New Orleans Dangerous - an excerpt

 

SOME SAY VAMPIRES CAME TO AMERICA BY WAY OF NEW ORLEANS. MANY BELIEVE THEY ARE STILL HERE

Love vampires and New Orleans? Here are the first three Chapters of my latest book New Orleans Dangerous featuring French Quarter detective Wyatt Thomas. You can order the book on Amazon,, BN, Apple ibooks, and Kobo. Hope you love it.

New Orleans Dangerous

A novel by

Eric Wilder

Chapter 1

Murders rarely go as planned. Though Darth Heaney reflected on the thought as he field-stripped a cigarette before tossing it overboard, he wasn’t worried about it.

A deckhand on the towboat Emma Lou, Darth was the lowest man on the totem pole. Though he’d worked onboard for more than a year, the rest of the crew hadn’t let him forget it. Garbage duty, kitchen patrol, and all the extra early-morning watches didn’t bother him as much as the names he’d heard the crewmembers call him: stupid, slow, dumb. None of the slurs bothered him as much as the torment heaped on him by one crewmember in particular.

Sammy Ray Nations was a huge man, his broad shoulders and muscular body covered in tattoos. He was the strongest person aboard the Emma Lou. At least that’s what everyone thought. Everyone except Darth. Though Darth was only five-foot-six, he had the strength of a champion powerlifter. The strenuous labor he did on the boat only served to make him even stronger.

Sammy Ray had taken it upon himself to torment Darth since the day he signed on the Emma Lou. Spitting in Darth’s eggs and then rubbing his face in the sticky mess was the least of Sammy Ray’s transgressions against him. When the huge man cornered Darth in the shower and tried to bully him into performing oral sex on him, Darth’s disgust had turned into a burning hatred. Though years had passed since he’d killed anyone, he intended to change all that and to do it that very night.

Emma Lou was one of the biggest towboats on the lower Mississippi River. It’s almost twelve-thousand horsepower engines regularly pushed forty barges laden with thousands of pounds of cargo to St. Louis, and even more on the return trip to New Orleans. Twenty-eight days on and fourteen days off was the normal working schedule. The often-dangerous river journeys had never bothered Darth. He had no friends either on the boat or in New Orleans, the city he called home.

Now, the Emma Lou was less than five miles from New Orleans. Two in the morning, Darth puffed on the cigarette he’d lit from the last one he’d smoked before flipping it overboard. Sammy Ray was a light sleeper. He awoke around this time every morning to smoke, drink his cheap whiskey, and walk the deck. This particular morning, Darth had a plan for him. When Sammy Ray came around the corner, Darth stepped out of the shadows.

“What the hell!” Sammy Ray said as he took a backward step.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Darth said.

“You couldn’t scare shit, you little shrimp. You come to suck my dick?”

“I got something to show you,” Darth said, moving toward the much larger man.

Sammy Ray glanced down at Darth’s cupped hands. “What the hell is it?”

“This,” Darth said.

Darth opened his hands long enough to show the big man there was nothing in them, and then came up under Sammy Ray’s chin with his right fist.

Sammy Ray’s eyes blinked once as his knees collapsed and he sank to the deck. Darth looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the incident. Thick clouds covered the moon and stars leaving only darkness, Darth the only person awake except for the morning pilot in the wheelhouse on the far end of the large boat.

Darth used his razor-sharp switchblade knife to slit Sammy Ray’s wrist and then began lapping the blood as it poured out of the vein. Darth had a silver flask with a special engraving. It was the only thing his father had ever given him. After filling the flask with blood, he removed his shirt, using it to tie Sammy Ray’s wrists.

He’d found an old anchor on the docks. After hooking the barb around the shirt, he pushed Sammy Ray’s body overboard. Even if his blood loss weren’t enough to kill him, he would drown when the anchor dragged him to the bottom of the river.

Because of the strong currents in the middle of the Mississippi, Sammy Ray’s body might not surface until it reached the Gulf of Mexico. If anyone ever found it, the anchor would be long gone. With no marks of violence except for the slit on Sammy Ray’s wrist, the authorities would likely rule his death accidental.

There was little time to worry about it as tugboats would soon arrive to break the barges loose to complete their river journey. It would still be dark when the Emma Lou docked, and the crew departed. No one would notice Sammy Ray was missing until he failed to pick up his paycheck at the company headquarters. Even then, days might pass before anyone went to check on the alcoholic seaman.

Darth Heaney left the Emma Lou, walking down the gangplank with a duffel bag over his shoulder. It wasn’t far to the Riverwalk. Heavy fog was rolling in from the river when he reached the scenic New Orleans’ walkway. A couple in the act of lovemaking didn’t stop what they were doing as he walked past. Darth didn’t notice, smiling when he saw the lights of Café du Monde.

Darth and his mother Mona Marie had lived in the Old Ursuline Convent on Chartres Street most of his life. She’d been the live-in caretaker there, dusting the statuary and mopping the corridors. She didn’t make much money, but their lodging was free, and the nuns brought them food almost every day. When they didn’t, Darth would buy fruits, vegetables and po’boy sandwiches at the nearby Farmer’s Market.

He often visited Café du Monde. All the waiters and waitresses knew him and always provided free coffee and beignets when he showed up at the backdoor. Though he now made lots of money as a deckhand on the Emma Lou, he still went to the backdoor, drinking coffee and eating beignets with the people who worked there. He continued to smile, dusting powdered sugar off of his shirt as he headed back into the darkness.

Darth knew every alleyway in the French Quarter. After leaving Café du Monde, he took his own route to the Old Ursuline Convent. Colorful masonry walls hid the garden courtyards of the residences behind them from the people passing on the streets. As they had for the past three hundred years, citizens of the Big Easy guarded their privacy above all else.

It was spring, flowers in full bloom. High walls couldn’t mask the climbing roses cascading over them. Darth loved springtime better than any season and used his switchblade to cut a rose from the bush. Before walking away, he inhaled the blossom’s fragrant aroma.

The old Ursuline Convent of New Orleans wasn’t far away. It lay deserted at night, all the doors, and windows locked, the courtyard surrounded by an eight-foot-high masonry fence to keep winos and homeless people from camping out inside. It didn’t matter to Darth. He had a master key that could unlock every door in the building.

A cat screeched in a nearby alleyway, garbage cans rattling as Darth opened a service entrance in the back of the building and slipped inside. Utility lights lit the hallway as he hurried past the main chapel, careful to avoid the security cameras. Though the stairway was dark, Darth didn’t miss a step as he hurried up the stairs to the second floor. He knew every creaky board on the floor because he’d traversed it more times than he cared to count.

The convent was now a museum during the day and unoccupied at night. Except for the girl. She was as elusive as a gust of wind. He knew she lived alone in the convent though he didn’t know where. He would sometimes feel her stare and maybe even catch a fleeting glimpse of her when he wheeled around. He could feel her now.

The second floor once had cells where the nuns lived. Now they were empty, much of the second floor a research library for scholars and visiting dignitaries. Not all the cells were vacant. His mother still occupied the one where he’d lived for much of his younger life. It wasn’t where anyone could find it.

Forgotten by most, secret passageways laced the old building. Darth knew where they all were. Growing up, he’d had not a single friend and spent his days playing in the passageways and creating a fantasy world that sometimes crossed over into reality. When he tapped at a special spot on the wall, a sliding panel opened. Not needing a light to know where he was going, he entered the Stygian darkness.

