The Old Absinthe House was a two-story stucco building, sitting on the corner of Bourbon Street and Bienville. It was lit up with arched doorways on both sides. Green shutters lined each side of the doors and the windows. The doors were already swinging open, giving the place a welcoming ambience.
The bar was over two-hundred years old. The shell of the building hadn’t changed over the years, but the stucco had been replaced numerous times, and the windows on the second floor had brand new shutters. They opened out to a wrought iron balcony, similar to the flimsy structures I commonly saw in the French Quarter.
It didn’t look like there was much room inside the bar, but everyone on the outside was moving in the same direction, pushing us towards the doors.
“We’re gonna have to wait at least three hours for a drink!” Ryan shouted over the crowd.
Christopher leaned close to whisper, “He might have to wait, but you, my dear, will be taken care of promptly.”
We stopped at the door, clogging up traffic, and a spirit appeared, dressed in a gray jacket trimmed with red piping and a pair of matching slacks. He was covered in mud, sweat and filth; along with his hat, which reminded me of an archaic baseball cap that he tilted to the side. I was fairly sure only Christopher and I could see him because no one else on the street paid him any mind.
His eyes were glazed and bloodshot, like he was cursed to spend the afterlife intoxicated, and when he spoke his Southern accent was so thick that I could barely make out the words. “Your names?”
If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was a pirate from a Disneyland ride.
Christopher smoothed his jacket and stepped forward. “Medium Peyton Clark and Warlock Christopher Raven Adams,” he started. It wasn’t lost on me that he failed to introduce ‘the mundane’.
From behind me, I heard Ryan ask, “Who is he talking to?”
Christopher cleared his throat and continued addressing the spirit. “And her mundane escort.” He glanced back at Ryan before looking forward again. “Igor.”
I couldn’t help but laugh in surprise because I wasn’t accustomed to Christopher being humorous. Honestly, I didn’t believe he had it in him.
“Funny, Christopher, real funny,” Ryan said as he took a heavy breath.
The Southern ghost didn’t seem to notice Ryan’s discomfort. His attention was focused on me, my neck, my face, and my breasts. He didn’t even bother to mask his interest. Instead, he took me aside, one lip lifting into a lusty snarl.
“She a witch?” he asked Christopher.
“No, a sensitive.”
The man turned towards me, narrowing his eyes, and I got a glimpse of his teeth: yellow and black nubs. “One spell, we march yo’ pretty b’hind right on out. But not before we give it a good smackin’.” His tongue shot out and back in, fast enough to send a shiver through me. At least, Ryan couldn’t see or hear the man because, dead or not, he’d be facing death number two.
Christopher watched all of this with complete neutrality. “I assure you, she is quite incapable of witchcraft.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“I’ll announce ‘er,” the Southerner puffed his chest out and stiffened his stance, like a soldier at attention. Y’all betta’ not go nowhere ‘fore I do.”
He stepped inside and vanished in the light.
“What just happened?” Ryan asked from behind me.
I turned to give him a warm smile, thinking it might relax him. “We’re waiting for the announcement.”
“Announcement? What announcement?”
“The announcement that we are here,” I answered with a shrug. Then I turned to face Christopher. “Is he a real pirate?” I whispered, unwilling to explain every little thing to Ryan because I was still taking it all in, myself.
“I wouldn’t use that word in his presence.”
“Is this little visit going to be a dangerous one?” asked Ryan.
Christopher replied to me, not bothering to even glance at Ryan, “Tell him spirits don’t typically attack humans. It takes too much energy.”
“You can address me yourself, you pompous prick,” Ryan grumbled.
Christopher’s sigh was a like a hurricane making landfall.
The ghost hostess appeared at the door again, holding his hat in his hands as a sign of respect. Christopher came scooting closer. “Curtsy,” he whispered before whipping around to confront Ryan. “Bow now or regret it.”
“Regret what?” Ryan stepped closer.
