Raisonne Curse (5 page)

“I know all this,” Pryor finally said on a sigh. “I was told the same as you and Wyatt. What I don’t know is why you’re telling me that again.”

“Because I can hear it in your voice. It’s more than just interest, already. Kind of working fast, aren’t you there, brother?” Mercer’s frustration increased and it showed in the gravelly tone.

“I’m trying not to work at all here. The last thing I want to do is take advantage of her.”

There were noises on the other end—the sound of more than one person coming into what he was still assuming was a bathroom. “Look, Pryor, I gotta go. You do what you can to keep her there. Well, not everything you can. You know what I mean.” He lowered his voice. “No more using. I’ll call Wyatt and see if he’s having better luck getting into the air.”

“Okay. I’ll get everything ready for us. I think we’re going to need the bastard cedar seeds for this one.” Pryor stood and walked to the spell room. “Hey, Mercer?”

“Yeah?”

“If we manage to get this hex off Elita, I have a feeling it could come back from one of the others.”

“I doubt it.” Mercer paused, then cursed. “But it’s possible it’ll grow quickly stronger on the others.”

“That’s not good. Elita really cares about her family and I don’t like thinking of them getting hurt worse. Plus, there’s something attached to this spell I’ve never seen before—some kind of spirit or entity.”

“A poltergeist?”

“Maybe. It did come here with her. You think that taking it off her could make it more powerful on the others?”

“I don’t know, but whatta we gonna do, Pryor? You can’t turn her down.” There was a loud thud, like Mercer had punched a wall. “I’ll call back as soon as I can. Remember what I said.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He was frowning as he hung up. He was all too aware of why Mercer felt the need to warn him off Elita. When he’d first seen her, he’d wanted to sleep with her immediately and a part of him had been pretty sure he would. The fire wasn’t only burning on his end of the candle.

But one afternoon and evening with her had changed his mind. She wasn’t the type a man slept with just once. Not a man with any sort of brain in his head. Or heart in his chest.

No, she was the kind a man held on to for good while spending the rest of his life being thankful as hell.

He stood in the middle of the spell room and ran his hands through his hair, dislodging clumps of dried mud onto the floor. After sweeping up, he looked for the seeds they’d need in a bigger, generational spell because he knew they’d have to do it. Frowning, he eyed the shelves.

The last time they’d used the seeds, Wyatt had said he’d stored them behind the oil lamps, so Pryor took several down and set them on the table. He found the small box and breathed a sigh of relief to see they had enough. Outside of ordering on the Internet, there was only one local place he could get the right seeds, and visiting the LaBarre brothers was his least favorite thing to do. They hated them, especially Wyatt—though none of them would ever say what caused the long-time rivalry. Pryor suspected it was about a girl. Usually was with his overly charming brother. That raspy, rumbling, damaged voice of his drew them to him like he reeled them in on fishing line.

He and his brothers had tried growing the trees themselves, but should have listened to their
mamere
when she’d said there was something about their land that didn’t like to make things easier for them. Sounded crazy, but more than once that theory had proved true.

Everything else they’d need for the spell involved things they always had a lot of, so he left the supplies there and pulled off his filthy clothes. He’d run out and pick up Elita’s before he started the load. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked upstairs with the intension of getting a shower first. He stretched out on the dark red comforter on his bed—which he’d have to wash now—and instead dropped off to sleep.

When he woke, he made a quick trip around the house to see if Elita had come in. Because he’d fallen asleep and not washed her clothes, he took her another pair of shorts he hoped wouldn’t fall off her and a T-shirt. She never had a chance to change into the ones he’d given her the night before, but he thought these might fit better. He searched everywhere for an old pair of shoes from when he and his brothers had been younger, but all he found was a pair of yellow rubber galoshes that looked like they might fit. He left everything on the stairs outside her room and brought her dirty things back to add to the load of clothes. Once that was going, he headed up to the shower in the one empty bedroom upstairs. His was still torn apart from a half-finished tile job.

He felt bad that he hadn’t brought Moochon in for a bath before falling asleep, but knowing Moochon, the dog had probably gone swimming to get the mud off.

