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The voices were soft and garbled, as if they were being spoken through murky water.
“Peyton, ma minette. Dear God, dear God. Non, non, non, non...”
“Wake up!” Maggie’s voice pierced the darkness and brought me back from the comfort of wherever I’d just been.
I blinked as the blaring light assaulted my vision. But that was soon blocked by two heads—one Maggie’s and the other Drake’s. I turned to the side and saw I was lying on something soft, a pillow or a blanket. My body was still too sore to move and I felt like I’d been run over by a Mack truck. Maybe I was?
“She is dying,” Drake said, his voice now clearer than before. His eyes were solemn pools of brown concern. “There is blood all over her face.”
“She’s not dying,” Maggie argued as she reached out and rubbed my forehead. “And I don’t think that blood is hers.”
“Then whose is it?”
“Who knows?” Maggie shrugged. “But as long as it’s someone else’s, we don’t have to worry!”
“Oui, I suppose,” Drake said as he brought his hand to his forehead and shook his head. “She must have medical care soon before her condition grows worse.”
“Um, I think… I think she’s just got a really bad hangover.”
“Non, I have never seen a hangover such as this!” Drake countered, shaking his head more vigorously. “There is much more going on, and you are too young and naive to judge the situation properly.”
“What? Too young, huh? I found a banishing spell in the storage room, and so help me God...”
“STOP!” he yelled.
I almost gasped in my throat. Drake never yelled before.
“She is badly hurt and in need of medical attention, and neither you, nor le barbare, nor the witches—nor anyone else can stop me from getting her the help she so badly requires!”
Le barbare… Ryan.
Where was he? Last I remembered, we were… where were we? At The Old Absinthe House. Then we left in his truck and went… God, where did we go? I was fairly sure we drove to his house but I couldn’t remember now.
So, where was Ryan now?
“Ryan,” I whispered but no one heard me.
“I think you need to calm down, Drake. We must be rational so we can figure out what to do,” Maggie explained. “I’m pretty sure this is just a mean hangover because I can smell the alcohol on her breath and we both know she spent last evening at that bar with Ryan.”
“You are clouding my judgment with your incessant, inane comments!” he railed at her as she frowned her reply. “You must sit down and shut your mouth, so I may determine what is going on here before I turn into a poltergeist.”
“Hmmph.”
“You think I won’t throw that lamp at you? One more word, l’ enfant.”
“Sorry,” Maggie said, “Geez, you’re so dramatic.”
But Drake’s attention was no longer on her. He stared intently at me. “Ma minette, I need to know everything that happened. Can you hear me?”
Something cold pressed against my skin—icy and merciless. Drake was looking down at me with unconcealed fear in his expression. Maggie dabbed my face with a cold washrag. When she pulled the washrag away, it was tinged with red.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I... don’t,” I started.
“I can’t hear you, ma minette. You need to speak louder.”
I doubted I could. My throat was so dry, it felt like sandpaper inside my windpipe.
“I do—I don’t know... wha... wha... happened...”
“I think this is the result of street drugs,” Maggie said, inhaling deeply. “Maybe she got roofied at the bar or something?”
“Roofied?” Drake repeated in bewilderment, clearly not understanding the term.
“What did you take?” Maggie demanded. “Did someone give you something, Peyton? Where was Ryan last night? Where is he now?”
My heart dropped at hearing they did not know where Ryan was either. “Don’t know,” I choked out.
I also didn’t know why I blacked out and awoke in the garden. But Drake and Maggie were relentless. They fired question after question at me that I couldn’t answer. Everything from where we went after we left The Old Absinthe House to whether or not Ryan could be responsible for my waking up in the garden. I was sure I could not blame Ryan for my current dilemma, which triggered another concern.
Where could Ryan possibly be? Did something happen to him? Was he okay?
I tried to open my mouth to ask someone until I got dizzy again and the darkness encroached on my peripheral vision. Strangely to me, I welcomed the darkness. It was so enticing and simple. I felt as if I belonged with it, in a place where nothing existed—no thoughts, no voices—just sweet darkness and eternal slumber.
