Villere House (Blood of My Blood)

Villere House

Blood of My Blood

C.D. Hussey · Leslie Fear

~

Copyright (c) 2013 Fear·Hussey

Cover Art by Michelle Warren

All rights reserved. This ebook may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, without expressed, written permission.

CHAPTER ONE

L
ight rain began to fall, saturating the already damp air with so much moisture it felt thick. Élise quickened her pace, tucking her chin until her bonnet shielded her face from the drizzle.

Clutching her basket close, she hustled down the walk, carefully avoiding puddles. Her boots were due to be resoled but she was hoping to push the expense back until fall—after the cotton crop had been harvested and her investments paid off. If she had the boots resoled now, she might be forced to borrow money.

Perhaps she was being overly cautious, but thus far, debt was an evil she'd been lucky to avoid. When he died, Nathanael had left her with a healthy estate. The last thing she wanted to do was mismanage it.

Even though he'd been gone more than three years now, the prospect of single-handedly running a household and caring for her children was still a daunting and frightening task. She might have become overly frugal, but better to be frugal than a widow with no money.

She normally wouldn't venture out in such weather, but her errands were somewhat urgent and Rosette was busily fixing dinner. Maintaining only one servant meant she often had to tend to mundane chores herself. She didn't mind, but it was much different than the privileged life she'd lived with Nathanael.

The rain tapered off to a fine mist as she rounded the corner onto Rue Dumaine and she slowed her pace to something more comfortable. The streets empty, her shoes clicked loudly in the quiet.

The sound of drums joined her footsteps. She couldn't quite tell where it might be coming from, but it seemed like it was no more than a block away. Quiet at first, it built in volume and intensity as she walked until it seemed like it was right next to her.

She slowed her pace even more, curious to discover the source.

Pausing at an ivy covered wrought iron gate buried in a thick brick wall, she strained to locate the drums. They were coming from inside the gated wall, she was sure of it.

The rhythm was so foreign. And the drums…they were nothing like she'd ever heard. Not like the crisp notes of a marching band drum, these sounded deep, rich, earthy.

She looked down the street in either direction. Not a soul in sight. But it was wrong to peep…

She started to walk forward, away from the gate, and then paused again as the drum rhythm intensified even more, becoming frenzied, almost spastic. Chanting joined the drums. It wasn't exactly singing, it was more guttural and in a language she didn't know. Élise spoke French, Spanish and some English. This reminded her of the dialect she heard spoken by slaves when they first stepped off the ships from Africa.

Now she had to know what was going on in that courtyard. She'd pray for forgiveness later.

Peeling back the curtain of ivy a few inches, she peered through the opening. Two men and a woman sat in a semi-circle around a small open fire. Wooden goblet drums pinched between their knees, they pounded ferociously on them while another woman chanted and danced. She wore only a thin chemise that was soaked with either water or sweat and was now completely sheer. Her long, curly black hair floated around her face like the tendrils of smoke twisting up from the fire she danced around.

Élise immediately realized she was spying on a Voodoo ritual. She knew she had no business watching, but couldn't seem to look away. Enthralled by the woman's supple, animal-like grace, Élise watched in a trancelike state as she dipped two fingers into a bowl and smeared red paint on her face.

Or possibly blood.

Just then, the woman turned and looked directly at her, the drums and chanting coming to an abrupt stop. For one terrifying moment their gazes locked. The red liquid dripped down her nose and over her full lips, and her eyes, hateful and angry, looked completely black, devoid of any white, not even a hint.

Élise jerked away from the gate, keeping her eyes fixed on it as she scurried backward. When twenty feet of distance separated her from the closed gate, she finally turned.

And ran right into something large and firm.

She screamed, her basket falling onto the walk, the contents scattering. Large hands steadied her. "Easy," a deep voice urged without a hint of malice.

She glanced at the hands. Definitely male, they were a rich caramel color and completely encircled her arms, even with the thick sleeves of her coat. Her eyes slowly drifted up, taking in the stranger's fine wool coat, noting the solid silver buttons, the quality of silk of his red vest, and the tightly woven linen cravat.

The face attached to the body was no less striking than the expensive clothing. The same caramel skin covered a square jaw, high cheekbones, and a strong nose that was more Indian than African. His lips were full and soft looking and curled up in a friendly smile. And his eyes…deep, dark brown, and focused on her with gentle concern.

Her fear cast aside, she was momentarily swept away by his exotic beauty and the strength in his hands as he supported her. With a brief shake of her head to clear it, she righted her body, gently pulling away. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you—"

"No need to apologize. Here, let me help you." He stooped and began retrieving the fallen items and returning them to her basket. When he reached the bottle of calomel he frowned. "Are you ill?"

"No, not me. My daughter. It's nothing." She waved it off after his frown deepened. "She's merely feeling a little lethargic and the doctor suggested we purge her."

He glanced at the bottle again, his frown deepening even more until the groove between his black brows was a deep crevice. "How old is your daughter?" he asked as he placed the bottle in her basket.

"Three."

His eyes grew dark and serious. "Be careful with that." He gestured toward the medicine.

She wasn't sure what he meant by the statement. Calomel was what the doctor recommended. It wasn't always a pleasant medicine, but it was necessary.

"I will." She pulled the basket close. "Thank you for your assistance."

He tipped his hat. "My pleasure."

Looking toward the ground and away from his beautiful gaze, she hurried down the road. Before crossing the street, she quickly glanced back. Standing in the same spot the tall stranger continued to watch her. And just beyond at the wrought iron gate stood the woman from the ritual—still wearing nothing more than a shift. Her eyes were focused on Élise with undeniable hostility that could be felt one hundred feet away.

Feeling the color drain from her face, she immediately turned and hustled away.

