His grandfather was wise, and yet the boy couldn’t help but wonder if he himself wasn’t more at peace than the man who would now raise him. His grandfather’s eyes were filled with pain. He didn’t fully feel the truth of his own words; he hadn’t felt the gentle touch.
The boy slipped his hand into his grandfather’s, then touched his face. His grandfather offered him the wisdom of the native peoples; his mother had brought him the fanciful mystery of a faraway country and the beliefs of the Old South. “It will be all right,” he said simply, knowing his parents were still alive in his heart and would always watch over him from above.
“My boy.” His grandfather wrapped him close.
Yes, the boy thought, his parents would be fine, in a world past all pain, all strife. But all the same, they were gone.
His father would never throw him up in the air again, play ball with him, teach him, tell him tales of the Great Spirit. And his mother would never match those tales with her own Gaelic whimsies. The soft tinkle of her laughter would not come again, nor would she tell him that he was a big boy, yet tuck him into bed anyway.
They would never offer him their deep, unconditional love again…
No, that wasn’t true.
He knew that love as deep and abiding as theirs had been was eternal. And there was comfort in that, a comfort that could ease loss and pain.
But there were other elements in the world that were also eternal.
Just as there was love, there was hatred.
Just as there was gratitude, there was vengeance.
He believed that he had a gift, and that his gift was special. But it wasn’t long before he learned that he was destined to face far more than the soft touch of love in the night.
Contents
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
COMING NEXT MONTH
1
“Six, please,” Nikki DuMonde said. “Six.” She was smiling, but firm as she emphasized the number, indicating the tray where there were only five cups of café au lait. She and Andrea Ciello were in line at Madame D’Orso’s, as they so often were. Madame herself was wonderful, but apparently she was busy, and the young woman behind the counter seemed overwhelmed. It seemed quiet enough right now. Though many of the little terrace tables were taken, there was only one other person inside the café at the moment, and he was slumped against the far wall. She glanced toward him. He had looked up once and had an attractive face, eyes that were intelligent, cheekbones hard and sculpted. But his clothes were ragged, with a slept-in look; he was unshaven, and his hair was shaggy and unkempt.
“Six coffees, six orders of beignets,” Andy added, flashing a smile as the girl added a cup to the tray along with plates filled with the delicious pastries so famous in New Orleans—and better, in the minds of the locals at Madame’s than any other place in the world. “S’il vous plaît,” she added.
As the girl turned to ring up their order, Andy assessed Nikki with her exotic dark eyes. “My treat today,” she said.
“Don’t be silly.”
“No, ever since I came aboard, you’ve been wonderful.” She had only been a tour guide for Myths and Legends of New Orleans for about four weeks. For Nikki, it was old hat.
“Hey, we all rely on each other, since we always work in pairs. And you’re doing just fine.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Andy said, tossing a length of her sleek dark hair over one shoulder. “I know all the stories, and sometimes I get chills, like there’s someone looking over my shoulder. But you…Nikki, it’s like you see ghosts.”
Nikki shrugged, glancing around the café. “Maybe it’s just ingrained,” she said. “I went to school with half the palm readers and voodoo queens working the Quarter these days. I guess it’s like…well, walking into any place that’s really historical…and…”
Nikki frowned and floundered, looking for the right word.
“Creepy?” Andy suggested.
Nikki shook her head. “Where deep feelings existed, where trauma occurred—like Westminster Abbey in London. When you walk in there—”
“The place is like one giant cemetery,” Andy said dryly.
Nikki laughed. “Yeah, it is. But you can get the same feeling at a Civil War battle site—even with all the bodies removed. I guess it’s a way of feeling the past, of history, people, the emotions. Remnants of the lives that were lived there, lost there.”
“You see ghosts,” Andy said, nodding sagely.
“I do not see ghosts.”
“You have an affinity for them.”
Nikki was growing uncomfortable. “No. I told you. It’s just a feeling of…history and the human condition, that’s all,” she said firmly. “Everyone gets it at some point, at some place.”
Andy reflected a moment. “Well, I do feel something in several of the cemeteries. And now and then in the cathedral, there’s a kind of…vibe.”
“Exactly,” Nikki agreed. She reached for the tray, but Andy was getting it, so she turned to head back to their table and nearly screamed.
The derelict had risen. He was in front of her, his mouth working, as he reached for her.
She couldn’t help but recoil, but even so his hands touched her shoulders. She thought he was going to collapse against her, but he straightened, his mouth still working as if he was trying to say something.
He needed money, she thought.
“Here,” she said quickly, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a bill and, pity replacing her feelings of revulsion, said, “Get yourself a real meal, please. No alcohol or drugs, please. Get food.”
She felt his touch again as she went quickly past him, Andy in her wake, hurrying with the tray.
The others were outside, but before they could reach the table, Andy said softly, “Nikki, that was really kind of you.”
“He’ll probably just drink it or shoot it up his arm,” Nikki said.
“No, maybe not. Actually, he didn’t look like a junkie.”
“Just a bum.”
“There but for the grace of God go I,” Andy murmured beneath her breath. Nikki turned