Nine Nights in New Orleans - No Last Calls

No Last Calls

by

 Kinsey Holley

“Am I WHAT??”

“Honey, we want to help you, but you--”

Lindsey took a deep breath before answering. Lately, she’d been taking so many deep breaths before answering her mother that she was becoming permanently light headed. And if she kept gritting her teeth like this, she’d need caps.

“Mom, I’m not on drugs. I haven’t developed a drinking problem. I’m not having a nervous breakdown.” Yet. No thanks to you. “You need to stop this, okay? Just stop. Stop worrying, stop calling me a dozen times a week, and please, please, please don’t talk to Ryan. He won’t stop calling me! He’s using you to keep a connection with me, and as long as you’re talking to him, he’ll think there’s a chance we’ll get back together.”

“Well, of course there is! I mean, you can’t ever say never, and--”

“Yes. Yes, I can. I already have. Never. I’m never marrying Ryan. See? I said it.”

“Now you’re just being childish,” her mother snapped. Then, adopting the Very Calm Tone that always made Lindsey want to scream with frustration, she continued, “Why don’t you come home for a visit. We can sit down and talk this all out.”

“Mom. Mom. We’ve been over this a million times. I’m not gonna talk about this anymore. Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I’m an adult. I’m doing fine. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

She glanced at the clock on the microwave. She was meeting Undrea for drinks. If she didn’t leave right now, she’d be late and Undrea would be sitting in a bar by herself. Undrea knew the guy who owned it, but still. She was an old friend and the only one she really had in this city, so far. Lindsey didn’t want to take advantage of that.

Besides, she was unfashionably punctual by nature. Her mother’s influence, no doubt.

With another deep breath she said, “Why don’t you give Dr. Kapinsky a call? Talk to him about how you’re feeling. Maybe he can give you something to--”

“I do not need pills! This is not about how I’m feeling, it’s about how you’re ruining your life! I’ll talk to you later, when you’ve calmed down and can discuss this rationally.”

Her mother had been waiting over a month for Lindsey to be rational. That was a problem, because in Cecily Holland’s parlance, “rational” meant “agrees with me.”

The line went dead, as Lindsey had hoped. She’d mentioned Dr. Kapinsky because she knew it would make her mother hang up.

Grabbing her purse, she locked the door and hurried downstairs. On the way, she did something she’d never done before in her life: She blocked her parents’ home phone number and then, for good measure, both cell phones. Just for a while, so I can get some peace.  

She tried to feel guilty about it, and found that she couldn’t.

That had to be a good sign.

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Nine Nights In New Orleans - Blame it on the Voodoo

Blame it on the Voodoo

by

 PG Forte

         “It’s getting to where you can’t swing a dead chicken around here anymore without it smacking into one damn psychic or another.”

Zirondelle Doucette couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face as she listened to her Aunt Serafina’s complaints. Her aunt stood at the window of their family’s shop, staring out at the street, and Zee didn’t have to guess too hard to figure out the cause for her discontent. Another “damn” psychic had recently put out her shingle in the previously vacant storefront directly across from their own.

“And if it’s not a psychic it’s a card reader,” the other woman continued, grumbling crossly. “Or a palm reader. Or tea-leaf reader—”

“Or a purveyor of Voodoo essentials?” Zee suggested, holding up the little gris-gris bag she’d just finished assembling.

Serafina turned her head to glare at her niece. “Don’t sass me, Zee. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, Ma’am, I do.” Ducking her head, Zee started in on the next charm. She knew it wasn’t psychics per se with whom her aunt had a problem. Serafina was a tolerant soul, not the kind who’d ever take a stand against anyone else’s religion or spellcraft or spiritual beliefs.  It was the idea of all those make-believe mystics making a mockery of their family’s calling that was trying the older woman’s temper, and not without cause. The Doucette family had owned and operated their establishment in the self-same Royal Street location for several generations, dealing in authentic rituals, in candles and jujus, talismans and spells.  It was hard not to take it personally when your way of life was turned into a kind of circus act by greedy imposters. But as Zee and her aunt both knew, the charlatans did in fact have a place and a purpose in the grand scheme of things.

Oh, how the tourists loved them. They ate up their acts and purchased their trinkets as eagerly as they did the beignets at the Café du Monde. Or jazz on Frenchmen Street. Or hurricanes in Pat O’s Courtyard. It was all part of the Crescent City mystique, like po-boys and crawfish, pralines and beads.  In an odd way, they kept things safe. They kept the merely curious from straying into dangerous territory.

“Oh, Lawd.” Aunt Serafina’s sudden gasp caught Zee’s attention. She glanced up in surprise.

“Auntie, what’s wrong?”

“It’s him.”  Serafina scurried back behind the counter where her niece was working, babbling nonsensically. “He’s back. He’s coming this way. What should we do? What does he want this time?” 

“Do about what?” Zee asked, feeling mystified and mildly exasperated. “Who’s back?” She loved Serafina; truly she did. Her aunt had taken Zee in after her parents passed without question or hesitation—the only member of their somewhat eccentric family who seemed to have any idea about what to do with a bewildered little girl who’d suddenly been orphaned. Zee would never forget the older woman’s kindness but, all the same, there were times, like now, when dealing with her aunt seriously tried Zee’s patience.