Pryor stood in the shower with his hands braced on the wall, eyes closed as the hottest water he could stand pounded over his head. It burned as it poured over his face and down his body, but he stayed still, letting the heat seep into skin and muscles that always grew too cold in the swamp at night.

That first moment of wakefulness was always followed by a sigh of relief, the realization that he had indeed awakened again when the night before he’d been sure he wouldn’t face the morning. He’d cheated death one too many times and occasionally, death’s grip held on to him for hours after he dragged himself from the water, the cold moving into his bones with a stubbornness that felt permanent.

He placed his hand over his heart, reassured that it still beat.

The image of Elita, covered in dried mud and tucked into the arms of the giant cypress, filled his mind. He rubbed his palm over the weirdling tattoo, half expecting it to move because the woman touched something so deep inside him, she made every part of him feel truly alive for the first time in his life.

But she terrified him.

That woman could so easily steal his heart.

And he’d told Mercer the truth. The head wash hadn’t been enough. Her smudge man had been there, in the woods, its oily, noxious form crouched over her on that limb. His heart stopped beating when he remembered what it had looked like.

The thing was cognizant. Getting more powerful.

Because it had turned its head to watch him as he approached.

After a childhood spent sleeping at Ma’man Raisonne’s, the heat didn’t keep Elita awake. Though her time up north had made her transition back kind of rough the first couple of days, she found that she slipped right back into old habits. She felt safer out here in this guest room. Couldn’t hear the voices that whispered to her every single time she stepped foot in Pryor’s home.

The small shower in the guest room really was terrible. The water shut off a couple of times, came out in a ridiculous stream at one point, then blasted her into the tile. She ended up turning it off to soap everything, even using regular soap in her hair—which she’d regret once it dried—then jumping around in trickling water to rinse.

So yeah, she’d sleep out here, but maybe shower in there next time.

Of course, she planned to go home as soon as his brothers arrived and they could do their spell together. She couldn’t help but wonder what that would be. The thought of lying in that chair helpless while three different gorgeous men washed her hair made her feel weird and squirmy.

Grinning, she shook her head as she tried to open the window higher than she’d left it the night before, but it wouldn’t budge. She moved the curtains aside so possible stray breezes could find their way into the room better. She only put on the T-shirt Pryor left her the night before and her underwear, grimacing at the damp material she’d washed before her shower.

Elita did pull down the covers to sleep on the dust-free sheet, but didn’t cover herself. She trusted Pryor not to come in here while she was sleeping. She wasn’t sure why, but she did. Maybe there was something faintly creepy about him, but she had a feeling that was due to his magic. The man himself seemed to be made of integrity. On top of a lot of other really good, manly things. Chuckling over her sleepy-stupid thoughts, she snuggled down into the soft mattress.

Elita had expected to have trouble sleeping in the strange room, but she dropped off fast.

When she woke, she was shocked to find it already dark. Embarrassment sent her limbs into motion—or it should have. Every muscle was frozen. Elita tried to move, terror quickly chasing away any other emotion as she strained to get control over her body.

That was when she realized she wasn’t alone.

Shadowy figures stood around the bed. None had faces, but she could feel their stares like they physically held her down with their eyes alone. Something was vaguely familiar about them—the shape of broad, male shoulders, the cut of hair. And they stood in threes.

They reminded her of the generations of Bernaux brothers in the photographs. She opened her mouth to ask what they wanted but like her body, her voice was frozen in her chest. Completely helpless, she could only watch as they stood silently, could only wait to see what they wanted.

It seemed to go on forever. Inside, she became a vibrating mass of fear and frustration. The frustration came from her growing desperate need to know what they wanted from her. For they wanted something—that was obvious. She couldn’t see faces, but their pain—their terrible, terrible pain—scented rotten in the air, like a water-logged corpse pulled from the swamp and left in the sun.

Something moved in the corner, and her gaze shot to land on the smudge man as he slithered in the air toward her. He circled the stalwart, staring ghosts, and as he came closer, her fear increased until she began to shake from it. She could sense his intent to hurt her while she lay helpless, could literally taste the oily hatred he leaked into the room.

