"Do you believe what that tour guide said about this hotel?"
"About the complimentary continental breakfast?" Tessa asked smiling, knowing full well that wasn't what her sister meant at all. "I'd believe just about anything a man who looked that good said to me, to be honest. God, what he did for those black boots…"
"I meant about this hotel being haunted? There really is a chill in here. Can't you feel it?" Tricia rubbed her outer arms, looking cautiously around their room. It was an incredible room in a small, three-story building in the French Quarter. It included an antique fireplace with scrolled hardwood mantel that must have been two centuries old, elegant hand-tooled woodwork, and tall narrow windows. French doors opened onto a balcony with wrought iron filigree railings and wicker furniture. "There is a chill. Don't you feel it?"
"I think you took that Haunted Tour a little bit too seriously. And if you're feeling a chill, it's because you just stepped out of air the approximate temperature and consistency of boiling pea soup, and into one of the few rooms in New Orleans that comes with AC."
Tricia shook herself. "AC and an antique oil lamp," she said looking at the lamp on the mantel. "But, no, that's not it."
"Honey, does this place really look like it was once a whorehouse? Hmm? Or that it burned in a horrible fire, trapping some of the women inside?" Tessa parted the curtains, peering down into the narrow streets below, where people walked around drinking beer from plastic glasses and wearing Mardi Gras beads even at this ungodly hour. "They could have jumped from here and barely bruised themselves, and we're on the top floor."
"So were they, according to the tour guide. They were supposedly trapped."
"I think the tour guide was just giving us a little New Orleans scare to spice up our visit." She wiggled her eyebrows. "Though if he really wanted to spice up my visit, I could think of better ways."
Tricia laughed, grabbing a pillow from the red velvet settee and throwing it at her sister. "Okay, fine, I'm overreacting," she said. "Maybe the cemeteries, the Voodoo Museum, and the Haunted Tour were a bit much all in one day. I'm gonna take a cool shower and go to bed."
"I'm next. Gosh, it's three a.m. Time flies when you're doing Bourbon Street, huh?" Her sister nodded on her way into the bathroom. But once the door was closed, Tessa stopped smiling, and looked around the beautiful room. Something was off. Something…she couldn't put her finger on. And unlike her sister, she did not have a tendency to let her imagination run away with her.
She took the camera from around her neck, and set it on the bedside stand. Then she wandered to the window again, parted the curtain to stare down at the street.
He was standing there. His long black hair was pulled into a ponytail, and his moustache connected to the closely cropped black beard. Trimmed, neat. He was still completely in character, just as he had been when he'd walked their group through the French Quarter on that guided tour. He wore a long black coat with a tab collar, and his tight-fitting pants were tucked into tall black boots that whispered naughty suggestions into her mind.
He was alone. Just walking along the dark street. And as she watched, he stopped, paused just a moment, then turned to look right at her. His eyes burned into hers, made her painfully aware of just how long she'd been without a man's touch. Then he smiled, very slightly, as if he could read exactly what she was thinking.
She backed away from the window, letting the curtain fall, pressing a hand to her chest to still the hungry beat of her heart. Then, slowly, cautiously, she looked out again.
But he was gone.
Tessa woke with a start. All night she'd been dreaming, but from the moment she opened her eyes she couldn't remember what she had dreamed about. Something intense. Something that left her skin damp and her heart palpitating. She took a second to ground herself back in the firm, solid world of reality, and finally slid out of bed and slipped into the bathroom. She ducked into the shower to start the day as she would inevitably end it — wet. It was perpetually hot and wet here in July. But already she felt as if she were getting used to it.
When she came out of the bathroom she was dressed and ready for a full day of playing tourist. But as she glanced at her sister still in bed, she frowned. "Hey, sleepyhead, wake up. Daylight's burning."
Tricia lowered the covers enough to squint at her sister. "Would you be totally bummed if I begged off this morning?"
"Are you sick?" Tessa went to the bed, pressed her palm to her sister's forehead.
"No, just drained. I'll just lie here and sleep till noon, then I'll be good to go. Promise."
"You sure you don't mind staying here alone?"
"Not during the day," she said. "Go on, go have beignets or something. Come back for me at lunchtime."
"Okay, if you insist." She wasn't worried about Tricia — her sister had never been a morning person. Tessa grabbed her straw hat and matching bag, her sunglasses, and her camera, and headed out. The first thing she did when she got far enough from the hotel, was turn back to face it to take a photo of it, which she couldn't believe she hadn't thought to do before now. But when she depressed the shutter, nothing happened. Frowning, she turned the camera toward her, looking at it. Every shot had been used up. "Well the hell? I could have sworn.…" Then she shrugged, and headed into the small souvenir shop down the block. She dropped her film off there for two-hour developing, picked up a couple of fresh new rolls at tourist prices, and went on her way again.
It was nine a.m. and already well above 90 degrees. Sweat beaded, but didn't evaporate. There was no such thing as a breeze on the streets. Only a few tourists were out and about this early. The horse-drawn carriages hadn't even begun carrying groups of them around the Quarter yet, and most of the shops were just opening for business.
She walked. She loved to walk. She walked all the way from Rue Royale to Jackson Square as the sun beat down on her, and her clothes and skin grew damp. Café du Monde was open, and already many of the tables were filled. It was covered, for shade, but the place had no sides. A lone musician, a man in a white suit with dark skin, was setting up outside it, unpacking his saxophone lovingly from its case, setting up a display of his own CDs and tapes for sale. She chose the table closest to him, so she wouldn't miss a thing, dropping a bill into the saxophone case as she passed.
"Well, thank you, pretty lady. Can I play something special for you this beautiful mornin'?"
"Something heavy and mellow," she said. "Like the air here."
He smiled as if understanding, put the horn to his lips, and began to play. Tessa ordered beignets and coffee, leaning back in her seat and letting the sweet music wash over her. Until something tingled on the nape of her neck, and she sat up again, turning and looking…and she saw him.
The tour guide.
