Dark Lily: Shadows, Book 4 (2 page)

“I don’t know.” Her fingers tightened again. “Will you do it, Mitchell? Will you help her? Watch out for her as a favor to me?”

Across the poorly lit room, the ham-handed man shook Mitchell’s slot machine and growled. Behind him, several glasses hit the floor.

Mitchell took it all in and let his gaze wander through the dimly lit tables with their collection of unsavory occupants. His gut told him Henry Jenson would find a way to come back and nail Mitchell’s butt to the Stone family tree if he agreed to this. But then again, wasn’t that exactly what old Henry had done when he’d died?

So thwarting the old man wasn’t really the issue here. Leshad was. And, oh yeah, he knew that name all right. Twenty-four murders later, there were few cops in the country, active or not, who didn’t. The guy was vicious, sociopathic and crazy as hell. Only a fool would get mixed up in this nightmare.

“Mitchell!”

He returned his attention to Phoebe’s face and swore when his conscience kicked in. “I’ll do what I can,” he told her. “On one condition.”

“What is it? What’s the condition?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she released a tired breath. “Just tell me. What do you want in return?”

Reaching across the table, he trapped her chin. “I want you to tell me, no bullshit, why you really came to me tonight.”

Chapter Three

Her dreams were lurid, always had been. After twenty-six years of nighttime chaos, Gaby viewed sleep as a thing to be endured more than a period of rest.

She’d woken up this morning after watching a man with no face, only a black cape, perfectly manicured fingernails and a really big knife, gouge an old woman’s eyes from their sockets. It had taken her the better part of the day to push the grisly image away, and even then, it lurked in a corner of her mind. That left her with two choices. Keep pushing it away, or react as she usually did. Accept what she’d seen and open herself to it.

Going with the second option meant she currently sat cross-legged on a sagging bayou verandah in the sweltering heat of late summer, sketching the woman who’d been attacked.

“It’s like I’m recreating a scene from
The Birds
, only not,” she murmured as the ravaged features took shape. “Why do you people always come to my nightmares to die?”

“Ever occur to you, they might be trying to pass along a message?”

The shrewd female voice from the doorway didn’t startle Gaby, but it did make her stop and cock her head at the sketch. “I think whoever this old woman was, she looked mostly dead long before she lost her eyes. She must have been over a hundred when she passed.”

“Probably she was.” The speaker walked around, flexing the gnarled fingers of her left hand. “My joints been telling me there’s bad weather coming for two days now. Also, that boy, Harley Ficket, set fire to another wood shed last night.”

“Harley Ficket’s pyromaniac bent has more to do with the phases of the moon than an approaching storm, Celia. And that’s assuming you believe in things like lunar cycles and wet-weather affectation of joints.”

Gaby swore she could feel Celia’s gaze boring into the back of her head. “You sure we’re speaking the same language here?”

“Close enough to it.” Gaby drew thin, scraggy hair and sighed. “Honest to God, I have no idea why I’m doing this. I can’t sell it, and who but me would even want to look at it? Actually, I’m not sure I’ll even look at it once it’s done. Maybe I’m losing what’s left of my mind. What time is it?”

“Sun’s gone behind a bunch of nasty black clouds, but I’d say maybe five, six o’clock. You keeping the shop open late tonight?”

“Depends on the traffic and those nasty black clouds.” Setting the pad aside, Gaby wiped her smudged hands on a rag. “Tourist numbers have been increasing some lately. Could be when people hear we’ve hired an honest-to-God police chief, the riverboat’ll fill up, and we’ll all get rich.”

Celia chuckled. “You keep thinking that, Gaby doll. Me, I only hope my old house still has a roof on it after the storm I’m feeling in my bones blows through.”

Gaby rose to stretch. “On that note, I’m going to pack up my hideous sketch and head into town. See whether the Lily made or lost money today. If I’m in the black, I might have a drink and play poker with Jassy Ficket before she and her cousin do their nightly mud-wrestling thing.”

“Helluva a way to keep people ordering liquor.”

“Needs must, especially when every third person on the island cooks up their own moonshine.”

Celia aimed a stern finger at Gaby’s face. “You should do readings for tourists who show an inclination to spend the night. Offer to take ’em on ghost walks like they do in New Orleans.”

“I already offer readings and tours as part of the service at the Lily. Haven’t you seen my brochures?” Celia’s answering snort made her grin. “I can only do so much, you know that. You want people born here not to move away and curious visitors to stay more than a day, you have to make them feel welcome. And safe. Like there’s something worth not moving away from and staying for that doesn’t involve having the bejesus scared out of them with supernatural events that sometimes feel a little too real. And then there’s the not-for-tourist voodoo rites and rituals that you and I both know go on in the swamp. I’ve come up against more than one line that shouldn’t be crossed on this island.”

