Villere House (Blood of My Blood) (2 page)

Her thoughts drifted to her dream. The woman in the courtyard, writhing in a sweat-soaked dress around a fire while drummers banged out a heady beat. Those black eyes…they'd been so hate-filled.

She shuddered involuntarily.

You're an idio
t
, she told herself. It was a dream. Nothing more. Probably brought on by whatever drink was in the cup with the plastic skull on it at that Voodoo themed bar Amanda puked in last night.

"Hey," Amanda's voice cut through her thoughts. "You comin'?"

Lottie glanced up. The girls were standing twenty feet away, waiting…impatiently. She looked back at the sign that was somehow weathered and well crafted at the same time. The weathering had to have been done on purpose. Some of these shops seemed so hokey.

"I want to check this place out."

Sam groaned and Amanda's tone didn't sound any more enthusiastic. "Let's do it later," she said. "My drink's melting."

Lottie glanced at the store. Even though they'd be in New Orleans for several more days, she felt like she had to go inside now. Not tomorrow and definitely not the next day. It was like something wanted her to enter the store. Insisting was more like it.

"You guys go back to the hotel. I'll catch up in a few."

"What are you gonna do with your drink?"

Why Amanda cared she wasn't drinking was beyond Lottie. "Here," she jogged over to Amanda and handed her the frozen coffee. "I'm not going to drink this."

"You sure?"

"Yep, knock yourself out. I'm pretty sure I've still got plenty of alcohol in my system."

Amanda shrugged. Now two-fisting it, she asked, "You sure you can find the hotel?"

Lottie grinned at her. "I'm the one who found it last night."

"That's true," Sam said from behind Amanda. Her body was already turned the other direction and Lottie could tell she was even more anxious than Amanda to get moving. "If we'd kept following you," Sam said to her, "we would've been sleeping by the river with the rats and homeless guys."

"Whatever. Hey, we'll see you in a few then."

Lottie didn't bother watching them saunter down the street. She turned and headed straight for the Voodoo shop, the compulsion to go in even stronger. Why? She had no idea. But the weirdness of the situation was enough reason for her to want to find out.

CHAPTER TWO

T
he creak of the heavy wooden door when she pushed it open overwhelmed the delicate ring of the door chime. She cringed at the sound, like she was sneaking back into her room after curfew. Which was silly because no one seemed to notice.

A mixture of aromas greeted her when she stepped inside—Nag Champa and Sage and possibly Sandalwood. At least a half-dozen people milled about, making the room feel even smaller.
The house was clearly old, with crown molding that looked grand in its thickness and window glass that waved from imperfection.

She made her way along the perimeter, taking in the wares as she passed. Nothing was all that compelling. The Voodoo dolls were cute, but they were sold at every T-shirt shop on every corner of every street. Other than the dolls and African art, it really didn't seem much different than a run-of-the-mill head shop.

There was an altar in the corner...

She made her way to it, squeezing behind a couple reading the back of a jar—probably some sort of sex potion based on the way they were giggling—and shelves filled with merchandise.

Sitting on a small, cloth-covered table was a strange statue, beads dripping from its arms and legs and whatever horn things adorned its head. On the wall behind it hung a cross with skulls carved into the wood, a serpent climbing the stipes
.
Surrounding the statue were candles in glass containers and baskets filled with coins and candy and small bottles of liquor. A portrait of a woman, also donning strands of colorful beads, joined the statue.

Lottie bent to get a better look at her. She was beautiful, with impossibly dark eyes that contrasted beautifully with her light, honey-colored skin. It might have only been a painting, but the eyes seemed so lifelike, so real, so…hateful.

It was the woman from her dream. The woman in the courtyard.

"May I help you?"

With a startled scream, Lottie jumped backward, running into the shelves behind her. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed, one hand clutched to her chest and the other trying to steady a row of candles rocking dangerously on the shelf.

The arm of the man who'd startled her jerked forward, reaching across her to help keep the inventory where it belonged. He was tall, so his chest passed in front of her and she had to look up to get a glimpse of his face.

Oh. My.

He was hot, sexy hot, kinda like a twenty-something Johnny Depp with darker skin, fuller lips, and a stronger jaw. He even had similar hair, thick black hair worn long enough to be haphazardly tousled. And his eyes...so dark they were almost black. Whatever essential oil he was wearing wafted over. Earthy, musky, and slightly sweet. It smelled amazing.