The Doucette family had a certain reputation; they were known for being fierce and fearless. They prided themselves on it, in fact. But Serafina had always been unusually timid for a Doucette. Right now, her pale eyes, also unusual in a Doucette, were wide with fear, the pupils dilated; her voice was but a whisper. “Monsieur Boudreaux.”  

Boudreaux. The name itself meant very little.  It was as common as dishwater around those parts. But between the look on her aunt’s face and the singing certainty in her own heart, Zee knew exactly which Monsieur Boudreaux Serafina meant. She meant Rene Alcide Boudreaux. Zirondelle’s Monsieur Boudreaux. Dominant. Vampire. Master.

But not her master. No, not yet.

As the door to the shop swung open, Zee trembled inside. She couldn’t even raise her eyes to gaze upon the shadow that she knew must be filling the entryway. Odd, considering that shadow contained the very thing for which she’d been longing.  

“Good evening, Madame Doucette, Mademoiselle.” Rene glided into the shop with his usual, preternatural grace. He had a way of moving that Zee found mesmerizing. And his voice! That subtle growl, as dark and seductive as midnight, left Zee wanting to fall to her knees at his feet and declare her submission right then and there. She dared not, however. Not with her aunt looking on. Not when she hadn’t yet been granted the right. 

“Monsieur Boudreaux,” Serafina’s voice shook a little as she returned his greeting. “What a surprise. We weren’t expecting you.”

“Weren’t you?”  

“Well, yes. I mean…no! It-it’s so soon after Monsieur’s last visit.”

That was sadly true, Zee reflected. Although he’d once been a regular customer, stopping by every few weeks, things had changed in the last decade. Nowadays it was not unusual for a year or more to pass between encounters. Rene’s last visit to the shop had been three months ago. The occasion was burned into Zee’s memory because it was then she decided that enough was enough. It was time to take matters into her own hands, to go after what she wanted, to stop waiting, hoping or dreaming that Rene might someday recall her existence. She could be dead by the time that happened!

“Indeed,” Rene agreed. “However, I’m sure you’ll appreciate that circumstances have made it necessary that I return sooner rather than later. I’m here because of the spell that’s been placed upon me—the curse, if you will.”

 “A curse!” Serafina gasped in alarm. “Oh, surely Monsieur is mistaken.”

“I assure you, Madame, the mistake is not mine. It would, in fact, be rather impossible for me to be mistaken about such a thing. You see, if there’s one thing we vampires are very familiar with, it’s curses. Centuries of people wishing one dead or ill tends to naturally have that effect.”

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Nine Nights in New Orleans--Bourbon Street Blues

Bourbon Street Blues

by

Skylar Kade

Drinking a hurricane on Bourbon Street her first night in New Orleans made absolutely no sense, which was exactly why Alexa Huston was doing it. It was a Wednesday night, but enough tourists and local college kids lined the street to give her an idea of just how overwhelming—and scandalous—her new neighborhood would probably be on the weekends. Though her new apartment was a few streets away, she was still in the French Quarter, or, as her mother had taken to calling it, “Sin by the Mississippi.”

Looking at the Hustler store and the myriad strip joints, she hated to admit that her mother wasn’t all too wrong. Still, whether it was the long day flying from Wyoming to Louis Armstrong Airport or the half-serving of alcohol she’d already imbibed, Bourbon Street actually seemed kind of charming. It was certainly not a sensible place for her to be, which only increased its appeal.

While she scanned the street, taking in the tourists throwing beads from second-story balconies and the young men high-fiving each other as they exited strip clubs, her stomach rumbled in a not-so-subtle reminder that she hadn’t eaten in a while.

On the corner, the words Bourbon House glowed from a sign, beckoning her in to eat. It seemed as good a place as any, if a little upscale, but Alexa figured after her hellish day, she deserved a little luxury for dinner. After all, who knew when her suitcases would miraculously show up at the airport? She could be stuck in these clothes for days until the moving van arrived. She needed to enjoy herself while she was still presentable. The last sips of her hurricane bubbled through the straw and she chucked the empty souvenir cup into her tote before heading for the corner.

She entered the nearly empty restaurant and claimed a seat at the bar. A quick scan of the menu revealed all the delicious native dishes she’d discovered in her thorough research of the town. The bartender sauntered over, an open smile on her young face. “What can I get you?”

Alexa rubbed her hands together in glee. “I’ll start with the alligator boudin, then have a bowl of the seafood gumbo, and a half dozen oysters Bienville.”

The bartender arched her eyebrow. “Hungry?”

A huge grin broke across her face. “Starving. And it’s my first night in New Orleans, so I feel a distinct urge to try everything.”

The woman leaned on the bar. “Then you must have a Sazerac with your meal. It’s a local drink with bourbon, absinthe, and bitters. I definitely think you can handle it.”

“Done!” Alexa could feel her hurricane buzz lapping at the tension in her shoulders. A drink with dinner sounded like a perfectly good idea.

While she waited for her meal, she whipped out her smartphone and delved back into her favorite gothic romance. She couldn’t get enough of Wuthering Heights, and she imagined such a turbulent romance would be right at home in her new city. New Orleans had that tragic, romantic vibe down perfectly. 