The mysterious tour guide stood outside a small gift shop staring at her. She stared back for a long moment, her body heating, melting, aching in a way that was completely foreign to her. Then he broke eye contact to pick up a book from a rack that stood outside the gift shop. He flipped through it, then put it back again, very carefully, very deliberately. Again, he looked at her, his eyes burning and intense, as if he were trying to tell her something.
A large group of tourists passed between them then, blocking him from her view, and when they cleared, he was gone.
Tessa left her table to run across the street to where he'd been standing. She looked up and down, but he was nowhere to be seen. And why was she so hoping to see him anyway? What was she planning to say if she did see him? How could she explain what happened to her every time she met his eyes? It was as if parts of her that had been dormant, came screaming to life. It was as if her insides melted and pooled low and deep inside her. Her skin tingled, her heart sped up, and she thought about things she never thought about.
She supposed it was desire. She'd always been lukewarm to the advances of men until now, but for some reason, probably some inexplicable chemical attraction, she kept having the urge to rip her clothes off for this man she had barely met. Maybe it was the hot flavor of New Orleans bringing her inner vixen to life in her loins. Or maybe it was something about him.
It was probably, she thought, those damned sinful boots he wore.
Idly, she glanced at the rack of magazine-size tour books that stood outside the shop, trying to see which title he'd been perusing. She was certain he had picked one from the topmost slot. When she saw her own hotel on the cover of one of the books, and read the title, she felt her heart skip a beat. Haunted Inns of the French Quarter. Blinking she picked up the book, flipped through the pages, then stopped when she came upon the image of a nude woman who looked exactly like her. It was a photograph of a painting, and it was stunning. She read the caption.
"Prostitute Marie St. Claire was a favorite model of New Orleans artists for a 10-year period during the mid-1800s. The man who painted her most often was Marcus Lemieux, whose self-portrait appears on the next page," it read.
When she could tear her gaze from the nude portrayal of herself, she flipped the page, and found herself staring at the very face of the tour guide.
"Oh my God," she whispered. "My God, what can this mean?"
"You wanna buy that book, cher?" a woman asked slowly.
She had propped the shop door open and was smiling a welcome at Tessa.
"Yes. Yes, here." She handed the woman a twenty, muttered "Keep the change," and hurried back across the street to the table where the waitress had already delivered her order.
Tessa ate the sweet beignets, dusting herself in powdered sugar, while reading the tragic story of Marie St. Claire. The tour guide had left out a lot of details. Yes, he'd spoken of the prostitutes who had died in the fire, trapped in the third-floor rooms, unable to escape. But then he'd veered into tales of hauntings, things tourists had reported and experienced in the hotel since. He had left out many of the details. The fact that Marie St. Claire had been a model, that one local artist, Marcus Lemieux, who could have been his own twin, had painted her more often than any other. Lemieux had attempted to rescue her from the fire, and become trapped himself. He had survived, but his hands had been burned so badly that he had never painted again.
She closed the book, surprised to feel tears welling up in her eyes. Her chest hurt, and she found it hard to breathe. Leaving money on the table to pay her tab, she slid the book into her straw shoulder bag, wiped the sugar from her blouse, and left the place. She was going to talk to that tour guide if it was the last thing she did.
The tour had left from one of the popular voodoo shops along Rampart Street, not far from the hotel. Tessa figured that was as good a place to begin as any. When she stepped inside, she was surprised at the blast of cool air filling the place. It was a small shop, very high ceilings, walls of darkened wood. Every inch of it was lined in shelves loaded down with items. Voodoo dolls, candles in varying shapes and colors, cigars, and books and carved wooden images of tribal gods and Catholic saints, all mingled together. The air smelled of cigar smoke and incense. She walked up to the counter, looked at the girl behind it. "I'm wondering if you can help me find someone."
"If you want a reading, go through there," she said pointing to a doorway filled by beaded curtains. "Mamma Celia's in today. She's very good and she's free right now."
Tessa shook her head. "No, that's not what I meant. I'm looking for someone specific. The tour guide, from the Haunted Tour that leaves from here?" "Which one? There are a dozen tour guides."
"He had long dark hair, ponytail, mustache and beard." She drew the pattern of his whiskers on her own face. "He wore these boots...."
"Oh, you mean Rudy. You don't know how many women used to come in here looking for him after a tour. But he don't work for us anymore. Hasn't in...oh, five years now."
"That's impossible. He guided the group I was in just last night."
The girl frowned over the glass counter at her until Tessa had to let her gaze fall. She found herself perusing the selection of tarot decks inside the case. "Do you know who did guide the nine-thirty tour group last night?" she asked.
"Lemme just check." The girl opened a book. "That would be Victor Carre."
"And do you know where I can find him?" she asked.
"He's leading another group in a half hour. He'll be out front a few minutes before then."
Tessa nodded her thanks and turned to go, but the rattling of the beaded curtains at the back of the room stopped her, and then a woman's voice said, "You, girl. Come. I need to read for you."
Tessa turned, stared at one of the most beautiful faces she had ever seen. The woman's brown eyes gleamed, and she reached for Tessa with a long, slender hand that bore rings on every finger and bracelets that jangled when she moved. She wore a silky turban of purple and blue. "I don't really want a reading," Tessa said.
"No matter. You need one. Come." And she drew Tessa back through the beaded curtains into a tiny room that smelled of sandalwood smoke.
"Sit, pretty one. Relax. There is nothing to fear."
The woman jingled as she moved around the small table in very cramped quarters, to sit in the chair on the other side. The table was draped in silk scarves in jewel colors. Candles lined the room, on the windowsill, and mounted in holders on the walls. There were at least a dozen of them burning, providing the only light in the place. Atop the scarves on the table, crystal stones were scattered about, and a deck of cards sat neatly stacked at the ready.
Tessa sat down in the chair opposite the woman. "Your name…no wait, don't tell me. It's…" She closed her eyes, a slow smile spreading over her face. "It's Marie."
Tessa's throat went dry. "It's Tessa. But I'm curious. What made you say Marie?"