She laughed off her clumsiness. "Sorry about that. You scared me. My mind's on overdrive today."

"No worries. Nothing's broken." His deep, rich voice was laced with an accent identifying him as a New Orleans native—that strange mix of South meets East Coast. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Ah, well..." When the question was raised she wasn't sure how to respond. What did she want? Why
was
she here? Oh, right, because she'd be
drawn
in.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her own thoughts.

"Who is that?" she asked instead, pointing to the portrait of the woman she'd swear had been in her dreams.

He didn't so much as glance at the portrait. His dark eyes were fixated on her, studying her with quiet scrutiny. "That is Sanite Villere, one of the lesser known Voodoo Queens of the early nineteenth century." The response sounded scripted, like he said it one hundred times per day. He probably did.

"Really?" She stared at the painting again. The eyes had lost the striking realism and seething hatred from earlier. It was now just a painting of a beautiful Creole woman, nothing more, nothing less. Obviously it
had
been nothing more than her imagination.

"So they say. Most people have only heard of Marie Laveau, but there were many priests and priestesses in New Orleans' Voodoo past." He opened his hands, gesturing around the room. "This was her house. We lost it for a while after the Civil War, but the Villere family was able to reclaim it thirty years ago."

She really liked watching him talk. Besides his obvious amazing looks, he had this calm confidence that simply oozed from him.

"We? So I take it you're a Villere?"

"Yeah, Xavier Villere."

That explained the eyes. His were very similar to the painter's rendition of Sanite's. Well, minus the hate. Not that it was there now.

"That's really cool," she said, shaking off the memory. "It must be amazing to have such a rich family history." And know about it, she added silently.

She had no family. Zero, zilch, nada. No parents or siblings. No grandparents or aunts or uncles. Not even any cousins. Her parents died long before she cared to ask about her family history and now there was no one to ask. It somehow made her feel even more isolated and alone than if she'd just been an orphan
.

"I suppose."

The nonchalant way he shrugged off such a rich heritage had her perplexed. She wasn't so dramatic to say she'd give anything to delve into her past, but she'd give quite a bit. To understand where she came from… Maybe it would help her understand where she was going.

"Was there something specific you were looking for?" he asked.

Right, because he was a clerk in a Voodoo shop. It wasn't like they were friends chatting it up on a beautiful Friday afternoon. Or that he was flirting with her.

"Um..." She glanced around at the shelves of merchandise. She could easily say she was just looking but that somehow seemed wrong. Maybe she should grab a couple Voodoo dolls and head back to the hotel and join Amanda and Sam by the pool.

"You know, I'd love a basic book on New Orleans Voodoo," she said. "Do you have anything like that?"

"Of course." He led her over to a bookshelf filled with books on every topic from Voodoo to African folklore to spells and curses. He handed her a thin paperback with a picture of Marie Laveau on the glossy cover. "If you want something simple, I think this one's pretty good. And it covers New Orleans."

"Anything about Sanite?"

"Not yet," another man in his late-twenties interjected. He emerged from a beaded curtain leading to a dark room where Lottie could just make out the edge of another altar. He was tall like Xavier, with the striking good looks that hinted of a Native American as well as African heritage. But that was where the similarities ended. Where Xavier had thick black hair, skin the color of coffee and cream, and eyes so dark they were almost black, this man had bright green eyes and lighter skin and hair. In fact, his short-cropped hair was almost blond it was so light brown. It looked like a natural color, too.

"It's in the works though," he continued. "Courtesy of moi." He jabbed a thumb toward his chest. Leaning forward, he looked at the book in her hand. "That one isn't bad. Until mine comes out of course." He wagged his eyebrows at her.

"I'll keep an eye out for it."

He leaned on the counter, chewing casually on a straw. "You can hear all about it if you come to our Ghost, Voodoo, and Cemetery tour. Eight p.m. right here." He hit the counter with his open palm. "We even stop at some cool bars you might not see otherwise," he added, shifting toward her and lowering his voice, like he was sharing a secret.

"Sounds good. I'll see what my friends want…" Her words trailed off as the faint chime of the door along with the corresponding, overwhelming creak of old hinges in need of an oiling momentarily drew her attention.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the giggling couple leaving. On the sidewalk outside stood a woman in early 19th century clothing. She recognized the long camel-colored wool coat with a hint of low-heeled leather boots showing beneath and the tendrils of blond hair peeking from under her bonnet.

