Bayou Nights

by Julie Mulhern

  Mamaloi, mamaloi, mamaloi. With each step they took, the chant grew louder.

  “Faster,” Drake urged.

  Next to him, Christine ran, her shredded skirts trailing behind her like streamers.

  Their steps rang against the banquette, heels against wood. His breath came in rasps. Christine, bound by a fashionably tight corset, gasped for air.

  Mamaloi, mamaloi, mamaloi.

  They reached another cross street and he turned.

  “No! We have to stay on Bourbon Street.” Christine loosed his hand and kept running.

  No time to argue now. They couldn’t separate. Drake glanced over his shoulder. Just over half a block. Clubs. Knives. The machete. Incredibly, a large snake. And, more incredibly, everyone in the pursuing horde wore white.

  Drake ran, pulling Christine with him.

  His heart beat in his ears. His legs pumped. His hand tightened on Christine’s. “Faster.”

  He had two guns but twelve shots were useless against their pursuers. Too many followed. If one of their numbers fell, they’d leave him in the street and keep coming. Drake knew that as well as he knew his own name.

  Christine stumbled. Fell. Shrieked then grabbed her ankle.

  He skidded to a halt. What now? The throng was so close. “What happened?”

  “My ankle.”

  Drake picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and ran.

  Mamaloi, mamaloi, mamaloi. They sounded closer.

  His lungs burned. “How far away are they?”

  “Half a block.”

  The mob would gain faster now. Christine weighed almost nothing, just enough to slow him down. The lights of Canal Street seemed unattainable. The chant nipped at his heels and the snake… Drake shuddered. He could almost hear its evil hiss.

  “Do you have a gun?” Christine’s voice was unnaturally high.

  “Small of my back.”

  Her hands fumbled at his waist then the weight of steel against his back disappeared. A second later, a shot rang in his ears.

  Still he ran. “Did you hit anyone?”

  “I hope not. Try and stay steady.” A second shot rend the night.

  Stay steady? Had she lost her mind? And what did she mean, she hoped not? They only had twelve shots. Each one had to count.

  “Aim for the man with the machete,” he told her.

  “Do be quiet.”

  Run faster. Stay steady. Be quiet. He ought to dump her in the center of Bourbon Street, find the nearest train station, and go back to Boston where unruly mobs poured tea into the harbor instead of chasing hat makers.

  “When you get to Canal Street, turn right.” She shot the gun a third time.

  If they got to Canal Street. “Your shop is to the left.”

  “Go right!”

  He ran, drawing on every bit of strength, adrenaline, and determination he possessed. He wouldn’t be murdered by a mob. He wouldn’t watch another woman die.

  Canal Street. Just reaching it was a miracle. He turned right, careening, nearly dropping her.

  She thudded against his back. “Humph. Are you trying to kill me?”

  He wasn’t. The mob behind was. He ran.

  The bright lights of Canal Street nearly blinded him. The traffic drowned out the infernal chanting. Or maybe—please, God—the chanting was fading. He dared a glance over his shoulder. No mob. Just a few people with raised eyebrows. Apparently, even in New Orleans, the sight of a man with a woman tossed over his shoulder was noteworthy.

  “Put me down.” Christine sounded spitting mad.

  He dashed across Canal Street, found a bench, then settled her onto it. “Are you all right?”

  She looked up at him, her hat askew, her hands holding both the gun and her ruined skirt together, and laughed. Not the hysterical laugh of a woman about to shatter into ten thousand pieces. Not the relieved laughter of a woman snatched from the jaws of death. No. Christine Lambert’s laughter sounded joyous, as if they’d just enjoyed a grand adventure.

  The woman was nuttier than a fruitcake. He scowled. At least he tried to scowl. His lips refused to comply. The upper one twitched. The lower one curled. Suddenly he was smiling. At her. From there it was but a short journey to a chuckle. He collapsed onto the bench next to her and roared with laughter. His eyes watered, his belly ached, and he sank his elbows onto his knees then buried his face in his hands.