"It's what spirit calls you, child. I have no idea why, but you own the name. Give me your hand." Her cool brown hand clasped Tessa's wrist, drawing it across the silk, palm up. She bent over for a closer look, the fingers of her free hand whispering over the lines in Tessa's palm. "You've lived many lives. In this one, they collide." She lifted her head. "You've spent a great deal of time in New Orleans. This city is in your blood."
"This is my first visit." The woman was so far off base Tessa wondered why her words were hitting her so hard, stirring up such odd feelings in her, making her want to nod and whisper, "Yes, yes, that's right" to everything she said.
"Interesting." She continued staring at Tessa's hand, then lifted her head to meet her eyes. "Why am I seeing fire?"
"Fire?"
She nodded. "As if your home has burned, and you with it."
Tessa jerked her hand away from the woman, jumping to her feet. "I have to go. I have to go now."
"Don't be silly, child, we haven't even consulted the cards yet."
"I have to go." She reached for her purse.
"No charge. Go. He's waiting for you."
She stared at the woman, but she was clearly finished with Tessa. She sat silently, contemplating a candle flame and idly shuffling her cards. Tessa hurried out through the beaded curtain, where the girl behind the counter smiled. "That was fast. Just as well, Victor's here." She nodded toward the doorway.
Tessa saw him from behind, the black coat was the same. Stiffening her spine, she went to him.
Tessa stepped out of the shop, and into a wall made of hot liquid air. Her shoes hit the sidewalk, and the tour guide turned to face her, and her stomach clenched.
But it wasn't him. This man was entirely different. Only the uniform was the same. He didn't even have the boots.
"I take it you're Victor?"
"I am. Are you here for the tour?"
She shook her head, left then right. "No. Actually, I took the tour last night. I need to speak with the man who guided it, but according to the girl in the shop, he hasn't worked as a tour guide for five years." His eyebrows went up and he glanced quickly around, as if to determine who was within earshot. "According to the books, you guided the tour I took last night," Tessa went on. "Only…you didn't."
The man gripped her upper arm, leading her a few steps farther from the open shop door. "Keep it down, okay? You're going to get me fired."
"I don't have any intention of causing you trouble, Victor. But I need to know who he was. And where I can find him."
He nodded quickly. "Look, he's a friend. He…was passing by when the tour group gathered, and all of the sudden he wanted to guide the tour." He shrugged. "I saw no harm in letting him take the group around for old times' sake. Hell, he knows the drill. I gave him 10 minutes to go change clothes, and then I let him have at it."
She nodded slowly. "Has he ever asked to take one of your groups before, since he quit working here?"
Victor shook his head slowly from side to side. "You're not going to turn me in, are you?"
"Not if you tell me where he lives," she said.
Victor looked her up and down, maybe trying to determine whether she could be any threat to his friend. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. "I'll tell him you want to talk to him, see if it's okay with him for me to give out his number. Okay?"
She thought about threatening to turn him in, but then thought better of it. It would still be an option later. Besides, she didn't want to seem like some kind of stalker. "All right. I'm staying at the Rose." She took a pen and a scrap of paper from her bag and scrawled her name and room number. When should I expect your call?"
"Tonight, okay? I can't be more specific. He can be tough to reach."
"Okay." She nodded firmly. "Okay." Then she turned and continued her walk back to the hotel, a thousand questions spinning and whirling through her mind. She walked right past the shop on the corner, before remembering her film, and did a quick about-face to go pick up her photos. She paid for them, tucked the envelope into her bag and hurried across the street and a block up to her hotel. She took the antiquated elevator with its decorative gates, rode it up to the third floor, then got out and walked down the hall to the corner room, which was hers.
When she walked in, Tricia was just coming out of the bathroom, dressed in a white terry robe and toweling her hair. She met Tessa's eyes, and smiled. "Yes, I'm finally up. How was your morning?"
"It was…weird." She tossed her hat and glasses onto the bed, then sat on the settee and tugged the photos out of her purse. "But I did get our pictures developed." She opened the envelope and began flipping through the shots while Tricia hurried to sit beside her to see.
Tessa flipped past the cemetery shots, the ones they'd taken at the Voodoo Museum, and then her hands came to a sudden frozen stop on a photo that she could not have taken. It was of the two of them, sound asleep in the twin beds of this very room.
"Oh, that's very funny, Tessa."
Tessa's hands were shaking. She couldn't take her eyes off the picture even to look at her sister.
"A good one. Really. You know I believe the stories about this place a little too much, so you have someone take pictures of us in bed sleeping. What am I supposed to think, that one of the ghosts did it?"
"Tricia…"
Tricia took the stack of photos from her sister's hands, going through them. "Oh, look there are more. This one was taken from the balcony, this one from over by the fireplace, and this one — oh, look at this one. From right beside your bed. Creepy, Tess."
"Tricia, shut the hell up."
Her sister stopped talking, and when Tessa looked at her she saw the smile die very slowly. "Come on, Tess, you're scaring me."
"I'm sorry. I put the camera on the nightstand last night. I thought there were several unexposed shots left on the roll, but when I took it out this morning, they'd all been used up."
"Tessa, this isn't funny."
"I know it isn't."
"Okay. Then…then someone's messing with us." Tricia swallowed hard. "I'm going to see the manager. If they think they can sneak around our rooms in the middle of the night just to perpetrate their ghost stories and increase business, they'd better think again." Tricia stomped back into the bathroom to put her clothes on.
But Tessa could only sit and stare at the final photograph in the stack. There was a mirror behind the bed, and while the camera had been aimed at her, herself, asleep, that mirror had been captured in the shot as well. And in it was a vague image in the darkness. A woman's face, all white, pale, and luminescent. Thin and transparent. It looked like Tessa's own face, painted in pale mists on the darkness.
The hotel management, naturally, denied any knowledge of the photos, or how they had come to be. Tricia said they had attempted to prove their case by showing her reams of videotape taken by the surveillance cameras in the third-floor hallway. No one had come in through the door all night.
That only left the balcony.
Tessa swallowed hard. "It's New Orleans. People party hard. Probably some kid decided to play a practical joke and climbed up the trellis or fire escape or something. I wouldn't worry about it."
