“And you say they are only interested in mated pairs?”
“That is what my limited experience suggests.”
Julien lifted the clean cloth one of the servants had left on the edge of the tub and dipped it into the water. “I don’t pretend to ask for a quiet life. I know that my choice to make my living the way I do comes with a price—for me and for the men who choose to follow me.” He scrubbed at his skin. “But these past years, business has gotten progressively more dangerous. And there are men who still follow me—who follow me despite my attempts to send them home to their families, to find them other ships to sail on, safer captains to serve. I owe those men something. Tell me, is there room in this new kingdom for them?”
“That is not a question I can answer. You will need to discuss that with the council.” Tenoch scratched at the scars over his chest as if the shiny white tissue itched. “Not to discourage you, but I would point out that this is all moot at the moment. You have not been invited.”
“Because I am not part of a mated pair—yet.”
“There is no guarantee that even if you were part of a mated pair you would be invited. But, yes.” Tenoch’s gaze strayed from the tub, and he seemed pulled by some invisible force to the window. He leaned closer to the glass, peering intently at the estate’s grounds. “Does Dominique know about them?”
“Hmm?” Julien lowered the wash cloth, pleased at the sensation of silt-free skin even if his vigorous scrubbing had left him a little raw. “Who?”
“Your former wives.”
Blood crystalized in Julien’s veins like ice, the warmth of the water suddenly lost on him. Bile coated the back of his throat, and he fought to swallow it back down. Fought to shake his head free of the terrifying resilience of their memory.
“What is a marriage vow if not a pledge of service?”
“You desire to marry. You desire to serve. It is your nature.”
“You cannot deny what you are, little bird. Fly over the sea if you want, you will come home, you will nest eventually. Loyal impundulu.”
Three voices. Three women. Sneers and laughter in their tones.
“No. No one can know about them. Don’t speak or even think of them. There is power in such words, such thoughts.” He glanced at his reflection in the steel blade. “It is not safe.”
“True enough. But I think you should tell her.”
“No. Perhaps someday, but not now. There is too much else between us, too much that needs addressed before we can move on. It is not the time to drag up more…unpleasantness from the past.”
Tenoch pressed his fingers against the windowsill. “There is a strange feel about their tomb. Something…is not right.”
Throat closing in a strangled swallow, Julien stared at the east wall as if he could see the mausoleum through the brick and mortar, through the forest that surrounded them. The building loomed in a small clearing. Basic, rushed roof lines and moss covered stone. From the outside, it almost looked like a small detached armory left over from this land’s last civil war several decades ago. But he knew better than anyone that the single crypt was filled with an evil like no other.
He swallowed hard. “Their souls are not free to continue on. They will never be free to continue on.”
“The souls of the murdered.”
Their faces bloomed before his mind. The first with her silky black locks and her addiction for liquorish tea. The second, the curvy vixen who infuriated him with her coquettish teasing. And the third—the worst of them all. Sometimes when he was still drunk from sleep, he could still feel her auburn hair tickling, hear the sickly sweet whisper as she beckoned him from his dreams and drew him farther and farther into the jaws of her total control.
Pins and needles pricked his arms and legs, his body reacting to the memory of what it felt like to have his body moved to the will of someone other than himself, to have his mind enslaved, locked away. He shoved his head under the water, fleeing from the thoughts bubbling up inside his head. The outside world vanished for a few precious moments, dulled by the heat and the weight of the bath. He hovered there in that silence, wishing he could block thoughts from his mind as easily as he’d blocked the sounds from his ears.
But he couldn’t outrun himself, what was left of his tarnished conscience. Even now, those women. Their bodies. The after-taste of their vast power. They haunted him. He’d spent his life sailing every sea from here to the end of the earth, and still they haunted. Bodies bloody. Broken. Flesh torn by thick, curved talons, eyes plucked from their skulls by the merciless digging of a wicked beak. Three women who had sought to make him a servant now reduced to nothing but boney racks of decaying meat.
He rose from the water and slicked his hair back. “I should have burnt them all to ashes.”
Tenoch dropped his hand from the glass. “Why didn’t you?”
“Destroying the bodies could leave the souls untethered. Such roaming souls could possess…” His voice grew hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “Could possess…”
Again, his mouth refused to go on. The words tasted foul on his tongue, threatening to bring nightmarish images to his mind. Images of bodies moving about like puppets, animated by a spirit that had not been born into that flesh. Nightmares of being a prisoner in his own mind, shut away while something else possessed and ruled his body, lived his life. The tales he’d heard as a youth when he had lived in Sanguennay, tales of zombies and the horrible fate of being a slave even after death should have moved you to your next life. The worst fate imaginable. Eternal servitude.
Nausea rose inside him on a sickening, oily tide. He gripped the edges of the tub and hung his head over the pine-scented steam. His hair hung in wet tendrils around his face, droplets rolling down his temples and chin to strike the water in ripples. They are dead. They are gone. They are locked away.
When he lifted his head, Tenoch had vanished. There was no trace of the mysterious intruder, no hint that he had been anything more than a figment of imagination. Nothing beyond the lingering impression of his strange aura, the energy licking against his exposed skin like snake scales.
