Villere House (Blood of My Blood) (8 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
t was an agonizing hour before Rosette returned, during which Élise worked nonstop to cool Amélie's fever. By the time she heard the front door open, Amélie's sheets were drenched and Élise wasn't sure if it was from sweat or from the water she continuously dripped onto her skin.

She wasn't sure what to expect and her heart leapt into a frenzy of anticipation. Especially as she heard two sets of footsteps on the curving staircase. The creak of wood on the third stair from the top made her jump out of her chair.

A stranger was in her house, not just a stranger to her home but a witch doctor—a man who routinely practiced the dark arts.

She crossed herself just before they stepped through the door.

"Oh!" she gasped when she saw the tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man with caramel colored skin standing beside Rosette. It was the man she'd run into the previous day, the man who had helped her retrieve her fallen items, the man whose grip was both powerful and gentle.

A man who wore a smile that was both reassuring and warm.

He bowed his head. "It's a pleasure to meet you formally, Madame Cantrelle. It is unfortunate that it must be under these circumstances. I am Laurent Villere."

~

"Oh my God." Lottie sat up with a jerk, the mattress creaking and groaning with the sudden movement.

The witch doctor was a Villere. The man on the street—the one who had helped Élise, who was, hopefully, going to help Amélie—was a Villere. They were connected, Laurent and Xavier.

She tossed the covers aside. She had to go to the store. She had to see Xavier. Now.

But it was still dark, really dark. Not trusting it wasn't noon and the hotel blinds were tricking her, she rose and lifted the brocade drapes. Nope, still dark. There was a glimmer of sunlight cresting in the distance but it wasn't enough to dictate she rush down to a store that wouldn't be open for hours.

She wished she had Xavier's number. But even if she did she couldn't call him. It'd make her seem even crazier. The first opportunity though, she was going down there. Until then…?

What should she do? Surely Élise Cantrelle wasn't her enemy. Was Laurent Villere? What about Sanite, Xavier, Julien...?

If she wanted the answers, she knew she needed to go back to sleep. That was easier said than done. There was no way she'd be able to fall asleep now. Her nerves were a firestorm of activity, her muscles twitched, and her heart pounded at the excitement of the discovery.

She stared into the courtyard. The pool was a sheet of smooth blue glass. Beyond that a lion spewed a waterfall into the fountain.

Where had Xavier gone after the encounter at the Irish bar? Had he stayed, had a few shots with Sam and Julien? Joked about what a nut she was?

She could envision the scene with perfect clarity. Glasses clinking with broad smiles, they laughed about her meekness, her social awkwardness, her sudden cutter tendencies. Ghosts? Lottie sees ghosts? Yeah, and probably her dead parents too.

She sighed. Her own ridiculous insecurities were clouding the real issue. In spite of what her apprehensive brain might think, she was being haunted. She was certain of it. And yet, she was fixated on what Xavier Villere may or may not have done.

Although obviously the two obsessions were somehow related. Maybe that's why she was so drawn to him. Maybe that's why she kept thinking about him.

Releasing the curtain, she turned back to the room. Amanda slept soundly, her even breathing and soft snoring like a metronome.

Lottie sighed, suddenly jealous of Amanda's unconscious state. She needed to be asleep too. It was the only way to fill in the missing pieces. But how…?

Her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, she caught sight of Amanda's purse on the nightstand. Of course. Amanda was a bit of a pill popper and had quite the pharmacy in her purse. A pharmacy that included sleeping pills—heavy duty ones at that. The type that could only be prescribed, were highly addictive, and had weird side effects like sleep walking, or sometimes in Amanda's case, sleep sexing.

No matter, it was exactly what Lottie needed. Creeping to the nightstand, she carefully peeled open the purse and began fishing bottles out one by one, using the light from the alarm clock to read the names until she finally found the right one.

Opening the bottle sounded like gears grinding through metal and pouring the pills into her hand like boulders crashing down a mountainside, but Amanda didn't stir. Lottie really only needed one pill, but grabbed a few extra, just in case. Ignoring the pangs of guilt she felt for stealing, she gulped down a pill with a swig from the open bottle of water next to the clock. After zipping the remaining pills into the coin pocket of her purse, she carefully climbed back into bed, like a husband trying not to wake his wife after returning from a night at the strip club.

Pulling the covers up to her chin, she closed her eyes and waited for the pill to do its magic. She didn't have to wait long.

~

"Thank you so much for coming, Monsieur Villere. I just don't know what else to do."

"May I see the child?"

"Of course." Élise stepped aside and he wasted no time moving to Amélie's side. Kneeling by her bed, he placed a hand gently on her face. His skin, while no darker than a fisherman's or farmer's at the end of summer, contrasted sharply against her ivory complexion
—made even paler by the burning fever.

He lifted his gaze to hers. His rich, brown eyes sparkled in the flickering light from the oil lamp. She was shocked by how beautiful she found him. His thick black hair topped his strong face in silky looking waves longing to be touched.

"I'd like to start with a healing tonic. It should help bring her fever down." His eyes flicked past Élise. "Rosette, please bring me the red bottle."

Holding a sealed, ceramic, long-necked bottle, the servant scampered past her and handed it to Laurent. Gently and oh so slowly, he lifted Amélie up. She was like a rag-doll in his arms and Élise felt her heart tighten until she was sure it stopped beating. It was only when Amélie groaned a little, twisting in Laurent's strong arms that she felt it renew its rhythmic dance.

"Shhh," he soothed, stroking her sweat-soaked hair. "Cheri," he whispered. "You will be well." He held the bottle up and Rosette removed the cork. "Drink this," he said, coaxing the bottle mouth between Amélie's tiny, perfect lips. "It is sweet, like candy."

