Daughter of the Thirteen: Bourbon Street Witches Book 1 (11 page)

She was four years old. It was a warm day and she was alone in the garden having a tea party with a grand lady, or maybe even a queen. Her young mind preferred to think of the lady as a queen.

None of the other girls wanted to play with her. Since that silly incident when she’d gotten angry and made the bedroom door slam shut, the other children shunned her.

“Witch … Witch! Laurel’s a witch!” The children would chant those words whenever they thought the nuns weren’t paying attention.

At first she’d been crushed, but after awhile, she’d grown accustomed to being alone.

Today she was happy to be alone and having tea with Queen Annette. The queen was always happy to play with her, even if she could make doors shut with just a thought.

Sister Agnes took pity on Laurel, smuggling out two tin cups and some milk. After all, she had to have something real to offer the queen.

Queen Annette was in the process of explaining how important it was that she ask Sister Agnes for something called an amulet. Laurel looked away for only a moment to pour some more milk in the cups, and when she looked back, a boy was standing next to her.

“Who are you?” she asked, perturbed with the boy for scaring away Queen Annette. The queen never stayed when other people showed up.

The boys and girls of Saint Michael’s were not permitted to play together. She rarely saw the boys, except for at mass. They had their own wing and dining room. They even played in a different area of the property.

“I have come to rescue you from the trolls,” he told her.

Laurel’s features twisted into a combination of alarm, and disbelief. “There are no trolls here … only queens and ladies.”

Rolling his dark eyes, the boy folded his arms in front of him. “There will be trolls coming for you … and besides, there are no ladies here. You are alone.”

“That’s not true!” Laurel scowled. “The queen was here but you scared her away.”

“Kneeling down beside her, the boy stared into her eyes. “So be it, if you want to do it that way … then I am a knight, and I’ve come to save you.”

“Where’s your white horse?” Laurel asked, throwing her hands in the air. “If you are a knight, why don’t you have a horse?”

Again the boy rolled his eyes. “The horse is waiting for us. Come on!” he urged.

Laurel wasn’t sure if she should believe him or not. He was at least five years older than she was. The sisters didn’t like the younger children to play with the older ones.

“Where will we go?” she asked, getting to her feet. If he really did have a horse, she wanted to see it.

Taking her hand in his, he began pulling her behind him.

“Where are we going?” she asked again.

“Far away from here … where they won’t be able to find you,” he told her.

They hadn’t gotten too far when they ran into a black wall. At least it had seemed like a black wall to her, but it was really Sister Agnes.

“Where do you think you are taking this child?” she asked, placing both hands on her hips.

Instead of running away, like most children would have, the boy dropped Laurel’s hand and glared right back at Sister Agnes. “She can’t stay here. The trolls will find her if she does.”

“Is that so?”

It was difficult to tell if Sister Agnes was angry, or just bewildered.

The boy nodded. “When I was in the swamp, I heard the trolls talking about her.”

“What’s your name, boy?” the nun asked.

“Marcos St. Claire,” he replied without hesitation.

The nun’s face turned white. “You get out of here boy. Don’t come back,” she yelled.

Sighing, Marcos turned to Laurel. “Don’t worry … I will save you from them, even if this old nun doesn’t care.”

“Get out of here!” she hollered, this time swatting at him.

Taking one more look at Laurel, the boy ran off.

“The next time you see that boy, you need to scream. Do not play with him,” Sister Agnes told her when he was gone.

It wasn’t long after that incident that her nightmares began and the nun gave her the amulet.

Marcos did return on several occasions, but she didn’t scream like she was supposed to. He would play tea party with her, or hide and seek. It was fun, and much better than playing alone.

Instead of trying to take her away, he said he would watch over her, but one day he stopped coming.

She never saw him again, not until the night he came to take her away, but she hadn’t remembered him.

Why hadn’t he told her that they’d played together as children?”

When Laurel emerged from the memory, she was staring into Bale Spencer’s face. The vampire’s blue eyes danced with amusement.

“Well there. I thought we’d lost you. I was thinking about turning you, but your friends wouldn’t let me.”

Slowly, the rest of the scene came into focus. All three of her friends were standing around her.

She was on the floor of the domed building.

“What happened?”

Bridgett shrugged. “I don’t know. You just collapsed.”

Still slightly dazed, she asked, “Where is Cynthia?”

“Miss McAllister is currently indisposed. She was chased to the big house by birds … so she says.” Bale laughed.

Laurel’s eyes shifted to Bridgett. “You turned the birds on her.”

“I sure did.”

“You girls can visit later. We should get you home before the coven decides to do a little witch hunting of their own,” Bale advised, and then added, “Good thing I brought along my own carriage.”

True to his word, Bale got them to St. Claire house safe and sound.

Though the vampire might have helped them out of a bad situation, Bridgett wasn’t ready to invite him in just yet.

