Highland Pull (Highland Destiny 2) (3 page)

With a quick and inexpert flash of his Druid senses, he caught a pure light spilling from her, like the glow of a street lamp pressing back the shadows of the night. This was a woman he would love to get to know. Her eyes had appeared hazel in the dim light, and her expression had been full of laughter when she’d caught him staring. Her legs were bare and her short shorts hugged her perfect ass as she walked away. Had she looked back, she would have caught his rueful smile. She was not for the likes of him, not now.

Gabhran spent the next few days taking care of the tedious tasks required when buying a house or moving. Alfred stopped by each day to take him on short trips to run his errands. Since he’d bought the house furnished, his household needs were few. Since his clothes were suited to the cool climes of Scotland, not subtropical New Orleans, his wardrobe needed work. His style was definitely not the slogan-laden clothing readily available in the French Quarter, so now that his household errands were completed, he’d arranged to hire Alfred’s services for the entire day. First for the shopping and then he wanted a tour.

Alfred took his job as guide seriously, and after some quick stops on Canal Street for menswear, the cab driver began the tour in earnest. The remnants of the damage from Hurricane Katrina surprised him. He’d watched in stunned disbelief, along with the rest of the world, as the fearful power of Mother Nature was unleashed upon the Gulf Coast. Although the central business district and French Quarter were restored and busy, there were miles of neighborhoods, entire communities, that were virtual ghost towns.

They visited the west bank of the Mississippi, drove around Algiers, and Alfred took him into the large Mardi
Gras warehouse. The building doubled as a tourist attraction, and hundreds of visitors a year flocked to see the floats, beads, doubloons, and other lagniappe thrown during the massive parades. The walls were hung with dozens of pictures of past parades and Gav couldna help but notice the bare breasts in many of the photos. Alfred laughingly explained the mystery.

During Mardi
Gras, the parades have giant floats and the krewe members riding on them indiscriminately toss beads, cups, doubloons, and other trinkets into the crowd. Cries of, “Throw me something, mister,” fill the air as thousands of parade-goers fight to get something thrown from the float.

Every float keeps a limited supply of special beads to throw to particular people, like their family, friends, or beautiful women. Since most of the
krewes are all-male, young women willing to show their bare breasts have a distinct advantage over the rest of the crowd when it comes to getting the special treats tossed their way.

Gabhran stood there awhile and dubiously eyed the boxes of Moon Pies and beads, then asked seriously, “There are lasses showing me their breasts when I walk down the streets. Should I purchase some of these beads then to throw?”

Alfred laughed until tears ran down his face. “I suspect they want you to give them something a little more personal as a memento of their trip to the Big Easy.”

They stopped at a small grocery store in a neighborhood few tourists ever saw. The front of the store was a local gathering spot for old men and cab drivers, and Alfred was greeted by name
. It was easy to guess from the looks he was getting that the men were curious. It had not escaped Gav’s notice that his was the only Caucasian face.

Alfred told him to sit, and went into the store. In the silence, every gaze fell on Gabhran.
He eyed the only empty chair warily, unsure it would hold his weight. He hooked it with his foot, flipped it around then straddled the seat. He draped his arms along the wooden back and looked around.

He was being tested, but he wasn’t sure of the purpose of the game. Looking from the chessboard set up on the table to the wiry old man with rheumy eyes seated on the other side
, and deliberately thickening his brogue, Gav asked, “Fancy a game, then? Mind I doona play with whiners, so if you’re afraid I might kick your arse, best let someone else take that seat.”

The group roared approval and the game began. He held his own in a close match, but finally conceded defeat, and shook his partner’s hand. Magnanimous in victory, his partner invited Gabhran to call him Myron and offered introductions all around.

Alfred bought hot roast beef po’boys. The gravy dripped from the freshly baked, crusty French roll, and the taste of garlic permeated every bite of beef.
Good God, this is delicious.
They ate on the porch and Gabhran listened to a story of New Orleans as could only be told by these men.

