Braeden eyed the coin with wariness. It was small, silver, round and dull-edged. “You lifted that nickel from the grave of a witch.” She suppressed her shudder. “No, I don’t want you to get me one.”
Angeline straightened her five foot ten inch frame. “A gypsy, Brag. Simone Dubois was a Black Gypsy, a hoodoo woman.”
“Same difference.”
“Hardly, and don’t make it sound so sinister.” She buffed the coin against her blouse before holding it up to the light for closer inspection. “It’s not like I’m snatchin’ bodies, or pryin’ gold from their teeth. There must be fifty coins here, nickels and dimes, pennies. People are expected to take a few.”
“If you want a souvenir, I’ll buy you some beads or a fancy Mardi Gras mask like the ones we saw in the hotel lobby.” Appealing to her friend’s flamboyant side wasn’t working; Braeden tried the practical approach. “Okay, okay.” She raised her arms in exaggerated surrender. “I’ll buy the postcards this trip, for pity’s sake, and stamps to mail them. Just put the nickel back, Angie, before somebody sees you.”
Angeline’s laugh dissipated into the fissures of the tomb. She rested her boxy sunglasses atop her blonde head and met Braeden’s gaze beneath the black crystal frames. “No thanks,” she said. “I think I’ll keep my nickel. Besides, who’s gonna see me? Cooper? We hired the man to drive, nothing more. The hoodoo woman supposedly buried beneath all this ... finery?” She reached through the rusted iron bars, tapped the base of Dubois’ tomb with the toe of her strappy sandal and added matter-of-factly, “I think not.”
Visions of campfires and burning effigies tumbled through Braeden’s brain. “What if it’s bad luck to take it, Angie. I mean, sacrilegious or something.” The or something worried her. “What if there’s some kind of...”
It seemed ridiculous to even say the word out loud.
Angeline whirled, clapping her hands. “I can’t believe it, Brag! You were gonna say 'curse,' weren’t you?”
“S-Something like that.”
The supermodel edged through the small gate hanging lop-sided from the rusted iron enclosure. An elusive breeze caught the hem of her silk crepe skirt, and a dance of yellow designer daisies swirled about her ankles as she planted her outrageously insured derriere on the tomb’s narrow foundation ledge.
She motioned for Charlie Cooper, and the driver ambled over with a pucker on his face that reminded Braeden of tasting tart lemonade.
“Here, Cooper. Take a picture of us for posterity.” Angeline shoved her camera at him, then patted the space next to her indicating Braeden should also sit. “Just me and Brag and little ol’ Simone Dubois,” she teased. “Black Gypsy.”
Braeden stepped out of range of the shot. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
The camera whirred and clicked, clicked and whirred. “Come on, Brag.” Angeline struck another silly pose. “I mean, a curse. For heaven’s sake, you don’t really believe in such things. Do you?”
Braeden wanted to say no, but hesitated. She was three-quarters Irish after all. Wasn’t she obligated to believe in leprechauns and cluricauns, and the kissin’ of the Blarney? She even had the woven cross of Saint Brigid attached to the wall above her bed.
“Love potions, spells cast under a full moon, that ol’ black magic?” Angeline tossed the coin one-handed and snatched it back in mid-air. “The walkin’ dead?” she giggled.
She waved off the driver, stood, then shook gritty brick dust from the crisp folds of her skirt. Then she leaned over the decrepit little fence, smiled engagingly at the group of fans clustered around the tomb and signed a few more autographs.
Angeline St. Cyr, Braeden thought with unbound affection, the quintessential PR package. Fournier Cosmetics was lucky to have her.
“It’s just a nickel, Brag.” Angeline threw her head back, laughing out loud as she caressed the coin between her thumb and forefinger. “A plain old, honest to God, made in America nickel. And it’s mine. Finders Keepers you know. Anyway, look at the date.” She turned the coin, heads up this time, and thrust it within inches of Braeden’s freckle-dusted nose. “How can there be a curse on the damn thing, sweetie? It’s not even old enough to have collected a coat of tarnish. Now,” she tapped the folded pamphlet in Braeden’s hand a couple times with one bejeweled finger, “read that to me one more time, Brag. What the brochure says about this mean ol’ gypsy who’s gonna put the whammy on me for takin’ her nickel.”
