Season: A Novel (Marie Laveau Mysteries (Paperback)) - Softcover

She was cloaked in mist -- soft as silk, cold as ice, darker than the bayou on a moonless night. "Marie." She was blind in a world without parameters, borders. Only sound. Raw feelings.

"Marie."

She couldn't breathe.

"Marie" -- a dry, reedy call; then, mournful, like a keening from a wounded animal or a lost child. "Marie."

The mist grew heavy, the weight of the world was pulling her down, sucking out air, life -- pulling her down into a swamp of memories:

She, just ten, watching a man writhing on the floor, a snake circling his neck; she, a woman grown, strapped to a tree, scars crisscrossing her back; she, an old woman singing, "Oh, Mary, don't you weep, don't you moan"; she, trembling, diving into thick, heady water, catfish brushing her thighs; then, a mother, screaming, giving birth, as she, the babe, slipped out, swimming downstream in a rush of water, a bloodied, blue-red membrane covering her face.

Except she was none of these. She was in her apartment, in her own bed. With a man she'd picked up at Cajun House. And she wasn't cold; she sweated from the heat of his body, from his hands stroking her breasts, his pelvis rubbing against hers.

Was she dreaming? Hallucinating?

"A haunting," her friend, Ellie, would say. "Spirits out of place. Talking." Marie didn't believe in ghosts. She was a doctor, objective. Good in a crisis.

"Marie." A soft chant.

"Marie." The mist cleared. Drums resounded and she swayed in a dress shimmering with rainbows. "Marie." Arms outstretched, flames spiraled from her fingertips. She felt herself rise. Snakes slithered across the floor. A sweet voice counterpointed the drums: "Home. Let's go home." A burst of light, a swirling of fireflies.

"Marie." Hands tugged at her skirt, pulling her down. "Heal me"; "No, heal me." Faces: black, brown, white -- some staring reverently, some desperately, some enviously. Features fading: no eyes, only mouths. Wailing, screaming: "No, me. Heal me"; "Maman Marie, please. Heal me."

Fingers plucked at her skin, ripping her skirt, tugging, threatening to trample her down to the ground.

She screamed.

"Sssh," a voice murmured, a tongue licking her ear.

"Sssh," she echoed, chest heaving.

Mist pressed against her eyes, breasts, abdomen. Her back arched. Mouth open, a mist flew inside her -- surrounding, squeezing her heart.

Something -- someone -- rocked inside her, consuming her from the inside out. Eating her whole. "Get out. Damn you, get out." Arms flailing, she bucked against the weight inside her. "Get out." Shadows flew out of her mouth.

Marie screamed.

"Heh, you're not going crazy on me, are you? Not getting wild, are you?"

He had a lovely smile. Skin, smooth as espresso; eyes, obsidian black.

"You wish," she exhaled, trembling. "Get me a drink. Please."

He reached for her warm, waterlogged scotch.

"No, cold. There's beer in the fridge." She didn't watch him go. Didn't watch his panther strut. She'd hoped he'd be a good-enough lover so she wouldn't dream, hallucinate, or whatever the hell her mind was doing.

She reached for her robe, catalogued her vitals -- pulse elevated, breath ragged; her hands, the top of her lip, moist with sweat. Always the same. Same dream. Same moment of awakening.

Marie shuddered. The dream always seemed real.

Crotch moist, she'd wanted to swallow him whole. Wanted to be loved so well, she didn't have any weird dreams. She'd thought about saying "no" to a condom, hoping flesh upon flesh would banish dreams. Hauntings.

But she knew better. Knew how sperm impregnated egg, seen cells dividing in a petri dish. Seen, too, a virus leeching on cells, devouring them, destroying in its wake. Seen plenty of young men, as beautiful as him, turn skeletal. Eyes sunken into bone. Seen young women, jaws slack, transfixed by nothingness.

"Brought you a Coors. Bien?"

"Sure."

"Brought you a wet towel, too. Heated it up in the microwave."

"This a sushi bar?"

"Non. Just a little courtesy. Thought you'd like to clean yourself off."

Lord, he was good-looking. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"Just a boy. You've got to go."

In the dim, smoke-filled bar, she'd missed his youth. She'd been focused on the sway of his hips, the tilt of his head. Been focused on her need to be held.

"All evening, I was man enough. Plenty, I'd say."