His mother’s room was behind a hidden door at the end of the darkened hallway. Darth could find it in his sleep. After locating a candle in a cranny in the wall, he lit it. The convent was one of the oldest surviving buildings in the United States. It smelled like it when Darth opened the door.

The reek of must and mildew burned his eyes, causing him to sneeze as he went around the room lighting candles with a match from the souvenir box advertising the towboat Emma Lou. A single bed occupied the room, a washbasin with a mirror, two old chairs and little else.

“Hi, Mom. You miss me?”

Darth got no answer to his question from the woman, or remains of the woman, lying in bed beneath a faded quilt. Long gray hair capped the eyeless skull, its teeth smiling in a perpetual grin. Darth bent down and kissed the skull, unmindful of the spider crawling out of the empty eye socket.

“Got something for you.”

Darth slipped the red rose into the bony remains of his mother’s hand.

“I’m in town for a while and happy to be home.”

Darth climbed on the bed, lying beside his mother’s skeletal remains. Flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the windowless walls of the cell. Only the sound of a mouse gnawing on something inside one of the walls, and bats stirring in the attic disturbed the room’s silence.

“You’re looking good. How you been?”

Darth rolled off the bed, not waiting for an answer. Before he’d taken a step, he grabbed his head with both hands, moaning as he sank to his knees. He rubbed his temples, trying to make the pain go away. Long moments passed before he rose again, his grimace gone.

As if nothing had happened, he opened the door of a closet. Stripping off his clothes, he began donning the vestments of a Catholic priest. With an alb over his clothes and preaching scarf around his neck, he took the rose from the grasp of the skeletal hand.

“I see Darth is back in town. Tell him I’m looking for him. Right now, I have a service to perform.”

Taking the rose with him, the person who had become Father Luc left the room, heading down the stairs to the first floor. The Old Ursuline Convent had many ornate altars. The altar to where Father Luc was headed wasn’t one of them. He continued past the main altar to a door at the end of a darkened hallway. Using his passkey, he entered a room that wasn’t much bigger than a closet.

A small shrine occupied a wall in the little room, a silver chalice sitting on the communion table. Father Luc lit a votive candle atop the ancient altar painted in white enamel. He wasn’t done. After placing the rose in a crystal vase and a hundred-dollar bill in the silver chalice, he grasped the stole around his neck, bowed his head and closed his eyes.

“With the blood of hogs on the altar of the King of Hell, I pray the god of all the minions below ratify my offering. Make me your strong right arm and give me the strength to destroy the Roof of Lucifer so that I may set you, the supreme master, once again free. In Nomine Satanas, sic faciam illud.”

Father Luc left the altar to return to the hidden room on the second floor. Once he’d disappeared up the stairs, someone else entered the little room. Taking the blood-red rose from the vase, she replaced it with one that was white.

 Chapter 2

Spring had arrived in the French Quarter. I realized it the moment I stepped out on my balcony overlooking Chartres Street. Tourists were stirring on the sidewalk below, a mule-drawn carriage plodding toward Jackson Square. Sounds of produce trucks unloading over by the French Market filled the air with the sweet fragrance of fresh fruits and vegetables, along with the perfume of magnolia trees and flowers in bloom around St. Louis Cathedral.

As I got dressed, Kisses, my cat lay in the sun, watching the sparrows and pigeons grousing for scraps of food dropped by tourists on the street. I lived in a small apartment over Bertram Picou’s Chartres Street bar. Even though it was still early, I could hear Bertram’s distinctive baritone voice as he held court for some lucky visitors to his establishment.

When I descended the stairs, I saw the place was empty except for two women sitting at the bar drinking martinis and talking to Bertram. One of the women was someone I knew and whom I hadn’t seen in quite some time: Lilly Bliss, a writer I’d met during an assignment on a resort island south of New Orleans.

Just as the last time I’d seen her, Lilly’s hair was short and black, and the same color as the frames of the thick glasses she almost always kept perched on her head. Though not a drop-dead beauty queen, her expressive green eyes could cast a spell on you if you weren’t careful. Lilly smiled when she glanced up and saw me coming down the stairs.

“Wyatt,” she said, getting off the barstool to give me a hug. “How are you?”

“A whole lot better after seeing your pretty face.”

“Keep your eyes on this one, Avory. He’ll have your panties off before you know he’s touching you,” Lilly said.

Ignoring her catty remark, I said, “What brings you to New Orleans, Miss Lilly?”

“Couldn’t quit thinking about that damn Cajun behind the bar,” she said. “He has a better line of bullshit than you do, and I kind of like his coonass accent. Wyatt Thomas, meet my best friend, Avory.”

Lilly’s friend was laughing and shaking her head at Lilly’s remark.

“Glad to meet you, Avory. Don’t believe the stories Lilly tells you about me,” I said. “She’s a fiction writer, and that’s pretty much synonymous with a paid liar.”

Avory had blond curly hair, a glorious smile, and big blue eyes.

“Have we met?” she asked.

“Only in my wildest dreams,” I said.

Avory glanced at Lilly and said, “I think you’re right about this one.”

“Miss Avory is a movie writer,” Bertram said.

I gave her a closer look. “Of course, you’re Avory Dorean.”

“You have to be kidding,” Avory said. “I’m not exactly a celebrity. How did you know who I am?”

“I never forget a face,” I said. “While waiting in a checkout line, I saw your picture and a little blurb about some of the scripts you’ve written, in a movie magazine.”

“Avory and I are developing the script for the movie Quinlan is currently working on,” Lilly said.

A Hollywood producer, Quinlan Moore, had hired me to investigate a gruesome murder at a resort island for artists and actors. It was on that assignment where I’d met Lilly. Quinlan had put me on retainer a year or so later when he returned to New Orleans to film a movie.

Bertram and Lilly had become a number during the filming of Moore’s movie. Even though Bertram had courted many women, none had meant quite as much to him as had Lilly. He’d pouted for weeks after her abrupt departure. Lilly must have noticed my expression of concern when she caught me, giving him a glance.

“If you’re worried about Bertram and me, just stop it. I spent the night with him last night. In fact, I may never leave again,” she said. “Isn’t that right, Bert?”

“Baby Doll, ain’t a minute gone by since you walked out that door that I haven’t missed you,” he said.

Lilly joined him on the other side of the bar, putting her arms around him.

“You’re a bigger liar than Wyatt. I still love hearing it. I also missed you, more than you’ll ever know.”

“Enough to spend the rest of your time here in New Orleans with me?”

“Sweetie, I was hoping you’d ask because I didn’t bother checking into a hotel when we arrived in town,” Lilly said. “Take my stool, Wyatt. I’m going to help my wonderful man behind the bar.”

Lady, Bertram’s collie, must have missed Lilly as much as Bertram had because her tail was wagging when Lillie knelt down and gave her a hug.

“Can you and Lady watch the place for a while, Cowboy?” Bertram asked. “Me and Miss Lilly got some important business in back to attend to.”

“Why not?” I said. “Won’t be the first or the last time Lady and I held down the fort for you. With no customers, it’ll be a piece of cake.”

Before leaving, Bertram mixed Avory another martini and poured me a glass of lemonade.

“Mind if I try it?” Avory said. I handed her my glass and watched as she took a sip. “There’s no liquor in here.”