"Maybe we should go to another hotel."
Tessa couldn't do that. She needed to be here, though she didn't know just why. "Everything's booked," she said softly. "I already checked." She realized that she had just done something she never, ever did. She had lied to her sister. She covered it quickly, plastering a smile onto her face. "Come on, let's go out. I want to take the trolley into the Garden District today, and explore. And at the end of the run there's a restaurant I want to try for dinner. Then we'll come back and go play at that karaoke bar on Bourbon Street, all right?"
"You're going to make me drop from sheer exhaustion before we get back home, aren't you?"
Tessa took her sister's hand. She really wished she could send her home, get her out of here. Something was going on, she could feel it right to her toes. She was coming alive inside, in ways she could not explain.
They toured, and walked, and took the obligatory photos of Anne Rice's house. They visited shops and museums and spent more money than was probably wise. They visited Lafayette Cemetery without a tour guide, something they had been warned not to do. While there, Tessa suffered a dizzy spell that left her weak and queasy. But she recovered soon enough, and blamed it on the heat. They walked along the sidewalks of Canal Street, looking up at the Mardi Gras beads that dangled from every tree and power line in sight, even months after the party. When they found some hanging low enough to reach, Tricia insisted on snatching them from the tree as a souvenir. Beads tossed during the parade were way better than the ones you could buy in any shop in New Orleans, she insisted. They had dinner very late, and then rode back to the French Quarter, and did some drinking and bar hopping on Bourbon Street.
When they finally returned to the hotel it was just after eleven, and the message light on the phone was blinking. Tricia didn't notice it as she headed straight for the shower. As soon as the water was running, Tessa picked up the phone and retrieved the message. Victor's tape-recorded voice played in her ear. "He says he'll meet you at midnight in the street below your balcony. That's the best I can do."
She waited until her sister was sound asleep, then slipped out of the room as quietly as she could manage. She hated leaving Tricia, knowing how nervous the room made her. Especially given the odd photos that had been taken of them sleeping last night. But she left the balcony doors open. If anything happened to frighten Tricia, Tessa would be able to hear her. And she could be at her side within a few seconds.
She tiptoed through the hall, took the stairs instead of the elevator, and then moved through the deserted lobby as soundlessly as if she were the ghost. When she opened the heavy, ornate wooden door, she could smell the night. She stepped out into its hot, sticky embrace, silently loving it. But there was no one in sight. Tessa walked a few steps along the sidewalk, looking in either direction, seeing no one. But then far in the distance, she heard the slow, steady clip-clop of hooves over stone.
Straining her eyes to see, she stared down the street, unsure of the direction, because the sound seemed to echo from everywhere at once. But then an ebony horse seemed to emerge from the darkness, slowly taking shape as it came closer. The carriage was as black as the horse that pulled it, covered and closed, not open like the buggies she'd seen traversing the Quarter by day. This was different.
Her heart hammered in her chest, and she couldn't seem to catch her breath as she stepped out of the street, up onto the sidewalk, and waited. It moved so slowly. As if the man in control was enjoying his power over her. Drawing her tension taut as a bowstring. Plucking it with every step of his horse's hooves. It was right in front of her now. The black horse stopped and shook its mane, tossing its head and blowing hot air from flared nostrils. The form sitting in the driver's seat, high above, was completely swathed in black. She couldn't even make him out.
Then the carriage's door swung open, and a deep, hauntingly familiar voice said, "Get in." She looked into the darkness inside the carriage. She couldn't see him. "I can't. I can't leave my sister alone in that room."
"It's not your sister the spirits want, Tessa. She'll sleep peacefully and undisturbed until you return."
"How can you be sure of that?" She blinked rapidly. "And...and how do you know my name?"
"I will answer all your questions if you will come with me."
"But —"
"Come." A gloved hand emerged from the inky darkness within the carriage, reached toward her and drew itself slowly back in. She felt as if it was pulling her along with it, and she obeyed, stepping into the carriage, into the heart of darkness. She got in, turning and sinking automatically into a soft velvet seat. The door slammed behind her, and the carriage lurched into motion as she looked up and straight into his eyes.
"I have waited a very long time for this night."
Swallowing her fear, Tessa held his piercing black gaze, unable to look away. He sat in the seat across from her, staring into her eyes. She felt him probing the depths of her mind, her soul, though she had no idea how. Why did just being near him make her tremble this way? Why?
"H-how could you have been waiting? You only met me two nights ago."
"We met more than a century ago."
She shook her head in denial, not questioning what he meant by that, maybe because she was afraid of what his answers would be. "I saw you last night. Below the balcony."
"And yet you didn't come to me. You wanted to. Why did you resist your own soul's yearnings, Tessa?"
Her stomach clenched into a knot. "I… Someone was in my room last night. Someone took photographs…."
"I know. I found a set of them in my bedroom this evening."
She blinked. "How could that be?"
"The spirits. The ghosts who haunt that hotel wanted me to find you. As if I wouldn't have known you from the moment I set eyes on you without their assistance."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered.
"You will. Trust me, you will." He reached a hand across to her, touched her cheek with his gloved hand, gently brushing her hair aside, and as he did, his eyes fell closed and a sigh stuttered from his lips. "Will you do me the honor of sitting here beside me?"
She blinked at him in the darkness, then at the seat he patted.
"I mean you no harm, Tessa, I swear it on my soul. But if I can't touch you soon I think I may die."
"T-touch me?" Her heart slammed her rib cage as if trying to break free.
"Hold you. Close to me. That's all." He drew an unsteady breath. "Please?"
She wanted nothing more than to feel him touching her. As the carriage rocked, she changed seats, joining him on the softness, sitting very close to his side. Her body stiffened in anticipation as he slid an arm around her shoulders, and then he sighed softly, leaning back, pulling her closer, so that she lay cradled in his arms, her head on his shoulder. With his free hand he stroked her hair. "Promise me something, ma cherie," he whispered. "Promise me you will hear the story I have to tell you, all of it, before you make a choice."
