Authors: Erin McCarthy
The Taking (29 page)
Felix stared at the necklace, rocking back and forth as it dangled in Regan’s grip, and he was speechless. It was such a simple thing to do, yet no one ever did anything for him. Never. Not in a hundred years had anyone walked into a store with him in mind and gotten him a gift. No one had even noticed the nuances of his likes and dislikes, in clothing, food, sex, anything, and yet Regan had. Overwhelmed, he realized that he had just fallen completely and totally in love with her.
She cared about him, and it was the most amazing feeling he’d ever had in his life. He wanted to hold it close and never let it go.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly, taking the chain from her. Walking over to the nightstand, he picked up his cross and threaded the chain through the hole. Another second and he had it back around his neck. Turning to her, he asked, “Ready to eat?”
She nodded, adjusting the scarf around her neck.
Funny that they had both given each other something worn around the neck. Were the gifts a binding of their relationship? He tried to ignore the uneasiness that crept over him, the feeling that maybe he wasn’t that different from Alcroft. Did love always result in greed? Wanting to own another person’s affections, projected emotions a noose around the neck.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought and he shoved it aside.
“Don’t forget your purse,” he told her.
Unsure what to do with it, Felix slipped the wedding ring from Alcroft into his pocket when Regan turned to pick up her purse. If they sold it in a jewelry shop or on eBay, Felix wasn’t sure what effect it would have on the new wearer. He thought that the spell would have been intended solely for Regan, so if anyone else put the ring on, they would feel nothing, but he wanted to test the theory first before he created turmoil in some poor, unsuspecting newly engaged woman.
Regan stood up, too. “I went to the library today. I found out that Camille Comeaux died here, too.”
Felix paused. “Oh, really?” he asked, hoping he sounded curious enough to prevent her from being suspicious. Yet he didn’t want to discuss Camille’s death with Regan, now or ever.
“Yes. Just a few months after her family. She killed herself.”
“Wow. That’s terrible.” Felix clenched and unclenched his fists, a buzzing starting in his ears. He couldn’t talk about this, not even with Regan. He couldn’t admit that he was the only one who knew that Camille had not committed suicide.
“She flung herself off my balcony, the same one I was sitting on, Felix. Don’t you find that just a horrible coincidence?”
“Yes, that is a horrible coincidence. But it is the balcony right off the bedroom. It makes sense that’s where you wound up when you were sleepwalking.”
“She died with a
snake
around her neck. Isn’t that strange and awful?” Regan was losing color in her face as she got agitated, her hair falling out of its twist as she spoke emphatically.
snake
around her neck. Isn’t that strange and awful?” Regan was losing color in her face as she got agitated, her hair falling out of its twist as she spoke emphatically.
“Huh. That is strange and awful. But honey, she was dabbling in voodoo from what you’ve read in the journal. It doesn’t surprise me that she would want to use it under those circumstances.” He couldn’t bring himself to say suicide.
“Don’t you wonder what happened that night?” Regan flung her arms around. “Right here in this very room?”
No. Because he already knew.
Chapter Fifteen
Felix watched Camille dance naked, his body hardening in automatic response to the erotic vision of the once prim and proper daughter letting go of all her inhibitions and dancing to the rhythm of the drum.
He had watched her increasing agitation and growing madness over the months he had known her, and knew that she wasn’t really interested in voodoo. She merely liked the forbidden quality of it, the mystery of the language, the chants and spells and rituals that were so foreign and seemingly primitive to her wealthy ear, raised on subdued religion and sedate ballroom waltzes.
She had no idea the complexity of voodoo, the very real power it could wield, particularly in Felix’s hands now that he had the magic of immortality flowing through his veins. He had no intention of doing what she had requested for this evening—raising the spirits of her dead family. That would release a power so uncontrollable, Felix did not want to tangle with it. He was more voodoo magician than true houngan, and he had no desire to blur the lines between this world and the next.
What he wanted was simply to create a ceremony so seductive, so thrilling, that she would be appeased, that she would continue to pass her many coins over to him in vast quantities, that tonight she would finally allow him entrance into her body. He had plucked pieces of various ceremonies, with different meanings, and fused them together in random order to please Camille, but so they would have no consequences.
As she danced, candlelight flowing over her firm, dewy body, Felix began to chant in French.
Take me, keep me from death,
For if you kill me, it’s a crime,
Since it is the Great King of Ife,
Where mortals never go,
Who gives us the light of life.
For if you kill me, it’s a crime,
Since it is the Great King of Ife,
Where mortals never go,
Who gives us the light of life.
He enjoyed the power of the serpent, enjoyed holding its heavy, dry body in his hands, high above his head. It brought to mind the intriguing and vibrant voodoo ceremonies of his youth, those his mother took him to under strict instructions never to speak of them in front of his father. The secrecy added to the mystery of the elaborate rituals, filled with a language he didn’t understand and pleas to gods he didn’t recognize, and when the men had brought out the snakes and made them dance, rising like water with the spirit of the deceased initiates, his heart had pounded with the thrill of it.
Just like Camille’s heart raced now, her hands high, hair flying around her as she danced to the elemental rhythm of the beat of his foot on the wood floor.
“We call on the Saints to guide you, to answer our plea, in the name of all that is Holy.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw that one of the housemaids had opened the door a few inches and was watching hunched over, with wide eyes. It gave him a certain satisfaction, a feeling of defiant power, to have strolled in through the front door of the mansion tonight, coolly staring down all the servants, who had eyed him with total disapproval. As far as he was concerned, he had more right to enter through thefrontthan they did. He had the lineage on his father’s side, the savvy survivalist skills of his mother’s side, the wealth from his own business, and the power of never having to face death.