Slipping on the reading glasses snagged along the neckline at the front of her shirt, Braeden unfolded a brochure procured from the hotel’s concierge. According to the author, hoodoo folk magic blended the beliefs and traditions brought to America by African slaves with the botanical knowledge of Native Americans. Hoodoo was thought to involve clairvoyance, hexing, conjuring and the healing of spirit and body using roots, herbs and other natural elements. The brochure also referred to coins similar to those deposited on Dubois’ grave as hoodoo money: coins left on specific tombs in exchange for favors from the dead.
Or from the undead.
Good magic, bad magic, lotions and potions. Braeden shivered in spite of the sultry Louisiana heat. It sounded more voodoo than hoodoo. Not that Angeline cared, or would even consider surrendering her prize souvenir on the chance it had been deposited on want and a promise.
~~~~
Hidden by A uniform row of tombs, a solitary man watched and waited, a canvas shopping bag on the ground near his feet. Unaccustomed to the contact lenses, he blinked several times, then squinted as he raised his camera.
He smiled. Today his eyes were umber, the color of shadow, how appropriate. Beneath the Orioles baseball cap, his thick sandalwood hair, a new shade and slightly grayed at the temples, added bogus years to his clever disguise.
Through the camera’s viewfinder, he studied the somber tableau stretched out before him. A mortician’s Valhalla, the rows of tombs seemed endless. Path upon narrow path, they formed a macabre latticework of dead-end streets and snaking avenues, permanent addresses to poets and pirates, paupers and pompous politicians.
He panned his camera left. Many of the burial chambers were large and ostentatious, with friezes sculpted into their deep sides and elaborate statuary embellishing their rooftops. The relentless sun bleached their white marble doors and half-dead grass breached the stone paths leading up to them.
They reminded him of poorly kept yards and poorly kept lives -- of long kept secrets at risk of being unraveled.
He tracked the camera forward, where the crypts appeared as shrunken, windowless replicas of local banks and civic buildings, the Garden District’s grand mansions. Others resembled the gallant Bastille, surrounded by garish cast iron grillwork, rust staining their concrete foundations. Still others, low rent efficiencies and walk-ups of handmade brick, crumbling with age, corners jutted out as if to snag the attention of the next passerby.
Panning the camera right, he zoomed in until Simone Dubois’ grave and the two women filled the viewfinder. Killing the arrogant journalist, Dalrymple, had been easy, even pleasurable. But he had never killed a woman.
The prospect of doing so left him both excited and nauseous.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sharon Cupp Pennington's love of mysteries is rooted in a gazillion bicycle excursions to her local library as a girl, and hours spent sitting on the floor in back aisles surrounded by books. Trying to decide which three or four would go home in her bike's basket. If a new Nancy Drew novel appeared on those shelves, all the better. She'd found the day's treasure.
Her short stories have appeared in numerous online and print venues, with anthology contributions to The Rocking Chair Reader (Coming Home, Family Gatherings), A Cup of Comfort for Weddings and Good Old Days Magazine. Second editions of her Stolen Nickel Series, Hoodoo Money (#1) and Mangroves and Monsters (#2), were released in September 2013.
She resides in Texas with her husband, where she is busy finishing up her next novel.
QUINTSPINNER: A
PIRATE’S QUEST
By
Dianne Greenlay
Copyright 2014 Dianne Greenlay
Cover design by Derek Murphy at CreativIndie Book Covers
As a young woman trapped on a merchant ship bound for the pirate infested waters of the 18th century West Indies, and forcibly betrothed to a man she has secretly seen commit a murder, 16 year old Tess Willoughby finds comfort and love for the first time, in the company of a handsome sailor even though this growing temptation will most certainly jeopardize both of their lives. When the merchant ship is overtaken by pirates and a fight-to-the-death rages onboard, Tess is confronted with the painful realization that her ruthless fiancé is the only one who can offer her any safety, and in that moment, her choices between loyalty to her heart or to her head erupt in their own battle.
