Chapter Sixteen
My laughter was slightly hysterical, which just wasn’t like me. I forced myself to stop, take a sip of coffee and several deep breaths.
Just because there’d been an altar with icons that might or might not be a voodoo spell to transform a person into a wolf—or a cat, or a pig, or a chicken—didn’t mean it had happened. I knew better.
“I have to go back to work,” Maggie said.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“These are just legends,” she continued. “There is magic in the world; I believe that, but not this kind of magic.”
I cleared my throat. “You’re right. I’m letting myself get spooked by this place.”
“New Orleans will do that. Most haunted city in America, they say.”
“Swell,” I muttered, and she grinned.
“If you have any more questions, you know where to find me.” She leaned over and wrote a www. address on one of the napkins. “Here’s the Web site where I got most of the info. You can always try there first. There’s even an e-mail address to ask questions. It’s very helpful.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” She left me alone in the courtyard.
Now what?
Someone with access to Rising Moon thought they were a lougaro, or at the least thought they could become one. People were disappearing or winding up dead after visiting the place. Were the two connected?
As Maggie said, “There are no accidents.” I didn’t think this was one either.
I should probably tell Sullivan, except what, exactly, would I tell him? He wasn’t going to believe the shapeshifter theory any more than I did.
As I exited the coffee shop, I tossed the icons into the nearest trash bin. Maybe that would help.
Though, somehow, I doubted it.
A few days later I was doing my best to catch some sleep before my shift and having very little luck. I tossed; I turned. My pillow felt all lumpy.
When I lifted it, another small bag of tangy-scented herbs rested beneath.
Who kept doing this? I didn’t care for the idea that someone had been in my room and touched my pillow. What else had they touched?
I set the thing on my nightstand, determined to ask King about it. I’d also request a change of locks on both the club and my bedroom door. Seemed like anyone could waltz in here at any time and do just about anything. Yet no one ever saw them.
And why was that?
“Ghosts,” I muttered, remembering Sullivan’s admonition that this place, and many others in town, were haunted. However, I didn’t believe in ghosts either.
Without the proverbial pea beneath the princess, I slept, waking at the first note of the piano downstairs.
All around me the blue velvet darkness swirled.
I let the smooth tones soothe me. I didn’t have to be downstairs for an hour and right now the appeal of just drifting was too strong to be denied. I hadn’t liked j azz when I’d arrived, but the more I heard, the more I learned, the more it grew on me.
I slid away on the music, floating between the two worlds, not awake, not asleep, both hyper-aware and zoned out at the same time.
Suddenly my eyes snapped open. Had that been the door closing? Someone leaving, someone coming, or nothing at all?
“John?”
No one answered. Cold sweat tickled my pores. I wished, not for the first time, that I’d brought my gun to New Orleans.
Annoyed at my fear, sick and tired of cowering, I flicked on the lamp, leaving my hand around the base, prepared to throw the thing at someone’s head if I had to.
But no one was there.
I gave a little laugh, which sounded more like a nervous cough. How did John stand the darkness? The uncertainty? The fear?
Except he never seemed uncertain or fearful. The longer I knew him, the more amazing he became.
It wasn’t until I’d taken a shower, dressed for work, then returned to the nightstand to grab the bag of herbs that I saw the white handkerchief. Since I didn’t own a white handkerchief, I was understandably distressed.
Even more so when it became apparent the material was wrapped around something. I should probably call the police, but I’d never been very good at waiting.
I tugged on the handkerchief, wincing as it pulled free. I don’t know what I expected—a severed finger, a toe, perhaps an eyeball. Too many horror movies during my teen years, no doubt.
However, what spilled out of the white cotton and thunked against the surface of the nightstand had me hyperventilating worse than any of those other horrific items would have.
Because the sterling silver bracelet was Katie’s.
She’d been wearing it the night she disappeared. I remembered because we’d fought over the thing.
The last words she’d said to me had been, “You can wear this bracelet when I’m dead.”
And being a sister, I’d said, “I’ll look forward to it.”
She’d flounced out of the house, and I hadn’t seen her or the bracelet again.
Until now.
My fingers trembled as they reached out. I was centimeters away from picking up the silver band when I saw the blood, the dirt, and snatched them away.
“Oh, God,” I whispered. Was that Katie’s blood? If so, then who had brought the bracelet here?
I wrapped my arms around myself as a chill overtook me. Who had been in my room? When? Did it matter? I had another lead in a case that had been as cold as a January morning, even with the picture of Katie on the street outside this building. I’d take whatever clues I could get and run with them.
Wrapping the bracelet in the handkerchief, I glanced around the room for someplace to hide it until I could get the thing analyzed.
Maybe here wasn’t the best idea. People seemed to come in and out at will. Instead, I sneaked into the hall, then into a spare bedroom, glancing about uneasily for another altar, thrilled when I didn’t find one. I tucked the shrouded silver beneath the mattress, then returned to my room and dialed Sullivan.