He would be in this room if he so chose.
Whipping the head of the snake around, he undulated it toward the door. “Danbaala-Wedo!” he chanted to the maid. “Join us, join us.”
She gasped and slammed the door shut.
Felix laughed. Invoking fear was intoxicating in and of itself, and he was doing nothing, a nonsense compilation of voodoo, and the power pleased him.
“Camille, stop,” he ordered.
She did, her chest heaving, her arms still over her head, her damp hair sticking to her lip.
“Drink from the water of the living. Drink from the water of the dead.”
Her movements were unbalanced as she walked, and she lost her footing at the chest of drawers, stumbling before reaching out and regaining her equilibrium by gripping the furniture. She took a long swallow from each of the two jars he had placed between the candles. They were wine, not water, because he had wanted her relaxed, inebriated, so that tomorrow she would remember this in hazy terms, that she would remember the excitement and the “sign” of her family that he would manufacture. He wanted no crystal clarity of events, which might disillusion her.
Selfish, to be sure, but he wasn’t done with Camille.
“Now turn in a circle and repeat after me.”
For once Camille was serious, listening carefully to him, concentrating on making a slow, complete turn, repeating each sentence after he spoke.
“In the name of Bha. ”
“In the name of Dan.”
“In the name of Lah.”
Her voice was slurring, the dancing, the wine, the tight circles she was spinning sending her into a heady trance, and her hands moved down over her breasts, down her belly, slipping through the blonde curls between her thighs.
The snake wrapped around his neck, Felix held the jaw at bay with one hand so it couldn’t strike, and reached out with his free hand and covered Camille’s. Together they stroked her, fingers gliding together into her hot dampness. She seemed to have forgotten what they were doing, what their purpose was. Driving the pace from languid to frantic, Camille bit her lip as her passion exploded.
He felt the power of her climax begin, and pulled his hand sharply back, to tease and heighten her desire. She made a sound of frustration but managed to please herself, her head lolling back as her shoulders relaxed.
Camille opened her eyes, shiny from wine, and laughed. “It’s time, isn’t it? I can feel it. I can feel them.”
“Yes, it’s time. Come to the window.” He wanted to see her in the moonlight, wanted the air to tease over her naked body, a breeze that he could point out was the spirit of her dead loved ones.
She did so without hesitation, heading right to the French doors and gripping either side of the door frame with outstretched arms, her eyes drifting closed as she breathed deeply. He stood directly behind her, a watchful eye on the dark street below. They were tucked into the shadows of the trees in the courtyard, and it was very late, but he was still mindful of unwanted attention. If Camille were seen, it would ruin both of them.
“Welcome them home,” he whispered in her ear.
Camille started humming a tune he didn’t recognize and moved forward, out onto the balcony. “Let me have the snake,” she demanded over her shoulder.
“No. It’s dangerous.”
“Give it to me,” she snapped, expression wild, fierce as she stood naked in the moonlight, her hair whipping arouad her face. “Please. I can handle it. I want the power. You said the magic comes from within me and you’re right. I feel it.”
“No, I can’t give it to you.” He had his limits and he had no intention of putting her at real risk.
She looked ready to protest, her brow furrowing.
“Turn around,” he told her. “Remember your focus.”
She did, taking another step forward. Then she stopped suddenly and turned back to him, eyes wide, a smile transforming her face. She no longer looked like the angry, desperate, contentious woman he had come to know, but a sweeter, milder, much more innocent version. It was Camille before death had robbed her of love and her sanity, and Felix paused, shocked, humbled.
He hadn’t realized precisely how much four short months had ravaged her countenance and the essence of her soul. How much of that transformation was he responsible for? He had taken advantage of the tragedy of her grief and encouraged her behavior.
Now to see her, looking so young, so light, so unburdened, he felt a hot wave of shame and regret wash over him. It was one thing to take advantage when it didn’t harm anyone, but to contribute to someone’s decline... he was selfish, but not cruel. “Camille, come inside,” he said gently.
She shook her head. “No, Felix, they’re here. I feel them.” Tears started to stream down her face. “I smell my mother’s perfume. I can hear my sisters whispering, giggling. Can you hear them?”
“No, sweetheart.” He shook his head gently. “That is for your ears only. They’ve come to comfort you, to tell you they are with you always.”
Maybe that is what she needed to regain control of her life, a brush with those from beyond, real or imagined. Felix turned, intending to take the snake and deposit it back in the basket. He thought perhaps Camille needed him to just hold her in his arms platonically more than she needed passion or magic, and he owed her that.
He had taken two steps toward the doors when something about the sound, the movement behind him had him whipping back around before he could even decipher where his alarm had arisen from. Holy hell, what he had heard had been Camille climbing up onto the wrought iron railing of the Juliet balcony.
“Camille! Get down.” She was standing on the wrong side of it, feet perched precariously on just a few inches of wood flooring, arms stretched out as she clung to the railing.
Felix moved to erase the distance between them, panicking.
“I see them,” she said. “Right in front of me, Felix! It’s so good to see them again.”
He was reaching for her when it happened. She laughed and let go, her arms outstretched to nothing. Felix tried to grab her, but his fingers slid along her bare skin, nothing to hold on to, and she pitched forward. Lurching forward himself, he climbed up on the railing, desperate to find a way to stop her fall, but it was too late, hopeless, and as a groan escaped his mouth, Camille landed on the cobblestones with a horrific jarring crunch.
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