Nine Nights in New Orleans - Laissez les Bons Temps Rouler

 

 Laissez les Bons Temps Rouler

 by

Juniper Bell

“Laaaaiiiiissssezzz les boooonnnnnn …” A cat in heat, that’s what it sounded like to Arrietta. A wild, rutting, howling cat on a hot tin roof. Except this caterwauling demon was strutting across a stage, not a roof, and that stage happened to be in the bar next door on Frenchmen’s Street. Which wouldn’t be a problem except that she was trying to sing too. Her rendition of “Blue Collar Boogie” kept getting drowned out by the ridiculous screeching next door, and her overflow crowd of twenty – make that eighteen – seemed to be overflowing right out the door.

She sang louder. “Some say work is good for the soul …” Her voice cracked. Josh, on  standup bass, made a face at her. She flared her nostrils at him. He crinkled his forehead in a way that gave her a funny little twinge and made her stumble over the next word. “… but I see … say … I sold my soul forty hours a week.” She shot Josh a glare, only to be deafened by another blast of sound from next door.

“…roulllleeeerrr! Yow!!! Come on, pretty mama!”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” With a squeal of feedback, Arrietta yanked the mike out of its stand. “Can’t someone do something?”

Josh and Mackie D, her drummer, stumbled to a stop, the music crashing around them like a building in mid-demolition. With a quizzical look, Josh tilted his derby hat further back on his head. Mackie D just stared at her, his big black bulk solid as a mountain behind his drum set. They’d been playing together as Miss Jess for two years in Brooklyn, and were just starting to get some notice. Arrietta had slaved for this day. She’d gone into debt, she’d lived in shithole apartments her entire adult life, done all her shopping at Goodwill. She’d worked as a waitress, a psychic hotline operator, even a secretarial temp to pay the bills. She’d sacrificed everything – friendships, romances, financial security -- for her music.

Sure, sometimes she wished she could just let it rip, like that loudmouth good ol’ boy next door. Forget technique, forget lessons and scales. But she’d hadn’t spent all those years mastering her craft to let Miss Jess’s all-important first gig in New Orleans—on Valentine’s Day, no less--get ruined by a jackass.

She leaned back into the mike and breathed, “We’ll be back in five.” With one more annoyed look at her do-nothing bandmates, she stalked off the stage.

Blank, astonished faces watched her progress through Hurricane City and out the door. No one seemed too concerned about the racket next door. Maybe they were used to this in New Orleans -- one group completely drowning out another. Well, Arrietta hadn’t paid her dues in the Brooklyn music scene for nothing. Maybe other singers didn’t mind straining their vocal chords to be heard over a screeching banshee, but she wasn’t going to put up with it for one more second.

The bar next door was called “Chez le Voodoo”. It had an annoyingly vintage New Orleans look about it, with ornate gold lettering and a dim interior that seemed to be lit by gas lamps. An impassive man sat on a stool outside the front door. He looked her up and down, then back up, then back down.

She thought she looked pretty good, with her hair in pink, marcelled waves, like a fifties pin-up. In honor of Valentine’s Day, she’d added a fascinator with a sparkly heart. Her onstage style was tongue-in-cheek retro, with a poodle skirt that had been altered to feature a wildcat rather than a poodle, and a halter top that showed off the tattoo of an eyelash-batting kitten on her upper back. But the bouncer didn’t seem impressed. He held out his hand, palm up.

 “I’m not staying,” she told him. “I’m singing next door and I need to talk to someone about the sound level.”

When he didn’t lower his hand, she rolled her eyes and reached into her cleavage. With a quick glance to make sure it wasn’t one of her twenties, she slapped it into his hand. He grunted and waved her in.

Bedlam, that’s what it was. As she stepped into Chez le Voodoo, an absolutely wild scene unfurled before her. The walls were black, as if decades of smoke had infused every crack in the wood. Every few feet, flames danced and leaped inside glass wall sconces. The place was so packed, Arrietta couldn’t even make out where the bar was. Couples were romping and whooping; some were executing tight spins and dips and whirls. Fragrant cigarette smoke curled through the air as if the place were an opium den. Arrietta tossed her head, ignoring the seductive pull of all that wild abandon. Talk about old skool. A lot of bars didn’t even allow smoking anymore. 

But clearly, Chez le Voodoo followed its own rules.

Indecent exposure, for example.

She peered into the smoky crowd. The flickering gas lamps acted as a sort of old-fashioned strobe light, so she could see only in flashes. But she was pretty sure … yes, practically positive … that some of the women were dancing topless.

Well, it was New Orleans, after all. But she’d thought that sort of thing was saved for the tourists down on Bourbon Street. This was Frenchmen’s Street, where all the serious music lovers went. And she was a Serious Musician -- on a mission.

She swung her gaze to the stage, where she spotted the cause of her outrage.

There he was, the devil who’d been ruining her set. He stood with legs apart, hands gripping a saxophone, lips wrapped around the mouthpiece. At least he wasn’t singing at the moment, but his sax playing was just as bad. The man had no technique whatsoever. He just threw notes out there as if they were cheap Mardi Gras beads. Fast and raw, the notes scampered up and down the scale. The dancing crowd gyrated right along with the madman, faster and faster, as if they’d all die if they stopped – or even slowed down.