Please press “Next Page” on your e-reader for the first chapter of Quintspinner – A Pirate’s Quest.
Quintspinner: A Pirate’s Quest
by Dianne Greenlay
PROLOGUE
He would have retched, had his mouth not already been open in a strangled scream. He hoped the thickness of the stone walls would prevent the others from hearing him. It would not do for a man of his ranking to be caught in such a compromising position. Performing such a compromising act. It was revolting to him yet had to be done.
Sitting erect on a chair in front of the fireplace’s bed of embers, he swiped at a bead of sweat that ran down his cheek and into his carefully groomed beard. His legs, powerfully built from past years of required training, nonetheless shook uncontrollably. Exhaling a long steadying breath, he began. It was time.
The tip of the iron rod glowed crimson and sizzled as it seared into his flesh, melting skin then muscle. He pressed it deeper into his own upper chest. Hot tendrils of smoke curled up into his nostrils.
The brand would make the difference. He was certain of that.
He was alone in the bed chamber and had secured its great wooden door shut against any intrusion. This was not a procedure for the uninitiated to witness. He had had to do it on his own. He had considered taking a stiff drink beforehand to help numb the anticipated pain but had wisely decided against it. There could be no room for error.
It had to be perfect in its placement.
Perfect in its outline.
Was it any wonder he’d had no results with the ring before this? The bejeweled circle sat just above the middle knuckle on his little finger and could be pushed down no further. It was too small for him to wear it properly.
And he’d not been born with the mark.
Without one, it was said, the power of the ring’s verdurous emerald stones would be minimal. Ineffectual. Obtainable, to be sure, but not without months, maybe years of practice. But now ….
He could hardly wait for his burnt flesh to heal.
~~~~
Deeper in the bowels of London, tucked down a narrow cobbled alleyway, the sharp bouquet of smoldering herbs permeated a shuttered room. Its lone occupant sat at a table, inhaling the vapors as they rose from her infusion dish. As she peered at the flame of the lone candle burning in a holder beside her clay dish, its tip flickered and danced, probing the darkness of the room.
She owned only one item of any value–its real worth was known to only a few–and she manipulated it with her fingers, breathing slowly and deeply, willing the visions to visit. There were many things that she wanted to know. Things that had been asked of her by others. Things she needed to know for herself. The visions would come–they always did. The visions would tell her.
Something pushed into the edge of her thoughts. An intrusion. An unbidden presence challenged. She tilted her head. No, not challenging. Seeking. A faint pulsing energy … growing stronger. She caught her breath and began to tremble. A Spinner? Why now? Had the time truly come to prepare a successor?
The suddenness of the first vision’s arrival made her gasp. This time there were horrific flashes–terrifying and grotesque clips of violence and pain–and she whimpered as they slammed through her mind. It was not the first time that the visions had touched her with fear but now they announced that the inevitable would soon be forced upon her.
CHAPTER ONE
William would never forget the last day of his life as he knew it.
He was being attacked for the first time that morning. The rough grip clutching him dug into his shoulder and shook him hard. His heart bolted into a sudden pounding frenzy.
“William! Wake now!” The voice was shrill and pierced his sleep. His eyes shot open and focused on the face hovering above him.
His mother. Even in the dim pre-dawn light, he could see a deep furrow of worry lacing her eyebrows together. Her lips were pressed into a narrow frown and he couldn’t quite read the emotion fueling her painful grasp on him.
Worry or anger? It didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good.
“C’mon lad! Up with you. Your father and brother didna’ return from the pub last evening–still drunk as mice in the dregs of a brandy barrel, I ‘spect–but that’s no relief to Millie, will it be, with her bag near ready to burst, nor to those of us needin’ kindling to have kept the flame tucked overnight. Sometimes I curse the day John Robert discovered his dammed drink!”
His confusion at being woken well before sun up was quickly replaced with alarm. Not home? Neither one? William wearily struggled to sit up on his straw-filled mat. A tangled lock of sandy colored hair swung down into his face and he tucked it behind his ear. He recognized his mother’s angry use of his father’s proper names.