I moved between them. “Ryan, I know it’s a pain in your ass, but can you please just do whatever Christopher tells you to? We don’t know what we’re dealing with so better we lead with the defensive than the offensive, right?”
“Fine,” Ryan said.
Christopher gave me a nod, grabbed his cloak and tugged it away with a swish, just as the pirate cleared his throat to make his announcement.
“Now presentin’ The Esteemed Warlock of New Orleans, Sir Christopher Raven Adams, and, Medium Peyton Clark and escort.”
When I lowered myself into a curtsy, Christopher stepped aside, disappearing into the darkness, and the world seemed to stop. I knew what year it was, and that I was still in the present, but I almost forgot all of that information when I took in my new surroundings. Gone were all the patrons and furniture. The look of the building was much the same but the furniture now was much older and nowhere near as fancy.
My attention was riveted to a spirit I saw casually leaning against the fireplace in the center of the room. His eyes were on mine and he had the expression of someone who was currently summing me up, trying to draw his own conclusions as to whom I was and what I wanted.
Chapter Seventeen
“Ryan, I...”
I turned around, expecting him to be there, but he was gone. So was Christopher.
I was alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Looking around, I realized only I and the spirit across the way, the one who was still staring at me, were in the room. He was wearing a black cape and a conical hat with a feather sticking out the front. He looked a bit like a pilgrim… with an attitude.
Even more unsettling was the way his beady eyes didn’t leave mine for a second. As I prepared to find a table, he was watching. He strangely appeared to be young, maybe in his thirties, yet he had an air about him that led me to believe he was much older than that when he died. His thin, pasty face fell in folds like bread dough, and his mustache was shaved into two thin lines, heavily waxed so both sides sloped down, giving him a permanent frown.
He had a princely air about him, despite his short stature, his casual stance, and one arm resting on the mantel. Beneath his flowing, pirate sleeves were thick arms, strong from all the hard work that his life, no doubt, required.
I was surprised by a cold drop of liquid on my arm. I looked up and found Ryan juggling two pint glasses and a giant pitcher of beer. He nearly tipped the pitcher over when he slammed it down on the table with a huff indicating he had a hell of a time getting here.
I was surprised to see him and the beers but I figured whatever place I was currently occupying, was an intersection where the spirit plane and the mortal plane could cross. That is to say, although I couldn’t see the crowd, I knew it was still there “Well?” Ryan sat down across from me.
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to have a drink with me?”
“Sure,” I said. I glanced over at the spirit and noticed he was still watching me and only me. “Have you seen Christopher?” I asked.
“No,” Ryan answered as he busied himself with filling my glass and then his own. Then he lifted his eyes to mine. “But it’s pretty jam-packed in here so that’s not really a surprise.” I nodded, not in the mood to tell him I couldn’t see anyone other than us and the spirit.
“I’ve been a total prick lately,” he whispered.
“Um,” I started, not ready to get into this conversation at the moment. “You haven’t been a total prick.”
; “That’s your response?” Ryan asked as he downed half his glass in three gulps. I hadn’t even sampled mine.
“Well, to be honest, I was wondering if everything is okay with you,” I started. “We’ve been at one another’s throats lately, and usually you aren’t so quick to anger.”
“Yeah,” he started with a nod. “I can’t explain it but my fuse seems to be pretty short lately. Shorter than it usually is.”
“And it seemed to get worse once I got the dog.”
“You shouldn’t have let him in the house,” Ryan said with a curt nod as he shook his head and downed the rest of his beer.
“I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Ryan,” I told him. “I’ve got a job to do here.”
“Yep, I know,” he said as he poured himself another beer. “Tonight was supposed to be fun,” he added.
“Yes, it was. So, can we try to have a good time tonight? All this stuff will still be here tomorrow to discuss, right?”
“I guess so,” Ryan answered but I could tell by his response that he was hurt. I decided it might be best to change the subject.
“There’s a spirit in the back of the room,” I started, immediately getting Ryan’s attention. “He’s been staring at me since we got here.”
