The Taking (15 page)

It was everywhere, a road map of a rash, one she’d had no indication could be appearing when she’d gone to bed.

Stepping forward cautiously, she studied her face in the mirror, droplets of water still clinging to her chin and eyelashes. “Holy shit,” she murmured, every hair on her arms standing at attention.

Where had it come from? And if she had just had an allergic reaction to something, how could she have dreamed about the very same thing? Could her mind somehow have known even asleep what was bursting forth on her body?

A whoosh of air from behind her, the prickling sensation of eyes on the back of her head, had her whirling around.

What she saw in the doorway had her knees buckling.

It was a young blonde woman in a black Victorian mourning gown, a small smile on her pretty and delicate face.

The vision wasn’t solid, more like a projection of a picture into the air, her tiny feet in high boots hovering just above the floor.

Regan couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She just stood there, suspended in the surrealistic timeless moment, she and Camille.

It had to be Camille.

It was Camille.

The dress, the strange smile, this was how she had pictured Camille heading to Miss Janise’s house. Only that had been a dream. Just a dream. There was no Camille or Miss Janise.

Maybe this was a dream, too.

Yet it didn’t feel like a dream, but a frightening and strange reality she didn’t understand, she and a ghost, an imprint on this house, who was somehow now reaching out from the other realm and connecting with Regan.

She wanted to ask the woman what she wanted, why she was there, who she was, and how she had died, the questions streaming through her mind rapidly, but her mouth remained closed. It felt like the violence of her voice breaking the silence of their assessment of one another would be inappropriate.

It was Camille’s move to make, not hers.

Regan had no idea how long she stared at the unmoving translucent figure, but she finally succumbed to the irresistible urge to blink, and when her eyes opened there was nothing in the doorway. Regan shot forward and glanced into her bedroom and in the other direction, toward the hallway. Nothing. Obviously.

Goose bumps dancing all over her arms, she went back into the bathroom, realizing that with the light on behind her, she shouldn’t have even been able to see anything in the shadowy darkness of the doorway.

Not that such details mattered to a ghost, she supposed.

A glance in the mirror stopped her thoughts abruptly and scattered them in shock.

The rash was gone. Her face was exactly as it had been when she’d removed her makeup before bed, her complexion a little uneven without her foundation, merely one small pimple setting up camp on her chin.

Wanting to scream again, she realized all the air was locked in her throat. Backing out of the bathroom, the reflection of herself, eyes wide, skin clear, chased her as she stumbled into her room.

“Jesus, I’m going crazy,” she murmured out loud, then regretted the sound of her frightened voice ringing in the dark silence.

Flipping on every light she had, both overhead and lamps, as she went, she jogged to the nightstand where her cell phone was. She had entered Felix’s number in the coffee shop, though at the time she hadn’t been sure why he’d offered it, after springing out of his chair like he had suddenly realized she bored him.

But he had said to call her if she needed to talk.

She needed to talk.

And for very obvious reasons, she thought this was something Felix would have a better understanding of than her friends.

It was incredibly rude to call him at two in the morning, but Regan was freaked out so thoroughly, all her social graces vanished as completely as the figure in black.

He answered right away. “Regan, what’s the matter? Did something move again?”

Regan immediately felt relieved that she had called him. He didn’t think she was insane. “I just had a dream that the girl who wrote the journal was visiting the girl she used the rash curse on. And then I woke up and I went into the bathroom and I had a rash. The same rash. On me. Then I saw a woman standing in my doorway, a spirit, in Victorian mourning clothes, and then my rash was gone. And I don’t even know that she actually used that rash curse on another girl... Why in the world am I having these dreams? And how could I have a rash, then not have it? It was so creepy, so... scary.”

She barely took a breath as she blurted it all out, then paused, panting, waiting for him to comment. Glancing around her bedroom, she saw a shadow play across the chest of drawers. Letting out a scream, she backed up and collided with her nightstand. “I think I just saw something.”

“Alright, it’s okay. Why don’t you go into the living room and turn on the TV and I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

Regan instantly felt better, and she swallowed hard. “You would do that?” She was both touched and relieved. Part of her felt like she should protest and demur, but she couldn’t manage it. She didn’t want to be alone.

“Yes, I would do that.”

“Thanks.” She blew out the breath she’d been holding. “Thanks.”

Glancing at the time on her phone as she hung up, she tried to gauge how long she would have to wait until Felix got there. He lived only a few blocks away, but he probably needed to get dressed, then he would walk... the quiet of her house closed in around her as she anticipated having to wait ten minutes or more. She kept touching her face to feel for sores and glancing toward her bathroom, expecting to see the girl in black again. Her bedcovers were destroyed, tossed in every direction, a sign of a restless sleep.

The house was dark and achingly silent around her. The air seemed to move, the quiet absent of any individual sounds, but becoming a presence in and of itself, as if her house were breathing, in and out, in and out.

God, she was losing it. She needed to do something, distract her mind, occupy her hands, so she dragged on jeans and changed her T-shirt with trembling hands. Darting her eyes left and right, she went into the living room with her iPod and speakers, flipping every light on as she went, and turned on some music. At first, she put on classical, what Beau had taught her to appreciate, but it was too lilting, too haunting for her mood. Flipping through her menu, she selected pop dance music and turned it up to a healthy volume, hoping it would overcome the silence of the room.