With Bridgett being so much more knowledgeable about vampires than the rest of them, they followed her lead. They would accept the vampire’s help, but letting him into their inner circle was out of the question.

He’d already admitted that he was still looking for witches to help him resurrect the ancients from the Underworld, and none of them were willing to do that.

Staring at the hairline cracks in the ceiling plaster, Laurel tried to shut out all sound in the room, including Bridgett’s grumbling. One day she would become used to the girl’s sleep talking, but it hadn’t happened yet.

With only two bedrooms, they’d been forced to share rooms. That was all right with Laurel. She’d had to share a room with six girls at Saint Michaels.

Most of the time Bridgett’s sleep mumbling didn’t bother her, but the night’s events had her on edge. The vision she’d had kept replaying in her head, making it impossible to sleep.

Why hadn’t she remembered knowing Marcos as a child?

The last day he’d come to play with her, he’d made her promise that she would never forget him.

But she had forgotten.

She hadn’t remembered a single moment of that time, as though someone had stolen the memory. True, she’d felt something the night he’d come for her, but there had been no memory of him.

And if that was real, then seeing Marcos in that void between worlds had to be real too.

What was he up to?

For the first time since that night he’d first made an appearance at Saint Michael’s, she couldn’t wait to see him.

During Marcos’s absence she’d been forced to face something else. It was only when he was near that she truly felt safe.

* * *

Marcos opened his eyes to a star-studded night sky.

How long had he been gone?

It couldn’t have been too long. The fire was still burning and the witch was nearby. He could hear her singing one of her strange songs.

When he sat up, the singing stopped.

Before he had time to clear his head, Melba was beside him, staring at him with her intense - spooky eyes.

“Did you get your answers?” she asked.

Marcos nodded.

“Now it is time to fulfill your end of our bargain!” she said, laying one hand on his head.

Annoyed, he brushed her away. “You will never get what you are looking for that way.”

“Then tell me,” she demanded.

He hadn’t lied to the Swamp Witch. A deal was a deal.

Leaning closer, he whispered the name and location of the one person she’d been searching for, her granddaughter. At the same time, he blew dark fog into her head.

It was a devious trick, but he was the son of the master of trickery. In some cases, the apple really didn’t fall too far from the tree.

Sooner or later the fog would clear and the witch would recall the information he’d given her, but the amnesia would buy him some time. The last thing he needed was the Swamp Witch getting in his way.

She would find her granddaughter on Bourbon Street, but not until he saved Laurel.

The witch was still dazed when he jumped to his feet.

Good! That meant he could leave without hurting her. At full capacity, Melba Boucher was a force to be reckoned with, even for him.

Laurel was in trouble. Saving her was his first priority, no matter what it took.

* * *

Laurel was up to her elbows in sudsy water when she heard someone behind her. Cranking her head around, she saw Arlene with another tray of dirty dishes. They seemed to be never ending. She’d been washing dishes for an hour.

“Is it time to quit yet?” Laurel asked.

Arlene laughed. “Not long now. The crowd is starting to thin out.”

To drum up business, Bridgett decided to run a voodoo theme night. It was a success, but that meant a lot of work.

It wasn’t that she minded washing dishes, but she’d been so antsy that she was near ready to jump out of her skin if she wasn’t able to get out of there soon.

Marcos was back.

She’d felt him all day. There had even been a few times she thought she could hear him calling to her, in her head.

But that was absurd.

If he was back, why hadn’t he stopped by St. Claire House?

After what seemed an eternity, the dishes stopped coming.

Sighing, Laurel dried her hands and took off her apron. Placing the faded yellow apron on a hook to dry, she went upstairs to grab her hooded cloak.

Regardless of the hour, she had to get some fresh air. She’d go insane if she had to stay inside another minute.

While the others were occupied, she slipped out the back door. Leaving without telling someone might be foolish, but she didn’t want an argument. The others would definitely be against her going out after dark.

Witch hunting vampires were still a problem, but she didn’t intend to go far.

The night air was cool, but refreshing. With the time being close to midnight, she’d expected the streets to be deserted, but there were still people out. They were the people who would drown themselves in revelry until the wee hours of the morning.

Like most nights over the last few weeks, the fog was thick, making it impossible to see anything that was more than a few feet away.

Laurel was glad for the fog. As long as it lingered, she knew the gates to the Underworld were still open.

With the fog to warn her, the demons wouldn’t be able to take her by surprise. She knew they were out there watching her. They kept out of sight so she wouldn’t see them, but she could feel them.

What were they waiting for?

She was alone and vulnerable, so why were they still lurking instead of coming out into the open?

With no conscious thought of where she was going, Laurel kept walking until she reached Basin Street. She didn’t stop until she was in front of Madam Arlington’s place.

The lights were still on, but all was quiet. She imagined that by this time of night, business would be winding down for the brothels too.