“Why is he staring at you?”
“I don’t know, but I feel like maybe I should go talk to him.” I took a breath.
He stared down at his amber beer and took a few more gulps of it. Then he set it down on the table, licking his beer mustache away before facing me again. “You think talking to him is a good idea? I mean, what if he’s a demon or a bad entity or something like that?”
“That’s why I came here, right?” I asked. “To talk to the spirits to find out what they might know about the robberies, the deceased children or the witch with the licorice?”
“That’s why we came here,” Christopher corrected as he appeared beside me. I slid over to allow him space. He remained standing. “But remember some spirits are doomed to act out their malicious intent,” he continued . “And many times misery seeks company.”
“Which is why you shouldn’t talk to him,” Ryan added.
“I think I might have to if I want answers.”
“Whom are you discussing?” Christopher asked as he swept his cloak aside and sat down with great flourish. “Did you see someone worth speaking to?”
I tilted my chin, just enough to turn his attention towards the spirit.
“Oh, ahem,” he cleared his throat as he appeared to immediately recognize the ghost.
“Is he important?” I asked in a low tone.
“Quite so, Peyton, quite so,” Christopher answered with a brief nod. He started to stand, pulling his cape with him. “We shall make introductions.”
“I haven’t finished my beer,” Ryan noted.
Christopher looked at him with reproach. “The mundane stays,” he announced.
Ryan looked at me, and I looked at Christopher. “Why is that?” I asked, frowning. “We could just wait until Ryan finishes his beer.”
Christopher shook his head. “Spirits do not respect those who disrespect them,” he responded with a deadpan expression.
“I guess he has a point,” I said as I looked at Ryan and shrugged.
“It’s not that I disrespect them,” he started.
“It’s just that you’re not entirely convinced you believe in all of this?” I finished for him with a laugh.
“I’ll keep an eye on you from over here,” Ryan said and I nodded as I took Christopher’s hand. We politely made our way through the crowd that suddenly appeared around us as if they’d just popped into existence and filled in as soon as we stood up. I also wondered if the crowd were alive and breathing or composed of ectoplasm. Not that it mattered.
As we approached the spirit, I couldn’t take my eyes away from him and likewise, he continued to watch me. He looked three-dimensional and fleshy. I’d never suspect he was a spirit if not for his strange outfit. I suddenly understood why Catherine had such a problem trying to decipher the living from the dead in this place.
But, back to the spirit… As we approached him, my mind ran amok with questions. What secrets did he know? What had he seen during his time here? Was that bitterness in his expression? Or was it self-importance? Christopher appeared jovial compared to this spirit, and that was saying something.
Before we could come any closer, a man suddenly materialized in front of us, as if he literally sprouted from the floor below. He intentionally blocked our path. He was bald with roaming, steel eyes, wearing a frilly, white, pirate shirt, similar to Christopher’s, only his was yellow and stained from years of filth and grime.
“Whaddya want, huh?”
“I heard the introductions, warlock. Now I’ma ask you again, whaddya want?”
“Ahem.” It was the spirit of the owner, who appeared directly beside his henchman.
I froze, sensing his incredible energy.
“Me apologies, Cap’n,” the bald man said, backing away. “I din’t mean nothin’ by it.”
The bald man disappeared. The spirit of the captain stood in front of us, arms crossed. He had wet strands of shoulder-length black hair that reflected the light. “Peyton Clark, I presume? The woman who harbors spirits inside herself and endows them with second life?” He spoke with a heavy French accent that instantly reminded me of Drake.
My eyes widened in surprise. “How did you know?”
The captain laughed. “There is very little of which I am unaware.”
“Offer your hand,” Christopher whispered to me from the corner of his mouth.
I obeyed his order and the captain immediately clasped it, bending low to plant a cold kiss on the back of it. When he stood up again, he continued to hold my hand and stared at me as though he could see right through me. For all I knew, he could.