An arthritic finger motioned for Gaby to regard a pair of solemn brown eyes. “You take away the hope of witnessing magic,” Celia said, “and you kiss the money that’s finally starting to trickle in goodbye. Then what do you have left? I’ll tell you what. A lot of hungry bellies and more trouble than any who have no choice but to go on living here know what to do with. Is my meaning getting through to you, young Gaby?”

“You want me to ramp up my stock of voodoo paraphernalia and tell ghost stories so compelling that people will be scrambling to book into our nightmarish excuse for a hotel. A similar idea was mentioned at the last town council meeting. Of course, it included a lot of smoke, mirrors and a few rather macabre preferences.”

Celia made a dismissive sound. “Half that council’s stuck in a money-mad time warp. They’d burn witches for profit if they thought it would do the trick. The other half just wanna drink themselves into a stupor and pretend nothing’s wrong.”

“It’s what happens to people who never leave a place. Most of the council members really do believe the island’s haunted, and they’re all convinced it’s hexed. Harley Ficket? He’s possessed. And ever since Nedra Lamar went to her grave six days ago, everyone she knew has been expecting to find her in a shadowy corner of the hotel tearoom, petting her cat and staring down unsuspecting customers.”

Celia shrugged. “Nedra liked to watch people. Ain’t no crime in that.”

“There was when the servers told nervous patrons that the scary lady in the corner looked most favorably on folks who scattered bills and coins on the table before they left.”

“I do believe that old harpy could’ve frightened the devil himself.” Smiling fondly, Celia watched a large black beetle crawl up the porch rail. “Third bug like that I’ve seen since my joints started paining me. Trouble’s on the horizon, Gabrielle.”

“Trouble and a late summer storm. When you toss in the dream I had about a woman with the gouged-out eyes, it doesn’t bode well for the coming night.”

Celia’s gaze strayed to the sluggish water behind her home. “That woman you dreamed about was Madeleine,” she said softly. “Madeleine Lessard.”

Gaby was both surprised—although she probably shouldn’t have been—and curious. The name rang a distant bell. She frowned at her sketch. “You know this woman? Personally?”

“She was my friend.”

“She— Why didn’t you say so before?”

“Wasn’t sure I wanted to say so at all. Now you tell me, Gaby doll. Why’d you come here to Bokur Island when you had such a fine life going on in California?”

“It was suggested that my life might not continue to be so fine due to the circumstances of my birth.”

“Your Auntie Tallulah told you that, didn’t she?”

“Yep.”

“When she was alive or after she died?”

Gaby smiled. “Door number two. You know as well as I do that dead’s not a particular deterrent for me. She said she’d been killed, in a roundabout way, by a madman with a streak of pure evil in his soul. If evil madmen actually have souls.”

“This madman you’re speaking about had your Auntie Tallulah and her sister, Twila, murdered.”

Something colder than ice flowed through Gaby’s veins. “I know, Celia. I also know I was out of state when both of those murders occurred.”

“You were off-continent, Gaby, half a world away.”

The smile only made it to Gaby’s lips. “Thanks for that.” She glanced at the lowering clouds, then over at the crawling beetle. “Are you circling around a point here, or are we going to play Twenty Questions?”

The older woman shook her head. “You’re still so young and linear.”

Exasperation swept in. “I see ghosts, Celia, and more than that sometimes. I moved from coast to coast on the advice of my dead aunt. No worthy explanations, just a leap of faith. How can you call that linear?”

“Because you go from point A to point B with no side trips.”

“Well, I did ask her why.”

“And she said?”

“That I’d be stronger if I was closer to the source of what was, what is and what will be. Which is pretty much as cryptic as answers come. So I pushed her for more, and she finally told me that I was born in the bayou. When I told her I remembered that, she got even more cryptic. She said her
suggestion
had to do with the roots of my very complex family tree, and that one day I’d understand what she meant. For the moment, however, I was simply supposed to take it from her, ditch my lucrative career and move to Bokur Island. Don’t mention it to anyone, she said, just go. Quietly.”

Celia beamed as if she were enormously pleased. “Long story short, you trusted a woman you loved, and here you are.”

“Here I am.” Gaby picked up her oversized bag, swung it onto her shoulder. “But not on Tallulah’s word alone. My dreams also directed me to the island. And, while I was waffling, Twila weighed in.”

“Your Aunt Tallulah wasn’t as powerful as her sister.”

“My honorary aunt, who took charge of me and made sure I got a good home. I’ve always known that the people who raised me weren’t the ones who gave me life.”

“Only everything else.”