Then she started contemplating placement on the walls for her photographs. Using the level and the hammer gave her a focus, though she kept glancing over her shoulder.

It wasn’t the sense that someone was watching her so much as she had the feeling she wasn’t welcome in this house. It wanted to be alone with itself, its own aging plaster and long-held secrets.

Which was crazy. Giving the house emotions was crazy. Even Felix had thought houses didn’t have emotions.

Regan forced herself to methodically measure, hammer, hang. She had one photo up over the console table, awaiting its trio of companion photos, when the doorbell rang. Her phone vibrated at the same time. She opened the text from Felix as she headed downstairs for the door.

I’m here
was all his text said.

A shiver ran through her at the words. It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t know anything about him at all, really. Who was to say he wasn’t psychotic? He had been a party hire for the law firm, nothing more. No one could vouch for him personally.

But he seemed to know how to deal with whatever was in her house, and she was truthfully more afraid of that than him.

Felix stood on Royal Street and stared up at the house that he should have never been allowed entrance to. He hadn’t been born a slave, but his mother Louisa had, the child of a mulatto slave and her French owner. Louisa had followed in her own mother’s footsteps and became the mistress of a wealthy Creole, with Felix the result of their arrangement.

Back when Camille had inherited the house in front of him from her parents, Felix had walked the narrow fence of social conventions between two worlds. He was wildly popular with the New Orleans society ladies for his spells and voodoo gatherings, but they always came to him. None of their doors were actually open for him to enter.

Except for this one. Camille had defied all rules of convention and insisted he perform his rituals within its walls.

Despite the wealth of his father and his clients, Felix had never seen how the rich really and truly lived until he had entered this house. Even though his own father had been fairly generous with both his money and his affections, frequently visiting Felix and his mother at the house he had purchased for them on North Rampart, Felix had never seen his father’s house.

It was that social distinction, that sting of humiliation that had driven Felix more than a hundred years ago, fostering his greed, and leading him to make destructive choices.

Now he was back at the house on Royal Street, not a greedy and arrogant young man, but an immortal demon servant, chained for eternity in servitude, and he would do anything to give it all back.

Yet there was no way out.

And while it wasn’t at all smart or self-protective to be ringing the doorbell of what was now Regan Henry’s house, he felt defiant. He had done what he was told, and it got him nothing. A century of servitude and he had absolutely nothing but bitterness and a complete loss of hope that he would ever enjoy anything in his life again. Showing up here might earn him punishment, but could anything be more miserable than his day in, day out endless existence of peddling voodoo to tourists?

The memory of the vast, echoing darkness crowded him, pain leeching across his body slowly, a hot, fiery lava of agony. Yes, there were worse punishments than selling trinkets to tourists. Much, much worse.

Yet Felix was very curious about Regan, about what was happening in her house, and he was willing to take the risk to satisfy that curiosity. And if he were honest with himself, he would admit it was way more than curiosity. He wanted Regan in a way he hadn’t wanted a woman in longer than he could even remember.

He wanted to see if her whole body would go as pink as her cheeks in her arousal, if she would let go of her inhibitions and scream in pleasure.

Or if she would stay muted, a dim version of herself in a black-and-white world.

But Regan wasn’t the kind of woman who would enjoy casual sex, of that he was certain. She would want a relationship, and he had nothing to offer her.

And the way he felt about her, intrigued and protective and fascinated, made him question if he could have casual sex with her either.

Which made his standing on her stoop even stupider.

The door swung open for him. Regan was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, and she looked like if he gave her one indication he would allow it, she would throw herself into his arms.

So he folded them across his chest.

“How are you?” he asked as he stepped into the foyer and glanced over into the dining room. The house had changed since he had last been in it. Different flooring, different paint colors, giving a varied overall impression. It seemed lighter, less oppressive.

It was also ablaze with every light the three-story house had. “I see you’re not worried about your electric bill,” he added.

She gave a nervous laugh, tucking her hands into her front pockets. “Emergency circumstances. Look, I’m sorry. I feel like a complete idiot for freaking out. Last night I called the cops and I didn’t think I could do that again without being fined or something. And my friend Chris is great, but I can’t keep calling him either.”

“I don’t mind,” he said.

“Well, come on in. I don’t know what I expect you to do or say. I’m sorry, it’s so rude of me to be bothering you like this. It was just so weird.”

“It’s no big deal. I wanted to give you something anyway.” Felix pulled out the three photocopies he had folded and crammed into the back pocket of his jeans for Regan. He had known this was all information she could, and would, find on her own, so he figured he would save her a step and save himself the trouble and discomfort of having to lie.

“Oh, what’s this?” She glanced curiously at the papers, but she didn’t take them from him.

“It’s some information I found on the house.” This very house that he had never expected to be standing in again.

Regan said, “Oh, wow, great, thank you. Let’s go upstairs. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you.” A drink was not what he needed or wanted. Felix watched her walk in front of him, appreciating the curves of her body. She was thin, but not boyish, and she had a very cute backside. He had the urge to cup her ass with two hands, and then slide a finger between her legs and feel that warm heat. Of course, she would throw him out of her house if he did that without warning.