“I’m an alcoholic,” I said. “Though I fall off the wagon every now and then, I’ve remained mostly sober for several years now.”

Someone came in the door. It was Quinlan Moore. “Wyatt, my man,” he said. “Just the person I was looking for. I see you’ve already met Avory.”

“Bertram and Lilly are in the back,” I said, stepping behind the bar. “What are you drinking?”

“Vodka, with a splash, and only a cube or two of ice.”

“Gotcha. Lilly said you were in town doing some leg work for a new movie.”

Quinlan hugged Avory and gave her a kiss. As I mixed his drink, he draped his arms over her shoulders.

“I’m scouting locations.”

“What’s your movie about?” I asked.

“Don’t know yet. It’s still in pre-production. Got any ideas?”

“You can barely wake up in the morning in New Orleans without tripping over a new mystery,” I said.

Once an actor, Quinlan Moore was a handsome man with dark eyes and blond hair starting to gray around his temples. The nerdy pencil mustache he’d sported when we’d first met was gone. Quin was dressed in dark slacks, his expensive sports coat highlighting his broad shoulders. The buttons of his silk shirt were opened enough to reveal his chest hair. He gave Avory another kiss on the neck.

“How you doing?” he asked.

“Taking it all in,” she said.

“When I’m in the Big Easy, Wyatt’s my man from Havana. He’s helped me a bunch in the past. When I’m in town, Wyatt’s on retainer.”

“What do you do?” Avory asked.

“Investigations,” I said.

“Avory and Lilly are developing the script for my movie,” Quinlan said.

“Thought you didn’t know what the movie’s about yet.”

“I soon will. Like you said, there’s a story around every corner. Lilly already knows New Orleans. While I’m off developing locations, Avory needs someone to escort her around town. Have anything else going?”

“You know I’m happy to help out any way I can. You don’t have to pay me to do that,” I said.

“Nonsense,” he said. “You’re already written into the budget. How’s Tony doing?”

“Good,” I said.

“Who’s Tony?” Avory asked.

“Tony Nicosia, a former homicide detective with the N.O.P.D., I said. “Tough as nails and knows the underbelly of New Orleans like no one else in town. Like me, he’s now a private investigator, and we occasionally hook up on projects.”

“Tony’s a sweetheart,” Quinlan said. “He has buddies on the force that are always happy to assist. Though he doesn’t know it yet, he’s also on retainer.”

“That’ll make him happy,” I said.

Quinlan glanced at his Rolex Commander. “Gotta run,” he said. “Can you tell him I’m in town and that he’s on the clock?”

“You got it, boss,” I said, saluting.

“And Wyatt, please make sure you keep Avory happy while I’m off doing the dirty work of Hollywood producing.”

Quinlan downed his drink before disappearing through the door. I locked it behind him.

“May as well shut the place down,” I said. “No customers, anyway.”

“Quin is maddening,” Avory said. “If he weren’t such a genius, I’d be happy to never see him again.”

“He pays so well, I won’t have to work for six months.”

“Boring,” she said. “I like to stay busy. If I had a project, I’d work every day.”

“You and Lilly are here on a project, or did I hear Quinlan wrong?”

“The script might not get written for months. The reason I’m here is Quinlan is my boyfriend. He doesn’t like traveling alone.”

“But. . .”

“I know,” she said. “He’s married.”

“Does his wife know about your arrangement?”

“She could care less,” Avory said. “Quinlan’s rich and powerful and buys her anything she wants. She has her own boyfriend.”

“Then why bother staying married?”

“They’re a power couple. Quinlan’s a producer, Penelope, an actress. They have two great children and all the money in the world.”

“But. . .”

“Neither of them wants to take a chance on losing even a whit of their power and influence by undergoing a messy divorce,” Avory said.

“I see,” I said. “And you?”

“I like being in the sphere of Quinlan’s power and influence. I’ve written lots of movies because of him, even if I have to occasionally twiddle my thumbs.”

“My guess is you’ve never twiddled your thumbs.”

Avory tapped her glass against mine. “I think I’m going to like you, Wyatt. Are you sure you’re a private investigator and not an actor?”

“Closest I ever came to acting was a part in the Mikado in the fifth grade. I had one line, and I muffed it. Why would you think I was an actor?”

“You’re good-looking enough to be a leading man. I wouldn’t put it past Quinlan to hire someone to report back to him on what I’m doing.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” I said.

“Oh, yes, he would. He’s a control freak, or haven’t you noticed?”

“I’m not an actor.”

“And you’re not married?”

“Nope.”

“Where do you live?”

I pointed. “The top of that flight of stairs.”

“A suite?”

“Just a small room and bath. I do have a balcony overlooking Chartres Street, and there aren’t many places in the world as relaxing.”

“I’d like to see it,” she said. “Can you mix me another martini?”

“My pleasure.” Lady was taking a nap behind the bar when I joined her. “Even if my martinis aren’t as good as Bertram’s, I’ve never had any complaints.”

“I’ll bet you haven’t,” she said.

Avory couldn’t believe her eyes when we went upstairs, and I opened my apartment door.

“I told you it was small,” I said.

“I like it,” she said. “It has the ambiance of Antebellum New Orleans. I’ll bet this is how it felt two hundred years ago.”

“You can say that about any place in the Quarter. My little apartment is comfortable. I wouldn’t live anywhere else,” I said.

Avory and I were soon sitting on the balcony in my deck chairs. Kisses jumped into her lap the moment she sat down.

“You don’t seem to me like a man who likes cats,” she said.

“Have you ever had one?”

“Several,” she said. “I love cats.”

She smiled when I said, “You don’t seem like a woman who would like cats.”

“Touché,” she said. “You don’t have a girlfriend?”

“Just Miss Kisses.”

“I’d like to be your girlfriend while I’m in New Orleans.”

“What about Quinlan?”

“Quinlan has the morals of an alley cat. He’s probably in his hotel room right now screwing some waitress he picked up in a bar.”

“He’s not afraid you might return and catch him?”

Avory grinned. “Quin’s too smart for that. We have separate rooms. Hell, we’re not even staying in the same hotel. He knows how to play the game. It’s likely I won’t see him the entire time I’m here.”

“Amazing,” I said.

“Quin is paying you handsomely to keep me happy while I’m in town. Can you handle it?”

“Depends,” I said. “What’s the name of the game we’re playing?”

“House,” she said.

“I’m an investigator, not an escort service.”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” she said. “I’m like Quin and hate being alone. Nobody said anything about sex, though it’s not out of the question. I want to soak up the local culture. I think you’re the one to help me do it and you told Quin you’d be happy to show me around.”

“No problem,” I said.

“I want to check out of my hotel and move in with you.”

“That little bed is all I have. I love the wood floor, but it isn’t very comfortable.”

“We’ll work something out,” she said. “You may have a problem with my rules.”

“Rules?”

“No permanent attachments. Once I leave town, I don’t intend to ever see you again. No calls, no forlorn letters, nothing. Understand?”

“I thought all I was going to do was show you around town.”

“I don’t want to get started in this relationship if it’s going to turn messy,” Avory said.

“Since you’re setting the rules, what does our relationship entail?”

“Like I told you, we’re playing house. Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re so full of bullshit, I can’t believe a word you say. Are you setting me up for some bad joke?”

“You want me to strip off my clothes, climb in your little bed and show you? Damn you, why don’t you stop smiling?”

