The Resurrection of Josephine (2 page)

"And you know, Boo, that some of us are more open to things than others.” Fletch patted Quinn's hand and winked as Martin took another bite. He was getting full, but eating kept his hands busy. His nerves were still on edge, and he expected to feel the entity's icy grip try to take hold of him again. But it...

"Stopped at the gate."

"What?” Dev shook his head in confusion.

"It's bound to the cemetery, which means some other psychic has already had a run in with it, no matter what the book says.” Martin twirled the pasta around the fork, shook the utensil clean, then started again.

"I'll call my aunt,” Fletch said. “Maybe she's heard some stories about the Orleans."

Martin nodded. There were lots of old souls around, involved in voodoo or other paranormal activities that might be able to tell them what he'd encountered today. He wasn't sure he was up for it tonight, though.

He ached, both mentally and physically, and even though it was barely eight o'clock, he wanted to go to bed.

"Stay here,” Fletch offered, as if reading his mind. “We've got lots of room."

"No, thanks,” Martin replied with a grin. “I'm not sure listening to the three of you make love will relax me, and that's what I need, to relax."

"We don't do it every night,” Dev said, laughing. “Well, okay, most every night, but we can refrain. You shouldn't be alone."

Martin stood, his legs feeling more solid than they had earlier in the day. “Thanks guys, but I'm going to go home, soak in a tub, and relax. I'll be fine."

"Let us walk with you.” Fletch stood up, then pushed his chair under the table.

"No,” Martin replied, holding up his hand. “I appreciate the concern, but you helped me to calm down, and fed me. Now I need to go and sleep for a while."

And pray to the heavens above that the spirit doesn't try to invade my dreams.

After a few more minutes of argument about Martin staying, or going, he left, hurrying onto the sidewalk and heading toward his apartment on Royal Street. He loved his living space, a former slave's quarters turned into four rooms: a bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen. It was just enough space for him, and the cost was right. Plus, it sat a ways back from the main house, which gave him the privacy he sometimes craved.

It started to rain as he walked, and Martin tried not to think about what had happened at the funeral. Tomorrow he'd contact a few of the old-timers, people who had lived in New Orleans far longer than he had. They might be able to help him sort out his ordeal, put a finger on who the spirit might be, and how they might banish it—and hopefully, recover the souls that had already fallen victim to the evil.

It took him about fifteen minutes to get to his apartment. On the way, he nodded at friends and waved at the guides for the ghost hunting tours that were prevalent in the French Quarter. Some nights he would stop and talk with the tourists, and, with the guide's blessing, add some of his personal tales about ghosts in New Orleans.

Tonight wasn't that night, though, and he hurried past the crowded groups.

He unlocked his gate, then rushed past the main house in hopes of making it home unobserved by Janice, his talkative landlady. He breathed a sigh of relief when he opened his door, then shut it behind him.

He didn't turn on the lights, afraid Janice would see the shine and come to chat, as she sometimes did. The glow of the moon filtered through the gauzy curtains as he made his way toward the bedroom. He stopped at the bathroom and lit a candle, then reached down to put the stopper in place and turn on the hot water.

Before he soaked, he would fix himself a nice stiff glass of bourbon. That should help him relax.

With the water flowing strongly, he walked into the bedroom and stopped cold. Something wasn't right. He couldn't feel a spirit here, but something was definitely amiss. He turned back toward the door, then went flying across the room as someone charged him, knocking him off his feet.

They landed on the bed, grappling with each other. At six feet, two hundred pounds, Martin was no lightweight, but the man on top of him was stronger, plus he'd gotten the jump. He sat on Martin's stomach, then grabbed his arms and pinned them above his head. Martin continued to struggle; knowing it would be useless to scream. Poor Janice was half-deaf.

It took him a few moments to realize the man on top of him wasn't making a move to hurt him, but was merely holding him in place. Martin stopped fighting, then looked up into the green eyes of the paramedic from this afternoon. The man was beefy, and there was no way Martin was going to break his hold.

This was the one who had looked at Martin as if he'd known what had happened at the cemetery. Obviously, Martin thought, he did.