Mon chaton, Drake said, his words cutting straight through my blissful thoughts.
I looked up at him and fought to sit up. Maggie assisted me. Once I was upright, I saw I was on the couch in the living room with a blanket thrown over my body. Drake was hovering around in nervous circles a few feet away, and I found it irritating. I didn’t have the energy to deal with him right now, or anyone else. I was simply too tired.
This is not a hangover. You are afflicted with something else, Drake told me in thought.
I agree, I responded, unsettled by my own words. Then I faced Maggie. “Ryan?” I started to ask.
“I tried to call him like a million times since we found you on the porch but he’s not picking up his phone,” Maggie answered.
At the sound of scratching, I turned my head and saw Daschel running into the room with a sense of purpose. He headed straight for me and sat down by the couch, placing his head on the couch beside me. There was something about the way he whined, which indicated I was in a very bad way.
“Call… Lovie,” I whispered.
Maggie nodded and put the phone to her ear, disappearing down the hall.
Chapter Nineteen
“Did you… reach out… to Christopher?” I asked as I sat at the kitchen table with Daschel at my feet. A fretful Drake was hovering back and forth at my side. Maggie stood in front of the sink, filling a tea kettle with water. She turned off the faucet and set it on the stove.
“Why should we call him?” Drake asked as Maggie searched through the cabinet.
Drake was still eager to hear the rest of the story, being unsatisfied with my explanation. But all I could remember was going to the bar and waking up in the backyard.
“Christopher… was with… us,” I answered, finding it slightly less difficult to speak even though my throat still felt raw. My exhaustion nearly made me fall asleep at the table twice. The only reason I was still upright was because of Maggie. She thought if I drank some tea and tried to eat something, I might feel better.
“Maybe Christopher might know something,” Maggie filled in as I nodded. “I can call him if you want,” she said before turning to look at me. “Obviously I don’t have his number since I don’t even know who he is.”
“Right,” I said, wondering if I had Christopher’s number in my phone. Usually I reached him through Lovie more often than not, although I mostly tried to avoid him. “Do you have… my phone?” I asked. I wanted to try Ryan again. He wasn’t picking up Maggie’s calls but I hoped he’d pick up mine.
“I don’t and I haven’t seen it or your purse,” she answered as she reached into the cupboard above the stove, where my tea collection filled the shelves. Near the bottom was a lavender box with a sunny chamomile flower on the front. She reached for it before taking the steaming kettle off the flame and pouring me a cup of tea. “It might be in the backyard. I will check in a sec.”
“Non, l’ enfant, you are not going out there, and neither is Peyton. It is not safe.”
“Will you tell him to stop calling me that please?” Maggie asked as she faced me. “It’s really annoying.”
“Drake,” I said.
Drake grumbled something I couldn’t u
nderstand and I raised my eyebrows at him to which he nodded grumpily.
Daschel stood up, his side pressing against my leg before releasing a resounding bark. He barked again, and I was forced to cover my ears. Loud noises were a painful problem; the same with light. The clang of the doorbell reverberating through the house was enough to make me wish I could die.
“I’ll get it!” Maggie yelled as she handed me the tea and walked out to answer the door. Daschel followed, barking the whole way. When the dog left my side, I felt more winded than before. I had to put the cup of tea down on the table as I fought to catch my breath. I heard the sound of the door opening, and Daschel went wild, growling and almost howling.
“Get!” Angharad yelled, “Get away!”
“Maggie, get… the dog!” I called out.
There was a shrill howl and quite a bit of shuffling and growling. Every sound scraped against my eardrums. Some were deafening and my head pounded like a kid with his first drum set.
Angharad and Lovie appeared in the kitchen and I could hear Daschel continuing to bark as Maggie tried to soothe him in the other room.
“Peyton,” Lovie said as she rushed over to me, her arms outstretched. Hugs were little comfort, though. I still felt like shit.
“Thanks… for coming,” I said.
“Of course!” Lovie sang back to me.