“Feel free to release your tongue,” he said with a broad smile. “I can see all the questions brewing in your eyes.”
“Who are you?” I blurted out as Christopher sucked in a breath.
“My name is Captain Jean Lafitte. Have you heard of me?”
My eyes nearly bugged out of my head for the second time in the course of ten minutes. “The Jean Lafitte?” I asked, in unconcealed awe.
The captain chuckled. “Ah! So you have heard of me?”
“Heard of you?” I repeated and Christopher shook his head beside me, no doubt embarrassed by my fangirl moment. “I’ve read all about you!” I finished.
Jean took a step closer to me until we stood eye-to-eye. “And tell me what you have learned.” Then he thought better of it and took my arm. “Non, let us retire beside the fireplace as I enjoy its cheery warmth.”
As we started forward, he shook his head at Christopher. “I prefer the company of the lady, dear sir, alone.”
Christopher appeared to be affronted but there wasn’t much he could say or do. He simply nodded and returned to the table with Ryan, who offered him a glass of beer. Surprisingly, Christopher accepted it.
My attention was fastened on Jean as he led me to a table beside the fireplace. As I glanced around, I noticed the crowd vanished again, including Ryan and Christopher. Now, it was just the pirate captain and me. I sensed Jean was controlling the situation around us, allowing me to see the crowd whenever he chose.
A server was waiting for us when we reached the table—another spirit. She had African American roots and was dressed like Lovie, in a white, ruffled skirt that was stiffly bulbous. Her turban was a rich green, and she wore a brown vest over the flowing white shirt. She looked elegant, and she held herself with a grace and dignity that befitted her. Carrying a platter with two cups of what appeared to be absinthe, a bright green liquid, and a glass of sugar cubes along with a single glass of water and two spoons. Saying nothing, she merely nodded at the captain, and deposited the tray on the table before she disappeared.
“You’re able to drink?” I asked, motioning to the glass I held
in my hand as I inspected it. I felt the cold drink inside it and the glass seemed solid and real.
“In the spiritual realm, I can do anything,” Lafitte answered as he gave me a wicked expression and I understood the sexual connotation behind his words. “Now, tell me everything you know of me.”
I took a deep breath and hoped I could remember all the facts I learned about him. As someone who prided herself on the histories of various antiques, both paranormal and not, I thought it was important for me to learn the history of New Orleans, itself. Jean Lafitte was as well-known in New Orleans history as Marie Laveau. “You were a French pirate, pillaging the Gulf of Mexico in the early nineteenth century and the year you were born was 1780. Am I correct?”
“Oui.”
In the early 1800s, you operated a warehouse in New Orleans, the same building we are now standing in, and you used it as a front to distribute smuggled goods with your brother. When the US Navy captured most of your fleet, you collaborated with Andrew Jackson, negotiating pardons for you and your men if you helped him defend New Orleans against the British during the War of 1812.” I took a deep breath.
Lafitte smiled broadly. “Three weeks after that meeting, we easily repelled the British when they advanced up the Mississippi River, thus ending the War of 1812. If Jackson had not recruited my help, who can say how the war would have ended?”
“I think we both know the answer to that question,” I said with a smile as I tried to remember the proper way to drink absinthe. It had to be diluted, hence the glass of water the waitress provided.
I picked up one of the cubes of sugar, placing it in one of the spoons and held it over the glass of absinthe. Next, I picked up an extra spoon, placing it in the water and then dripping the water on top of the sugar cube until the sugar dissolved. I sampled the absinthe and made a sour face.
Lafitte laughed and joined me in partaking, only he did away with the sugar and the water and drank the green liquid straight from the vessel. Clearly, Lafitte was a man’s man, a little ratty with a sly smile. He was also one of the most powerful spirits I’d ever seen, capable of controlling whether or not I saw the crowd around us, able to move objects with little effort, and he had no problem appearing to sensitives like myself.
If You've Got It, Haunt It: A ghost romance (The Peyton Clark Series Book 4) Page 16