Daughter of the Thirteen: Bourbon Street Witches Book 1 Read online

  “I am here to save you Laurel,” he remarked, completely ignoring what she’d just said.

  Catching her hand in his, he held it tight. “They will be coming for you.”

  She tried to pull away, but his grip was unrelenting.

  “Don’t be foolish,” he hissed. “I am your guardian, Laurel. I’ve come to take you away from this place … before they find you.”

  “Who are you, monsieur?”

  His gaze held her transfixed.

  Briefly, she wondered if she might be dreaming. His face was just too perfect to be real, and he seemed so familiar, like she’d always known him.

  The man’s nearness was oppressive, but undeniably exhilarating. His features were smooth - almost too perfect, but it was his eyes that captivated her. They were so dark; she could actually see the reflection of the moon.

  He smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth. “You will discover that soon enough.”

  Part of her wanted to stand there forever and look at him, but the reasonable part of her - the part that was concerned only with self-preservation, demanded that she run away.

  “If you don’t release me … I’ll scream,” she threatened.

  Lifting his shoulders, he smiled. “I will give you a choice. You can come with me willingly, and you can open your arms and legs to me, or I can leave you to the demons that hunger for your flesh … and your soul,” he told her, his French accent more apparent than it had been at first.

  Laurel renewed her struggles. “You are insane!” she gasped.

  Sensing that she was on the verge of screaming, he clamped one hand over her mouth. “Do not be foolish. If you wake them, they will know you have been out to meet your lover.”

  He leaned over until his mouth was close to her ear - so close that the sensation of his hot breath sent a shiver down her spine. “To force you will not do me any good, so you have no need to fear. I will not violate you … but I promise, the alternative is not nearly as attractive.”

  Slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth.

  “I have a man,” she informed him.

  His smile was malicious, but still managed to disarm her. “You have been deceived by your lover, my sweet little angel witch. He is not what he seems. You are nothing more than his harlot.”

  Laurel was too stunned to respond.

  “Perhaps he even has a wife already,” he suggested.

  She shook her head. “That can’t be. He promised to take me away from here.”

  The man chuckled. “Possibly, but you would be his mistress, destined to be a naughty little secret.”

  “I don’t believe you! I want you to leave here and never return!” Laurel glared at him through narrowed eyes.

  He released her so abruptly that she nearly lost her footing.

  “I will return Laurel, but until I do … be mindful of the shadows.”

  Shaking inside, Laurel watched him retreat to the shadows and disappear. She wasn’t sure if her reaction was from fear, or the sheer sensation of being near the strange man.

  Not until she was back in her room did she dare to feel some sense of relief. Slipping off her dress, Laurel hurried to put on her nightclothes.

  Even when she was safely beneath her covers, she could not relax. Her thoughts kept going back to her encounter with the man. He knew about Philippe, so he must have been stalking her.

  Was he insane, or one of the evil ones that she’d sensed recently?

  What made him think she belonged to him, or anyone else for that matter?

  He wanted the same things that Philippe wanted.

  Thinking about it, brought a flush of heat to her face.

  There was something incredibly compelling about the stranger.

  What about Philippe?

  Was the man right?

  Philippe had been hired to help in the orphanage’s gardens. He’d shown up at Saint Michael’s just as her woman’s cravings were beginning to awaken. She would watch him work, unable to keep her eyes off the bulging muscles of his chest.

  Laurel enjoyed teasing him, licking her lips suggestively whenever she stopped to talk to him. It was exciting to see his reaction, and know how badly he wanted her. One of the other girls had taught her the, licking her lips trick.

  Tess was well educated in the technique of bringing pleasure to a man, and she’d taught Laurel how to draw attention to her mouth by slowly running her tongue across her lips. Tess said that when a girl does this, it made a man think of what it would be like to have her lips wrapped around his manhood.

  She had no idea if Tess knew what she was talking about or not, but it had gotten a reaction out of Philippe.

  It was the day after she’d turned eighteen that she decided to try this with Philippe, but she’d taken it too far. He’d become crazed with lust.

  After checking to be sure no one was watching, he pulled her into one of the outbuildings.

  It was in that little shack that he’d awakened urges she was still struggling to control. She’d managed to stop him before he’d taken her all the way, but they’d come close enough to sin.

  Laurel’s thoughts were interrupted by a scratching noise coming from a dark corner of the room. A feeling of evil assaulted her senses. She knew it wasn’t merely rats scurrying about.

  It was the things he’d warned her about.

  Maybe the man was a demon, sent to plague her because of her sins with Philippe?

  Chapter Three

  The sound of Laurel’s footsteps echoed through the long - empty hall.

  A horrendous clap of thunder shook the building and she froze. The air around her grew so thick, she felt as if it were actually alive.

  The dim light from the windows began to fade as black murderous clouds rolled in, shrouding New Orleans in unnatural darkness.

  Evil lurked within the shadows of Saint Michael’s, hunting her - seeking to destroy her soul with its foul and wicked stench. She knew this as sure as she knew her own name. Her sins had brought the evil down on her, and it would eventually consume her.

