fact that I needed to seek my wife’s permission. Not exactly like a child seeking endorsement from a parent, but I needed to make a trip to New Orleans. There was no way around it. Unfortunately, I was having trouble making myself leave Saint Louis with Felicity locked away in the psychiatric ward of a hospital, even if she was under Helen’s watchful eye.
I knew I had no choice, and so did they. In fact, the prospect that I had most likely found the Lwa served to brighten my wife’s mood even more, turning her underlying sense of despair into a newfound hope. But, in the end it still took both of them better than an hour to convince me that it was okay for me to leave and that she would be all right.
I looked at my watch and shifted in my seat. The entire row of chairs was interconnected, and they rocked slightly as I moved, shifting back and coming to a rest with a mildly jarring clunk. The lady sitting two seats to the left of me instantly shot me a hard glance. Her face was creased with a thin frown as she made a show of tugging at her yarn and settling back in to crochet whatever oddly shaped project she was attempting.
“Sorry,” I mumbled then tried to sit still. The seat wasn’t exactly comfortable, so I couldn’t say how long that was going to last.
My trip through the TSA security checkpoint had been much quicker than I expected, so I had ended up sitting here way too long. It was one of the things I hated most about air travel, especially since 9-11. It had become a terminal case of hurry up and wait. Of course, I had hurried, and now I was waiting. I’d been planted in this spot long enough now that my buttocks were going to sleep, and I still had a plane ride ahead of me.
According to the time on my watch, I had a good twenty to thirty minutes before they would even begin boarding. In fact, the plane hadn’t even arrived yet, and in my experience if they said they were going to board at 7:45 that really meant 8:05. I knew I was going to be miserable if I didn’t at least get up and move around a bit.
I turned my head slightly to the side and watched the woman with the crochet hook stabbing away as she poked it through one loop, hooked a strand, pulled, then repeated, twisting and fiddling as she went. Eventually, she stopped and gazed intently at a folded magazine in her lap. I assumed it was a pattern of sorts.
Either way, pattern or not, I took the opportunity to get up from my seat and heft my carry-on from the floor next to me. The row of joined chairs rocked and thumped once again, and even though she wasn’t actually working on the project at the moment, the lady shot me another disgusted glare.
This time I didn’t bother to apologize. I simply shrugged and walked away.
Hooking the strap of my backpack over my shoulder, I started across the concourse, dodging travelers as they endeavored to run over one another with their wheeled luggage in tow. After running the gauntlet, I ducked into the coffee shop that sat diagonally across from my gate. I ordered a large coffee with a double shot of espresso and then, after glancing at the refrigerated case, had them add a cheese Danish onto the tab. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t even given thought to eating before I rushed to the airport. There’d been too much to do with getting the last minute plane ticket, arranging for our friend RJ to watch the animals, canceling a meeting with a client, and trying to pack for the quick trip.
The shop was bustling, just as it was any other time I’d had occasion to fly, so it took a few minutes for my drink to get done. I simply stood away from the crush of people, holding my pastry-filled and logo-adorned bag in one hand, with the thumb of my other hooked through the shoulder strap of my backpack. Eventually, my name was called, and after an aborted attempt or two at reaching the counter, I managed to get my hands on my coffee.
I had kept an eye on my gate and thus far saw no one exiting the jetway, so I figured there was plenty of time before I would be called to board. I exited the shop and found that one of the small café tables in front of it was free, so I parked myself there, dropping my carryon to the floor and sitting back. The chair wasn’t any more comfortable than the one I had been sitting in before, but at least it wasn’t connected to anything else, so the only person I could disturb was myself.
I was just pulling the Danish out of the bag when my cell phone started to warble. I dropped the pastry onto a handful of napkins then pulled the device out of my pocket and answered it.
“Rowan Gant.”
“Where the fuck are you?” Ben’s voice hit my ear.
“Actually, I’m at the airport.”
“Why in hell are ya’ at the friggin’ airport?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Well where ya’ goin’?”
“Like I said, you don’t want to know.”
“Dammit, Row, is this somethin’ ta’ do with that Voodoo stuff? Are you doin’ somethin’ stupid like I told ya’ not to?”