He moved to dart between two of the standing spirits and they stepped together, blocking him. The shadowy figure slithered around to slip between others and each time, they stepped together to block him. Years of Bernaux as sentinels. She knew that was who they were.

Why did they protect her?

She didn’t have a chance to find out because she woke up for real to find it was still light outside. Elita sat up, holding her breath as she looked around the room which was now bright and obviously empty. Her heart beat hard in her chest and she put a fist there as she searched every corner in the room.

She couldn’t see the smudge man now…but she still felt his presence.

C
hapter Five

She found the shorts and a shirt on the top of the steps outside the door. Pryor had even taken her dirty shoes and left a pair of kid’s rain boots. She stared at the yellow boots, amusement managing to briefly break through, but she was still too shaken up for it to stick. Hands trembling, she hurriedly pulled on the black shorts and T-shirt, her gaze darting around the room, searching for shadowy figures, including the one that had turned her life into a living nightmare the last few weeks.

The boots were a little small, but anything was better than walking barefoot out there. Her purse was still where she’d left it on the bed last night. She carried it into the bathroom and shut the door behind her—as if that could keep any lingering ghosts out. They could be in here with her now. She didn’t always see them. One look at her overly pale face and big eyes made her glad she kept a few makeup basics in her bag because she…well, she looked like she’d seen a ghost.

She found blush, half-melted lipstick and mascara. It went a long way to making her look less scared.

Too bad she couldn’t do something for her emotional state.

She dropped her lipstick, bent to pick it up and realized that the pain in her back wasn’t bad. Turning, she lifted her shirt and stood on her toes to see in the tiny mirror over the freestanding sink. She’d lost the bandage sometime during last night’s fiasco, but the new wound opening looked days old instead of less than twenty-four hours. She touched it and it was still faintly sore, but not what she’d expect. She turned her arm to see that the new wound from yesterday’s tangle with the bathroom cabinet was nearly healed as well.

Something Pryor had done had started her on a faster healing process.

Shock ran through her like an electrical current. Had those blisters on his hand been worse because he’d not only been trying to remove a hex, but heal her as well?

Elita turned back to the mirror. Sweat already glistened in the hollow of her throat, so she brushed her hair and pulled the thick mass up into a ponytail.

She stared at her reflection and it hit her that she didn’t know what she was going to do if this didn’t work. Pryor’s first try with the head wash hadn’t—that much was obvious—but after seeing his hands, she didn’t know if she could take advantage of him again.

The still, shadowy figures from her dream came back to her. Pryor was young—around thirty, like her—so it was unusual that his father and uncles were all dead. She’d tried to remember the pictures and couldn’t remember one with a set of older brothers.

Did the magic eventually kill them?

The image of Pryor’s blistered hands came back to her. She’d have to leave. Find another way to deal with this stupid curse because if she caused something to happen to that beautiful man or his brothers, she couldn’t live with herself. Maybe Audrey would find that shaman she’d read about and he could do something for them. Feeling better with that decision made, she left the room and made her way across the yard, carefully watching for random roots. The haunting cry of an egret echoed somewhere out over the water. She looked that way and shook her head. Last night, the place had been terrifying and today, all was peaceful and gorgeous.

He’d told her to walk on in, but she still hesitated at the top of the steps at one of his back doors.

Silence greeted her inside before it quickly filled with the sound of whispers. Harsh, guttural voices that carried such a heavy weight of sorrow, their misery threatened to crush her. A shudder ran through her body and she hurried through the house.

“Pryor?”

He didn’t respond to her call, but the whispers grew louder. All the hair on her body stood as the weeping started up. Her heart felt like it would break.

Such unbelievable sadness was trapped in this place.

Elita squinted into the bright light streaming through the two slim windows on either side of the front door. She gripped the wooden handrail. “Pryor?” Her voice echoed up the stairwell, blending with those of the Bernaux ancestors.

The cacophony of voices, this symphony of misery and fear, made her skin prickle and her heart ache. “Pryor?”

She heard the faint sound of a shower.

And immediately imagined his hard body, muscles slick with water.