Then he pulled the sax out of his mouth and yanked the mike to his lips. And Arrietta came close to fainting. The man was … what were the right words? He was like some kind of god -- the pagan kind. He had black hair, thick as blackstrap molasses, with a shiver of black stubble on his jaw. His eyes glittered like midnight swamp water, like alligators sidling alongside bayou skiffs, like wild Southern belles throwing tossing up their skirts on a hot summer night. Every naughty thought, every dangerous, spontaneous impulse gleamed in those eyes. And every woman in the place knew it.

“Laiiiiiissssezzzz les ….”

And those broad shoulders, hunched over the mike as if he was making sweet, sweet love to it. His lean hips thrust in time to the beat. Tendons stood out in his neck. Sweat dripped down his face. The man was sex. Pure sex on a mike stand.

Nine Nights In New Orleans - Sax On A Stick

Sax On A Stick

 

by

 

Kate Davies

 

 

He arrived before sound check.

The bar was almost empty, just a couple of old timers at the table near the window, nursing drinks that had long turned to melted-ice-water. The bartender nodded briefly at him as he made his way to a two-seat table along the far side of the dance floor. He sat, easing back into the wooden chair as he checked the angle. Yeah, even once the dancing started he'd have a perfect view of the stage.

Taking out his phone, he checked it for non-existent messages, figuring if he looked busy no one would pay attention to him sitting here well before the show was even scheduled to start.

It was a transparent and slightly pathetic effort, but worth a try.

The bartender crossed the dance floor, beer in hand. "Here you go, man," she said, her blond hair swinging as she set it on the table. "Your usual."

He smiled awkwardly up at her. Dammit. He couldn't decide if that was awesome customer service, or if he'd just been outed as the creeper who'd been stalking this band for the past several weeks.

 

Probably a little of both.

 

"Thanks," he finally said, digging into his back pocket for his wallet.

 

She waved him off. "I figure you're gonna be here for a while. Want to start a tab?"

 

He nodded. Sure, why not. It would definitely make things easier.

 

"What's your name?" She smiled at him. "So I can put it in the computer."

 

"James," he finally answered. "James Michel."

 

"Not Bond?" She teased. With a wink, she headed back to the bar. Over her shoulder, she added, "Let me know when you need another. It'll get pretty crowded in here soon."

 

Yeah, he knew. It was why he had been arriving at Dupre's earlier and earlier each week. It was the only way to make sure he had a good viewing spot.

And as lovely as the young lady was, he wasn't here to scope out the bartender.

 

No, he had his sights on someone else.

 

The thump-thump of an electric bass pulled his attention back to the stage, where one of the musicians was already warming up. Crap, was it that late already? He checked his watch. Still a little over an hour until the show started.

 

Well, the official show. For him, the show started...

 

He looked at the stage again. Another musician was pulling his instrument out of the case and fitting it together.

 

Yep. The show started right...about...now.

*



The Businessman was here again.

Breaux glanced at the small table out of the corner of his eye, pretending to focus on setting up his sax.

It was a good cover. He could put that beauty together with his eyes closed.

He didn't know the guy's name. He didn't know for certain that he was a businessman, for that matter.

But it seemed like a pretty reasonable guess. Button down shirt, sleeves rolled up partway in deference to the heat, khaki pants, nice watch that he was currently checking again.

One minute later than the last time you looked, boo.

 

His sandy blond hair was cut short, barely brushing the tops of his ears. Breaux couldn't tell if his eyes were blue or brown - he'd never sat close enough for anyone to see from on stage - but even from this distance he could tell the guy had the longest damn eyelashes he'd ever seen.

 

When he'd first started showing up at their weekly gigs, Breaux had assumed he was there to meet women. God knew there were enough of them who came to the shows. But he never danced, never picked anyone up, just sat there nursing his beer and watching the band.

 

Watching Breaux.

 

Frankly, he was tired of it. And tonight he was going to do something about it.

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Nine Nights in New Orleans - Ghost of a Chance

Ghost of a Chance

by

Sydney Somers

It didn’t look like a haunted house.

Holly Clarke stared at the three-story house between swipes of the wiper blades across the windshield of her rental car.

Less than five minutes after her plane touched down in Louisiana, the heavy gray skies had erupted in torrential downpours. Although it had taken over an hour to find Beau Arbor House—nearly three times longer than her GPS had originally promised—she was still drenched from her mad dash to pick up her rental.

“Turn left in .2 miles.”

Tempted to toss the useless GPS out the window, Holly settled for silencing it with a stab of her finger. She would have ended up in a bayou had she taken the next left.

Following a car-shaking boom of thunder, she turned off the vehicle and threw open the door. Her earlier discomfort at being back in New Orleans, the last stop on her story assignment, had nearly faded. Driving the dark, rainy streets hadn’t brought back nearly as many memories of Sam as she’d feared when her editor added the Most Haunted City in America to her assignment itinerary.

Beau Arbor House had merited barely half a dozen hits by the almighty Google when Holly had researched the place two days ago. With dozens of haunted houses catering to Big Easy tourists, she couldn’t imagine why this one warranted a mention in her article.