“Because this is like a teenager’s fantasy, being asked by a gorgeous woman less than an hour after meeting her to have a no-holds-barred relationship with no permanent ties.”

“You may not be serious. I am,” she said.

Avory began unbuttoning her blouse. I was still shaking my head in disbelief after she’d removed her blouse and bra and sat topless on the bed.

“Getting cold feet?” I asked.

“Screw you. Every other man I’ve pulled this act on would have pretty much creamed his pants by now.”

Her confident smile returned when I said, “How do you know I haven’t?”

Avory quickly adjusted her bra and re-buttoned her blouse.

“We’re going to have some fun together. Right now, I need to return to the hotel and get my bags. Will you take me?”

“Are you still acting?”

“The moment I saw you walking down the stairs, I knew I was going to like you. I don’t know how this movie is going to turn out because I’ve yet to write the final scene.”

 Chapter 3

We took a cab to the hotel, Avory remaining silent during the ride. Though I didn’t worry about it for long, I was wondering what I’d gotten myself into. I watched her disappear into the front door of the twelve-story Canal Street hotel before waving on the cab.

Since the weather was delightful, I decided to walk back to Bertram’s. I found Bertram and Lilly behind the bar, talking with a Catholic nun who was sitting on a stool and enjoying one of the Cajun bartender’s martinis. Bertram flashed me a dirty look when he saw me.

“Where you been?” he asked. “We been looking for you.”

“I took Avory back to her hotel.”

“Well, someone’s here to see you.”

Seeing there was no one else in the building except for the nun, I introduced myself.

“I’m Wyatt Thomas.”

The woman shook my hand. “I’m Sister Lydia. My diocese requires the services of a private investigator. Your name was suggested. I’m here to talk to you about it.”

“Of course. How can I help?”

“What I have to say is confidential. Can we discuss the matter in private?”

“There’s a booth in the back where we can have some privacy.”

Sister Lydia smiled for the first time as she slid off the stool and gave Bertram a glance.

“Your martinis are very good, maybe the best I’ve ever tasted,” she said.

“I’ll bring you another,” Bertram said. “And Sister Lydia, you’re drinking on the house.”

“Thank you,” Sister Lydia said.

The tall nun was at least thirty years older than me, and maybe more. Because of her infectious smile and sparkling brown eyes, she was still quite attractive. When I needed to talk to a client in private, I always did so in my favorite booth in the back of Bertram’s bar. Sister Lydia followed me there, craning her neck to make sure we were far enough away from Bertram and Lilly’s ears before situating herself in the booth.

“Now, how can I be of service?” I asked.

“Are you familiar with the Old Ursuline Convent?”

“My mother took me there once when I was younger,” I said.

“The fact that you are Catholic is part of the reason we are considering you for the job.”

I didn’t ask how Sister Lydia knew my religious preference.

“Maybe you’d better explain,” I said.

“The Old Ursuline Convent is now a museum. As you probably already know, the convent is one of the oldest buildings in the United States.”

“And?”

“We have a problem that requires attention,” she said.

“Please explain.”

Before Sister Lydia could answer, Bertram showed up with a fresh martini for her and another glass of lemonade for me. Sister Lydia waited until he’d returned to the bar before continuing with her story.

“The convent is closed at night. There is no night watchman. Last night, an illicit ceremony was performed there.”

“Someone broke into the convent?”

“There’s no indication that anyone forcibly entered the building. Still, some unauthorized person was there last night.”

“How do you know an illicit ceremony was performed?” I asked.

“You’ll understand when I show you. Please take my word for it until then,” she said.

“Have you reported this incident to the authorities?”

“The Old Ursuline Convent is part of the greater Archdiocese of New Orleans. We prefer to handle as many problems internally as possible without involving the city. The Archdiocese wants our own person to investigate, and not the local police.”

“Are you an Ursuline Nun?” I asked.

“I’m not. The Ursulines moved to a new convent long ago. The Old Ursuline Convent is part of the greater New Orleans Archdiocese that includes the St. Louis Cathedral and St. Mary’s Church. I work for the Archdiocese.”

“I see,” I said.

“The Archdiocese has already checked your qualifications. If you are amenable to helping us, then we need to discuss your fee.”

“Like you said, Sister Lydia, I’m Catholic. I’ll do anything I can to help you. No charge. When do we start?”

As if she’d expected nothing less, Sister Lydia nodded. She drained her martini and slid out of the booth.

“Now, if you have no other plans.”

***

Jackson Square lay between the Old Ursuline Convent and Bertram’s. I stopped outside the door to hail a cab.

“It’s an absolutely marvelous day,” Sister Lydia said. “Let’s walk.”

The nun started up the sidewalk at such a fast clip, I had to hurry to keep up with her.

“Isn’t that habit a bit warm to expend so much energy?” I asked.

“I’ve grown accustomed to the tools of my occupation during my seventy years.”

“You’re not seventy, are you?”

“Nuns don’t lie, Mr. Thomas.”

Without commenting on her claim, I said, “Please call me Wyatt. Mister Thomas was my father’s name.”

As Sister Lydia had said, the day was marvelous. We weren’t the only people on the sidewalk. Throngs of tourists and locals reveled in the beautiful weather and the sights and sounds of the French Quarter. When we reached Jackson Square, we found it alive with activity. Artists were painting portraits. In the plaza in front of Andy Jackson’s statue, a jazz combo was holding court to an appreciative crowd.

Palm trees wafted in a gentle breeze, their fronds a vivid green usually seen only on the sandy beaches of some tropical isle. Sister Lydia clasped her rosary beads and closed her eyes when we strolled past the open doors of St. Louis Cathedral. It prompted me to reach for my St. Christopher’s Medal before remembering I had lost it years ago.

Sister Lydia wasn’t even breathing hard when we reached the Old Ursuline Convent farther up Chartres Street. Distant memories flooded my thoughts as we entered the gate. Sister Lydia introduced me to the person collecting admission from the visitors.

“This is Mr. Thomas. He’s working for the Archdiocese and has free rein to the convent. Please allow him to come and go as he pleases.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the young woman with curly hair and a single earring said.

I followed Sister Lydia down the sidewalk through the sculptured hedgerows decorating the expansive front lawn of the convent. When she pushed through the front doorway, I could almost smell the antiquity. Inside, everything was polish, lacquers, and vivid colors. Sister Lydia led us to the magnificent altar in the main chapel where she knelt, bowed her head, and said a prayer.

“I’d forgotten what a splendid example of French Colonial architecture this building is,” I said.

“The oldest building in the Mississippi Valley; almost three-hundred-years old. Two floors and an attic level with three dormers. The building itself has twelve bays.”

Sister Lydia frowned when I said, “Lots of threes there.”

“I assure you, there is no numerological meaning intended.”

Sensing my offhand remark had annoyed the nun, I quickly changed the subject.

“Please show me where the ceremony took place,” I said.

“Of course,” she said.

I followed her to an unmarked door, which she opened with an antique key. The dark little room wasn’t much bigger than a large closet. Sister Lydia pointed a flashlight at the small altar that resided on a shelf on the wall.

Sister Lydia shined the light on the altar. “This closet has no light fixture,” she said,. “We’ll have to make do with my flashlight.”

“Has anything been moved?” I asked.

“We left everything as it was when we discovered the disturbance.”