“Do I need to say it a third time, Ben?”
“Fuck me.”
“I’d rather not. So, did you just call me to brush up on your suspect interviewing skills, or was there some greater reason?”
He adopted a snide tone. “I dunno, are you sure you wanna know?”
“Hey, yo
u called me.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“So?”
“So I got a piece’a news for ya’. Are ya’ sittin’ down?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Good, ‘cause guess what? We found your goddamned sister-in…half sister-in…aww, hell, whatever-the-fuck-she-is-in-law.”
I instantly sat up straighter in the chair. “You found her? Where?”
“Well, not ‘zactly found. But, we know who she is.”
“Who?”
“Her name’s Annalise Devereaux,” he replied. “I’m lookin’ at ‘er driver’s license photo right this minute. And, Row, you ain’t gonna believe this. She’s the fuckin’ spittin’ image of Firehair.”
“Where is she, Ben?” I pressed.
“Right now, we don’t know, ‘cause of Katrina.”
“What do you mean?”
“The address on ‘er license is in a section of New Orleans that got totally flooded out, so there’s no way to know where she is at the moment. But, obviously we know she survived.”
I sat there staring into space for a moment, feeling my headache creep up another notch.
“Row…” Ben’s voice flooded into my ear. “Hey, Row, you still there?”
“Yeah,” I finally said. “So, Ben, you wanted to know where I’m going?”
“Yeah, I do, but I seem ta’ recall you decided ta’ be an asshole about tellin’ me when I asked.”
“Well, it’s my turn to tell you something you won’t believe. I’ll give you three guesses where I’m going, and the first two don’t count.”
Friday, December 2
3:11 P.M.
St. Louis Cemetery #1
New Orleans, Louisiana
EPILOGUE:
“Do you have any change with you?” the woman asked.
The man dug in his pocket and extracted a handful of coins, spread them out with his index finger, then displayed his palm to her. “This enough?”
“It’s really not as much about the amount as the effort and respect,” she replied, nodding toward the assortment in his hand and then showing him the few she held in her own. “Just let them know you have a gift for them and ask permission to enter.”
The pair was standing on the sidewalk in front of the cemetery gate. The walls surrounding the plots showed their advanced age but were obviously maintained as best they could be. The iron gates were propped open in an eerily inviting manner.
“I can’t say that I’ve ever done this before,” he replied.
“Have you gone into cemeteries before?” she asked.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Then I suspect you’ve offended a few ancestors.”
“Great.”
“Don’t worry about that now. You’ll all get over it,” she told him with a quick shake of her head. “Just do it right this time.”
“Anything special I’m supposed to say?”
“No, just speak from the heart. Tell them you’re bringing a gift and ask permission. It’s not hard. It’s like showing up at a dinner party with a bottle of wine and knocking on the door.”
“And then I just walk in?”
“You’ll know what to do,” she said with a slight smile. “Believe me, if they don’t want you to come in, you’ll know it.”
“Okay,” he replied, an underscore of apprehension in his voice.
He stood at the gates and gathered his thoughts for a moment, then looking in through the opening at the closely arranged rows of tombs, he began to speak.
“Greetings…” he started hesitantly.
He glanced over at the woman for reassurance but saw that she had her eyes closed, and her lips were moving as she silently greeted the spirits herself.
“Greetings,” he began again. He continued speaking aloud though he wasn’t quite sure why. “My name is Rowan, and I’ve come to visit you…for…well, for some very important reasons. I’ve brought you this token…”
Not quite sure how to proceed, he held his hand out, displaying the coins to the unseen spirits.
The day was pleasant with the temperature resting in the upper fifties. The sun was shining, and there’d been no reason for anything more than a light jacket. Even so, a slight chill ran up his spine causing him to shiver. It lasted only a moment then was immediately followed by soothing warmth that enveloped his entire body. His earlier anxiety was instantly replaced by comfort.
Just as Velvet had told him he would, he knew he was welcome.
“Put the coins over here,” she said, placing her own in a receptacle just past the gates.