Arguing that point with her editor—and best friend Lena—would be pointless. Holly could be done her assignment and on a plane bound for home before she’d ever sway Lena once her mind was made up. She trusted her friend’s judgment, though, except when it came to Holly’s love life. The last time she took Lena’s advice on that front she’d ended up with a broken heart.

Grabbing her bags from the passenger seat, Holly bolted from the car, slamming the door behind her. It took only seconds to sprint past moss-covered trees and up the curved stone staircase to the covered front porch, but the rain still managed to soak her all over again.

Shivering, she set her bags down and wiped the rain from her face.

In front of her, the door swung inward with a heart-jarring creak.

Stumbling back a step on instinct, Holly then swore under her breath at the over reaction, blaming the goose bumps that raced across her skin on her wet clothes. Beau Arbor wasn’t any more haunted than the five other bed and breakfasts she’d visited already. The food and eccentric staff had proven far spookier than any of the sightings and unexplained sounds the other B&B’s were supposedly famous for.

She was batting 0 for 5 in the haunting department and even accounting for dark, rainy nights and hinges in need of oiling, she didn’t see that changing any time soon.

“Ms. Clarke?” A soft Cajun accent preceded the middle-aged woman who appeared in the doorway. Barely taller than Holly’s shoulder, the woman cocked her head, her otherwise flawless caramel face undermined by an unexpected scowl.

Holly opened her mouth.

“I’m Charlotte,” the woman interrupted, her intimidating gaze openly sizing Holly up.

Caught off guard by the scrutiny, she shifted in place. “Sorry for the late arrival—”

“You best hurry inside. I don’t have much time. It’s nearly nine o’clock.” The woman spun away from the door, her long pleated skirt twirling up in a black wave of fabric tamed only by the thick braid falling down the middle of her back.

Dressing for the part? That was new.

“I’m in mourning,” Charlotte clarified, though Holly hadn’t said a word aloud.

Left to close the door, Holly finally grabbed her bags and stepped inside. Another shiver crawled up her spine at the thought of Charlotte seeming to read her mind. She shrugged it off, along with the sensation that she might be better off putting her fate in the hands of a malfunctioning GPS.

Charlotte was already halfway up an ornate mahogany staircase to the left of the main parlor and showed no sign of checking to see if Holly followed. Darting a quick glance overhead at the impressive stained-glass chandelier hanging overhead, she trailed after the housekeeper who definitely scored points on the creepiness scale.

If nothing else, Holly would be picking her next assignment for Lena’s travel website, and sun, sand and tropical drinks were at the top of her list. She’d heard enough ghost stories in the couple of weeks to last a phantom’s lifetime. Strangely enough, Charlotte seemed to be in too much of a hurry to fill her in on Beau Arbor’s history.

Every other B&B owner had barely given her time to turn the car off before they were filling her in on each place’s haunting details. While Holly knew Beau Arbor House was supposedly haunted by two brothers who’d both loved and lost the same woman near the end of the Civil War, she’d anticipated a more detailed recounting when she’d arrived.  

From somewhere below the music of a fiddle drifted up, and Holly looked over the rail in search of the source.

“Ms. Clarke?” All but tapping her toes, Charlotte waited at the top of the second floor.

She hurried to join her. “What happens at nine?”

“I leave.” With another head-to-toe survey that barely masked her skepticism, Charlotte carried on down the hall.

Wondering what she’d done to annoy the other woman, Holly followed. “I’m sorry if waiting for me made you late for something. My GPS—”

“The spirits don’t care about your GPS.”

“Spirits,” Holly echoed. The Beau Arbor staff may have skipped the history lesson, but certainly didn’t waste any time playing up the ghost angle.

The fiddle music grew louder, and Holly glanced over her shoulder, hoping to catch a peek at the person playing. “They won’t be playing all night, will they?”

The woman arched a brow. “Depends on William’s mood.” She checked her watch and pulled a key from a pocket in her skirt before opening the door. “Oscar is the louder one.”

“Another guest,” Holly guessed.

“Hardly. Though our resident vampire is the one most likely to keep you awake.”

“Hope he’s not hungry.” If Charlotte was pulling out all the stops, Holly didn’t mind playing along.

Charlotte didn’t appreciate the humor. She didn’t even crack a smile.

Tough crowd.

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Nine Nights In New Orleans - Ash Wednesday

Maggie Beaulieu got out of the cab at Magazine and Canal. For the fifth time, she checked to make sure she had the tote bag. Last night, she dreamed she left it at a Seven Eleven near the airport by accident.

Wish fulfillment, Maggie?

No. Definitely not. This might not be the most pleasant task she’d ever undertaken, but she’d do it and she’d do it right. Uncle Claude was depending on her to take care of things. He’d chosen her over all the other cousins. She’d show him he’d made the right decision.

Not that any of the other cousins had been all that eager to do it. On the other hand, they hadn’t been all that enthusiastic about Maggie doing it either.

You sure about this, honey? It’s a lot of responsibility. Don’t you think maybe we should do something a little more normal?

Maggie sighed. She’d have loved normal herself, but that wasn’t what she’d been asked to do. No, if Uncle Claude wanted normal, he would have said he wanted normal. Instead, he’d said he wanted Maggie. She took a deep breath and blew it out, probably the first of many deep breaths she’d be taking over the course of the evening. With any luck, after tonight, everyone else would agree that Claude had made the right decision after all. Or if not exactly the right decision, at least not the wrong one.