  How could she have let her lust for Philippe take control?

  Even as the thought entered her mind - so too did the memory of how pleasurable sins of the flesh could be.

  She must be truly wicked, just as the mother superior continually made it her business to point out.

  Sensing something behind her, she swung around to stare into the inky shadows.

  The terror gripping her heart was so intense, she had to fight to breathe.

  It was there, somewhere in the darkness, and it was more real and solid than it had ever been. The presence was black, and so evil that its fetid odor saturated the air.

  A streak of lightening split the sky, illuminating the hall just enough that she was able to distinguish it from the shadows. It was a monstrous vision of Hell, and it was closing in on her.

  But she couldn’t move a muscle. Her feet seemed to be nailed to the hardwood floor.

  A scream caught in her throat as it struggled to make its way past her lips, but all she could manage was a weak whimper.

  The dark mass began to take on form. Its shell was of rotting, flesh encasing a set of red glowing eyes.

  She was spurred to action, when once again thunder rumbled through the enormous brick building. Too frightened to look back, she ran through the hall with only one thought in mind.

  The second floor!

  She had to get to the chapel!

  Laurel ran ahead blindly, her thoughts filled with the terror that awaited her if she should fail to reach the sanctuary of the chapel. The large oak staircase came into sight, and at that point, her only thought was that salvation awaited her at the top.

  She took the stairs two at a time in such haste, she didn’t see the dark-looming figure ahead of her until she collided with it.

  Screaming, she caught hold of the wooden rail just in time to keep from plummeting down the stairs.

  Draped in her nun’s habit, Sister Agnes was an imp
osing figure, especially to someone who was already frightened out of their wits.

  “Mademoiselle Fabre … what ails you?” The old woman peered at her through clear blue eyes, wizened by age.

  Laurel swallowed hard. “I do not feel well Sister Agnes. I wish to seek the comfort of the chapel.”

  Wrinkles of confusion crested Sister Agnes’s forehead, adding to the many lines that already creased her aging face.

  Stepping aside, the nun let her pass.

  Relief washed over her when the chapel came into view.

  Her eyes fell to her shoes, as they always did when she entered the chapel. There seemed to be something grotesquely out of place about her ugly brown leather shoes treading across the white marble floor.

  Raising her eyes, she stared longingly at the statue image of her Savior behind the altar. Laurel made the sign of the cross before settling in one of the many wooden pews.

  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her black rosary beads. Holding the rosary between her fingers, she began to pray fervently to the Virgin Mother for her divine intervention. The trembling of her hands made it an effort to maintain her grip on the rosary.

  She thought back to a time when she had not been in the grip of this mind-numbing fear.

  Had that only been a few days ago?

  The memory of that time was vague, as if she’d always been petrified by the evil that now stalked her.

  But no, that wasn’t true.

  It had only been days ago that she’d been just another impoverished orphan - a ward of the sisters of Saint Michael’s.

  Just like the other girls, she’d had dreams of reaching beyond these darkened walls to a brighter future - fantasies of a shining knight galloping to her rescue.

  Her gallant knight would take her to a land devoid of mysterious shadows and the ever-present watchful eyes of the mother superior. She’d often lost herself in daydreams of Philippe kneeling before her and proposing marriage.

  All that was far away now. Her dreams of a brighter future were pushed aside in her desperation to elude the sadistic evil that stalked her.

  It came to her in her dreams, a murky presence whose hands stealthily moved beneath her blankets to touch her in the most sinful of places. It lusted for her - craving her soul.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  Laurel’s voice was so soft that it was barely audible to her own ears.

  The hours sped by, and still she refused to leave the safety of the chapel. She’d missed the evening meal and now hunger clawed at her stomach.

  As daylight faded and the darkness of night crowded into the chapel, she lit the candles to ward off the shadows. She’d resisted all attempts to pull her from the sanctuary of God. Perhaps if she prayed long enough, the Lord would forgive her transgressions of the flesh and send the evil away.

  Exasperated, Sister Agnes left her there and informed the mother superior of mademoiselle’s reluctance to return to the dorm. Now Mother Angelique stood over her, glowering.

  “You must confess to Father Andrew what your sin is before tomorrow’s mass, but for now … I insist you return to the dorm.” Her rasping voice split the air between them.

  Laurel shook her head. “I cannot! Please do not make me leave the chapel.”

  The mother superior’s eyes seemed to dissect her.

  Laurel’s trembling hands clung to the back of the pew, as if by holding onto it, she would remain anchored to her haven.

  “As you wish Laurel, but keep in mind that you are no longer a child, and your defiance will not be tolerated. How can you possibly become one of us, if you cannot follow the lead of your superiors?”

  The woman then turned and left Laurel in the chapel.

  Mother Angelique had wanted to be rid of her for a long time. Laurel was sure this incident would give the old nun the excuse she’d been looking for.

  Closing her eyes, she continued her prayers, knowing only the Holy presence of the Lord would take her through the long night ahead.