He followed suit, mimicking her overt motion that made them clatter noisily. He looked to her with a raised eyebrow, and she easily read the unspoken question in his face.
“You want them to hear it,” she explained. “They need to know you are actually leaving the gift you promised.”
He nodded but remained silent.
“Rowan,” she said with a slight smile. “You can talk here. It’s okay. Just keep your voice low.”
“Okay,” he replied. “I just wasn’t sure.”
“Well, you can. Oh, and in case I forget, don’t just walk out the gates. When we leave, we’ll say goodbye, thank them, and then back out.”
“Back out? Like walk backwards?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. You’re the expert.”
The woman looked up and to the right, pointing as she mumbled something to herself. A second later she took his arm and pulled gently.
“The tomb should be this way, near the back.”
They had only been walking for a minute or two, carefully making their way along the narrow paths, when the pain started to intensify. The man stumbled and caught himself as the hard stab drove deep into the base of his skull.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked.
“Something’s wrong,” he replied, reaching up to rub the back of his throbbing head.
“We’re almost there,” she told him. “Are you going to be able to handle this?”
He gave her a slight nod. “I have to.”
They started forward again, rounding the corner of a large, family tomb, the woman in the lead.
“Someone’s here,” she whispered.
The man looked up and saw a petite woman with fiery red hair cascading down to the middle of her back. She was standing with her forehead pressed against the stone of a tomb some thirty-odd yards away.
They stopped dead in their tracks and simply stared.
As if she could sense that she was being watched, the red haired woman pushed back from the tomb and slowly turned to face them.
There was the distance to consider.
And, there were even the oblique shadows from the closely spaced stone mausoleums.
But still, the resemblance was beyond uncanny.
At that moment, if Rowan Gant didn’t know for a fact that his wife was almost seven hundred miles away in Saint Louis, he would have sworn she was standing there, staring directly at him, with a look of abject fear distorting her face.
A legacy of darkened desires and well-intentioned magick gone awry…
If Felicity is to heal, a forgotten spell must first be broken.
Only then will she be able to meet the darkness on her own terms…
Whether Rowan wants her to or not.
The Miranda Trilogy Continues
THE END OF DESIRE
A Rowan Gant Investigation
Novel number eight
In the best selling
RGI Series
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An active member of the HWA (Horror Writers Association), M. R. Sellars is a relatively unassuming homebody who considers himself just a “guy with a lot of nightmares and a word processing program.” His first full-length novel, Harm None, hit bookstore shelves in 2000 and he hasn’t stopped writing since. He says that the biggest adjustment he has had to make with his writing career is coping with the time spent away from his family while trav
eling on promotional tours. Still, he approaches it with the same humorously deadpan and occasionally acerbic wit that he applies to life in general.
All of the current novels in Sellars’ continuing Rowan Gant Investigations saga have spent several consecutive weeks on numerous bookstore bestseller lists as well as a consistent showing on the Amazon.com Horror/Occult top 100.
Sellars currently resides in the Midwest with his wife, daughter, and a host of what he describes as “rescued, geriatric, special-needs felines.” At home, when not writing or taking care of the household, he indulges his passions for cooking and hanging out with friends.
M. R. Sellars can be found on the web at:
www.mrsellars.com
Brainpan Leakage the M. R. Sellars Satire Blog
www.brainpanleakage.com
OTHER BOOKS BY M. R. SELLARS
The Rowan Gant Investigations
HARM NONE
NEVER BURN A WITCH
PERFECT TRUST
THE LAW OF THREE
CRONE’S MOON
LOVE IS THE BOND
ALL ACTS OF PLEASURE
THE END OF DESIRE
BLOOD MOON
MIRANDA
(Available in both print and e-book editions)
Other
YOU’RE GONNA THINK I’M NUTS…
(Novelette included in Courting Morpheus Horror Anthology)
MERRIE AXEMAS: A KILLER HOLIDAY TALE
(Novella)
Table of Contents
BOOK TWO OF THE MIRANDA TRILOGY
PROLOGUE:
CHAPTER 1:
CHAPTER 2:
CHAPTER 3:
CHAPTER 4:
All Acts Of Pleasure: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 32