She started a brisk stroll down Decatur Street, doing her best to look like someone just out for a evening’s walk along the riverside. If nothing else, maybe after she’d done what she’d set out to do she could go to the French Market for a couple of beignets and coffee.

Oh yeah, Maggie. Let’s pretend this is just like any other delivery. Maybe you could go over to Royal and have a Hurricane.

She hugged the tote bag closer to her side. Okay, so maybe this evening’s adventure wasn’t typical. But she’d try to behave as if it were. Couples walked past her arm-in-arm, most of them smiling blissfully. Music echoed from some of the clubs, saxophones and guitars. A humid breeze slid over her cheek, smelling faintly of decay and the river.

The river. Time to move toward the riverside.

A group of women careened up the street, tottering on stiletto heels, their pastel sun dresses slightly wilted from the heat. Three of them had stacks of multi-colored metallic beads around their necks. The fourth wore a plastic crown with the number thirty at the peak. All of them carried paper cups.

Maggie detoured around them a little wistfully. She’d love to have a birthday party in New Orleans herself, tottering through the French Market with a glass of Voodoo Juice. Actually, she’d love to be doing just about anything other than what she was actually doing.

You could have said no. Nobody would have blamed you.

They wouldn’t have blamed her, but they wouldn’t have done it themselves either. And somebody had to do it. They owed it to Uncle Claude.

She did the deep breath thing again. Time to move on. It wasn’t like she had all night.

She headed up St. Louis toward Woldenberg Park. She sort of remembered walking along the sidewalk above the river there with her mother. Not that they’d ever gotten close to the water, even when they went to the park. She’d have to try to figure out her strategy once she got down there.

She sighed again. “Listen Uncle Claude,” she murmured. “I really do appreciate your having faith in me and all, but are you absolutely sure you wouldn’t like to just go back to Houston?”

#### 

Derek Bartel stuffed the collection of coins and folding money into his pocket before sliding his fiddle back into the velvet-lined case. The money wasn’t as much as he’d hoped, but it wasn’t bad for a weeknight.

Around him, tourists still strolled across Jackson Square, pausing to take pictures in front of St. Louis Cathedral. The metal-painted man who imitated statues stood frozen in place as a pair of children giggled in front of him.

Dolan had found a prime spot for their trio tonight on Chartres. People walking by could pause to listen for a few minutes before moving on, hopefully after dropping a couple of bucks into Derek’s fiddle case.

Dolan, the keyboard man, was breaking down his equipment. He’d already split the take from Derek’s case, probably raking off a little extra for himself when he did it. But since Dolan was the one who organized the group and found the spot for them to set up, Derek figured he deserved a little more for his trouble.

The bass guitarist, Peebo, didn’t feel the same way. “C’mon man, hand it over. I got rent to pay, same as you.”

Dolan grimaced, then handed him another couple of bills. “Take was thin tonight.”

Peebo shrugged. “Better than nothing.” He hoisted his case to his shoulder and turned up Chartres. “Later, dudes.”

Derek picked up his own case, watching Dolan fold up the tablecloth he’d spread in front of them to catch any overflow from the donations. “We doing this again tomorrow?”

Dolan shrugged. “Could be. Come on down anyway. If Peebo don’t show up, you and me can try doing some stuff on our own.”

Which meant he probably wouldn’t pass the news on to Peebo. Looked like they were about to become a duet. Oh well. Derek didn’t like confrontations. He wasn’t somebody who sought out trouble. He thought of himself mostly as a live and let live type. Mostly. “Good enough.”

He tucked his case under his arm and headed down St. Peter toward the river. It was a fair hike to his apartment, but the evening was clear and fairly cool, and walking saved bus fare. He only used his car for trips outside the city these days, whenever he could pick up a gig. Good for the environment. Also good for his own chronically thin wallet.

The street lights cast glowing pools along the sidewalk, leaving shadows in the doorways of the closed shops and cafés. He could still hear music from the clubs along Decatur, soft echoes of saxophones and guitars.

A block away, the cast iron lamps of the Moonwalk and Woldenberg Park glowed enticingly. Great place to go strolling with somebody, as several couples seemed to have discovered that evening. On an impulse, he crossed the street and climbed the steps to the raised walkway along the riverside. Might as well enjoy the cool evening air as long as he could.

Ahead of him, he saw another solo walker, female, carrying a canvas tote at her side. She wandered slowly along the river, gazing out across the water, her dark hair catching reflected gleams as she passed the light posts. Something about her made him pause.

So slow. So sad. Just like Juliette.

He closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn’t thought about Juliette in years—it wasn’t like she was always on his mind. Still, now that he had thought of her, he started watching the woman with the tote bag a little more carefully. He slowed his own steps to stay behind her, hoping she wouldn’t decide he was a particularly inept mugger. She seemed to be looking down at the dark river water beyond the high bank, her steps slowing even more, her shoulders rounding with fatigue.

Don’t bother her. Not every sad person is looking to hurt herself. Live and let live, remember?