  He hadn’t laughed so hard in—he didn’t know when. He reached out, took her hand in his, and squeezed. “We did it.”

  Tears glittered on her lashes. The cream of her cheeks was touched by a hint of strawberry. Her smile was genuine. She looked delectable

  He ignored the looks from curious pedestrians, all of whom circled wide to avoid contact with the two of them.

  “What now?” Drake asked. “Back to your shop?”

  “No!”

  “Your home?”

  “I live above the shop.”

  “Then where?”

  “Josie Arlington’s.”

  That declaration killed the urge to laugh. “You can’t mean to go there.” She herself had admitted it was a house of ill-repute.

  “I can,” she said. “I do.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. If any of those ghosts are hanging about, they might know where my father is.”

  She couldn’t just waltz into a brothel. She couldn’t. Especially not in a dress slit three quarters of the way up her legs. Drake averted his eyes. It was better not to stare at limbs covered only by cobweb thin silk stockings.

  “We’re going.” Christine handed him his gun then stood and smoothed her ruined skirts. The leg with the injured ankle hitched. If she noticed, she ignored the small hiccup. “Or at least I am.”

  As if he’d let her go alone. The woman was beyond exasperating. “Are you hurt? Do you want me to look at that ankle?”

  Her brows disappeared into the dark fabric that wrapped round her hat. “No, thank you.”

  He’d just run ten blocks, five of them clutching her perfectly rounded ass against his shoulder. Now she objected to letting him look at her ankle? The skin near his right eye ticked. He could hardly force her back onto the bench and lift her skirts.

  That was a thought to keep him up all night.

  Time to change the subject. “What did you mean you hoped you didn’t hit anyone?”

  She straightened the ludicrous hat that perched on her head like a starry sky. “I meant that I didn’t want to hit anyone.”

  He stared up at her. “Why not?”

  “Because I might have hurt them.” She spoke slowly, patiently, as if explaining the alphabet to a young child.

  Wasn’t hurting them the point? His jaw dropped and he snapped it shut.

  “It’s not as if they were responsible.” Her voice remained calm and measured. “A spirit was riding them.”

  “All of them?” His voice sounded sharp, unyielding, stony.

  “All of them.” She nodded and the sparkly bits on her hat winked in the light cast by the streetlamp.

  There was no arguing with her. He slipped the gun back into its holster. “Where did you learn to shoot?”

  “When I was a girl we’d spend summers at Magnolia Hill.”

  “Magnolia Hill?”

  She nodded. “The Thibodeaux plantation.”

  “Who are the Thibodeaux?”

  She smoothed her skirts again. “My mother’s people.” Her warm-honey voice sounded suddenly cool.

  “They let little girls play with guns?” What had they been thinking?

  “I didn’t play with them. I shot them.”

  “What did you shoot?”

  “Aside from the odd alligator?”

  Drake closed his eyes. The thought of the tiny girl Christine must have been shooting one of those pre-historic beasts was enough to turn his stomach. Had her family no sense?

  Little girls shouldn’t shoot guns. If they did, they grew into women who shot guns. And women who shot guns�
�at least this woman—believed she could take care of herself. She might be brave, but she was endlessly foolish. Smart people—men—didn’t shoot above their attackers’ heads.

  Now she wanted to go to a brothel?

  Drake scowled. She’d tempt every man there. He’d have to fight them off with a stick.

  She cleared her throat.

  He’d been quiet too long.

  “Is there someplace safe I can take you?” he asked.

  Her fingers rose to her throat where the coin hid beneath demure navy silk. “No.”

  What was he to do with her? She couldn’t investigate with him. That was simply…impossible. She was too distracting—he shifted his gaze away from the obscene slit in her skirts. Plus, she’d get herself hurt—or worse.

  “I don’t need to be coddled. I can take care of myself.”

  He bit the end of his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Yes, she was brave. Bravery in a woman was a form of foolishness. They weren’t strong enough to protect themselves. Splashing a zombie with Holy Water or escaping a possessed mob built false confidence.

  She turned her back on him and stepped toward Basin Street.