“Bring us wood and dung as fast as you can, lad, and I’ll set to save what embers I can. Your sister will start the milkin’. Quickly! Off with you now!”
He could hear the strain in her voice. His Da’ not home? Nor Johnny? His mother’s worry was well placed then. His father would never have left the evening milking undone. At the very least his older brother, John, would have been sent back to help do the chores. And no wood for the overnight or morning fire!
He quickly slid both feet into the boots lying on the floor beside him. The worn leather had molded to his feet like a second layer of calloused skin. Throwing his woolen tunic on over top of his night shirt and trousers, he quickly lashed it around his waist, and called out.
“Lucas! C’mon boy, let’s have a look.” From a woven floor pad, the grizzled hound lifted his head in response to his name, but the relative warmth of the house called more strongly to his arthritic joints than his master’s voice, and he merely yawned and laid his head back down upon his front paws. “Fine then, you old fart! Stay here while I go looking.” Lucas simply closed his eyes and exhaled a contented sigh. William didn’t blame him. The dog was nearly as old as William was now and the past winter’s ache had settled and stayed in his bones. Being allowed to stay inside was a special treat. Giving his dog a fond scratch between the animal’s ears, William pulled the tunic’s hood up over his own head, and stepped through the hut’s doorway into the chill of the damp air.
An urgent lowing greeted him as he strode the few steps it took to reach the livestock shed’s doorway. Running footsteps from behind told him that Abbey was already on her way to milk the cow. For a heartbeat William felt a pang of guilt for his little sister. The cow’s bag would be swollen hard and the animal would be more miserable and uncooperative than usual. Millie was calmer with a female’s handling of her teats at the best of times, it seemed to him. Probably comes from having the same kind of equipment, and knowing how to handle ’em without harm.
William trotted silently further down the rutted path, its surface having been torn into parallel troughs by years of foot traffic and cart wheels. Anything useful as kindling had long since been picked clean near the buildings. His keen eyes gradually adjusted to the dim pre-dawn light. He preferred to find branches and twigs to burn, rather than to have to return with an armful of dung from the cowshed. Although the manure burned slowly and gave off decent warmth, its sm
oke was thick and noxious.
He was closer to the village than to his home by the time he came across anything worth picking up. Skirting around the edges of the underbrush that lined both sides of the path, he gathered a small armful of dried twigs. They would burn up in no time, he knew. He continued to scour the bushes deeper into the underbrush in hopes of discovering a few decently sized branches.
Just a bit more and I’ll have enough to make the porridge fire, anyway.
He realized it was the wrong time of year to be finding much dead wood. Everything was leafed out and no limbs on the trees or bushes were dry enough to have been shaken down by wind passing through the thickets and forest.
Scrambling out of the underbrush he clutched the twigs and a few skinny branches to his chest. Reaching the road once more, he stumbled in one of the ruts and pitched forward onto his knees, dropping his kindling. An intense bolt of pain shot through his leg as his kneecap cracked against an exposed cobble rock. William ground his teeth together in quiet agony.
Goddamn these ruts! Where in the hell are Johnny and Da’ anyway?
Still on his hands and knees, he lifted his head and glanced down the road. Something off to the side glowed eerily white, lying in an area of dark trampled grasses. He squinted in the semi-light and cursed the rut again for being the cause of his knee pain. Damned stupid stumble–
William strained his eyes on the strange discoloration ahead, his knee pain immediately forgotten.
What in the hell is that?
~~~~
A branch! A large friggin’ branch!
He struggled to his feet and fixing his gaze on it, lurched towards it. Living at the edge of the forest as his family did, William knew the different woods on sight, and he also knew their properties–which smelled sweetest when burning, which was strongest for fences, and which wood was flexible enough for bows. Even so, in this dim predawn gray, he could not place from which kind of tree it was. The shape was unlike anything that he was familiar with. He kept his eye on the precious branch as he hurried onward. Upon reaching it, he bent down and froze in mid-reach.