But even saying that to himself started a train of thought he couldn’t seem to stop. What if she’s looking for a good place to jump, a place where no one will see her? The thought drifted through his mind as she paused for a moment, gazing toward the far bank. Maybe a place like the very spot where she was currently standing. And if she decides to do something like jump, I’m the only one here. I’m the only one who can talk her out of it.

Well, crap.

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Nine Nights in New Orleans-- No Beignet Left Behind

No Beignet Left Behind

by

Erin Nicholas

“If you don’t show up, I’m not returning your copy of Mama Mia or your dress and I’m taking your red Gucci shoes home to Houston with me.”

Kara couldn’t believe she was being stood up.  By the hot brunette she’d been looking forward to seeing for weeks.  Ellen Bossard, her best friend from high school, laughed on the other end of the phone. 

“I’ll be there.  Just later than I’d planned.  I can’t help the weather.”

Kara wasn’t sure she believed that.  The Bossard’s had a lot of power.  It wouldn’t have surprised her if they could influence the weather.  Plus there was the legend of their great-great-grandmother being some kind of magical voodoo priestess or something.  Ellen had always loved that piece of family history.

“I’m literally already in the cab, dressed, curled, the whole bit,” Kara said.

“So, go.  It’s not a big deal.  I’ll see you there.”

It was a big deal, though.  She was going to crash Ellen’s mom and dad’s anniversary party?  No way.

“I’ll just see you at the apartment,” she told Ellen, feeling the crush of disappointment as she looked down at the emerald silk dress and glittering silver shoes.  She never dressed like this unless she was with Ellen in New Orleans.  But she did love it.  Feeling like a princess for a night—there was nothing like it.

“I’m going to have to go straight to the party,” Ellen said.  “And you have to meet your ride by midnight, right?”

“Yeah.”  Kara slumped in her seat in the back of the cab.  “This sucks.”

“Just go to the party.  I’ll be there as soon as I can and we’ll have a little time before you have to leave.”

Kara and Ellen were like sisters, but they hadn’t seen each other in months.  Kara had taken a job in Texas while Ellen’s life had taken her overseas.  Kara missed her friend and had arranged this trip specifically to coincide with Ellen’s trip home for her parents’ anniversary.  But she couldn’t afford to be away from work for too long.  Hence the ride-sharing with a friend of a friend’s cousin to New Orleans and back in the span of forty-eight hours.  The girl driving back wanted to leave by midnight so she could be home in time to shower and get to work.

Her ride, Brittney, was a friendly girl and they’d gotten along fine on the five and a half hour drive, but Kara didn’t think for a minute that Brittney wouldn’t leave her if she was late.

“I’m going to show up at your mom and dad’s house without an invitation?” Kara asked.  “I don’t think so.”

“They’ll be thrilled,” Ellen said.  “They love you and haven’t seen you in forever.”

That might be true.  She’d spent plenty of time with Ellen’s family growing up.  But Marianne and Raymond Bossard were intimidating people even over a casual family dinner—not that their definition of casual was quite the same as Kara’s—and at a lavish masquerade party at their mansion with all of their friends and business acquaintances?  Yeah, her palms were already sweating.

“I won’t know anyone.” 

“Which makes the masquerade thing perfect,” Ellen said.

Kara looked down at the mask in her lap.

She really did love the mask.  She’d gone shopping as soon as she’d seen the gown Ellen had hanging in the closet of the apartment she used when she was in New Orleans.  She’s safety pinned a big K to it with a lip print in red lipstick in the corner. 

Having a best friend with money always had and always would rock. 

The Bossard mansion was one of the biggest in the Garden District.  The Queen Anne style house always made Kara feel like she was stepping into a fairy tale.  Ellen had grown up in the lap of luxury. 

Kara had not.

But her grandparents had saved since the day she was born to send her to the exclusive private girls school where she met Ellen.  They’d been best friends since the first day of kindergarten and through Ellen, Kara had experienced extravagant parties, exquisite gowns and shoes and accessories—the works.  She had also learned poise and sophistication and manners.  She could cover up her blue collar roots so convincingly that everyone who hired her interior decorating company, or who recommended her or who interviewed her or who invited her anywhere in Houston, assumed she came from big money.  Big old Southern money. 

Kara ran her finger along the glittery edge of the mask.  She hadn’t been to a good masquerade in a long time. And no one threw them like the Bossards.  There would be a live band and real old-fashioned ballroom dancing and an unbelievable spread of food. 

 

And, of course, the mask. A girl couldn’t just wear a mask around every day, so it was hard to pass up an opportunity like this.  The mask, like the gown, was a deep gorgeous green.  It was trimmed in silver and had silver swirls looping around the eyes and across the nose, with a silk ribbon to hold it over her eyes. 

Maybe she could do it.  She’d been faking her background for so long that she had no reason to believe she couldn’t do it with the Bossard’s friends and colleagues.  Maybe she could even make some business contacts. 

“There will be beignets.”

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Nine Nights in New Orleans - No One Drinks Alone

No One Drinks Alone

by

Kelly Jamieson

“Look at those hot chicks.”

Kady Brandon turned and eyed the man who’d just said the words. Yup. He was looking right at her. He winked. She lifted an eyebrow and gave him an up and down look that made him grin.