He tipped the bottle back and when the liquid first dribbled down Amélie's chin, Élise wondered if her little girl would be strong enough to even swallow. But Laurent pulled the bottle back, allowing a small drop to land on her tongue. It took a few moments but soon, Amélie languidly licked the elixir from her lips.

"That's good." Her voice was like the weak mewl of a newborn kitten.

Laurent's smile lit up the room. "It is. Have some more." More liquid dripped from the bottle and once again Amélie lapped at it. The process continued for some time. With the utmost care, he offered the tonic and waited for her to consume it until the bottle was empty.

Élise was amazed how patient, how gentle he was. Not once did his deep voice rise in volume and he handled her daughter with such care…it made her heart happy and sad at the same time.

When the tonic was gone, he eased Amélie back onto the bed and turned to Élise waiting expectantly. "What now?" she asked.

That smile again, oh that smile.

"The tonic alone should help, but if you like…" He paused. "Only if you are comfortable…"

She knew what he was inferring. "Anything," she said.

Perhaps she should worry for the sake of her soul by agreeing to partake in his magic, but she would gladly face hell if it meant Amélie would rise from that bed.

"In Voodoo," Laurent began, "it is believed the spirits of our loved ones watch over us and help keep us safe. Is there a spirit we could appease to help protect and heal her?"

"Her father."

He nodded, his dark eyes a mirror of understanding. "Do you have a portrait of him?"

"I do."

"Can you please bring it to me?"

"I'll get it, Madame," Rosette said.

"No, Rosette. I need you to help prepare the altar."

"I'll go," Élise said quickly. "It's no trouble."

She scurried down the hall and into the sitting room. Hanging over the mantle was Nathanael's portrait, painted right before their wedding, still watching over his family like the strong patriarch he'd been. He was such a handsome man, usually kind, not much of a temper…

They'd been happy. Certainly with their share of problems, but happy nonetheless.

Gripping the bottom edge of the frame, she carefully lifted the portrait from its mount and carried it back up the stairs.

"I'm afraid this is the smallest I have," she said as she entered the room.

Laurent was placing two white candles on top of the chest now covered with a rich velvet cloth. He turned at the sound of her voice and immediately relieved her of the burden of carrying the large painting.

"It will do just fine," he said, setting the frame on the chest and leaning it against the wall so that Nathanael looked over the daughter he'd never met.

A shrine. Laurent had built a shrine.

He placed a small wicker basket directly in front of the painting and then lit the candles and a small bundle of sage. Smoke smoldering from the herb, he paced the room, waving it back and forth while he chanted. She didn't recognize the words, but she did recognize the dialect. It was the language newly arrived slaves often uttered when they first stepped off the boats.

Chanting the entire time, he diligently covering every inch of the room until the fragrant smoke hung in all corners. His deep voice was soothing, calming.

Leaning against the doorjamb and resting her head on the wood, she closed her eyes to enjoy its cadence. It was the first time she'd felt at peace in a long time. The smell of the sage, the sound of his rich voice, the presence of the very man…she felt relaxed, even with the chaos of Amélie's sickness.

The chanting stopped. When she opened her eyes, he was placing the extinguished sage into the basket and then added a few coins. "Do you have anything to offer the spirit?" he asked, turning to her.

Feeling shameful for reveling in the pleasure of his voice, she pushed stiffly off the jamb. "Um…" What could she offer? "Oh!" With quick fingers, she removed her earrings and placed them into the basket. "Will these do?" she wondered, twisting to look up at him.

His body was closer than she'd realized. Close enough she could practically feel the heat radiating from his strong body. Close enough she could smell the lovely fragrance of his cologne. Close enough she could fully appreciate his broad male chest, the strength in his hands, the way his eyes smoldered when he looked at her.

She would have backed away but she was trapped between the chest and the wall, trapped between the heat of his body and the heat of his gaze.

"They are perfect," he said quietly. "Spirits like gifts, offerings. It makes them strong. I have asked him to watch over your daughter, to protect her from the illness that ravages her. Hopefully he listens."

She could only nod, the inside of her bottom lip pinched tightly between her teeth.

"One more thing." He retrieved an item from the basket Rosette had carried up the stairs and hung it on the headboard above Amélie's pale head.

"A chicken's foot?"

He smiled. "A talisman of protection."

"Oh…"

He approached her again but kept a respectable distance this time. She found she preferred the former.

"I'm afraid there isn't much else for me to do," he said.

"I cannot thank you enough for coming, Monsieur Villere."

"It was my pleasure."

"I can pay you. Just let me get my purse." She turned to leave but his voice stopped her.

"That won't be necessary."

She felt her brows push together. "But I must pay you for your services."

"I could never accept payment while the patient is still an invalid."

Her brows did not relax. "Perhaps…"

He held a broad, dark hand out. "I insist."

"When she is fully recovered then?" At that thought, Élise felt her brow relax. In fact, she felt a tiny pull at the corners of her lips.

His smile wasn't quite so small. "Very well, you may call on me when she has recovered."

"Accepted." She offered her hand in handshake. With a grin, he accepted, and she did her best to seal their bargain like a man.

Even after the handshake was sufficient, she found her hand lingered in his. She meant to draw it back immediately, as was proper, but the sensation of his flesh against her own felt too good, too perfect to pull away.

Nor did he attempt to withdraw. His grip on her hand did loosen, but only so his fingers could slide free until her hand was cupped in his.

She didn't know what to do. She didn't want to move, or break the contact, but she couldn't stand there and stare at him.