Clenching her hands into fists, she backed away from the stairs. Having sex with that man was probably not the best idea—not when she had to leave. Not when she still didn’t completely trust him. But she’d never wanted a man this badly in her life. He would make her sweat even in the coldest Boston winter. And her body had never acclimated to those.

Maybe what he’d done for her would be enough to lessen the curse.

If she didn’t let herself think about the crazy of the night before. It couldn’t have been a hand wrapping around her ankle. Couldn’t have been.

She had to leave. Today.

And do what? Go back to Boston? Be a struggling waitress for the rest of her life? Alone?

If she were to be completely honest, she had to accept that she’d missed this place. Missed her family. And yeah, missed the basin. It was like she’d left a part of her soul here. Everything that made up who she was came from here. The food, the way of life, the people.

One of her regular customers in Boston spoke French and her heart had stuttered every single time. She’d thought of asking him to teach her, but the words weren’t the same. Cajun French was like a whole other language at times. But one similar phrase and she’d been pulled back to her favorite season here. The spring, when life bloomed like magic every year.

Elita heard the washer ding and walked to the spell room. She put the load of clothes, including her shoes, into the dryer and went back to the kitchen. She looked out of the window over the kitchen sink and stared at the trees, the moss…

Hell. She wouldn’t be going back to Boston.

Yes, this place was in danger and yes, it would break her heart to watch the disappearing swamplands, but she belonged here. She did. She could cook here as well as anywhere else. Find a way to make her recipes stand out in a bayou of great Creole and Cajun chefs. She could do it.

But first, she needed to find a phone and call a taxi. Scrubbing her hands over her cheeks, she remembered spotting a phone in the parlor. She loved that old-fashioned term and loved that the brothers still had one. Most folks she knew had already remodeled those old rooms and turned them into game rooms. These guys had done that with a bedroom instead.

She walked down the hall, passing the family photos and once again, the voices started. They whispered and wailed and she covered her ears, her gaze landing on a picture of Pryor and his brothers. There wasn’t much of an age difference between him and the next brother, but it looked like several years separated the next two. The oldest had darker hair and such a serious expression. He kind of looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Pryor and the other brother grinned at the camera, their arms around each other’s shoulders. The charm ran strong in those two.

She moved along the wall and saw them grow older. The smiles disappeared on the younger two in the pictures for years. An older woman entered some of the images and the unbearable sorrow in her features broke Elita’s heart.

The sobs started back up. An old woman’s sobs.

Elita knew it was the woman in the photographs—the boys’
mamere
. In this picture, she had rested her hand on Pryor’s shoulder. Elita touched Pryor’s face. He’d been one of those tall, gangly teenagers—one who hadn’t yet grown into his arms and legs.

The voices grew louder, more agitated and a feeling of panic suddenly ripped through her. She set the photo down and ran to the bottom of the stairs, nearly slipping on the floor rug. “Pryor?” she called up the stairs again.

Her agitation grew as the level of whispers rose. That symphony became a clattering, clashing loud mass of voices that pushed her toward the second floor. She ran, skidding into the wide upper hall. The wood floor was scuffed and faded up here. A small chandelier with fake candle lights dangled from the ceiling. Wood panels went halfway up the walls while the upper halves were painted a deep burgundy. The brothers had obviously not started on the upstairs renovations. The doors, white and thick, were all shut except for one.

Still following the sound of the shower, she went through the open door, surprised to find the big room empty of everything but a fireplace. This wasn’t Pryor’s room.

The agitation level of the voices rose and rose until it felt like they were trying to push her heart into her throat. The panic that had been bubbling near the surface burst free and she flung open the bathroom door.

Her breath caught when she saw Pryor standing mostly under the spray. He’d have to duck to get his head wet, so the water hit him mid-chest and ran in rivulets down his hard frame. He had the kind of muscles that came from work, not overly bulky and they flexed nicely as he moved his soapy hands over his sides.

She wanted to be those hands more than anything in that moment.

And he seemed perfectly fine.

Fire—way warmer than the steam filling the room—scalded every inch of her skin. And it was born not only of the feelings his naked body raised in her, but the utter humiliation of barging in on him like this.