"A choice?"
His crooked finger came beneath her chin, lifting it, turning her face up to his. "Yes, there will be a choice. One that will alter your life forever. But not yet. Not yet."
His lips were so close to hers she could feel the breath of each word. She wanted him to kiss her. She felt it suddenly, with everything in her. More than she wanted to draw another breath, she wanted to feel his lips on hers.
As if he knew her every thought, he bent just a little closer.
His lips brushed across hers, and every nerve in her body came to life at the sweet, brief contact. But then the carriage came to a halt, and he drew away. "Come. We are here."
"Where?"
"Lafayette Cemetery. You were here today, but you didn't see what you came to see. I thought you might stumble upon it. Led, perhaps, by sheer instinct. But, no. Perhaps you were not ready."
She remembered the dizzy, sick feeling that had swamped her when she'd visited this place before. He got to his feet and climbed out of the carriage, reaching back in for her. He took her hand, helped her down. She felt oddly out of place in her jeans and simple blouse. She felt as if she should be wearing a bustled gown with a matching hat. He led her through the opening in the wall that surrounded the cemetery. Every tomb was a small crypt. No one was buried here, she had read, because the water table was simply too high. Instead the graves were above ground, tiny cement tombs with peaked roofs, ornate with carved angels or crosses, names arching across the tops. Rows of them, like miniature villages. Villages of the dead. He led her between the rows, toward the very depths of the place, the center, and there he showed her a tall narrow crypt. The name across the top was "Lemieux."
Underneath were two other names. Marcus and Marie.
Tessa stared up at him, blinking, feeling a bit of the same dizziness she had felt here before. "The artist and the prostitute?"
"Then you know something of them already."
She felt a death chill, standing there staring at a cement crypt that held the remains of a woman who could have been her twin. "I picked up the book. The one you wanted me to pick up. I read about them."
"The book only tells you part of the story."
"But you're going to tell me the rest?"
He nodded. "Marcus was an artist. His father was a French noble who was driven out of his country in shame, and came to live here because it reminded him of home. But he lived in constant fear of being shamed again."
She looked at her tour guide, into his eyes. "What shamed him in France?"
"He was cuckolded. His wife ran away with a commoner. It was the talk of Paris at the time. Quite the scandal. He was a proud man, too proud to live that way, so he came here, where he was treated almost as royalty."
"And then his son fell in love with a prostitute."
"The father forbade it, of course. Still, Marcus was a stubborn man. And he loved her deeply. Painted her often. He would sit for hours just staring at her image, when he couldn't be with her. Some said he was obsessed, others that she had bewitched him."
"He was in love," Tessa whispered.
"Madly in love. They were secretly wed. Marcus had only to collect his things, slip away with a horse and a carriage, and pick her up. They were to run away together that very night."
"The night of the fire?" Tessa asked, her breath catching in her throat.
Staring into her eyes, he nodded. "Marcus arrived to see the entire building engulfed in flames. He could hear his Maria's screams." He lowered his head, shuddering, and Tessa thought there were tears in his eyes.
"He went inside to try to get her out," Tessa said, filling in the parts of the heartbreaking story that she already knew.
"Yes. But it was too late. He was nearly killed himself. Neighbors, firefighters, they came, pulled him out of the fire, doused him in water, saving his life. But he screamed, begged them to let him die with the woman he loved."
Tessa's eyes were wet now, her throat tight. "Marie died."
"Yes. But there was another woman there that night. The most powerful woman in New Orleans, watching, weeping. Marie St. Claire's mother had named her for this woman, because she had been unable to conceive a child until the elder Marie helped her."
"The elder Marie?"
He nodded, his eyes intense. "Yes. Marie LaVeau."
Tessa blinked in shock, backing up a step. "This is getting very difficult to believe."
"Why?" he asked. "It shouldn't. Helping barren women to conceive was a common request of voodoo practitioners. LaVeau was a queen, the best known, most in demand. And she was good at what she did. The woman had real power. Real power."
"How do you know?" Tessa whispered.
He met her eyes. "Because I'm here. And you're here. It's just as she told me it would be."
Blinking, Tessa shook her head. "Marie LaVeau died long before you were born."
He shook his head slowly. "She was there that night," he said. "And she shouted her curse and her blessing. She put her hands on Marcus, who was so distraught he was barely aware of the damage the fire had done to him, to his hands and arms."
Tessa nodded. "I read that he could never paint again."
"For a long time, he couldn't. And by the time he could, he no longer wanted to. His inspiration, his muse, had been consumed by fire."
Tessa swallowed back her tears. "What was Marie LaVeau's curse?"
"Whether it was curse or blessing remains to be seen," he said. "She raised up her hands, tipped back her head, and shouted above the roar of the flames and the cries of the dying, 'My namesake shall live again! And her lover will live as well, never to age, nor die, nor leave this city, until that time when she returns to him and they find the love that was stolen from them this cursed night!' Then she howled like the very voice of death."
Tessa imagined she could hear the sound. There was wind, where there had been none before, and it seemed to carry that ghostly wail.
"The younger Marie's cries stopped, dying with the witch's howl," Marcus said. "Most believe she died at that very moment, only able to release her hold on life once she had the promise that she would find her love again." He lowered his head. "Then LaVeau went to Marcus, embraced him, and whispered that he must be strong, that he must be patient. She told him the other women who had died in the fire would guard the place as sacred, and would see to it that he knew when his wife returned for him." He looked Tessa in the eyes. "That's why they took the photos, and brought them to me, you see. To let me know that you had finally come back."
He was holding her hands in his, staring deeply into her eyes. A passing breeze gently dried the dampness from her skin and her cheeks. She said, "What are you talking about? I'm not Marie."
"No, you are Tessa. But in that lifetime, you were Marie. My precious Marie."
She blinked, not understanding. "You're talking about reincarnation?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Then you…you believe that you were reincarnated, too? That you were Marcus in that lifetime?" She knew the answer to the question before she asked it. Before he slowly shook his head left and then right.
"I told you LaVeau's curse. That Marcus would live on, would never age, not until his Marie returned. And now you have."