Unlike Bourbon Street, Basin Street was deserted. Those visiting the District were already inside, and would probably remain there until morning.

She was completely alone with the night.

Something compelled her to keep walking until she found herself outside the gates of the St. Louis Cemetery.

Now she could hear faint whispers, not from a solitary person, but from hundreds, as if the dead were speaking to her from the grave - warning her to turn back.

Whether it was the whispers, or that she’d finally come out of whatever had driven her to the cemetery in the first place, she removed her hand from the cemetery gate.

What could she have been thinking?

Taking in her surroundings, it began to dawn on her just how far she’d walked. Now she would have to get back.

The walk to the cemetery hadn’t bothered her. She’d been too deep inside her own head to notice. Now the thought of walking back made her uncomfortable. For some reason, it seemed a lot darker than when she’d set out from St. Claire House.

Turning back toward Basin Street, she started walking at a much faster pace than before.
Just as she reached the road and was ready to cross, she saw a coach moving fast, and it was coming right at her.

She recognized the coat of arms and the initials, ‘SC’ on the black coach. It belonged to Marcos, but there was something odd about it.

As fast as it was moving, it should have made a lot of racket as it flew down the street, but it was completely silent. The coach was traveling fast, but at the same time, the world seemed to be moving in slow motion.

The coach stopped in front of her.

Stepping down from his seat, the coachman held out a hand to her. “Miss … Monsieur St. Claire has requested your presence at his estate.”

There was something strange about the coachman. His eyes were completely black, and his skin so translucent, he almost didn’t look solid.

This was too bizarre.

Why would Marcos send someone else for her?

Laurel shook her head. “If Marcos wants me, he can come for me himself.”

Smiling, the man shook his head. “Monsieur St. Claire is indisposed, but he warns that this will be your last chance.”

The rational part of her wanted to turn and run, but what if it were true? What if something had happened to Marcos?

She might never see him again.

At one time, the thought might have brought her some relief, but that was before she remembered who he was, and what he’d meant to her as a child.

How could she have not known what he was back then?

Ignoring her survival instinct, Laurel let the strange man help her into the coach.

As soon as she was settled and the door shut, the coach lurched forward. They were moving so fast, the momentum practically pinned her to the seat.

But there was no sound.

Curious, Laurel pulled the red velvet curtain aside so she could get a look outside.

Her breath caught in her throat.

They weren’t traveling down the street, as she’d believed. They weren’t even in New Orleans. The coach was moving over a blanket of black rolling clouds, catapulting straight towards a gaping hole of fire.

Sheer black terror swept over her.

“Stop!” she screamed. “Let me out of here!”

She might as well have been talking to herself. The coachman was ignoring her, if he was still with the coach at all.

Closing her eyes, she began to pray. It was the only thing she knew to do, though she had her doubts anyone would be listening.

Suddenly the coach jerked to a stop. She would have been thrown to the floor if she hadn’t grabbed the seat.

Every muscle in her body grew tense as she waited for what would come next. When the door opened, all she could see was a shadow.

Laurel held up her hand. “I’m warning you. If you come any closer, I will turn you into mud.”

She didn’t actually know how to turn someone to mud, but she was grasping at anything that might hold them off.

The deep laughter was sinister, but familiar.

“Marcos … is that you?” she asked with some hesitation.

His arm emerged from the shadows. “Welcome … my lady.”

She wanted to be relieved, but couldn’t quite feel it. There was something different about him.

Nevertheless, she placed her hand in his. When she was out of the coach, she jerked away.

The man standing next to her looked like Marcos, but his smile was grim - forced.

The coach had pulled up to a huge house. It was a Greek revival, even more elaborate than Rose Manor.

Perhaps her imagination had run away with her. That had to be what happened. Nothing was amiss at all.

But that wasn’t really true.

Although everything appeared normal, somehow it all felt wrong.

“What is this place?” she asked, half expecting him to tell her that she was in Hell.

“Welcome to Cypress Grove. I’m happy you decided to come,” he told her.

She played with the idea of telling him about her experience in the coach, but decided against it. If she had imagined the whole thing, she would sound ridiculous. If it had been real, she was already in hot water, and there was no way to know for sure if she could trust him.

“Why am I here?” she asked.

His smile vanished. “Time is running short, Laurel. You must make a decision,” he told her, taking her hand in his.

This time she didn’t pull away. After what she’d experienced the last couple of days, having him near was actually comforting.

“What decision is that?” she asked, though she already knew what he was referring to.

When they’d climbed the stairs to the massive wrap around porch, he stopped, turning to face her.

“Let me love you, Laurel.” As he spoke, hunger erupted in his dark eyes, which in turn, sparked her own hunger.

How could she keep denying what was so painfully obvious. Every time she was close to him - each time he touched her, she couldn’t help but want him. She wanted him to take her to that place where all that mattered was dowsing the fire burning inside of her.

She wanted the son of evil!

Did that also make her evil?