Friday night on Bourbon Street in New Orleans meant crazy crowds — flirty men, people lining the balconies above them tossing shiny beads, loud pumping music from the bars that lined the street, and drinks to go. She and her two best friends sipped on hurricanes, sweet and fruity and laced with rum.

“I think those guys are following us,” she said to Nikki and Megan.

The two girls laughed and shrugged. All three of them held the tiny straw of their drinks between thumb and fingers, and sucked back more of their hurricanes.

 “Yeah, I noticed them before,” Nikki said. “They’re so cute.”

“But this is a girls’ night,” Megan said. “Come on. Let’s keep walking. I want to find that little Voodoo shop.”

“Oh, me too!” Nikki said.

The three began to make their way slowly through the throngs of people. Kady snagged two more necklaces someone tossed from a balcony and draped them around her neck with the others, laughing as she did so. It was just so deliciously tacky and decadent.

Decadent. Yeah.

She paused to watch a man walk by wearing a full pirate costume. Whoa and damn. That was a fine pirate costume, with black boots, white pants and ruffled shirt, and a long red, black and gold jacket. The feather draping off his black hat bobbed as he walked by, and she turned to follow his progress, studying the costume. She’d always had a thing for pirates. Yum.

With a grin, she turned back to her friends, only to discover they’d disappeared. Shit.

She went onto her toes to try to spot them in the crowd, but it was impossible. The neon lights of the bars and shops cast a multi-colored glow into the dark, teeming street, disguising people with different hues and shadows.

“Hey, gorgeous. Drinking alone in New Orleans?”

Kady turned and saw the guy who’d been eyeing her earlier. His smile was wide and white, and faint lines whisked out from the corners of dark eyes. Just the right amount of beard stubble roughened a square jaw. Oh yeah, Nikki was right. He was cute.

“I’m not alone. I’m with friends.”

“Uh-huh. You seem to have lost them.”

She smiled. “Of course I haven’t lost them. I’ll find them.”

“Of course.” He lifted his plastic cup, which appeared to be beer, and drank. “How about I keep you company while we find them?” He nodded at her drink. “No one drinks alone in New Orleans.”

“No one drinks alone? Is that a thing?” Amusement curved her mouth as she pursed her lips around the straw of her fruity drink and sucked.

“Sure.” His gaze dropped to her mouth and she felt a voluptuous kick of lust low down inside her. Heat rushed through her veins and her skin warmed beneath his gaze.

He wore a dark T-shirt over dark jeans. The T-shirt fit the toned muscles of his chest and shoulders spectacularly, and his low-rise jeans outlined lean hips and muscled thighs. His brown hair was a little long and flopped over his forehead in a sexy sweep that emphasized really nice eyes. But it was his smile that pulled her in, open, friendly, but with a promise of wicked fun. As if he knew exactly the kinds of things she liked.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s walk a bit farther and see if we find them.”

If he’d given off a creeper vibe, she never would have gone with him. But he didn’t. He was sexy and handsome and nicely dressed, and when he set just his fingertips on the small of her back to guide her through the crowd, it was the perfect mix of direction and protection.

People milled around them, couples, groups, everyone talking, laughing, pointing up to the balconies where more people leaned with their drinks.

“They were looking for some Voodoo shop,” she said, going on her toes to speak into his ear so she’d be heard over the music and loud shouts of enjoyment.

“There’s one on the next corner. We can go check it out.” He paused. “Hey, I’m Cam.” He extended a hand.

She studied him. Okay. She could definitely do this. “Kady. Nice to meet you, Cam.” She took his hand to shake it. His grip was warm and firm, his hand large and masculine.

“Likewise.” His flirty smile and wink made her girl parts squeeze hard. Whoa.

He led her through the crowd, and with him at her side she had no fear of getting separated, the way he kept a gentle touch on her back or arm, and the way people moved aside because of his size and presence. They climbed the three stone steps into the small shop, the odor of patchouli incense surrounding them.

Inside the tiny store, it was easy to see that Nikki and Megan weren’t there.

“Huh,” she said. “I wonder where they went.”

“This is a cool place,” he said, picking up a small red pouch. He read the label. “‘A powerful magickal talisman for drawing love to you.’”

Kady smirked. “Looking for love, are you?”

He met her eyes. “Maybe.”

She shivered.

The young man behind the counter spoke up. “That’s a very potent combination of ingredients,” he said seriously. “Excellent for seduction.”

More heat centered low in Kady’s body and she pressed her lips together and glanced at the thin, sandy-haired kid.

“Gris Gris bags must always have an odd number of items,” he continued. “The bag comes with an even number and you add your own personal item. You also get a bottle of love potion to dress the charm.”

“What kind of personal item?” Cam asked.

The guy shrugged a narrow shoulder. “A hair, nail clipping, a photo.”

Cam nodded and although his mouth was set in a solemn line, Kady hid a smile at the laughter lurking in his eyes. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bunch of bills, peeling off a couple to pay for the Gris Gris.

“Give me one of your hairs,” Cam said, once they were standing outside the shop.

“No way!”

Smiling, he moved closer to her, close enough that she could smell his aftershave, something clean and faintly citrusy. “Do you believe in magick?” he murmured.

She licked her bottom lip. Maybe. “No.”

“Then give me a hair. What will it hurt?”

This was crazy. Voodoo magick and love potions.

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