“She was out on the patio when we found her,” Maggie explained to Angharad and Lovie. “And there was blood on her face. At least, I think it was blood because it was red. It looked like someone drew a cross on her forehead.”
“Hmm,” Lovie said as she brought her hand to her chin and studied me.
“Black magic,” Angharad said, sucking in a breath and shaking her head.
“Will… you check on… Ryan? Can’t… reach him.”
“Yes, we will,” Lovie said as she put her hand on my shoulder. “Just as soon as we figure out what’s goin’ on with you.”
Angharad walked with a limp, and her feet clunked over the wooden floor, beating in time with my heart. She picked up my mug and sniffed it.
“What’s this?”
“Chamomile tea,” Maggie said as she appeared in the doorway. I could hear Daschel scratching the door to her bedroom before barking to be let out.
“Disgusting!” Angharad threw the hot liquid into the sink as she faced Maggie. “And keep that mongrel away from me! Where did he come from anyway?”
Maggie shrugged, her eyes wide. “He just showed up one day so we adopted him.”
“Ma minette was drinking that tea,” Drake muttered as Angharad glared at him.
“And it won’t do a damn thing for her,” she said as she pushed past Maggie to get to the stove. She produced a packet of herbs from a large messenger-style bag she wore and added them to the mug before lighting one of the stove burners by pointing at it. The kettle on top began to whistle almost immediately and Angharad lifted it, pouring the boiling water over the mixture. She allowed the mixture to steep for a minute or two before she turned around and handed it to me. It looked like grass cuttings from her lawn that she dumped into my cup. And it smelled… weird.
“What… is this?” I asked.
“It will help you talk. You sound like you’ve been munching on broken glass.”
I nodded because that’s exactly what my throat felt like. I swigged the concoction down in a few gulps. It scalded my tongue, and left a bitter aftertaste. But, within seconds, I could lift my head and keep my eyes open without trying so hard. And my throat wasn’t burning quite as much.
Lovie sat next to me and took my hand as she stared into my eyes as if she could read my inner self. At the touch of her soft, papery skin, the tension begin to drain from me. Her presence was calming, but I knew something was very wrong with me. I was still weak, and the pain was starting to come back.
“I don’t know what they did to ya,” Lovie said, “but you’re under the protection of a powerful witch an’ voodoo priestess now. You’re gonna be okay, Peyton.”
“What happened?” Angharad asked. Her voice was too loud. It hurt my ears.
“Ryan and I… went to The… Old Absinthe House with… Christopher,” I started and little by little my voice regained its usual cadence, minus the broken glass.
“Who is Christopher anyway?” Maggie asked.
“He’s my friend, dear,” Lovie answered. “An’ he’s a warlock. Once he found out Peyton was headed for The Old Absinthe House, he decided to tag along to keep her safe.”
I wasn’t sure if keeping me safe were the real reason why Christopher tagged along and I had a feeling when I received his bill, I’d be in for an unpleasant surprise.
“When… we got to the bar, I met… and spoke with the owner, Jean Lafitte,” I continued.
Lovie sat back at hearing this information, nodding as if she knew something I didn’t. “Lafitte…” she said with an audible sigh.
“Jean Lafitte?!” Drake asked, sounding awed. “The Jean Lafitte?”
“What’s all the fuss about him?” Maggie asked.
Angharad said nothing, I noticed.
“He’s the most famous pirate in New Orleans history,” Drake responded. “And he happens to be French!”
“Lafitte is no spirit I would choose to associate with,” Lovie interrupted Drake as she turned to face me again. “In fact—Christopher could have warned you of Lafitte’s reputation.”
“Christopher wasn’t… much help,” I said with a shrug. “And, besides, Lafitte… wasn’t so bad. Unfortunately though, he offered… nothing I could use.” I took a breath. “But I’m pretty sure he knows… a lot more than… he indicated.”
“Did ya take anythin’ from him?” Lovie asked with a concerned expression.
“Take anything… from him?” I repeated, feeling more confused.
“Did he give ya anything that you accepted?”