Unbelieving, she stared. It couldn't be.

She stepped forward to get a better look just as the couple obstructed her view. When they'd moved enough she could see past them, the woman was gone.

This couldn't be her imagination. She might believe the painting's eyes looking alive and sinister was all in her head, but seeing a woman in historical clothing...clothing identical to the ones in her dream? It was too much to ignore.

She had to figure out what was going on. She needed to figure it out. It was rooted deep inside her gut, so strong it was almost making her nauseous.

Without a word to either Xavier or the other man, she tossed the book on the counter and ran out of the shop, shoving past the couple still partially blocking the door.

~

"That was weird," Julien noted as the door slammed behind the blonde.

"When doesn't something weird happen in this city?" Xavier said dismissively.

Although honestly, he wasn't sure what to think. He'd watched her turn toward the door when it opened, watched her smile drop, watched the shock cross her pretty face, watched her stare at an empty spot on the sidewalk. She'd run out of the shop chasing
something
, he was sure of it. But what, he couldn't begin to guess.

It was more than that, though. She seemed so familiar to him. Her face, her mannerisms, her smile... He couldn't quite pinpoint where he'd seen her. Or if he ever even had.

So that coupled with her quick escape… Weird only began to describe it.

"Maybe she saw a friend," he told his brother as he returned the book to the bookshelf.

She definitely saw
something
, but it wasn't a friend. More like a ghost.

"Maybe she decided she really had to take a piss."

Typical crude Julien...

"Sure," Xavier said dryly. "Well, thanks for being twenty minutes late. You're lucky I live here and can open the store."

Julien's grin was lopsided. "Anytime."

Xavier headed for the back room. "I'll be sure to repay the favor tonight."

"No you won't," Julien said behind him. "Your head would explode if you were late."

Glad to finally be away from the store and away from the endless parade of tourists, Xavier crossed the back altar-room and ducked into the downstairs kitchen.

"Good afternoon, Xavier."

His grandmother didn't shift her clouded gaze to him when he entered the room. Her unseeing eyes remained unfocused on nothing in particular as she added oils and other liquids to a large bowl, giving each bottle a quick sniff before adding the contents. He was always amazed how much she could do without sight.

He kissed her cheek. "Afternoon, Grandmere. Are you hungry? Have you had lunch yet?"

"I ate."

"Well, I'm getting ready to take off, do you need anything first?"

She opened a bottle, the smell of peppermint so strong it was unmistakable. Two dashes splashed into the bowl. "Every day you ask me and every day I tell you no."

"I know."

She was so independent she was stubborn. But he couldn't help checking up on her. She was seventy, blind, and diabetic. Someone needed to make sure she was well and had everything she needed. That someone certainly wouldn't be Julien or their mother.

"Someday you will though."

"Shut your mouth, boy. You'll curse me with your words."

He shook his head fondly. "Well, call me if you need me."

Vigorously stirring the ingredients in her bowl, she waved him off. As he turned to leave, she began to sing, her aged voice wavering slightly but still strong and beautiful.

She always sang. Whenever there was a quiet moment, sometimes when there wasn't. He always found it soothing, comforting. Probably because she'd been singing to him since he was a baby.

The old dining room was filled with flickering candles when he stepped into it, which only meant one thing…

"Hey. Hey. Hey!" His mother frantically rushed over and pushed repeatedly on his chest. She wasn't pushing particularly hard—not that it would matter if she did since he outweighed her by at least eighty pounds—but he still let her move him backward. "You can't be here. I have a client coming."

"I just need to get upstairs." He pointed to the stairwell across the room.

She pushed him back again. "Oh no. My client wants complete privacy. You'll have to use the back stairs."

"Mother, there's no one here. It'll take me two seconds to cross the room."

"Huh-uh. No way. Just go around." She gave him one more shove for emphasis before turning away. Muttering, she started searching the floor of the room, flipping up the cloth on the circular table at the center to look underneath, and turning over the decorative pillows lined against the wall. "I know it's here somewhere," she said.

He was tempted to dash across the room anyway, but she'd probably have a nervous breakdown if he did. The woman wasn't exactly stable. Actually, she was a complete flake. She could barely take care of herself or handle day-to-day responsibilities. It was no wonder his dad took off when he was eight.