"Are you saying that you are Marcus? That you never died, that you've been living here waiting for me for more than a hundred years?"
"One hundred fifty-one years, two months, fifteen days." He glanced at the watch he wore. "Seventeen and a half minutes." When he looked at her face again, his wore a slight smile, sad humor tingeing his eyes. But when he saw the doubt in hers, his smile died. "I can prove it to you, my love. Please, you must give me that chance."
Shaking her head, stepping backward again, she said, "I think I've had enough for one night. I'd like to go back to the hotel now."
He closed his eyes, lowered his head. "You're afraid of me now. You think me insane."
"I'm sorry, I —"
He held up a hand. "No. It's all right. I should have expected it. The story is far-fetched, particularly in this age when magic is seen as impossible superstition."
"It's just that — at the voodoo shop they told me your name was Rudy."
He nodded. "I have changed my name many times. I've had to leave here for years at a time, although thanks to Madame LaVeau's curse, I could never go far. But I would go into hiding and return years later, pretending to be another of my own relatives, taking up residence again in the family home, using another name."
She blinked, her head spinning. "And what about the tomb? It has your name on it."
"Look closer." He ran his hand over the woman's name, the dates carved beneath it. Born 1827, Died 1850. Then his own, or the name he claimed as his own. It had a date of birth, 1825, but there was no date of death chiseled into granite.
Swallowing hard, she lifted her gaze to his face. "I'm sorry. Even with that, it's just too much to believe."
"I know. But there is one more thing I can show you.…" Holding up his left hand, he slowly peeled off the glove that he wore to cover it. Clouds skittered away from the face of the moon, allowing its milky light to spill down on the badly scarred hand he held up before her. And even as she watched with her breath caught in her throat, he peeled off the other glove to reveal the right hand, which was even more damaged than the left.
"Oh my God." She backed away from him, then turning, she ran through the darkness, along the row of tombs. She darted to the left, then right, running full speed, having no idea which way to turn. She couldn't see beyond a few concrete crypts in any direction. Only those dark shadowy peaks in the village of the dead. Finally, she stopped, breathless, panting, more light-headed than before.
"I've frightened you."
The words came from behind her, making her jump and spin around.
"It's the last thing I wanted to do, Marie."
"Tessa! My name is Tessa."
He closed his eyes, lowered his head. "I know, I'm sorry. Forgive me, I…" He pressed a hand, gloved again now, to his forehead, rubbing slow circles there. "To me you are one and the same."
"But not to me."
"I'll try to remember that." He lifted his gaze, met her eyes. "Come back to the carriage. I'll return you to the hotel."
She hesitated, watching him, painfully aware of how alone she was here, how difficult it would be to summon help. There were houses nearby, yes. Wealthy homes so large and well built she doubted anyone within them would hear her cries for help even if she screamed with everything in her. And even if they did, how could help find her in this maze, in time to prevent —
"You have nothing to fear from me, Tessa," he assured her yet again. "I would die for you. Nearly did, once. Would have if the others hadn't pulled me from the flames."
She licked her lips, lowered her head. "You do realize that what you're saying is impossible. You would be nearly two hundred years old."
"Nothing is impossible, Tessa. I've learned that over the years."
She shook her head in denial.
"You've been drawn to me since you first set eyes on me, when I saw you and took over the tour group that night. You couldn't explain why, but you couldn't get me out of your mind."
She held his gaze, saying nothing. Finally, he sighed, lowering his head. "I'm pushing too hard, too soon." He looked up, past her left shoulder. "The carriage is that way. Come." Then he walked past her, easily locating the open part in the wall, beyond which that black carriage sat in the street, its shrouded driver sitting at the ready.
Marcus, or whatever his name was, went to it, opened the door for her. "Good night, Tessa."
"You're not riding along?" She stood between his body and the open door, staring into his eyes because she couldn't seem to do otherwise.
"I've frightened you enough for one night. I would ask one promise of you, though I realize I have no right to ask anything at all."
"What promise?"
"Don't leave New Orleans without…at least saying goodbye." He had a card in his hand, which he tucked into her jeans pocket.
She bit her lip, nodded. "I suppose…that's not so much to ask."
"And…"
"And?"
"And this…" Leaning closer, he curled his arms around her waist, pulled her tight against him, and kissed her.
Tessa's mind told her she should be deeply offended. She should feel violated. She should tear herself free of his embrace, slap him, upbraid him for the uninvited invasion.
Why, then, was she kissing him instead? Why had her arms twisted around his neck, her fingers twined in his hair as her mouth made love to his? Why were there tears running down her cheeks while her entire body trembled?
One salty tear reached her lips, and his, she thought, because he broke the kiss abruptly, blinking down at her, concern etched on his face. "Tessa?" he asked.
Shaking her head violently, she climbed into the carriage and tugged the door closed behind her. The vehicle rocked into motion, and she buried her face in her hands, weeping softly all the way back to the hotel.
She had no idea why being in his arms had felt like a long-awaited homecoming. She had no idea why it had nearly broken her heart to leave him there, alone, in the night. It wasn't as if she believed any part of his story. It was sad, heart-wrenching, and it touched her, but it wasn't real. It couldn't be real.
She got out of the carriage as soon as it stopped, and it set into motion once more the moment her feet touched the street. She didn't bother looking after it. Instead she hurried inside, rubbing her tears from her face on her way up the stairs, and finally reached the haven of her room. She dug in a pocket for the key, but as she lifted it toward the lock, the door swung slowly open.
Catching her breath, she looked up and saw her sister standing there. Only — it wasn't. Her face was pale, and her eyes — her eyes were the wrong color. They were jet black, with a soft glowing light coming from within them.
"You must remember. You must," she said in a voice that was not her own.
"Tricia?"
"Unless you remember, it was all for nothing," Tricia went on in that strange voice. Then she reached up, her hands clasping Tessa's shoulders like claws. "Remember!" she shouted, shaking her violently, with surprising strength. "Remember, damn you!"