“Does alcohol count?”
“Uh-oh,” Maggie said at the same time that Lovie frowned and inhaled deeply.
“What type of alcohol did he give ya an’ did ya drink it?” she asked.
“Absinthe,” I answered. “And, yes, I did.”
“Uh-oh,” Maggie said again, this time in a deeper tone.
“Okay,” Lovie started, “Maggie, please call Christopher. You’ll find his information in my contacts,” she said as she handed Maggie her phone. “Tell ‘em I told ya to call. I want to make sure he’s safe. You,” she pointed at me, “what were ya thinkin’, by acceptin’ somethin’ Lafitte offered you?”
“Well, I,” I started to defend myself, somewhat surprised at her annoyed tone. “I didn’t know… not to.”
“Did Christopher drink it too?” Lovie continued.
“Well, no, but that was only because Lafitte didn’t invite him to the table with us.”
“Stupid, stupid,” she said as she shook her head. Then she looked up at me with a pronounced sigh. “Have ya never heard o’ wormwood, Peyton?”
“It’s an ingredient in absinthe,” I answered.
Lovie nodded. “An’ more importantly, it can be charged with whatever purpose ya want to give to it. There’s no tellin’ what Lafitte did to it—an’ who served it to ya? Lafitte, himself?”
“Well, no,” I answered. “A spirit served us.”
“A spirit?” she repeated. “What did the spirit look like?”
“She was dressed… kind of like you.”
“Was she Creole, then?” Lovie asked.
“Um… I mean… I guess so? Probably?” I answered.
Lovie shook her head again and it seemed the situation only got worse. “How old was the spirit?”
“Um,” I rested a hand on my forehead, and let it slide through my hair as I struggled to sift through the images in my mind. There were so many and most made little sense to me. But, then I remembered the waitress and what stood out the most: her turban, which was properly called a tignon. African-American, Creole women were once required to wear them in New Orleans becau
se their skin was so pale, they passed for white people.
“The early to… mid-1800s, I think. I couldn’t… tell for certain.”
That seemed to frustrate Lovie even more. She stood up and rested a hand on the side of the table, looking down at me. “I’m Creole,” Lovie said. “My mother an’ her mother were Creole, an’ so was my great-grandmother. We’re part of a long lineage that can be traced directly back to the Ivory Coast—where the voodoo all began.”
“Wow,” Maggie said. Then she added: “By the way, Christopher is fine.” She looked at me. “Not very polite though.”
I just nodded.
“Good, thank you, Maggie,” Lovie said as she faced me again. “Female voodoo practitioners during that time were called priestesses an’ queens. They were worshipped in public rituals by the thousands. These voodoo priestesses were leaders in their community, an’ powerful enough that they didn’t have to lie about who they were. Their strong magic was legendary… an’ you took absinthe from one o’ them—an’ God help me!”
The conversation then shifted to learning what actually occurred after I came back from the bar. Maggie led Lovie out into the garden so Lovie could inspect the spot where I woke up. I asked Maggie to look for my phone and purse while she was out there and she consented. That left me alone in the kitchen with Angharad and Drake.
The old witch produced a magnifying glass and measuring tape before instructing me to stand. She had to examine me for any signs of enchantments. How the magnifying glass and measuring tape could detect any enchantments was beyond me, but I did as I was instructed, all the same. Drake watched, directing her to study different areas of my body. Angharad completely ignored him until she tried to lift my shirt, and he squeezed himself between us.
“Vieille, I hardly think that’s necessary.”
“Don’t you call me old woman, ghosty,” she said, swatting him away like a fly. “I’ll hex you right into the next dimension, you get in my way again. You got that?”
He jumped back, and I gave her a sharp glare.
“He’s only trying to protect me.”
“Well, he’s a damn nuisance,” she said as the magnifying glass and measuring tape flowed up her long sleeves and lost themselves in the folds of her many shawls. “If I were you, I would’ve banished him the moment I sensed him.”
If You've Got It, Haunt It: A ghost romance (The Peyton Clark Series Book 4) Page 18