Martin heard the bathwater turn off, then a woman stepped into the room, her long hair braided and hung over her shoulder. She approached the bed and put her hand on the paramedic's shoulder, gently squeezing.

When no one made a move, Martin's breathing slowed. He looked between them, wondering what the hell was happening now. Finally, he settled his gaze on the man on top of him. “You know, if I was supposed to pay for something this afternoon, you could have just sent me a bill."

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"Don't scream,” the woman said, her voice soft.

Martin laughed in response. “Have I screamed yet? Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?"

"My name is Rumer Rousseau, and this is Noah Hopper. We're here to talk about Josephine."

"Who?"

"Josephine,” Noah said, his voice deep. “The spirit you encountered today."

"Oh.” Martin pulled on his arms, and to his surprise Noah let them go. He rubbed his wrists, then bucked his hips. “You can get off me now."

When the man didn't move, Martin bucked harder. “You know, most people knock on the front door when they want to have a conversation unless they're planning something that's not above board."

"Your landlady let us in,” Rumer said. “She's very sweet."

Martin groaned, then closed his eyes in frustration. “What lie did you tell her?"

"It wasn't a lie. We said we needed a psychic, and we do.” She put her hands on her hips, and Martin frowned at her. “You're not a very good psychic, if you didn't know we were here."

"I'm not that type of psychic,” Martin replied, pushing against Noah's chest. “Get. Off. Me. Now."

Noah stood and held out his hand in an effort to help Martin up. Martin ignored it and stood on his own, then he turned to Rumer. “Get out, now, before I call the cops."

"Don't you want to know about Josephine?” Rumer stepped in front of him, blocking his exit from the bedroom. “Don't you want to help us banish her?"

"Why should I believe a word you tell me after you broke into my house?"

"I told you, Janice let us in,” Rumer replied softly. “We need your help."

"And I need a drink.” He pushed past her, casting a longing look at the bathroom as he walked by
. So much for a nice long soak.
“Don't let the door hit you on the ass, as the old saying goes."

"Josephine is evil, and with your help we might actually be able to kill her this time."

Martin took a bottle of bourbon down from the cabinet, snatched a glass, and poured himself a shot. He slugged it back, winced as the liquid burned its way down his throat, then poured another.

"If you're waiting for the offer of a drink, it's not coming.” He grabbed the phone from its cradle. “Get out, or I dial 9-1-1."

When neither of his uninvited guests made a move toward the door, he threw up his hands in disgust. “What are you people, stupid? Do you want to spend the night in lockup?"

"Josephine LaClaire is wicked, pure dark evil. You know what she's done. You felt it today. Help us."

Martin sipped at his drink, his mind in a tangle. He'd been planning to investigate the cemetery, and the spirit, and now here the information was, ready to drop into his lap. That didn't mean, though, that he trusted the two people standing in front of him. It seemed just a little too convenient for him.

Martin crossed to the switch and flicked on the light so he could study them carefully. Rumer looked to be in her early thirties, with long black hair and dark eyes. She had a small mouth, with pouty lips. A small, upturned nose sat between her wide, expressive eyes. He guessed her to be about five foot six, with a few extra pounds that made her figure delightfully curvy.

He turned his gaze to Noah. Even though he'd seen him that afternoon he hadn't really taken stock of him. From their encounter in the bedroom, he knew Noah was a big man, about two inches taller than Martin, and about fifteen pounds heavier. Martin guessed his age at around forty. His dark hair was cut short, and his equally dark eyes gave off a sense of distrust and anger that burned Martin to his very center.

"Don't be pissed at me,” Martin said, pointing a finger at Noah. “I'm not the one in somebody's house, uninvited and unwelcome."

"She's a witch,” Rumer said. “And she's been alive for centuries."

"She's not alive,” Martin responded, taking another sip.

"She's not dead either, and you know it."

"What I felt was a spirit with no physical form.” Martin emptied his glass, the liquor taking effect and making him more talkative than he would normally be with total strangers. “That means dead.
Mort
, as they say in French;
muerto
as they say in Spanish; and
abgestorben
as they say in German. If that's not good enough for you, I'll turn on the computer and find you a few more terms."