Collecting his sword, Julien bullied himself out of the bath and quickly dried himself off. The door of his wardrobe banged against the wall as he threw it open and scanned its contents for clothes befitting the Midsummer Celebration.
“They are interested only in men and women in mated pairs.”
Memories of the stranger’s warning only renewed his determination as he shrugged into a crisp new shirt he knew she’d favor. “No more stalling, Dominique. I will have your answer—the only answer—tonight. Everything will be made right.” The ghostly trio’s voices in his head swirled and mocked him with laughter, but he shoved them away. “Everything will be made right.”
Chapter Seven
Narcisse rolled over in bed, propping his head on his hand as his latest ‘guest’ bent over to finish adjusting her stockings. Her rump was practically non-existent, any fat that had once given her proper curves lost along with the elasticity in her face. Her skin, a pleasant shade of buttermilk, remained soft, if a little wrinkled, and had felt good under the palms of his hands. The supple texture compensated for the lack of cushion, and even now he was half-tempted to pet her like a silky-coated cat.
She seemed to feel his eyes on her, glancing back at him through the long tangles of grey-streaked red hair that he’d freed from a severe bun mere minutes after her arrival an hour ago. Green eyes glittered with the afterglow of her release and she smiled shyly.
“I had a wonderful time.” She straightened, her hands fluttering in front of her like lost butterflies before finally landing on her skirt. The material bunched in her hands as she clutched at it, adding more creases to the already abused material.
“I’m so glad.” He slid a hand over the sheets, rubbing the spot where she’d been. “I hope you’ll come back.”
A pretty blush stained the woman’s cheeks. She looked away, clearing her throat as she f
ished around in the satchel hanging from one shoulder. She withdrew a small, battered pouch that clinked with the sound of gold coins. She quickly dropped the pouch on the table beside the bed and the red hue spread to her chest.
“I-I’ll try.”
Narcisse smiled at her, enjoyed the way she trembled, too flustered to get any words past lips that held only a memory of the lipstick she’d arrived in. She likely didn’t have the money to spend five minutes, let alone an entire hour with him again. At least not anytime soon. Still, a desired woman was a happy customer. And a happy customer begets more happy customers. He hardened, thinking about all the naked flesh in his future. Gods, he loved women. All of them.
He unfolded himself from the bed and strode around to stand in front of her. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, eyes so wide the crow’s feet all but vanished. He sealed his mouth over hers, swiping his tongue inside in a playful caress.
A tiny strangled cry echoed in her throat as the familiar heat of passion built between them, her growing desperation evident in the involuntary thrusts of her hips. Narcisse smiled against her mouth and pulled away. Always leave them wanting more. He caught her as her knees gave way, easily lifting her back to her feet, holding her steady by the elbows until she found her balance. Hazy eyes blinked at him as he escorted her to the door.
Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. She stumbled out on wobbly legs and he watched her totter down the road, ready to give her a wink if she had the guts to look back at him.
She didn’t.
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the lower section of his door as he surveyed the shops around him. His schedule for the rest of the day was empty of visitors. There was nothing more pressing for him to do than watch the rest of the village prepare for tonight’s festivities. Large cooking fires filled the air with meat-scented smoke, brightly colored silks were displayed as scarves and skirts for anyone looking to add a little flair to their attire, and people gathered in writhing pockets to discuss menus, clothing, and other frivolities. No one talked about what they would do, or who they would meet—not beyond the most trivial details. The Midsummer Celebration was about freedom and pleasure. And no one wanted to admit premeditation for the fun they would have.
Despite his open schedule, a few moments were all he could risk before retreating back into the shadows of his small residence. He’d had his door specifically designed to have a top and bottom—all the more handy for giving potential ladies the eye, flashing bare chest and giving the impression of being naked without revealing his unmentionables to innocents passing by. The law was rather touchy about things like that. He didn’t even dare to linger too long with his chest bared nowadays.
Narcisse shook his head. “Prudes.”
“And he says he’s going to marry Madame Laveau on the final night of the Midsummer Celebration.”
“He did? Oh, how wonderful!”
The two women’s voices snared Narcisse’s attention and he quickly pivoted to put his back to the wall beside the door, hiding himself from view. Footsteps drew closer, coming down the road by his house, the voices continuing.
“Is it wonderful? He’s a pirate you know. I hear they call him Bluebeard.”
“A good name for a pirate. A little on the nose perhaps. I wonder why he dyes his beard that way anyway?”
“Who can tell?”
“Strange that Madam Laveau never said anything,” the first voice mused.
“Well, you know how secretive she can be.”
“Yes. Not unlike her mother…”
“You don’t think…?”
“Who can tell? She is powerful. All that power in the hands of one woman…”
Narcisse rolled his eyes. He caught a glimpse of the women as they walked past. As he’d suspected, the first one was a customer of his. Typical. A compliment in one hand and backstabbing gossip in the other. He himself had never understood the big deal about Madame Laveau—mother of the current voodoo queen. So what if some of her magic came from the darker end of the spectrum?