Pryor went still and turned his head to look at her, eyes flaring wide when he took in her expression. He opened the shower door. “Elita? What is it?” He hurriedly swiped at the soap left on his body, switched off the water and stepped out of the shower stall.

Elita spun around. “Sorry! The voices…they made me think—” She rested her forehead on the cool wall. “Oh shit, this is so embarrassing. Just sorry.”

“Quit apologizing.” There were rustling sounds behind her and she stiffened when he put his hands on her shoulders to turn her back around to him. “The house is very noisy right now and a lot of the voices seem more restless every day.” He smiled. “Something about you riles the old ones, Elita Raisonne.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t just their noise. They grew agitated and made me feel it. Made me believe something was wrong with you. And the water had been running so long…”

That crooked grin—the one that did evil things to her insides—stretched his mouth. “The hot water felt good on my tired muscles and without having to share it with my brothers, I took an extra-long shower this time.” A drop of water slid down from his hair, over his cheekbone. More water dripped in lower places.

She tried not to look at all that still-wet skin. He’d only wrapped a towel around his waist, so there was a lot of it to look at. She loved that phantom tattoo on his chest, wanted to trace the lines of the other colorful ones flowing out from it, over his shoulder and down his arm. The air, hot and steamy, made her clothes cloying and sticky, and she had to curl her hands into fists so she didn’t rip her shirt off and see what all those hard muscles felt like against her. She briefly closed her eyes. “Angry voices or not, I had no right to burst into your bathroom.”

“It’s not mine. Mine needs the tile replaced because it’s leaking hard enough to reach the first floor.”

She made herself look at his eyes—not at his body. “Doesn’t matter who it belongs to.” She looked away from him, tried to think of another way of saying she was sorry and instead, inane words tumbled from her lips. “I can’t imagine the upkeep of a place like this.”

“It’s taking a lot of time and a lot of money to bring it into this century, but we’re doing it.” He glanced around the room. “It’ll be worth it in the long run.” His gaze came back to her, locked on her. The corner of his mouth turned up as he stepped closer and stroked his fingers over the hollow of her throat. “Either you should step out of the hot room, or take off your clothes so it’s more comfortable.”

Elita opened her mouth, but snapped it closed because she had no idea what to say. His near-nakedness was wreaking havoc with her brain and her body. The steamy air in the small room made her feel dizzy. She took a step back toward the door and glanced over her shoulder to find it closed. She didn’t remember even closing it. All she’d seen, from the moment she’d entered the room, was a naked Pryor in the shower, then out. And while he’d been in, she’d seen everything, from the broad shoulders, down his long sinuous back, to the perfectly round cheeks of his ass. The memory of that ass of his would be permanently tattooed in her brain.

She couldn’t stop herself from going over the front of him again and it wasn’t only steam heating her cheeks when she saw the evidence of his desire for her changing the shape of his towel.

“You can’t be cold,” he said half under his breath. “There is no way you’re cold, so it’s me doing that.”

“Doing what?” she whispered.

He took the few steps needed to close the space between them and stroked his finger over her nipple. “So hard.”

She shuddered, her back hitting the door, her eyes shutting tight. “Oh boy.”

Pryor didn’t stop coming toward her until he pressed his body to hers. She felt the water still on his skin soak through her T-shirt. Her own skin tingled, her breaths picked up, the excitement racing through her system so powerful, she couldn’t contain it. She touched the smooth skin of his waist, moved around to the taut, lean muscles of his back. She then wrapped her arms around his neck.

He stared at her a moment, shook his head, then seemed to give in to whatever doubts or thoughts or denials he had going on in his mind. When his mouth slid over hers, she was glad she held on to his neck.

Pryor pressed her close, then lifted her up. He slanted his head, opening her mouth with his tongue. A shudder went through him and he flicked his tongue over hers, luring it into a dance that curled her toes. His lips were softer than she expected—his mouth hot. She buried her fingers in his wet hair, the strands heavy and silky against her palms.

He pulled back slightly, bottom lip still clinging softly to hers. His hot breath brushed over her upper lip before he nipped it, then kissed down her jaw, her neck. “Touch me,” he breathed against her throat.