After lunch they played one more match, another closely fought battle that Gabhran won. They promised to meet again soon for a rematch, and then Alfred drove back to the French Quarter. Gabhran had a hard time hiding his smile. It was the most normal day he could ever remember.

“Why did you test me, old man?” he asked, still grinning.

“My granddaughter has her way of reading and I have mine.”

It was such an unexpected response, apropos of nothing, that Gabhran’s smile faded and he just stared. Alfred failed to elaborate. Gav blew out a frustrated breath. “What exactly is that supposed to mean? And where are we, why did you not drive me to my house?” he asked, belatedly looking around.

*

They were deep in the French Quarter, outside a black painted storefront, plastered with hand-lettered signs that advertised readings, spells, and charms. The window display featured voodoo dolls, amulets, and potions. Slightly obscured by the signs and trinkets was the woman he’d spoken with the previous night. She held something like rosary beads in her hands and her lips were moving fast.

“Why are we here, Alfred? What are you up to?” Gav asked with deceptive quiet.  

“I will tell you my story another time, right now you must go see Marie. She is my granddaughter, and the great-great-granddaughter of Marie Laveau, the original Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. She has some things to tell you.

“You listen to me awhile, young man, I will tell you now that I read your intentions that very first day at the airport. I know you could read my intentions if you tried. You just didn’t know you needed to try down here in New Orleans. Don’t make that mistake again, you hear me? Always read intentions, you have that ability for a reason. Here in New Orleans there is a deep magick. Not the same as yours, but you would be a fool to ignore it.

“Now, I read you that afternoon in my cab before I decided you could meet my Marion or I would have taken you to a hotel. I confirmed what I knew at the store today, otherwise I wouldn’t let you see my little Marie, no matter how she insists. So go listen to her. She says you need to hear, and I believe her. I will be here when you are finished.”

Gabhran tested his senses a bit and realized there were no bad intentions coming from this man.
Why didna I think to use my senses before? To use them on purpose, because I can and because I should. I willna make that mistake again.

He stepped from the cab, moved toward the door, and the darkness within him swelled. It had done its own sensing, and found something it liked, it could trust.
What the hell is that about?

As soon as he entered the store, the darkness curled up and lay dormant. The young woman flipped the sign to indicate the store was closed and bade him to follow her into a back room. The room looked like a bad movie set complete with fortuneteller’s tent, round table, crystal ball, and candles on every surface. Tarot cards were already laid out on the table as well as a small bag and incense.

“Come in here now and sit,” the woman said in a deep Jamaican accent.

Gabhran snorted
. “Since I have already heard you speak, met your mother and grandfather, I find it highly suspicious that you have such an accent. Drop the pretense and tell me why I am here.”

Marie, as her grandfather had called her was older than he’d originally thought. In her early thirties, she was tall, nearly five feet, ten inches, with a classic hourglass figure. She was a beautiful woman, who would turn heads in any century. She wore a white turban, which was striking against her café au
lait skin tone, and the vibrant rainbow hues of her flowing dress. Her cheekbones were high, and her dark brown eyes tilted upward, giving her an exotic look.

“I’m sorry,” she quickly apologized
. “I get in the habit of speaking with my father’s accent; it is what the tourists expect to hear.” Indeed her voice still held a musical, lilting cadence that was different than her mother’s, although not nearly as noticeable as the first accent.

He sensed
a wariness about her. Not exactly fear of him, but an awareness that reminded him of those back in Scotland who sought his powers. She trusted him enough to turn her back on him, and to sit while he stood, which told him ‘twas not a physical fear of him. He sat opposite her and waited to hear her story.

“I don’t quite know where to begin, so I will tell it my way, and you may ask questions as you see fit.” She waited until he nodded his agreement before continuing. “I work the tourism trade, selling hope in the form of trinkets, telling futures, holding séances. I conduct tours of the local cemeteries, and take people to visit the grave of my great-great-grandmother, Marie
Laveau. I am even ordained so I perform weddings for those who wish to be married by a real Voodoo Queen. This is how I pay for my house. Do you understand?”