  Damn.

  She was an exasperating woman. He need only look at the preposterous confection on top of her head to be convinced. She was the type of woman who rushed into trouble, consequences be damned. The kind of woman who’d get herself killed, never giving a thought to those she left behind. Exactly like his sister and his mother before her.

  Christine glanced over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”

  He stood. Of course, he was going with her. Lord only knew what trouble might befall a lady in a whorehouse.

  Chapter Four

  Escorting Christine Lambert to a brothel counted as one of the stupidest things he’d ever done. And they weren’t even there yet.

  She leaned on his arm. Heavily. If her ankle pained her, she wasn’t saying a word. Instead, she hobbled in silence.

  Brave.

  Brash.

  He glanced down at the banquette. The length of her uninjured leg showed through the tear in her skirts. Drake swallowed and looked away.

  He’d forgotten beautiful.

  They stopped on the corner of Basin Street and she pointed to a mansion topped with an onion-domed cupola. “There. That’s Josie’s place.”

  Four stories tall and crowded by other mansions.

  “All of those—”

  “They’re all brothels,” she confirmed. Then she shrugged. “Laissez les bon temps rouler. We’ll have to go around to the back.”

  At least she had a modicum of sense. Walking through the front door of a brothel with a lady wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate. Especially when the bon temps were rolling.

  They crossed Basin Street, walked a few blocks, then turned again. “If we get to Franklin Street,” she said, “we’ve gone too far.”

  “Where exactly are we going?” he asked.

  “There should be an alley.”

  The hinge that held his jaw closed abruptly stopped working. He gaped. She’d been attacked twice already and now she wanted to traipse down a dark alley? So much for her having even an infinitesimal amount of common sense. The woman was a disaster waiting to happen. “No,” he said.

  Christine waved away his objection with a waggle of her fingers. “There’s no other way to get there.” Then she let go of his arm and disappeared into the narrow passageway.

  He followed. What choice did he have?

  The alley, running between two rows of whorehouses, was as awful as Drake expected. Possibly worse. The smells—urine, vomit, stale liquor, and rot. The sounds—rats scurrying at their approach, grunts of satisfaction drifting down from open windows. The sights—heaps of soiled and moldy linen, an eviscerated cat, a broken chamber pot, apparently tossed full from a second story window.

  Christine’s cheeks looked pale. Perhaps the squalor bothered her. She waited for him then rested her hand on his arm.

  “Which door?” he demanded.

  “I’m counting.” She sounded as if she was trying to speak without breathing the foul air. “That one.” She pointed to a screen door.

  He led her to it then tapped on the frame.

  A heavy-set woman wearing a turban on her head and a scowl on her face appeared.

  Christine drew herself up to her full height, donned a polite smile, and said, “I’m Christine Lambert. I’d like to see Miss Arlington, please.”

  The woman guffawed and turned away.

  “This lady”—Drake emphasized the word—”would like to see Miss Arlington.”

  “Miss Josie ain’t got no use for ladies.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Christine.

  Something like pity flashed across the woman’s face, quickly replaced by a scowl. “I do understand. You got some issue with where your man spends his time and money, you take it up with him, not Miz Josie.”

  As if a man would wander if he had Christine in his bed.

  Christine leaned more heavily on his arm. “I’m Christine Lambert, I make Miss Arlington’s hats.” A certain asperity leaked into her voice. “I’m sure she’ll see me if you ask her.”

  The woman’s gaze went to the absurd amalgamation of fabric and paste diamonds on Christine’s head. She studied it for a moment then rubbed her chin.

  “Ask her,” said Christine. “Please.”

  A crash echoed through the alley and the woman grimaced. “I reckon you better come inside.”

  Drake opened the screen door for Christine and she stepped inside.

  They entered a kitchen. It seemed almost impossible that a place so spotlessly clean could exist next to the squalor of the alley. Fresh curtains hung in the window, hiding the view. Something delicious-smelling bubbled on the stove. Drake’s stomach rumbled.