He smiled as he watched Rumer fight back anger. Noah's eyes flashed and grew even darker. She turned to her companion and shook her head almost imperceptibly, to try to keep him calm. These two were quite a pair. Martin wondered if they were lovers, or married even. They certainly fit well together.

"She's not dead,” Rumer reiterated. “Her spirit is looking for a new home, after becoming displaced during a failed attempt at taking over someone's body. Please, let us sit and talk with you. What harm can it do?"

Martin thought back to the pain he'd felt that morning, the icy grip on his heart, and the way the spirit had tried to take over. He knew Rumer was right, but her approach left much to be desired. Still, if they knew about the entity, they could help him. On the other hand, they could be in cahoots with the spirit, but somehow he didn't think so.

Only one way to find out...

"Fine.” He held up the bottle. “Drink?"

"Yes,” Rumer said, holding up two fingers. “We'll both have one."

"Have a seat.” Martin could hear the surliness in his voice. He took several deep breaths, hoping to get his emotions back under control. It was hard, though, when someone had basically busted into his home and gotten the upper hand with one tackle.

He filled a bowl with ice, took down two more glasses and plunked them all on a tray before adding the bottle and carrying it into the living room. He placed it on the table, then sat across from his two unwanted guests.

"Sorry, but I'm not inclined to be a gracious host. You can serve yourself."

"I can't say I blame you,” Rumer replied, fixing herself and Noah a drink. “I'm really sorry, but I wasn't sure how to approach you, and since—"

"You found yourself alone in my house, and you thought you'd snoop?"

She had the good graces to look guilty, and Martin felt his heart soften just a bit. “Tell me about Josephine."

"Josephine LaClaire was born in Lyon, France, in March of 1731."

"No wonder she's in a cemetery,” Martin replied.

"My grandmother met her in November of 1956, here in New Orleans."

Martin frowned. “Met her as in channeled her at a séance? Or made some other contact with her spirit?"

"Met her as in had drinks with her on Bourbon Street and became friends with her. Grandmother was in her thirties, and Josephine was in her sixties, or so it seemed. Grandmother told me she was a nice woman, at first, and she could sense the magic inside her. Finding another person with gifts was a blessing, or so my grandmother thought."

The bourbon started to react with the fettuccini in ways Martin didn't like. Either that or he knew what was about to come out of Rumer's mouth, and that knowledge was making him nauseous.

"Josephine was very strong, and it didn't take grandmother long to figure out what she was about. Josephine had perfected the art of befriending a witch, and then switching places with her, taking control of the younger body, and then killing her old one, thereby killing the witch."

"Great.” Martin took a sip from his drink, then fought back the urge to spit it back up.

"You don't believe me."

"Oh yes, after today, I believe you.” He sighed heavily. “Finish the story."

"Grandmother said she'd worked out what was happening, and when Josephine made her move, grandmother was ready for her. She and two other witches bound Josephine, and then carried her to the Orleans Cemetery where they placed her in a crypt, thinking the New Orleans heat and humidity would do to her what it did to all bodies."

"Basically cremate her,” Noah said and Martin shot the man a mock look of incredulity.

"Really? I didn't know that the above ground crypts, while necessary because of the water table here, act like furnaces for bodies.” Martin sneered at Noah, who stood, his hands balled into fists.

"You're a prick."

"Screw you, Noah. Don't think that just because you got the upper hand on me by hiding in the dark it'll happen again. In a fair fight, I'd kick your ass.” Martin stood, balling up his own fists. It had been a bad day, and maybe hitting someone would make him feel better.

"Stop it, both of you.” Rumer stood, moving close to Noah as if to keep him in place. “I realize this is unpleasant for everyone, but there's no need to have a pissing contest. We need your help, Martin, and I intend to get it."

"Then put a leash on your friend,” Martin said. “Or maybe he'd like that too much. What about a muzzle? Or—"

"Enough!” Rumer screamed, then threw a hand in the direction of both men. They went flying back into their seats.