Gav nodded, uncertain where she was going with her story.

“For some of the local people, for the true believers, I will perform special rituals for health or other much needed ceremonies. I look to the future and at times, I can see paths that should be followed. I am not a true seer, but occasionally I have visions that guide my actions. 

“I was reading for myself on the night of the last full moon, and I saw that Druid magick would intersect mine. The vision was infused with darkness and light.” Gabhran started at her words.

“Ah, I see that means something to you, will you tell me?”

His mind had flared at the word darkness. However, he was not ready to share his story with this woman. “I canna tell you,” he said flatly.

She smiled then, a small dimple revealing itself on the left side of her mouth. “You will tell me, I have seen that you do, but I cannot yet see what you will say. Perhaps that is still in the hands of the fates.”

A shudder passed through him at her words.

“Will you let me look at your hand?” she asked, laying her own hand on the table, palm up.

He placed his large hand on top of hers, face up, and she examined it closely for a very long time, before sighing, and standing. “You will see me again, do not be startled when you do. You may reach me anytime through my grandfather.”

He failed to rise when she did, and he looked at her expectantly. “Is that it, woman? Is that all you have to tell me? You send your family after me, set me up in a certain house, stalk me at night, and that is all you have to say? Dark and light?”

She turned swiftly, placing her hands on her hips
, she glared down at him. The seductive power of her voice snaked out and captured him.

“What else would you have me do for you? Is it your fortune you seek? You are not yet ready to tell me your story.” She paused
, as if waiting to see if he would talk.

Again he shook his head.

“Do you need proof of my powers, then? I did not ask for proof of yours. Which is a good thing, isn’t it, Druid? Your magick is still buried too deep within you. I can sense it, awakened but untrained. I could tell you other Druids approach. Would you believe that?”

Gav sat back, startled that others were coming so soon.
How did Worthington find me?

“Do you wish me to tell you what else I sense?” Her voice dropped to a hiss. “Should I tell you of the darkness?
The oily blackness that threatens to choke you? The darkness that grew excited when you approached this shop, and then feigned dormancy once you were in my presence. Oh yes,
I know
that darkness, and
I know
it’s fighting for control of your soul.

“I can help you, but I do not yet know how. You are still making
choices, other pieces have not yet come into play. I can offer you some protection, but only if you believe. Tell me Druid, do you believe in my powers?”

“Yes, I believe,”
Gabhran whispered.

“Then I will make you a protective gris-gris bag for now. It is similar to Druid wards, though not as strong. It is all I can do, until decisions are made, certain actions are taken
.”

She took a small blue cloth bag and began to select ingredients from the jars on the shelves that lined the room. Finally, she took a strand of her own hair, inserted it, and pulled the ties of the bag tight. She began to mutter words, quickly and quietly over the bag, as she anointed it with oil. Then she was silent a long time, face and hands uplifted, before she finally returned her gaze to his.

“When you get home, you must add one more item to this bag. Only one, something that is important to you. You must anoint your gris-gris with this oil every day, and keep it next to your skin at all times. You can wear it on a chain around your neck.” She handed him the small vial of oil and the bag.

“The gris-gris is only as strong as your belief. You may come see me anytime. Call my grandfather
.” As she had the night before, she swirled around and left, disappearing into the other room.

****

Alfred returned Gabhran to his house and made arrangements to pick him up in the morning for his appointment with the director of the mental health clinic. He carried his shopping bags into the house, and headed for the refrigerator. In the short time he had lived here, he had acquired a taste for cold beer the way they drank it in America. Anyone who spent a summer day in New Orleans would instantly understand the need for the icy coldness. He opened the bottle of Abita Turbodog Ale, and headed to the courtyard to lie back in the cool breeze and think about what he’d been told by Marie.