  “I’ll fetch Miss Josie.” The turbaned woman gave them a telling look—one that told them not to touch a single thing, especially not the source of the delectable aroma.

  “Thank you.” Christine ignored the woman’s surly expression, pulled a chair away from the kitchen table, and sat with a sigh.

  “Your ankle?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I just need to rest for a minute.”

  He knelt next to her then pushed aside her skirts and her objections. Her ankle was swollen. He took it gently in his hands and prodded.

  Her sudden intake of breath told him all he needed to know. It hurt her terribly.

  “There has to be ice here somewhere.”

  “The ice box?” She nodded toward the oak paneled box sitting in the corner, far from the heat of the stove.

  “Very funny.” He stood, crossed the room, opened the heavy door, then searched a nearby drawer for the ice pick.

  “What in tarnation do you think you’re doing?” The woman with the turban stood in the doorway to the hall, her hands planted on her hips and her eyes narrowed.

  “Miss Lambert twisted her ankle. We need ice.”

  “I thought you needed to see Miss Josie.”

  “That too.” Christine’s cheeks had paled to the waxy white of a magnolia blossom.

  “Christine, what a lovely surprise.” A woman in a green dress brushed past the woman who’d let them in. Her hair was swept up into a soft style that puffed and billowed and defied gravity. Her eyes were hard as cobble stones.

  Those eyes took his measure, a man caught raiding the icebox.

  “You’ll excuse, Mr. Drake, won’t you?” asked Christine. “I twisted my ankle and he was getting me some ice for it.”

  “Of course.” The woman’s smile was as sweet as toffee. Toothsome. And yet, behind the curl of her lips, he sensed something darker.

  Drake didn’t trust her.

  She nodded at him. “Mr. Drake, I’m Josie Arlington.”

  “A pleasure.” It wasn’t.

  “Marigold, get Miss Lambert some ice for her ankle.”

  With a grumble of discontent, the woman in the turban snatc
hed the pick from his hand and pushed him aside. She chipped at the ice like a murderess with a knife, driving the sharp spike deep, again and again.

  Marigold? There was nothing flower-like about her. Was there a name appropriate for a woman who wielded a pick with such deadly intent? Jacqueline the Ripper?

  “Would you care for a cup of tea?” asked Josie.

  The woman with the ice pick grumbled louder. Apparently making tea for interlopers wasn’t something she wanted to do.

  Josie eyed Marigold’s bristling back. “Or perhaps a brandy?”

  Christine glanced at Marigold and her ice pick then said, “Brandy would be lovely, thank you.”

  Josie pulled a bottle and glasses out of a cupboard. Then she leaned a hip against the counter and drew a breath so deep it threatened to spill her half-naked breasts the rest of the way out of her dress. “Can I tempt you, Mr. Drake?”

  “A glass of water. Please.”

  The madam tilted her head and crinkled her eyes as if amused. “Marigold, a glass of water for Mr. Drake?”

  Marigold gave no indication that she’d heard. Instead, she gathered the ice chips into a flour sack towel and handed the bundle to Christine.

  Drake brought a second chair close enough for Christine to rest her ankle.

  Christine gingerly settled her injured ankle on the seat and applied the ice. She sighed then smiled up at Josie.

  It couldn’t be every day that a single lady knocked on the door of a whorehouse. Josie Arlington had to wonder what brought them to her. If so, she was too polite—or too canny—to ask. She handed Christine a glass of brandy and waited.

  Christine took a small sip, glanced at her lap then up again. “Is there a room in this house that’s always cool? Not refreshingly cool,” she added. “More like a clammy coolness that raises the hair on your arms.”

  Marigold slammed a cupboard shut.

  “This is New Orleans. Almost everyone has a room like that.”

  “Haunted,” said Christine.

  The madam raised her right hand to her throat, glanced around the kitchen as if someone might be listening to them, then nodded. “It’s on the second floor.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “None of the girls could stand working out of that room so it’s used for storage. How did you know?”

  Christine shifted in her chair. “Would you believe me if I told you a ghost sent me here?”