I inched past her for a closer look. A white rose occupied a small vase. Despite the darkness and the lack of water in the vase, the rose looked as fresh as the moment it was cut from the vine. A silver chalice coated with a patina of age sat in the middle of the lacquered altar. There was an inscription on the chalice.

“Can you translate for me?” I asked.

“Latin isn’t an easy language to translate,” Sister Lydia said.

“What do you think it says?” I asked.

“Pig’s blood.”

I gave her a glance, thinking maybe I’d heard her wrong. “Pig’s blood? What does that mean?”

“You’ll have to get the answer from someone other than me,” she said. “I’ve told you all I know about the inscription.”

“You said there was a ceremony here last night. How do you know?”

“Look in the chalice.”

Not wanting to desecrate the relic, I used my ball-point to tilt the silver chalice toward me. I fished out a fresh hundred-dollar-bill with the pen.

“What’s the significance of the money?” I asked.

“Look on the back,” Sister Lydia said.

When I flipped the bill over, I could clearly see the number 66 that someone had written on it. The color was oxidized red. My best guess was the number was written in blood. Sister Lydia’s reaction to my earlier comment about numerology became apparent.

“You think someone performed a satanic ritual here last night?” I asked.

“That’s what I think happened,” she said.

“Mind if I take a few pictures with my cell phone?”

“Go right ahead.”

After taking multiple pictures of the altar, the bill and the chalice, I said, “Since there was no forcible entry, is there anyone on your staff with access to the convent who might be responsible?”

“No,” she said.

“Sure about that?”

“I’m sure.”

“What about a caretaker, or perhaps someone on the janitorial staff?”

“We no longer have a full-time caretaker. The Archdiocese employs a contract janitorial service. The janitors have no keys to the building and only work when someone from our staff is close by.”

“Does anyone other than your staff have a key to the building?”

Sister Lydia shook her head. “You now know as much as I do. Can you help us?”

“Maybe. Please show me around the museum.”

After watching Sister Lydia relock the closet, I listened to her running commentary as I followed her through the museum.

“The convent has been a school for both boys and girls, an orphanage, and even the residence of the Archbishop. It had fallen into a state of disrepair until we restored it to its former glory. It’s now a wonderful museum chronicling much of the religious history of New Orleans.”

The building was divided into various brightly painted rooms with polished wood floors, colorful statuary depicting nuns, priests and saints, and an almost overwhelming sense of antiquity. Exhibits and displays were marked to facilitate the visitor’s self-guided tour of the museum. After leading me through the first floor, Sister Lydia removed the rope barrier blocking the stairs and then started up.

“The nuns who once occupied the convent lived in cells on the second floor. No one lives here anymore, and the cells are empty. A portion of the second floor is now a research library for visiting scholars.”

After Sister Lydia had given me a tour of the library, I said, “What’s in the attic?”

“It’s empty,” she said.

“I’d like to see it,” I said.

“We have an alarm I’ll need to disarm first.”

I watched as Sister Lydia punched in a series of numbers on a keypad mounted on the wall.

“Why do you have an alarm if there’s nothing up there?”

“You’re from New Orleans. I’m sure you’ve heard about the Casket Girls.”

“Please refresh my memory,” I said.

Sister Lydia explained as I followed her to the top of the stairs. “Most of the early settlers to the colony were men. Women were needed to sustain its growth. France sent a group of young women to New Orleans for that reason. They brought all their earthly belongings in crates that resembled caskets.”

“And these women stayed in the convent with the Ursuline Nuns until they were married?” I said.

“Yes, and it led to rumors that the convent was occupied by vampires brought over from France by the Casket Girls. The young women were the supposed hosts of the vampires who lived in their caskets in the attic. It’s an old wive’s tale that won’t go away.”

Sister Lydia didn’t smile when I said, “Maybe because there’s a certain amount of truth in every old wive’s tale.”

“I understand why the rumors were propagated. After having spent months on a ship, mostly below deck, there’s little wonder the women were pale and ashen.”

“So there are no vampires in the attic?” I said.

We’d reached the alcove at the top of the stairs, and Sister Lydia used her key to open the door.

“You’re about to see for yourself,” she said.

###

You can find New Orleans Dangerous on Amazon,  BN,  Apple ibooks and Kobo.

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Blink of an Eye - an Excerpt

Oklahoma became a state in 1907. Before then, it was called Indian Territory and was a haven for outlaws, cutthroats, and renegades. A thousand years before statehood, Oklahoma was arguably the home of the most powerful tribe of Indians in either North of South America. The Mississippians were superb artisans as seen by the intricate artifacts of their culture.

The most powerful arm of the Mississippians lived near the eastern Oklahoma town of Spiro on a bluff overlooking an oxbow bend in the Arkansas River. They were called Mound Builders because they lived in dwellings perched atop large pyramid-like structures. The spiritual leader of Native Americans from two continents lived in the Mississippian settlement near Spiro, Oklahoma and the tribe hosted a Summer Solstice Ceremony every year for thousands of believers. An artifact found at many Mississippian archaeological sites is a black pottery cup used in their tea ceremony. It's quite possible that the 'Black Cup of Oklahoma' is the most significant and spiritual relic remaining of the Mississippian culture.

Blink of an Eye is my latest mystery/thriller in the Paranormal Cowboy Series. In Chapter 12 through 14, my flawed cowboy detective Buck McDivit travels back in time 1000 years to attend a solstice celebration. If you like paranormal mystery thrillers, please check it out. I hope you love it. It's free to read with Kindle Unlimited.

Chapter 12

Buck fumbled in the dark with the keys when he reached the front gate of Thorn’s property. She was asleep in the passenger seat and hadn’t moved since they’d left the Roadhouse. Pard and Maggie were raising a ruckus in the backyard as he unlocked the front door and turned on the porch light.

Thorn was dead weight. He had to wrestle her onto the bed. Maggie and Pard watched, wagging their tails, as he pulled off her boots. Knowing how bad it felt to wake up with a hangover, he thought about removing her jeans and blouse. Instead, he covered her with a quilt, deciding he didn’t know her well enough. Turning out the lights, he went into the kitchen.

Maggie and Pard demanded attention. After popping the top on a cold beer he found in the refrigerator, he obliged them. They gobbled up a couple of dog treats, then returned to Maggie’s extra large doggie bed by the stove.

Turning off the lights, he went into Thorn’s cozy den. Pulling off his boots, he plopped on the old couch that sat in front of her pot-bellied stove.

“Good for you, Pard,” he said, glancing at the doggie bed. “At least one of us has a girlfriend to keep them warm tonight.”

***

A storm came up, with thunder rattling windows as rain drummed a cadence on Thorn’s tin roof. Lost in a dream world, Buck didn’t awaken. At least until a bright light shining in his eyes caused him to open them. When he did, he sat straight up on the couch, not believing what he saw.

Before him stood a beautiful woman, an aura of blue light radiating from her naked body. He first thought it was Thorn. Instead, it was someone he’d never expected to see again. His heart began racing inside his bare chest.

“Is it you, Maia, or am I dreaming?”

“Come to me and see,” she said.”

When he pressed against her and began smothering her with kisses, he knew she was real.

Maia was tall and graceful, her long hair and demanding eyes as dark as the storm raging outside the house. As he pressed against her soft breasts, a familiar rush coursed through his body. Just to make sure it was she, he turned her around. As he remembered, a rattlesnake tattoo highlighted the supple curve of her shoulder.