"Tricia!" Tessa planted her palms flat on her sister's chest and shoved with everything in her. Tricia's grip was broken, and she staggered backward.
"Remember," she whispered, and then she collapsed on the floor.
Tessa rushed forward to help her possessed sister, falling to her knees beside her. "Tricia. Tricia, come on, wake up!" She lifted Tricia's upper body, patting her cheeks. "Come on, wake up."
Tricia's eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at her sister. "What? What's wrong?"
"You were…uh, sleepwalking. Or something."
"I was?" Tricia sat up, looking around the room. "Wow, I ended up on the floor huh? Geez, that's odd. I never sleepwalk."
"You don't…remember anything?"
"No. Nothing." She smiled at her sister. "Hey, you're still dressed."
"Couldn't sleep," she said. She wondered if her sister would notice the door standing open behind her and ask where she had been, but when she glanced at it with the thought, she saw that the door was closed.
"Come on," Tessa said, helping her sister to her feet. "Let's get you back into bed." She shook off the feeling that someone else was in the room with them, or had been. She told herself she must have closed the door herself. But she knew right then what she had to do.
She had to get the hell out of New Orleans. As soon as possible. This was no longer just affecting her, it was getting to her sister, and she would not allow that.
She didn't sleep that night. She did put on a nightgown and slide into bed, but she never closed her eyes. She sat awake to protect her younger sister from whatever might be lingering in this place. There was something. God, it made no sense to her. She didn't believe in ghosts, but she could feel them with every cell in her body. She could almost hear them whispering to her. "Remember."
In the morning, over breakfast in The Rose's dining room. She tried to put on a carefree expression as she told her sister, "Honey, how do you feel about expanding our vacation a little bit?"
"Like — how?" Tricia asked. She seemed none the worse for wear. Her appetite was good, while Tessa found herself unable to choke down a bite of the luscious omelet or the delectable pastries. She could barely swallow the coffee and it was the best she had ever had.
"Let's get out of New Orleans," she said. "Let's rent a car and go driving out into the countryside. We can tour some of the old plantations, take a look around the bayou, maybe visit some of the historic battlefields."
Tricia frowned, tilting her head to one side. "But there's still so much we haven't seen right here," she said. "Honey, you're not getting all wigged out about the ghost stories in this place, are you? I mean, my sleepwalking last night probably had more to do with the spicy meals we've been eating than with any ghosts."
Lowering her head, Tessa said, "I just don't like it here. I need to get out, Trish."
Her sister frowned. "All right, if you feel that strongly about it." She tucked into her omelet with relish, and didn't bring the subject up again.
Tessa hurried to make arrangements, using the phone in the room while her sister flipped through the pages of the entertainment guide. Trish looked up only when Tessa slammed the receiver down with an aggravated sigh.
"What's wrong?"
"It seems the entire universe is conspiring to keep us here."
"Permanently?" Tricia asked, a mischievous eyebrow arching in question.
"Every car rental place I called is booked. The earliest we can get a car is first thing tomorrow morning. And the innkeeper insists twenty-four hours' notice is required in order to check out early — if we leave today, we get billed for tonight anyway."
Tricia shrugged. "Maybe we should stay then. Hell, Tess, one more night won't kill us."
Tessa licked her lips.
"Besides, look what's opening tonight at the Saenger Theatre." She handed to Tessa the paper she'd been reading, and Tess saw the half page ad. A production of The Phantom of the Opera. Oh, hell, it couldn't have been anything else. Her sister was a Phantom-nut. She had collectibles, CDs of the music, playbills from every production of the show she had seen, and that was no small number.
"Come on, sis. Just one more night? We'll leave first thing in the morning."
Tessa sighed. "I don't feel good about this, Trish."
"Tess, this is my vacation, too. But if you feel that strongly, go ahead. You go on ahead without me. I'll see the show, spend one last night here, and meet you wherever you say in the morning. Okay?"
Tessa looked up fast with wide eyes. "I can't leave you here alone!"
Tricia frowned deeply. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
She shook her head rapidly. "Fine, fine, you win. One more night. But we're out of here in the morning, all right?"
"Okay." Tricia smiled. "Meanwhile, I've made us lunch reservations at Emeril's place. And there's a museum we haven't visited yet. They have a special exhibit featuring the work of Marcus Lemieux. I was reading about him in that book you bought yesterday. He's the artist who was involved with that prostitute who died in the fire here."
Closing her eyes slowly, Tessa nodded, fingering the card she held in her pocket, racked with guilt for her intent to break her promise, and already having second thoughts.
Tessa gritted her teeth with expectation when they went to see Marcus's display at the museum, but she was relieved that not one painting of that long-dead woman she so resembled was included in the exhibit. She wondered why, but then she knew. Marie's paintings were private. He had probably kept them. Maybe they still hung in the home of the beautiful Lemieux descendant who called himself Marcus.
She knew, suddenly, that they did. That he spent hours staring at them, longing for the woman they depicted. No wonder he'd become obsessed to the point of delusion.
The work on display touched her. A mother, holding the hand of a small child. Two lovers, on a bench beneath the moonlight, entwined in a gentle embrace. A church, with flowering wisteria creeping up its outer walls.
She walked with her sister, admiring the work, then suddenly stopped and sucked in a breath, her hand flying to her chest as if to still her pounding heart.
It was the self-portrait. For an instant she had thought she'd rounded the corner and come face-to-face with him. But she hadn't. It was only a portrait, life-size, and accurate to a fault. His eyes seemed to stare at her, so filled with sadness she nearly wept.
"Hey, doesn't this look a lot like that tour guide you were so into the other night?"
Tessa nodded, but found herself unable to speak. She couldn't tug her eyes from his. God, she couldn't leave without saying goodbye. She just couldn't.
That night, after her sister left for the theater, Tessa pulled the card from her pocket, and with hands that shook violently, she picked up the telephone and dialed the number on the card.
His voice when he answered was soft and deep, and achingly familiar. It caressed her ear when he whispered her name, knowing who was calling before she told him. "Tessa?"