Gaby sent her friend a humorous look. “They’re why I’m so well adjusted in spite of the fact that I’m different from anyone I know.” She shrugged. “In the end, that difference is probably why I took Tallulah’s advice. It’s starting to rain. Enjoy your solitude, Celia. I’ll have a shot of bourbon in your honor while I’m whipping Jassy Ficket’s ass at five-card stud.”

“You drive safe,” Celia warned as the rain came down harder and wind began to blow the Spanish moss around like baby whips. “Don’t go by the main road.”

“But I like…” Gaby halted when she saw Celia’s resolute expression and changed her protest to a nod.

After all, Bokur Island was where Celia Beauchamp had been born. It was also where she’d died.

* * * * *

Seasick. The Creole riverboat captain called it
mal de mer
and laughed his way to the bridge.

Ignoring him, Mitchell worked on surviving the nightmarish journey. The boat, a ferry that could, if squeezed, hold twenty vehicles, probably ran slow and easy most days. Unfortunately, there was a summer storm raging in the bayou. Everything on the water pitched and rolled, including Mitchell’s stomach. He might not eat, drink or even stand up ever again.

“Y’all are gonna need to be extra careful on the drive to town.” The captain paused during one of his rounds to lean in the window of Mitchell’s Jeep Wrangler. He gave the well a pat. “This be one fine set of wheels you got here. Wouldn’t want ’em to wind up in a bog.”

He had a gap between his front teeth, a bowed body and blotchy, careworn features that, if nothing else, gave Mitchell something to fixate on besides his raw stomach.

The man shook his head. “You won’t be finding no place for sleeping as fancy as this piece of machinery on Bokur Island. No, sir, you surely won’t.”

“Any flat surface’ll do,” Mitchell told him. “How long ’til we dock?”

The captain screwed up his face. “Wind’s blowing against us. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes
, Mitchell thought. He’d spent five nights in a New Orleans Dumpster back when he’d been a rookie. He could survive another fifteen minutes on choppy water.

“Engine’s making a funny noise.” Turning an ear downward, the captain attempted to listen. “Possible the spirits are taking exception to more snoopy strangers arriving on Bokur.”

Mitchell raised a brow. “Snoopy or snotty?”

“Some of both, I guess. For people needing money, tourist dollars are always welcome. But no spirit ever needed money, now did it?”

“You haven’t met my grandfather.” Mitchell regarded him, frowning. “Are you telling me you believe the island’s haunted?”

“Well, of course it’s haunted. Mind, that don’t mean you’ll be tripping over spooks and bogeys. It ain’t that kind of haunting. Here’s mostly a laissez-faire existence. Unless you rile or cross paths with the wrong specter.” He scratched his neck. “Ain’t you ever beheld a ghost before?”

Mitchell thought of his newly acquired blues club and all the smashed glass on the storeroom floor. “I might have. Once or twice.”

“Well, there you are then. If a fella knows what’s what going in, he’s got nothing to worry about.”

Nothing except keeping down the gumbo he’d foolishly eaten for dinner.

Sitting back for the remainder of the trip, Mitchell watched misshapen trees on both shores grow dark and menacing. Giant roots humped out of the water, mere inches below the delicate tips of Spanish moss that waved like shredded curtains from every limb and branch in sight.

Phoebe had pumped a whack of information into his brain three days ago, including the name of a man he’d previously only heard in whispers. Crucible.

It was all about territory and hierarchies in the world of law and order. City cops and government agents didn’t tend to mix well. Label the agent in question a phantom, tack on a small group of shadowy superiors—directors, Phoebe had called them—and the animosity level would surely reach unparalleled heights.

Crucible had apparently been dogging Leshad for the past eighteen months, ever since Phoebe’s mother, Madeleine Lessard, had been brutally murdered. The woman had already been blind when Leshad had stabbed her, but that hadn’t stopped him from digging her eyeballs from their sockets. He’d left behind a rudimentary voodoo doll fashioned in the likeness of his victim and a calling card bearing the eerie silhouette of a man. Then he’d moved on.

Madeleine Lessard’s death had been the first in what would ultimately become a long string of murders. Phoebe claimed it was the psychic connection that kept Leshad going, kept him killing. Thanks to her guilt trip, a similar connection now had Mitchell surviving a storm-tossed trip on a rocking bayou boat. His mother and her Catholic conscience had a great deal to answer for.

The docking on Bokur was no less brutal than the final leg of the trip. Mitchell’s stomach continued to churn long after he made his way down the gangplank and onto a mud and gravel road that had no direction signs and wound back on itself as often as it ran straight. It broadened eventually into a strip of asphalt almost wide enough for two vehicles to pass. There were still no signs to be had, but he suspected it was all about increments on this island.