Bayou Nights

by Julie Mulhern

  Her lips twitched.

  “I know, I know,” he said. She wasn’t the only one who could read minds. It was easy when her thoughts were so clear on her face. “It’s New Orleans. Things are different down here.”

  Her lips twitched again. “Well said, Mr. Drake.” She pointed to a scabrous building desperately in need of paint. Even in the fog, its green storm shutters looked warped with weather and age. And, unlike it neighbors, the railing for its wrap-around balcony was almost Spartan. “We’re here.”

  “This place?”

  “This place is where Andrew Jackson and Jean Lafitte signed their pact.”

  “Andrew Jackson went in there?” Disbelief colored his voice.

  She sniffed. “I believe it was a coffee house then.”

  That was then, now it wasn’t the sort of place a lady should enter. Foreboding tiptoed down his spine, raising the hair on his neck. “This is a bad idea.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mr. Drake. What could happen?”

  With her around? Anything.

  The bartender nodded when they entered.

  Drake led her to a table in the corner where they could both sit with their backs to a wall.

  “What’s that?” He nodded to a strange-looking contraption on the bar.

  “An absinthe fountain. Although I’ve heard tell most people here drink frappes.”

  “What’s—”

  “Absinthe, simple syrup, soda water, and mint.”

  “What’ll it be?” called the bartender.

  “Soda water with lime,” said Christine, her voice too quiet for the bartender to hear. Of course it was. Ladies didn’t yell across bars. She expected him to do that.

  “Two soda waters with lime,” Drake called back.

  A moment later the man deposited two glasses on their scarred table.

  “We really should have gone to Café du Monde first. Coffee and a beignet sound heav…” Her voice died.

  He followed her gaze to the door where four men stood shoulder to shoulder.

  “Oh my,” she whispered. Then she reached for her cane.

  The four looked as if they worked the docks, each one bigger than the next.

  “I thought hiding the coin in salt would work.” She sounded forlorn.

  “They followed us from the hotel,” he replied. Theirs were the steps he’d heard in the fog.

  The men approached the table and Drake stood. Three he could handle, but four? His hands fisted and a surge of adrenaline flooded his veins, narrowing his vision.

  “You’re right pretty, ma’am,” said a man with a handlebar mustache. Then the bastard adjusted the front of his pants.

  Rage joined adrenaline in Drake’s blood.

  “Thank you kindly.” The tone of Christine’s voice told Drake everything he needed to know. She understood the threat. Understood there would be a fight. Understood the sensible course of action would be to take cover or flee. It also told him she had no intention of being sensible.

  From behind the bar came the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being chambered. The bartender raised the gun to his shoulder and aimed it at all of them. “I don’t want no trouble in here.”

  The men, all four of them, raised their hands, then one with a deeply scarred face—perhaps from a fight with a broken whiskey bottle—peeled away from the bunch. The leader? With his hands up and his head tilted, he approached the bar.

  The bartender lowered the gun. Slightly.

  A mistake.

  Scar-face knocked the bartender out with one punch. The man slid behind his bar, taking his gun with him.

  Damn.

  The man with the mustache took a step toward Christine. She stood, holding tightly to her cane. She lifted the length of ebony wood, twisting it slightly, then with one fluid motion withdrew a sword.

  “Put that down, darlin’. You and I are going to be friends.”

  “No. We’re not.” She pointed the sword’s tip at his throat.

  “You ain’t gonna hurt me, darlin’.” He swiped at the blade.

  Christine easily parried, opened a gash on his cheek, then smiled at his outraged curse.

  Drake upended the table with a loud thunk and a crash of breaking glass. He rolled it so its top formed a barrier between Christine and her attacker, then he raised his fists.

  The first man rushed him, fists swinging wildly as if it didn’t matter where his blows landed. Perhaps it didn’t. The man was big enough to fell an ox. Drake sidestepped then took him down with one well-placed punch to the throat.

  The second man approached more slowly, looking for weakness. Let him look. Drake raised his fists and glanced at Christine. She’d bloodied the man’s other cheek but he was no closer to her.