Quickly closing his door, Narcisse secured it shut and retrieved his brush from the dresser. The bristles tugged at his shoulder-length brown hair as he worked out the tangles that came from a good time spent serving one of his ladies. The pull at his scalp was calming, a reminder of pleasure given and received, each knot a testament to his dedication, his passion.
He pressed his tongue against the back of his front teeth, his mind drifting to the task ahead. He’d heard of the voodoo queen, of course, everyone knew her, but he’d never had cause to speak with her. Now that duty dictated he do so, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to seduce a woman of such standing, such power.
Dominique Laveau was an intimidating woman, inspiring as much fear as she did respect. But it was Narcisse’s experience that every woman had another side to her, a side that was only shown to a lover, and only an attentive lover at that. What would it be like to coax the Madame Laveau into his bed, to see what passion did to the voodoo queen?
“Better not,” he decided finally, shaking his head as he plucked a clean shirt from his wardrobe. The voodoo queen was central to his ladies’ plan. They’d given him permission to have any woman he wanted, but that most likely did not include the woman they needed for their homecoming.
His ladies. It was what he called them when he thought of them, when he remembered their beautiful faces, their decadently curved bodies, their pretty, pretty promises. Their bargain was certainly an odd one, but Narcisse wasn’t one to judge. If it didn’t work out, he would be no worse off. And if it did work, he would have three gorgeous wives and the protection and standing of their power and wealth. On top of all that, he would have their blessing to bed any woman he wished. And all he had to do was chat up a voodoo queen.
Satisfaction warmed him and he swept out of his home and down the road, gaze sweeping his surrounding for signs of the infamous Madame Laveau.
It didn’t take long to find her. He asked no more than two people before finding someone who’d seen her, and good fortune had her not a mile away. Women of all ages abandoned what they were doing to watch him walk down the street, and he amiably put on a good show for them, offering a sly wink here and there. Sighs and blushes followed him like a wake and by the time he arrived at the tavern where Dominique unknowingly waited for him, he was grinning.
Monsieur Hugon was wiping down the counter with a thick, clean cotton rag. He had stilled as Narcisse walked in and he took a visible breath before continuing his work. Narcisse agreeably avoided eye contact. The tavern owner made no secret that he didn’t like Narcisse, didn’t care for his choice of occupation. If it were up to him, Narcisse would find himself sitting in the road with a bruised behind and a handful less hair. Madame Hugon was a different story. Though she didn’t approve of Narcisse any more than her husband did, she was a bit more practical. And Narcisse was generous with his coin when he came to the tavern with a mind toward finding more lady friends.
It was a conscious effort for Narcisse not to scan the room for any prospective clients. He could already taste wine on his palette, feel a soft hand under his fingertips. The dark corner where an old piano crowded a pyramid of oak barrels called to him, reminded him of how much easier it was to sway a morally inflexible woman when he could make her feel as if they were the only two people in the world…
Concentrate! Voodoo queen.
He found his quarry seated at the bar, her right hand cradling a short glass of bourbon, her back ramrod straight. The fingers of her left hand tapped idly on the counter, her eyes blank and locked on the thick bottles lining the shelf behind the bar. The tavern was mostly empty, the few people who remained at the tables casting furtive glances in her direction now and again. Tension in the room was high, a sensation like over-starched clothing on the skin. The voodoo queen was thinking. Hard.
“Madame Laveau?”
Dominique didn’t look at him right away, only the twitch at
the corner of her eye telling him she’d heard him. He often played that game himself, using a façade of disinterest to give him the upper hand in an impending conversation. He waited patiently, letting her respond in her own good time.
Finally she tilted her head, intense brown eyes completely focused on him. “Yes?”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Madame Laveau?” Narcisse feigned tense shoulders, twitching his lip as if trying not to bite it. The voodoo queen had not cultivated a reputation of intimidation by accident, and if this conversation were going to go as he wanted, it was best she felt her most confident.
“What can I do for you?”
Straight to the point, no reassurances, no attempt to put me at ease. Well done. “A friend of mine has recently come back to town, and I’m worried about him.”
“Then you should send him to see me.” Dominique raised the liquor to her lips and resumed her thousand yard stare.
Narcisse folded himself into the chair beside her, letting out a long sigh and raising a finger to signal the barkeep, gesturing for a drink. The man met his eyes, then deliberately looked to Dominique. She held perfectly still, not taking her attention from the random point in the distance.
“I’m afraid he would never come to you himself. He’s too proud.” Narcisse leaned closer, noting the way her shoulders scrunched at his proximity. “You see, it’s a woman. A woman he loved long ago. He let fear drive him away from her, and now he is back and his feelings have not changed.” He settled in his seat, once again in his own space. “I have known him for years, and in the”—quick calculation—“ten years he’s been away from her, he’s been miserable more often than not. He pines for her and he won’t admit it.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “It is a strange sight, a pirate captain wasting away from a love lost.”
Dominique’s hand tightened on the glass, her entire body stiffening.
Blue Voodoo: A Romantic Retelling of Bluebeard (The Hidden Kingdom Series Book 2) Page 8