  * * *

  Father Andrew studied Laurel over his round spectacles. Everyone knew that when he did this, something bad was about to happen.

  Her eyes darted around his office as she frantically tried to pull away from Sister Agnes and the mother superior. Her hair and clothes were in wild disarray, proof that she’d put up a good fight when the two nuns pulled her from the chapel to bring her before Father Andrew.

  The priest ran his fingers through his dark beard as he pondered what to do with her.

  “Laurel …” Words failed him.

  “No!” she cried, quaking inside. Laurel knew what was coming.

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “You are of age now, and Mother Angelique feels you are quite capable of fending for yourself.”

  “She doesn’t want me to take the Veil!” Laurel sobbed. “She hates me.”

  “Nonsense Laurel,” Mother Angelique put in. “I simply know when a young woman has it in her for the life of a convent … and you mademoiselle … do not.”

  Laurel looked to Sister Agnes for support, and though there was great sorrow in the woman’s eyes, she said nothing.

  As much as she disliked Mother Angelique, Laurel knew the nun was right. Now that she was familiar with the pleasures of the flesh, she would never survive in a convent. Philippe had been her undoing.

  Father Andrew reached into her file and pulled out an envelope. “In here you will find enough money to last you a few days. Long enough to find a post,” he told her.

  Laurel took the envelope he offered.

  Often, when a pupil was dismissed from Saint Michael’s, they were given a small amount of money to get them by, but it was rarely sufficient.

  “Keep your faith Laurel, and you will do just fine.” Father Andrew looked away, refusing to meet her eyes.

  At that moment, the atmosphere in the room grew heavy, and Laurel felt a tingling sensation crawl across her skin.

  A voice came from the doorway behind them.

  “Excuse my interruption, but I must congratulate myself on having superb timing. I have come to collect Mademoiselle Fabre.”

  Laurel’s breath caught in her throat.

  It was him!

  He was just as menacing in the light of day as he’d been that night.

  His voice was smooth and sensuous, and although he smiled, there was a hard glint in his dark eyes. The elegant clothing he wore attested to the fact that he was a man of breeding, possibly a member of the local gentry. His long - dark hair fell carelessly around his broad shoulders, hinting at his wild - dangerous nature.

  And he was dangerous.

  Darkness seeped from his pores, filling the aura surrounding him.

  Wide-eyed, Laurel continued to stare.

  Yanking away from the mother superior, she took a step back.

  Suddenly the blood drained from Sister Agnes’s face. She too had sensed what he was. “We don’t even know who you are! We can’t let you take Mademoiselle Fabre. In any case, she is now old enough to choose.”

  “Now let us not be too hasty, sister. We should at least hear what he has to say,” Mother Angelique put in.

  Father Andrew rose from where he sat behind his desk. “May I inquire as to who you are, and what your claim is on the young lady?”

  The man seemed slightly reluctant at first, but a moment later he stepped into the room. Once inside, his appearance was even more intimidating.

  “I am Marcos St. Claire. Many years ago, the family granted me guardianship of Mademoiselle Fabre, but it is only recently that I’ve discovered her whereabouts.” Though his words were directed toward the priest, his gaze rested on Laurel.

  Instantly she felt herself drawn into the darkness of his eyes.

  I could give you such wicked delights, little witch.
r />   His deep voice penetrated her thoughts. She heard his words so clearly that she looked around to see if anyone else had heard what he’d said, but no one had.

  It must have been just in her head.

  Now you understand.

  She could hear what he said, and his laughter, but again, no one else in the room could.

  Suddenly everything went black.

  It was hot - so hot that she had to struggle just to breathe. When her vision cleared, she could feel the man’s hands on her arm, supporting her.

  “Mademoiselle, are you feeling well?” His smile was sadistic, yet sensual.

  His touch burned, even through her clothing. Laurel yanked her arm from his grip. “Yes, I am fine.”

  Turning his attention to the priest, Marcos handed him some documents.

  Father Andrew spent several minutes examining the papers before looking up.

  “These appear to be legitimate. It says that your uncle is in France, and as your only surviving relative, he names Mister St. Claire as your guardian until you are 21 years old.”

  “But Father, I don’t even know this man!” she protested.

  Turning her attention to Marcos St. Claire, she searched for some trace of evidence - anything she could point out to prove to the priest what he was.

  But there was no outward sign of his wickedness.

  Father Andrew handed the documents back to Marcos before turning to Laurel. “There is nothing we can do. In all honesty, you should consider yourself fortunate that you will not have to go to the streets.”

  It was a dismissal. There would be no more discussion.

  Laurel fought back her tears. Saint Michael’s Orphanage was the only home she’d ever known.

  Chapter Four

  The storm had passed, but in its wake it left a slight chill in the air.

  Wrapped in a plain - gray shawl and holding a single bag that contained all her earthly possessions, Laurel slowly made her way down the massive steps of the orphanage.

  A deep sadness descended on her and she swallowed hard, trying to rid herself of the lump forming in her throat.

  Life at Saint Michael’s hadn’t been easy, but it was all she knew.