“It’s been two long years. Not a day has passed that I didn’t think about you,” he said. “Why did you go away?”

“I know it hurt you, Buck McDivit. I could not help it because I am from a different place and time.”

“What place, and what time?” he said.

“You will see. I will take you there. First, you must become as naked as I am.”

Buck’s jeans dropped to the floor. “I’m ready,” he said. “Where are we going?”

“To a place you’ve never imagined,” she said.

Maia held his hand as they passed through the locked door as if it weren’t there. The storm had grown stronger as rain poured down in sheets. Thunder rocked their steps, lightning sizzling across an angry sky.

Sharp stones from the gravel driveway didn’t hurt his feet. Though rain gushed off his head and shoulders, he was oblivious to it. Maia led him down the hill, their feet sinking into the mire as they reached a pond overflowing from the deluge. Lightning laced the darkness above them. He hesitated when she stepped into the roiling water.

“Come with me,” she said.

He continued to waver. “It’s dangerous.”

Pulling him toward her, she said, “Trust me.”

Neck deep in churning water, they embraced as lightning kissed the pond. It set off a kaleidoscope of radiating colors that made his head spin. When he opened his eyes, darkness was gone. So was the storm. Dancing rays of sunshine radiated through the cloudy sky. Birds soared overhead, and only friendly drops of rain rippled the water’s surface.

“We’ve crossed over,” she said.

“That was the wildest ride I’ve ever taken. What just happened?”

“You did this once before. You just don’t remember.”

“Did what?” he asked.

“Walked across time,” she said. “Brace yourself for culture shock because you are now in my world.”

They were in the river. Maia took his hand and led him out of the water to a teepee near its bank. The same teepee Maia lived in when he’d met her near the pagan village of Lykaia. When they pushed through the flap, he saw Beauty, Maia’s giant wolf dog. They moved toward one another, meeting in the middle, and were soon rolling on a deerskin rug.

“Where the hell have you been,” Buck said, giving her big neck a warm hug.

“She’s missed you, and so have I,” Maia said.

“You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed both of you.”

“Yes I can,” she said. “Let’s get you dressed. I have much to show you.”

Soon, Buck looked like a Mississippian warrior, Maia like a medicine woman. Beauty hadn’t left Buck’s side until Maia told her to stay and guard the teepee.

“She doesn’t like crowds,” she said.

Buck gave the large beast another hug and then followed Maia out the door. He could hardly believe the sights that began unfolding around them.

Dozens of canoes occupied the riverbank and more floated in the river. When they crested the natural levee, his jaw dropped. Wooden houses with thatched roofs stretched for as far as he could see. Indian women, naked from the waist up were working small truck gardens. Men, returning from a hunt, carried a deer and a large turtle.

“They are preparing for the festival,” Maia said.

Buck was curious. “Festival?” he said.

“You’ll see.”

They were both resplendent in colorful paint and feathers. Maia seemed to know everyone and exchanged smiles and greetings as they passed. They soon reached a palisade. Behind the timbered walls, stately mounds, topped by wooden houses, jutted toward the sky. Activity outside the entrance to the palisade was heavy.

“It’s festival day,” she said. “Some of the people have traveled a thousand miles to be here.”

“Tell me about this festival.”

“Tomorrow is the first day of summer, the longest day of the year. For my people, it is one of our holiest days. Today is the eve of the summer solstice. Our chief will speak, and there will be a game of chunky. Following the game, the bonfire is lit, and everyone feasts, chants, and dances until dawn.”

Buck had met Maia for the first time during a solstice celebration. He remembered because he’d been the only male present. He and several hundred naked pagan females had danced the night away in a solstice ceremony. When he’d met Maia, she’d been the spiritual leader of the pagan enclave known as Lykaia.

“Are we going to dance like we did when we first met?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I am the medicine woman. I must feast with our chief, the elders, and the emissaries from many other tribes. I have other plans for you.”

“What tribes?”

“Mississippians from all over, Aztecs and Mayans from Mexico, and Anasazi from Four Corners.”

“You must be kidding.”

“I assure you I’m not.”

They all wore their festival best. Pearls, shells, and colorful beads adorned the braids in many of the women’s long hair. Most of the men had painted faces and shaved heads with only a top knot. Colors of their costumes moved like a kaleidoscope in slow motion.

The palisade was on a hill. From their vantage, they could see the bend in the large river. Hundreds of canoes lined the bank, more still arriving. Everyone, it seemed, was smiling.

“How can so many tribes coexist?”

“Spiro, as you know it, is the religious hub of our universe. There can be no war, strife, or disagreement in this holy place, especially on the eve of the summer solstice. Well, except for chunkey,” she said.

The scene reminded him of the open marketplace in Santa Fe. This was similar but ten times larger. A myriad of color, noise, and excitement, and jewelry wasn’t the only thing for sale.

The aroma of fresh corn, squash, grapes, and a dozen other vegetables floated in a warm breeze. A big black dog that no one seemed to own sniffed his leg before disappearing into the crowd.

“This place is shoulder-to-shoulder,” he said. “Reminds me of the crowds at the state fair or an OU football game.”

“There are many thousands here today,” she said.

“Thorn would be in heaven,” he said.

“She descended from Mississippians.”

“I can’t imagine anyone loving their cultural history more than her.”

“She is a good person. Maybe too good for the likes of you.”

“What about for you?”

Maia’s smile disappeared. “We were never meant to be.”

“Star-crossed lovers?” he said, squeezing her hand.

“We must live in the moment. I have you now, at least for a short time, and there are many things I need to tell you.”

They strolled through the open-air market, marveling at the crafts. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, only a flock of gulls circling to land on a pond created by a bend in the river.

“It’s time to enter the palisade,” she said.

“I understand every word these people are saying. They can’t be speaking English.”

“You left your clothes and many other things in Oklahoma. While you are here, you are one of us.”

The high-timbered palisade surrounding the enclave was more spectacular than Thorn had described. A moat filled with water surrounded the tall timbers. Guards armed with spears left little doubt that no one entered except by invitation. He and Maia were on the list. They followed a circular maze until it opened into the ancient gated city of Spiro. The panorama blew him away.

“I visited the Archaeological Park yesterday. I had no idea it looked as spectacular as this.”

“The new world’s version of Camelot,” she said. “The game is starting. Would you like to see?”

In the distance, hundreds of spectators occupied a large arena where two teams were beginning to compete.

“It’s a half-mile away. It’ll be lunch before we get there,” he said.

“We don’t have to walk,” she said, snapping her fingers.

Four men appeared with a hand carriage, waiting until Maia and Buck had climbed aboard. Hoisting it to their shoulders, they began trekking toward the chunkey game. Rampant noise grew louder as they approached the arena, covered seating awaiting them. Play stopped as the players, and the crowd acknowledged Maia’s appearance.

“They treat you like a goddess,” Buck said.

She wasn’t smiling when she said, “To my people, I am a goddess.”

Forty people occupied covered seating opposite them. A man in bright paint sat in a cane throne decorated by wreaths of flowers and feathers. The throne rose high above everyone else in the box.

“He must be a bigwig,” he said.

“Walking Wolf is chief of the Mississippians. He’s without a doubt the most powerful person in North America.”