  Drake shifted his weight. The man didn’t expect the kick to his crotch. He paused as if he was counting the seconds it took the pain to register in his brain. A more sophisticated fighter would have seen the quick chop to his neck coming but he was bent, clutching his knees.

  The scarred man hung back, watching. “You know how to fight. It ain’t enough. I’m gonna take you down, then Gus and I are gonna have a little fun with your lady before we take what we came for. Don’t you worry none.” He smacked his lips. “We’ll treat her real nice.”

  If he hoped anger would blur Drake’s focus, he was mistaken. Anger crystallized in Drake’s veins. Cold, determined, deadly. Drake would enjoy every landed punch, every crunch of bone, and every drop of blood spilled upon the plank floor.

  Crack!

  Blood bloomed on scar-face’s sleeve and he clutched his arm.

  Drake glanced at Christine. She still held the sword at Gus’s neck. She also held the smallest, prettiest derringer he’d ever seen. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Helping.”

  “Stop helping.” Knocking a wounded man clear into next week wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying.

  She sniffed.

  Scar-face backed away. “Bitch.”

  Then again, jamming the man’s teeth down his throat would feel good no matter what Christine had done to his arm. Drake took a step forward.

  Christine lifted an eyebrow as if she could read Drake’s every thought—perhaps she could—then used her gun to hide her yawn.

  Gus shifted.

  Christine jabbed him again and the man yipped like a puppy.

  Scar-face backed farther away.

  Drake growled. The man deserved to have his face beaten in, but Christine still held Gus a blade’s length away, the sword’s tip resting just under his chin. They didn’t need to question both men.

  The wounded man scuttled out the door. They watched him go. All of them. Being abandoned seemed to take the stuffing out of Gus. His shoulders slumped and the defiant fire in his eyes died as if Christine had doused the flames with a pitcher of Holy Water.

  “Who was that?” Drake demanded. “His name.”

  “Ty Doucet.”

  Drake had plans for Ty Doucet.

  “Who sent you?” Christine’s voice was as cold as a January dawn, its usual honeyed tone crusted with ice.

  The man eyed his fallen companions then shook his head.

  She thrust the sword and drew a thin line of blood on his throat. “Who sent you?”

  “Bonjour,” said a ghost every bit as well dressed as Pierre Lafitte. They looked like brothers and spoke with the same French accent. Jean Lafitte had arrived. “He won’t tell you.”

  For a half-second, Christine cast her gaze to the ceiling. Then came a miniscule shake of her head. She dug the tip deeper.

  Gus’s eyes bulged and he worked his lips as if the act of forming words required too much effort. “She’ll kill me.”

  “Who? Who might kill you?” Christine narrowed her eyes. “I might kill you.”

  The man slid his gaze to Drake. “I can’t.”

  “He won’t tell you,” repeated the ghost, slower this time. “A blade is a simple death. If he shares this secret, the tortures of the damned await
him.”

  “Captain Lafitte?” Drake confirmed.

  The ghost inclined his head.

  Christine glanced their way. “Who sent him?”

  “LaLaurie.”

  Christine huffed. “She’s dead.”

  Lafitte raised his shoulders, held up his hands, lifted his eyebrows, and extended his lower lip. Then he shook his head. “That never stops anyone in New Orleans.”

  Drake swallowed a guffaw but couldn’t hide a smirk. Hearing Christine’s words, or at least a version of them, used against her was too satisfying not to.

  “There are things that happened yesterday a ghost couldn’t do.” She scowled at Gus. “Did Delphine LaLaurie send you?”

  The color drained from the man’s face until he looked as pale as the ghost standing next to him. It was as good as a yes.

  “Does she have my father?”

  “I’m afraid so, chérie. This one”—Lafitte cast a disparaging glance at the thug held at the end of Christine’s sword—”he knows only what will happen if he shares her secrets. He has already failed in stealing the coin. He is a dead man. Let him go. We need to talk.”

  Christine considered for a few seconds then lowered her sword.

  The man took a few steps backward, turned, and ran.

  A groan drifted toward them from behind the bar.

  The men at Drake’s feet were still comatose. They weren’t moving any time soon.