~

"Lottie. Lottie!"

Two fingers snapped in front of her face, drawing her out of the memory of the weirdest dream she'd ever experienced. It had been playing over and over again in her mind since she woke up. So vivid, so real…it wasn't even like a dream, it was more like a memory.

In the dream, she
was
Élise, walking down the rainy, 19th century New Orleans streets, seeing the world through
her
eyes.

The details Lottie remembered were so crisp. She couldn't imagine how she could possibly know them. She was a social-psych major, not a history major. But somehow she knew every small detail of Élise's boots. And calomel? What the hell was calomel?

"What's up with you?" Amanda wondered. "You've been spaced out all morning."

"Just hung over." It wasn't exactly a lie. Charlotte, or Lottie as everyone called her
,
wa
s
hung over. And rightly so. It had been non-stop Daiquiris and Hand Grenades since they stepped off the plane yesterday. The previous evening was actually a blur and the pile of beads covering the coffee table in their hotel suite had her a little worried. They were in New Orleans though, so…

She wondered if going to bed drunk had been the fuel for the bizarre dream. Maybe she was channeling some long lost history lesson or book she'd read and promptly forgotten. She'd read a book a week since she was twelve. That was a lot of books to forget.

"Ugh, tell me about it."

Lottie glanced over at her other friend, the third in their New Orleans spring break trio. Samantha was slumped in her chair, sunglasses pulled tight over her face even though the Café du Monde patio was covered. Sam didn't raise her head when she spoke. She kept her eyes glued to the phone in her hand, fingers clicking away furiously in spite of her pallor complexion. Her coffee and beignet remained untouched on the table.
 

Amanda snatched the phone.

At that, Sam came to life. "Hey! I need that!"

"For what?"

"I have fans…"

Amanda rolled her eyes. "This is spring-fucking-break. Take a break. Literally."

Sam reached for the phone and for an irritating couple of seconds, they were like two little kids fighting over a ball on the playground.

"So, what's the game plan today?" Lottie interjected
,
grabbing the phone from Amanda and handing it back to Sam. She felt like their mom. Someone needed to intervene and of course,
she
would be the voice of reason. She always seemed
to be the voice of reason. And not always by choice.

She felt like that often—being the mom part. They might all be the same age, twenty-two, but Lottie felt decades older than her college friends. She supposed it made sense since she'd pretty much been on her own since she was fifteen. Sure, she'd drifted through a few foster homes, but nurturing was hardly a phrase that described them.

"I say we chill by the pool with some Daiquiris," Amanda offered.

Just the thought of a Daiquiri made her stomach turn. "God, how can you think about alcohol right now?"

"Ever heard of hair of the dog?"

"That doesn't really work," she said. "It just delays the hangover."

Sam finally put her phone away. "Jesus, Lottie, sometimes you are such a prude. Poolside Daiquiris sound awesome. There are some seriously hot guys at the hotel I wouldn't mind getting to know." She stood up. "Let's get the eff out of here."

Lottie looked at her untouched food. "Shouldn't you eat something…"

"Good grief." Sam snatched up the beignet, took a bite, powdered sugar raining down on the table, and then took a healthy drink of coffee. She made a face. "Ugh. The coffee tastes like dirt."

"That's the chicory." Amanda rose too. "Hey, I saw a place on the way advertising frozen Irish coffees. Wouldn't mind stopping for one."

"Sounds delish."

Actually, to Lottie, it sounded like the beginning of a very long day.

Pigeons hustled to get out of their way as they picked their way through the crowded patio crammed with full tables. At the entrance, a line twice as long as the one they'd endured earlier now extended past a saxophone player belting out jazz tunes, almost reaching the traffic light on the corner.

It seemed incredibly warm for March, but they were coming from northern Missouri so anything above freezing felt warm. Sun poured from a cloudless sky as they trekked down the busy street and within minutes, Lottie had to remove her light jacket.

Walking through the slow moving tourists was like swimming in molasses. Sam and Amanda were obviously in a hurry and shoved their way through the crowd, linking hands to make a single-file chain. Lottie wasn't sure what they were hurrying to, but she didn't argue when Amanda reached back and grabbed her hand. If she argued every time their behavior baffled her, she'd never know peace.

The bar with the frozen Irish coffees wasn't far, probably not more than five hundred feet from Café du Monde, but it took them almost five minutes to get there. Luckily, the bar was much less crowded than the streets. Probably a good thing for the livers in New Orleans, since it wasn't yet noon. The tattooed bartender with the Betty Page bangs quickly filled their order—three cocktails even though Lottie insisted she didn't want one—and they were back on their way.

Once off the packed street of Decatur, they were able to pick up a more reasonable pace. The streets became quiet, almost peaceful. Her surroundings seemed familiar, but she shrugged it off to the fact that most of the streets in the French Quarter looked the same and they'd traveled down many the day before.

As they walked past the door to one of the few shops dotting the quiet street, she felt an unsettling tug—like desire to look over at a neighboring car while driving on the highway only to discover the other person is looking at you. She paused. Amanda and Sam didn't seem to notice and kept walking.

It didn't surprise her. She was often the third wheel. She'd only become friends with Amanda because they'd roomed together in the dorms for two years. She was pretty sure they kept her around mostly out of some weird dorm loyalty. She didn't party like they did, didn't hook up with guys like they did… Sam was right; she could be a bit of a prude. At least compared to them.

"
Villere House of Voodoo
," was carved into a large wooden sign that hung over the door. She peered through the dingy window into the cluttered shop. It didn't look much different than the other Voodoo shops they'd passed—crammed full of masks, statues, Voodoo dolls, beads, incense, oils, bottles filled most likely with herbs… Still, she felt strangely compelled to go inside.