"Yes, it's me," she said. "I…I'm keeping my promise. To let you know before I left New Orleans."
"You're leaving?"
God, the pain contained in those two simple words. "I have to. I'm sorry."
"When?"
"In the morning."
There was a long moment of silence. Then he said, "I'll come to you then. Tonight."
"Marcus, I don't think that's such a good idea. This is already difficult enough, and I —"
"God help me, Tessa, but I can't let you go without seeing you one more time. Please, say you'll see me tonight."
She hesitated.
"Please…"
"All right." It made no sense, but she could hardly speak around the lump in her throat, and she was as desperate to see him again as he seemed to be to see her. "Outside the hotel, just as before?"
"Yes. I'll wait beneath the balcony."
"I'll come down," she said. "Is an hour too soon?" Did that sound as eager to his ears as it had to her own?
"More likely too long," he told her. "I'll be there soon. And Tessa?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
Tessa told herself it was insane to fuss, but she couldn't seem to help herself. She chose a dress that was flowing and white and mostly sheer. It looked Grecian, and she'd always loved it. She took it into the bathroom with her, hung it on a rack while she stepped into the shower, and rinsed away the dust and sweat of a day's touring. And if her heart and her body tingled in anticipation, she couldn't help it. This thing had moved beyond her control. This was the last time she would see him. She was doing the right thing. Surely that was good enough to appease the practical, logical part of her mind. Surely she could at least enjoy this one, final encounter.
Finished in the shower, she stepped out, toweled down, and pulled on the dress. It was soft on her skin. Then she leaned over the bathroom mirror to arrange her damp hair. She pinned it up loosely, letting tendrils fall around her face and tickle her neck and shoulders. Then she applied makeup.
But almost as soon as she began, the light in the bathroom flickered out.
Frowning, Tessa flipped it on and off several times, then tried the other lights in the room to no avail. Snatching up the phone, she dialed the front desk.
"Just a brief outage," the manager promised her. "It happens from time to time. Feel free to use the oil lamp on the mantel until we get it fixed."
She hung up, went to the oil lamp, found the matches beside it, and set the thing alight. By its light she glanced at her watch. Only minutes until he was due to arrive. She hurried back into the bathroom, taking the lamp with her, and put the finishing touches on her face.
Then she carried the lamp back to the bedroom, set it on the mantel, and went to the French doors. Stepping out onto the balcony, she looked at the street below.
He was there. He looked up at her, met her eyes, lifted a hand toward her in greeting.
"I'll be right down," she called softly. And she knew he heard her, knew he would know she had taken pains to look beautiful for him, and she didn't care.
She turned and walked back into the room. But when she had gone no more than four steps, the French doors slammed behind her. Tessa jumped in alarm, turning back to stare. "What in the world?" She went back, reached for the handles, tugged on them, but they wouldn't budge. Suddenly frightened, she crossed the room to the only other exit, the one that led into the hall.
But when she tugged, that door wouldn't open either.
Turning, facing the room's center, she looked around her. "What's going on? Please, just tell me what you want from me!"
The oil lamp floated from the mantel to the center of the room, hovering there.
"Remember!" a woman's voice demanded. Then the lamp was hurled by unseen hands. It exploded on the floor in a pool of yellow fire.
Tessa ran forward, yanking a blanket from the bed, and trying to use it to douse the fire. But the flames spread unnaturally, slowly surrounding her. She stumbled toward the French doors, reaching for them, but she couldn't get past the wall of fire, even to hurl herself through the glass.
She shrieked in terror. And then, through the curtain of fire, she saw him on the street below, the horror in his face as he realized what was happening. She saw him racing toward the building to come for her, and suddenly it all returned.
Everything. Her love for him. God, it was an all-consuming, all-powerful love. His father, yes. Yes, it was his father who had started the fire all those years ago. She'd seen him leaving, but it was too late. Already the flames had been licking around her bed. She'd tried so hard to escape. To get to Marcus. Tried so hard to cling to life, even as the fire seared her flesh.
The flames raged higher, engulfing the room. The windows exploded. She screamed and screamed, and she no longer knew which parts of this night were happening now, and which were parts of her memory.
But the pain was so great, so intense. Her hair was on fire, her dress blazing, her skin melting from the bones and yet she clung to life. For him. For Marcus.
And then she heard a voice shouting from the streets far below. It was the voice of the woman who had read her palm in the little voodoo shop. And yet it was a voice she knew from another lifetime. The voice of Marie LaVeau.
"My namesake shall live again! And her lover will live as well, never to age, nor die, nor leave this city, until that time when she returns to him and they find the love that was stolen from them this cursed night!" Then her cry echoed through Tessa's mind and she knew it was time to let go of the pain, to leave the agonizing prison of her body, to move on. And she could, but only because she knew she would come back again. She would return to Marcus one day. And he would be right there waiting when she did.
She closed her eyes, and sank to the floor amid the flames.
Two things woke her. The first was the feeling of water spraying her face, cool, blessed water. The second was the sound of the door being kicked in.
Tessa opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor in the center of her room. The sprinklers in the ceiling were dousing her and the entire place with water. And then Marcus was there, on his knees beside her, cradling her in his arms.
"I thought I saw flames. My God, are you all right?"
Thought he saw flames? But the entire room had gone up… Sitting up, blinking, Tessa looked around. There was a small ring of black on the floor where the oil from the lamp had spread, and burned. But nothing else in the room was damaged. Not the curtains or the bedding. The windows were intact. Even the dress Tessa wore was perfectly unharmed.
Marcus was stroking her damp hair away from her face. "Tell me you're all right, my love, please."
"I'm all right," she whispered, staring up into his eyes, paying no attention to the others in the room, the hotel staff, and some firefighters who had just arrived. "More than that, Marcus, my beloved Marcus…I remember."
He searched her face, her eyes, his own filling with moisture. "You remember?"
"It's been so long, my love, so long. I love you. I love you, Marcus."
He gathered her close, and kissed her as his tears of joy spilled over. And Tessa knew that she would never, ever be apart from him again. Neither in this lifetime, nor those to come.
The End