  He crossed the room and helped the bartender to his feet. “You all right?”

  The man rubbed his chin. “I will be.”

  Christine appeared at Drake’s elbow.

  She still clutched the sword but the tiny gun had retreated to the recesses of her pockets. She rested her hand on his sleeve. His muscles tensed beneath her touch.

  She looked up at him, her eyes golden pools. “I know you wanted to beat Doucet to a bloody pulp but shooting him seemed more efficient.” She tilted her head. “Why didn’t you draw your gun?”

  “Because shooting people dead requires too much paperwork.” Be that as it may, he’d find Ty Doucet before he left New Orleans. They had unfinished business.

  “Two men with guns. One walks away. This requires paperwork?” Lafitte looked down the length of his long nose. “There’s no time to waste on such bagatelle or fights so easily won.” He cast a disparaging glance at the two men who still occupied the floor. “You must prepare for a bigger battle. Come. I have much to tell you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Drake sat with Christine and Lafitte at a table in a restaurant where the very air seemed sweetened with sugar. He tasted it on his tongue, breathed it into his lungs, felt it beneath his fingers on the marble top table.

  A waitress delivered a heaping plate of pastries dusted with powdered sugar and two coffees.

  Christine lifted a pastry to her lips and sighed with pleasure.

  Drake’s body tightened at the sound. He thinned his lips. This attraction could only lead to heartache for both of them.

  “Indulge.” Lafitte cut his gaze toward Christine then sighed. “I wish I could.”

  Was the damn ghost talking about pastries or Christine? Drake flexed his fingers. “I’ve had a doughnut before.”

  “Ahhhh.” The ghost lengthened the vowel in a way that made the syllable sound French. Boudoir French. Tangled sheets, never get out of bed again French. “But have you had a beignet?”

  Too bad it was physically impossible to hit a ghost. Lafitte deserved to be knocked cold. Drake scowled at him then lifted a beignet to his mouth. Sweet. No surprise there. And somehow different from the doughnuts he’d consumed in Boston. Lighter. Airier. He grunted, his mouth too full to express his appreciation.

  The pirate leaned back in the chair, crossed his arms behind his head, and sighed. “This is pleasant, is it not?”

  The mist was dissipating, the heat hadn’t yet taken the city hostage, and the view—Christine with a backdrop of Jackson Square—was more than pleasant. Even better, Lafitte was a ghost. Drake’s inability to knock his smarmy teeth down his throat also meant the pirate couldn’t touch Christine. “It is,” agreed Drake. “What can you tell us about LaLaurie?”

  The ghost chuckled. “Men from the north. Straight to the point. All business. You must slow down, mon ami.”

  “What happened to preparing for the bigger battle?”

  Lafitte waved his hand through the air. “Take your time. Enjoy the journey. Enjoy your beignet. Flirt with the beautiful woman.”

  The beautiful woman snorted softly.

  Was there something at the Absinthe Room that Lafitte didn’t want them to find? He’d chomped at the bit to get them out of the run-down bar. Now he had all the time in the world. With his languid air, the ghost gave not a single clue as to his intentions. “With all due respect, Captain, there have been multiple attacks on Miss Lambert’s life.” He counted them on his now sticky fingers. “The zombie, the mob, the man at Josie Arlington’s—”

  Christine looked up from her coffee, a cup so fascinating it had allowed her to ignore the ghost’s vile innuendo. “You can’t include him.”

  “Were you attacked?”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Then I’m including him. The fifolet.”

  “That you cannot include,” said Lafitte. “I sent the fifolet to guard Miss Lambert’s home and shop.”

  She turned her golden eyes on the pirate and smiled. “You did? Thank you.”

  The pirate captain smiled back.

  The corner of Drake’s eye twitched. Was she mad? Hadn’t she heard everything Lafitte said about tangled sheets and enjoying the journey? Probably not. Lafitte hadn’t actually uttered anything about sheets. Drake was the one guilty of imagining her in bed. Annoyance tightened the muscles in his shoulders. “Fine. Someone shot at Miss Lambert last night and this morning she was set upon by street thugs.”

  “You shoot very well, chérie.”

