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Five
Found
On the drive to Ignatius’ home, a sense of nostalgia had settled over me, a feeling of old-world Louisiana in all its historical glory. The old oaks bent in grand welcoming, draped in their finest Spanish moss and bedecked in centuries of gnarled limbs. Here in the bayou, the past still whispers in the humid breezes, and watches half-hidden behind the gardenia bushes. The ghosts are not partial to the day or to the night, the residents share the homes with all who had ever dwelled there. The air itself seems to press in on you, taking you within its embrace as the sun places a delicate kiss on your cheek. You can almost hear the clomps of horses’ hooves blended with the sounds of the cicadas and the groans of the bullfrogs, the swamp’s symphony. It’s almost as if you can sense a veil that hints to you from just beyond the weeping willows that hides all the secrets of the past still playing on and on.
The Beauchamp manor is a testament to the glory Louisiana was, and Ignatius is its pride. The master of the plantation. His destiny. It’s almost surprising Ignatius still lives there. It would be, if it were any place else. This is New Orleans, however, and we do things our own way. Always have, always will.
I’ve never been a believer in luck. I’m not a real big fan of fate either. Destiny, however, is as much a part of anyone as the color of their eyes and the sound of their voice. You can’t escape it.
But this, this is something else entirely.
There is a pentagram painted on the hood of my car, and I’d bet it’s a pretty safe assumption it’s related to the crimes. Honestly, the pentagram normally wouldn’t surprise me, not really, this is New Orleans, and I am a direct descendent to Marie Laveau. I grew up amongst all things supernatural. The fact I’m the lead detective in charge of the supernatural elements of some of the most horrific crimes New Orleans has ever seen is what makes this particular situation scary as hell.
“Jesus Christ, Dominique,” Ignatius growls as he steps in front of me on the front portico of his ancient mansion, his large frame blocking me from whatever may be lurking in the shadows. “Get back in the house. The sick fuck could still be out here.”
“I’m a detective.” I try to push him out of my way, because I do have responsibilities. “It’s my job to investigate crimes, Ignatius.”
He doesn’t even bother looking at me, he just speaks to me over his shoulder. “I don’t care if you’re part of NCIS. You are not going outside, not until the cops arrive.”
I give another shove to his broad bare back, futile as it may be. “I am the cops. Get out of my way.” He’s immovable, and tall. Really tall.
“Calling the precinct is what you should be doing instead of arguing with me.” His tone is rough and tight, just like the thick tense muscles running down his back.
He’s right. The shock that slammed into me when we first opened the door, right on the tail of the mind-blowing sex we’d had, knocked me on my ass. I was on a rollercoaster of emotions. However, I had no idea the final destination would be raw fear and feelings of violation. I’m shaking. I’m not certain if it’s from shock, rage, or humiliation, the three of them together are a lethal cocktail of messy mistakes and emotional breakdowns. Not good, not good at all.
I decide to listen to Ignatius, rationalizing that the perpetrator could very well still be close, and Ignatius obviously isn’t going to let me stay outside alone. Therefore, I’m putting him in danger along with myself. At least that’s what logic tells me.
Logic is not at the forefront of my mind at the moment.
Crime scenes of burnt buildings, photographs of mutilated women, or what was left after the flames eradicated everything it touched. The women especially. And those damn pentagrams and symbols. They haunt me constantly. These are the things flashing through my mind as I stand on the veranda of what once was one of the area’s most grand estates. Funny how it appears whoever did this did not think twice about coming here.
“I’m calling them,” I find myself forcing out the words through chattering teeth. When did that start?
I’m fumbling around in my purse for my phone as Ignatius slowly turns to peer down at me from over his shoulder, his brows pulled tight in concentration. “Dominique?” he says my name cautiously.
“What?” I snap as I shove my trembling hand deeper into my handbag.
He turns so his front is now facing me. He’s so close, I can feel the heat emanating from his body, but it does nothing to stop the shivers flowing unending through me. I don’t meet his stare; I know what I’ll find. Prodding, searching, probing. I can’t deal with that right now.
He doesn’t say anything further, just bends and scoops me up with an arm under my knees, the other behind my back. His eyes are locked with mine. I can’t escape them.
“What are you doing?” My words come out choppy as my teeth bang together.
“Nothing,” he answers softly as he steps over the threshold and slams the door shut with his foot, ushering us back into his massive domestic museum, a convergence of the past and present.
“This is ridiculous,” the words tremble, “I’m fine. Put me down.” I sound anything but fine, but I cannot admit that a little spray paint had any effect on me.
He walks us into what I’m sure was once the front parlor back in the Beauchamp mansion’s heyday. Today it appears Ignatius uses it as a living room-slash-workout room with a big sectional and recliners in the back of the room, weights and a treadmill in the front by the windows.
Standing at the couch, he bends and lays me down gently. Now that our body contact is broken, cold settles in right down to my bones. There is absolutely no reason for me to feel this way, the temperature is warm and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. My body is still vibrating when he drapes the throw that was folded over the back of the couch over my length.
He rests one hand on the back of the couch and the other at my waist on the edge of the seat. “Get your phone, Dominique, make the call.” His face is so close to mine, I can still smell my scent on him and my body reacts to it – to him – in a primal way. The call, that’s right. My head has cleared enough I don’t have to hunt for my cell phone. I retrieve it from my purse and unlock the screen, ready to dial the precinct. “I’m going to go lock the doors while you tell them what happened.” His gaze is piercing, locking me in place like an anchor in turbulent waters. A jolt of fear quickly flashes through me at the thought of being left alone. Yes, lock the doors, and, No, don’t go, volley back and forth for top placement in my erratic thoughts. Ignatius must see it in my expression because he lowers his face and presses his lips against my forehead and stays like that for a long moment. Warmth and calm slowly seep into me from his tender touch. A long breath escapes me as the tension in my body eases slightly. He turns his face so his cheek replaces his lips, the stubble prickling on my skin brings me back from where the pentagram took me. “Make the call,” his words are practically a whisper, “I’ll be back before you’re done.”
“I’m fine,” I say again. He lifts from me and looks deep into my eyes, maybe to see for himself if I am all right, or if I’m a total psycho. I take a deep breath. “Really, I’m fine.” I lay a hand on top of his and squeeze. Because his presence alone has made me feel better. “Thank you.”
His eyes travel back and forth on mine, searching for the truth. Whatever he sees must have been sufficient, because his body relaxes nominally. “I’ll be right back.” He presses his lips firmly back at the center of my forehead.
A storm of emotions crash inside me, so strong and so fierce, I screw my eyes shut with the force of it. “Okay, I’ll be right here,” I whisper.