Walking Wolf’s throne was quite a distance away for a good look. Still, the regal old man seemed strangely familiar to Buck.

 Chapter 13

Buck had attended many sporting events, both amateur and professional. He’d never seen one quite as loud and raucous as the chunkey match.

Eight contestants and a referee, surrounded by several thousand adoring fans, occupied the football-sized field. Dressed in breechcloths, the competitors had faces painted white with black eyes like raccoons. Both teams wore pillbox hats woven of straw. One of the men stood at least six-six and towered over the others.

“That’s Talako,” Maia said. “He’s the captain of our team. We have never lost a game.”

“Impressive,” he said. “Who are they playing?”

“A team from a large, Mississippian settlement called Cahokia. They have also never lost.”

“One of their dudes is almost as big as Talako,” Buck said. “How is the game played?”

“With short spears and a stone roller chiseled from quartz. Talako and the big man from the other team are the spears. They do all the throwing and most of the scoring. Each team has a disc roller, and two team members called fronts that run interference. Only the disk rollers can touch the disk, and only the spears can throw them. The fronts use their spears for tripping and preventing the disk from going through the goal posts. That’s five points. You’ll get the gist once they start playing.”

One of the Cahokians had a six-inch stone disk with a hole in the middle. Taking a stance like a pro bowler, he rolled it toward the opposite goal. The referee waited until the disk had traveled about twenty feet and then waved his hand. Talako and the big man from the Cahokia team launched their spears. When the disk came to a halt, a ref ran onto the field, picked up the closest spear to the disk and held up a finger.

“One point,” Maia said. “The first team to reach twelve points wins.”

“What’s the significance of the hole in the disk?” Buck asked.

“If a spear penetrates the hole, then the game is over. The team that makes the toss is the winner.”

“Seems unlikely for that to happen.”

“Almost never,” she said.

When the ref waved his hand again, eight men ran toward the disk. The melee that followed resembled hand-to-hand combat. Both teams pushed and shoved, the fronts doing their best to break their opponent’s legs. A Cahokian retrieved the disk and launched it toward the goal. The scrum continued, both teams fighting for position and scoring a few points. The crowd had grown inflamed.

“There’s massive betting going on in the stands,” she said. “Much property will change hands because of this match.”

“Most everyone’s rooting for our team,” Buck said.

“Not all. There’s a large contingent of Cahokians here to watch the game.”

Talako’s spear landed within inches of the disk, the crowd standing and yelling. When the ref waved his hand, the two Cahokian fronts took Talako’s legs out from under him. When they did, the big spear kicked him in the side.

“Damn! That looked like a foul to me. Those boys are serious. They don’t have a penalty box in this game?”

“Chunkey emulates combat. Bones are often broken. The crowd expects the team to play through their pain.”

“Brutal. Sort of like pro football. How long till the ref calls a break?”

Maia shook her head. “They’ll battle until they drop, or the game is over. There are no quarters.”

“And the reward?” he asked.

“Life, the losers killed, and their scalps displayed on the winner’s belts.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” he said.

“If the visiting team wins, our chief will pardon them because this is a religious holiday. If our team loses, they will lose their heads.”

“Doesn’t look like they’re in any danger of that. They’re ahead by six points.”

“I pray not,” Maia said. “Talako is Walking Wolf’s only grandson, and the greatest warrior our tribe has.”

“Your chief wouldn’t allow his own flesh and blood to have his head chopped off.”

“Not only allow it, but he would also proclaim it so. He would have no choice,” she said.

“You seem distressed. You okay?”

“These games always frighten me.”

“You want to leave?”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Something you aren’t telling me?”

“Walking Wolf and I are time walkers, inherited only when both parents are also walkers. The only other walker in the tribe is Talako.”

Buck stared at her anxious expression, trying to decipher what she had just told him.

“So you and Talako are . . . ?”

“Betrothed,” she said. “We must marry and have a child.”

She squeezed his hand, her eyes begging for understanding.

“I had hoped we were going to do more than just hold hands tonight.”

“I am so sorry. That is not possible,” she said.

“Do you love him?”

“As much as I love you.”

“Then I guess it’s okay,” he said.

When they returned their attention to the game, they saw that the Spiro team had drawn within a point of winning. The Cahokian roller gave the disk a great heave, the crowd waiting until the referee waved his hand. As he did, Talako and the big Cahokian launched their spears. The disk hit a bump and fell on its side as Talako’s spear sailed over it.

When the Cahokian’s spear began its descent, every spectator in the arena sensed what was about to happen. As the missile landed in the hole in the disk, the crowd grew deathly silent. The chief came down from his cane throne, motioning Talako to approach him. Maia’s face turned bright red as she squeezed Buck’s hand.

“I can’t believe this,” he said.

“If he can break Talako’s spear, then it is a sign that the Great Spirit wishes him to die. Walking Wolf will have to take his head.”

Buck stood. “I’ll stop it,” he said.

Maia pulled him back into his seat. “No. If the spear breaks, then it is ordained.”

Talako’s head hung low as he knelt in front of his grandfather and handed him his spear. Removing a serrated stone dagger from his ceremonial belt, Walking Wolfe drove it into the earth. Then he raised the spear over his head and did a slow turn so that everyone in the stands could see.

Maia let go of Buck’s hand, her tears flowing and the veins in her neck bulging. She clenched her hands, almost as if she also had hold of the spear.

Though smaller than his grandson, Walking Wolf looked anything except weak. Buck could see he was preparing to break the spear and had little doubt that he could complete the task. As the rapt crowd watched in silence, his muscles strained, his face turning red. Buck and everyone else expected the spear to snap at any second.

Despite his efforts, the spear never even bowed. Finally, the anger imprinted on his face disappeared, replaced with a smile. He turned again to the crowd.

“This spear is unbreakable. Would anyone care to try?” He walked around the arena, offering it to anybody that might accept it. No one did, not even the contingency from Cahokia. “Then the Great Spirit has spoken,” he said. “I deem this contest a draw.”

Cheers erupted from the crowd as Chief Walking Wolf returned the spear to Talako. Buck glanced at Maia, her hands still clenched and tears streaming down her face. He took her hands and uncoiled her fingers. Two deep red welts occupied her palms. He began massaging them.

“You saved him, didn’t you?” he said.

Her breathing labored, she answered. “It took every ounce of power I have. I couldn’t let him die.”

People began filing out of the arena as Maia regained her composure.

“What now?” he asked.

“A meeting with Walking Wolf. You are about to learn why we brought you here.”

MMaiarized by the game in the arena, Buck hadn’t noticed much of the scenery inside the palisade. Now that it was over, he glanced around at the mounds that seemed much larger than when he viewed them with Thorn.

“These structures are magnificent pyramids. They seemed like nothing more than mounds of dirt when I saw them yesterday,” he said.

“Withered by centuries of wear and erosion. I am thankful you get to see them in all their glory.”

“So am I.”

“Like the pyramids of the Mayans and Aztecs, ours predict astrological patterns.”

“Like tomorrow’s solstice?”

She nodded. “Now, we must meet Chief Walking Wolf in the Great Hall atop the main pyramid,” she said.

Buck was breathing hard as they climbed the pyramid. When they reached the top, he could see that the panorama was breathtaking.

“What are they building down there?” he asked.

“A giant bonfire to celebrate the solstice. Chief Walking Wolf will address the masses just before dark. The ceremonial lighting of the bonfire will then occur. You will see.”