  “You are too kind.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “But, I was aiming for his leg.”

  Like hell she was.

  “And the sword.” Lafitte kissed the tips of his fingers. “Who taught you to handle a sword?

  “My grandmother,” Christine replied. “She lived through the war. She believed a woman needed to know how to protect herself. Of course, the man didn’t have a weapon. If he had, Lord only knows what would have happened.”

  She’d have run the bastard through. Christine Lambert was one of the most capable people he’d ever met. Why was she making it sound as if she couldn’t stand up to a gentle breeze? Drake lifted a questioning brow.

  She ignored him, her full focus on the ghost.

  “We can’t keep reacting to attacks,” said Drake.

  Christine and Lafitte turned and stared at him.

  “We can’t,” Drake insisted. “We’ve been lucky so far but…”

  “You would go after LaLaurie?” asked Lafitte.

  “If that’s what it takes,” Drake replied.

  The pirate cocked his head. “This you cannot do.”

  Drake crossed his arms over his chest. “Watch me.”

  “Bof. You cannot do such a foolish thing.” He dismissed Drake and his idea with a wave of his hand then leaned forward and rested his ghostly elbows on the sticky table. “Mademoiselle Lambert might be hurt. A zombie attacked you, Miss Lambert?”

  “Please call me Christine.” The green dress made her look entirely too fetching. Add her pink lips curling into a coy smile and she was nearly irresistible.

  The ghost twinkled at her.

  “A zombie came into my shop and demanded I give him the coin.” Christine twinkled back.

  A heretofore unknown creature awoke in Drake’s gut, flexed its claws then sank them into his intestines.

  Lafitte’s brow furrowed. “A real zombie? Then there is a boko.”

  Christine’s eyes widened. Luminous gold fringed with dark lashes.

  Drake had told her the same thing and she’d responded with on
ly passing interest. The claws dug deeper.

  “A powerful one,” said Lafitte.

  “No,” she breathed. Then she raised her delicate hands to her throat. “What shall we do?”

  “As long as you have the coin you are in danger. You must give it to me.”

  Her face froze for a half-second then she fluttered her lashes. “It’s hidden.”

  “Where?” Lafitte’s languid voice seemed sharper, eager.

  “Someplace safe,” she replied.

  That was open to debate. The way danger seemed to dog their steps, the pocket of her dress could hardly be called safe.

  “Why would you want the coin?” Drake demanded. “Why don’t you just claim your treasure? Move it?”

  The ghost blinked. Three times. His shoulders stiffened.

  Christine glanced between them. Drake probably looked hostile. He was feeling hostile and he didn’t trust the too smooth, too French pirate lounging at their table.

  Christine lifted her coffee cup to her lips and took a slow, delicate sip. “Your treasure, Captain, of course it’s legendary.” She batted her eyelashes. “Everyone seems to want it. Living and dead. It has to be more than gold.”

  A slow smile lifted the corners of Lafitte’s mouth. “People talk about Blackbeard or Kidd’s treasures, but mine…” Most people saved the soft, enamored look he wore for gazing at newborn babies. “You’ve heard of Ponce de Léon?”

  “No.” Christine leaned forward as if her life depended upon hearing the pirate’s every word. “Tell me about him. Please.”

  Drake swallowed a growl.

  “He was a Spanish conquistador and lived on la isla del encanto.”

  “Where?” asked Christine.

  “The island of enchantment,” Drake translated. “It is called Puerto Rico now.”

  The ghost brushed aside the correct name with a flick of his fingers. “De Léon searched for many years for a fountain wrapped in legend. He followed rumors and suppositions. He trekked through swamps and bayous and everglades. Many of his men died but, in the end, he found the fountain.”

  “The Fountain of Youth?” Drake didn’t believe a word of the ghost’s tale. The fountain was a myth.

  Lafitte lifted a single patronizing finger and wagged it. “Not exactly. He found a fountain but those who drank from it were unaffected. Then one in their party was bitten by a rattlesnake and fell deathly ill. As the man lay dying, he asked for water and someone gave him water from the fountain. The man recovered. It is said that the water from the fountain can bring a dead man back to life.”