A massive wooden house occupied the flat top of the pyramid. Maia led him down a long hallway to a darkened room, and the chief of the Mississippians soon joined them.

“Oh, my God!” Buck said when he saw him. “You’re Pascal LeFlore.”

“I am Chief Nashobanowa. That means Walking Wolf in our language. I go by many other names. Like you, Maia, and my grandson, I am a walker. I was the one that handed you the Black Cup.”

“But you died,” Buck said.

“No, because I was never alive in your time. Walkers cannot alter time. Please, have a seat.”

Chief Walking Wolf sat on a colorful blanket situated on the dirt floor. Buck and Maia joined him. The man was much older than they were, though younger than the old man he’d pulled from the burning pickup.

“There is much you don’t understand about walking through time,” Maia said. “Right now, it is not important. What is important is the reason we brought you here.”

“Which is?” he asked.

“We first must drink from the Black Cup,” Walking Wolf said.

The cup was similar to the one Pascal LeFlore had given him. This one exuded a distinct glow, its aura pulsating when Walking Wolf shifted it in his hands.

“You have done this before,” Maia said. “With the Great Spirit when he took the embodiment of a man.”

“I don’t remember,” Buck said.

“It is okay,” Chief Walking Wolf said. “The point is we know you are reverent and that you appreciate this moment.”

“The Black Cup is as old as time,” Maia said. “The relic is the most valuable, venerated, and holy object our tribe possesses. Every one of us would give their life to protect it.”

“And we do,” Walking Wolf said. “But there is a problem.”

“The Black Cup is in danger of desecration,” Maia said. “Though not in our time, and out of our control.”

They both nodded when he said, “Haskel Doonkeen?”

“The man who calls himself Blade,” the chief said.

“He has gone to great lengths to get the cup,” Maia said. “Chief Walking Wolf and I have done everything we can. We are powerless to protect it from him in your world.”

“Will you help us?” he asked.

“If it’s within my power, I’ll stop him,” Buck said.

“I believe you,” Walking Wolf said. “But we must drink from the Black Cup to assure that it is so. Are you prepared?”

Buck nodded as a young woman appeared through the door’s skin flap. Below the waist, she wore moccasins on her feet and a deerskin skirt. Above the waist, except for red paint, bright feathers, and strings of beads, she was quite naked. She was also attractive.

“This is my daughter, Teawah. She will assist us with the ceremony,” he said.

Chief Walking Wolf held the cup as she filled it. He took a deep breath before drinking. Whatever was in the cup was potent because his eyes crossed, and he looked as if he were about to pass out. Maia took the cup from his trembling hand, waiting as Teawah refilled it from her pitcher.

“The tea from the Black Cup induces visions,” she said. “It tastes like death, though is life itself. It focuses our mind’s patterns and illuminates the future.”

She took a drink from the cup, her reaction to tasting the concoction much the same as Walking Wolf’s. Buck thought she was about to throw up. She didn’t, though her entire body shook as she handed him the empty cup.

“The tea lays bare our fears and desires,” Walking Wolf said. “Two things from which we hide. Take it in one drink, or you won’t finish it.”

Teawah drew close to him, filling the cup with the viscous fluid. He could feel her warmth and smell her lotus perfume as he touched the dark concoction to his lips. The tea was so foul tasting he had the instant urge to spit it from his mouth. He didn’t, taking the chief’s advice and drinking it in one long swallow.

Buck felt his eyes cross. The room began to spin, Maia, Walking Wolf, and Teawah staring at him, laughing. His body shook, and stomach churned as Teawah pulled him toward a door that led outside. He reached it in time to vomit over the railing. With his body twitching and head pounding, he let her lead him back to his seat on the rug.

The hallucinogenic tea affected Walking Wolf and Maia less than Buck. He watched as Teawah refilled the chief’s cup. This time, she had to lead him to the back door. Maia soon followed.

Buck’s head continued to swim. He’d never felt so drunk. The room had begun to rotate. Explosions of colored lights illuminating dark worlds he’d never imagined. Maia was a snarling jaguar, the chief, a giant wolf pacing the floor.

Teawah’s smile was sultry as she approached him. Engulfing him in her willowy arms, she kissed him and pressed her soft breasts into his chest. When her intoxicating perfume changed into the fetid breath of a man, he recoiled. It was Haskel Doonkeen. Buck pushed him away.

Blade’s features began to change. He morphed into a giant, hairy creature that looked almost human. Buck was trying to scream when someone put the Black Cup to his lips again. It was the last thing he remembered for a while.

  

Chapter 14

Buck’s brain was trying to kick its way out of his skull when he opened his eyes. The visions were gone, though his stomach continued to churn. It forced him to take yet another trip to the back door.

“We gave you the antidote,” Maia said. “You’ll feel better in a few minutes. Can you tell us what you saw?”

“Haskel Doonkeen and a giant, monster-like man,” he said.

He omitted to tell them about his sensuous encounter with Teawah.

Maia took Buck’s hand. “Chief Walking Wolf and I are powerless to protect the Black Cup in your world. We need your help against Blade.”

“You have my word.”

That was all Chief Nashobanowa needed to hear. After giving Buck a solemn nod, he exited the dark room with Teawah. Before disappearing through the deerskin flap, she turned and nodded. It made him wonder if part of the vision had actually been real. Maia gave him no time to ponder.

“Are you okay now?” she asked.

“I’ll live,” he said. “I wasn’t so sure a few minutes ago.”

“Do you still have the Black Cup?”

“It’s with Thorn at the museum.”

“And that’s where it should stay,” she said.

“How many children and grandchildren do Chief Walking Wolf have?” he asked.

Maia laughed. “Many.”

“And Talako is the only time walker?”

“Chief Walking Wolf has many wives. Only one was a walker. Talako’s father died in battle; his mother while giving birth to him.”

“You said I’m a walker.”

“A gift bestowed by the Great Spirit.”

“Then why couldn’t you and I have a child?”

Maia squeezed his hand. “We come from different times. You can do nothing to affect my world or I to yours.”

She pulled him to his feet and led him to a window covered by a deerskin flap. Opening it, she pointed to the giant bonfire burning in the center of the palisade. Drums were beating, and shouts of revelry echoed across the plain.

“It’s dark already,” he said. “Have we been here that long?”

“The tea alters your perception of time. The celebration has begun and will continue until dawn. I must join Walking Wolf in the main hall for the meeting with important emissaries from other tribes.” He felt her warmth one last time when they embraced. “At the base of the pyramid Beauty awaits. She will lead you back to the pool.”

“Will I ever see you again?” he asked.

“I don’t know what fate holds for us. I do know you are in grave danger, and that I cannot help you.

“One last kiss?”

She kissed him and said, “I hope not. And Buck, wash the paint off before you return to your world.”

Beauty awaited him at the base of the stairs. “I think you and Lady are the only two females who know me,” he said.

A yelp was her acknowledgment that his words were likely true.

She led him through the meandering crowds, and out the door of the palisade. Muted moonlight cast golden ripples on the river. She didn’t stop when they passed Maia’s teepee. As he began washing off the ceremonial paint, she whined and licked his face. He gave her one last hug before wading into the dark water.

Rain began to fall, and then he heard thunder. Closing his eyes, he knew what was coming. It would change him forever, though he knew it wouldn’t heal the pain in his heart.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.