Untying her robe, he kissed her neck. With her best tea towel, he gently wiped her breasts, abdomen, between her thighs. "Tres belle," he murmured. "Tres belle."

She stood awkwardly, her arms dangling. He sat on the bed, his towel raised like an offering.

"You should go," she said. "I've got to get to work."

"See you?"

"Maybe." She stared at the tangled sheets. Egyptian cotton scented with semen and the boy's smell. Musty with a hint of jasmine. Not a harsh thing about him. Just good-looking and sweet.

His pants on, she blushed, remembering how she'd kissed his lean torso, let her hands roam inside cool linen, untied his drawstring belt.

"Got any money? Un peu? A little?"

"Out." She held up his shoes, socks.

He winked, tucked his footwear beneath his arm and swept up his shirt from the floor. "Au'voir."

She listened for the click of the door's latch.

On the nightstand was a pack of Gauloises. She didn't smoke, but the blue package seemed as exotic as a black man speaking French.

She stepped onto her narrow balcony -- wrought iron twisted into vines, leaves, a riotous garden with snakes that, depending upon the light, seemed to slither and weave from one end to the other.

Not quite dawn. Stars twinkled bravely. The skyline fanned out like a lady ready for slumber on a chaise longue. Fog rolled in from the Gulf. Later, the city would be hot, steaming. Bodies would begin swaying, stripping away clothes, ordering bourbon, another hearing of "When the Saints Go Marching In," 'til it was dusk, mosquitoes rising, and time for another nightly round of dancing, loving, dying in the city. It both fascinated and repelled her.

She felt she was back in time. No modern buildings, no high-rises. Only church spirals. Roofs with lattice trims. Gargoyles facing south. She liked the intricate warren of European-like streets. She'd been drawn to the top-floor apartment, just off the historic Quarter. Her rent was outrageous, but she liked the view, the scent of fish, beignets from the Café du Monde, the odor of alcohol, and too many bodies pressed into a too-tight space. She lit a cigarette, inhaled, and felt like the mist was inside her again. She pressed the cigarette against the rail. Sparks flew.

"Cherie?"

The boy was on the street, still barefoot, bare-chested. His shirt and shoes were tied together like a hobo sack, swinging from his hand. His feet moved -- two steps forward, hips dipping, sliding side to side, and she knew he was hearing the zydeco beat. The driving staccato, the unrestrained energy. He was hearing an intense two-step as old as the cobblestone. A rhythm built on the backs of slaves.

When she'd met him, he'd said, "Dance," his hand outstretched. No, "Let's?" just a command: "Dance." She'd clutched his hand and swayed to the zydeco for hours, drank juleps, and, for a while, forgot she was a northerner down South. Forgot she was lonely. Out of her league. A battered young catfish, belly-up, flailing for air.

"It was good, wasn't it?" he called up.

"Bien. Tres bien," she said, and he smiled at her like a child given candy. She should've shouted: "No, a bad dream." But she didn't want to be heartless. Too many men had accused her of that.

"Comment t'appelles-tu?"

She shook her head. "What's yours?"

"Jacques," he called up. Then, he spun around, dancing, fingers snapping, butt shaking down Rue de Christi. Without looking back, he waved. Gave an extra jerk to his behind.

Marie laughed.

Somewhere a voice caroled: "Catfish. Buy. Price fine. Come and buy."

A child, no more than ten, wandered home from tap-dancing for tourists. Pop bottle caps were a poor boy's cleats. His shoes scraped and clicked. He yawned, rubbed his eyes.

Three transvestites, legs wobbly on stiltlike heels, arms linked, wigs slightly askew, giggled. A tired sailor stepped out of a bar, his blond curls matted beneath his sailor cap. A man gripped his buttocks and they stumbled into an embrace. Then, hand outstretched, the thick-necked man guided the sailor around a corner, into an alley. Up against the wall.

"Dance," Marie whispered, rueful. "Dance."

Somewhere a sax began a lament. Church bells rang, a wild cacophony from parish churches: 6:00 A.M. Sunday. Time for all good Catholics to repent.

Marie reached for another cigarette. What the hell. She was in a foreign land. New Orleans. Just words on a map. "Gateway to the Mississippi!" -- she'd been drawn like a moth to a flame. She should've gone to San Francisco. Kansas. Texas, even. Six months here and she couldn't have a climax without some will-o'wisp, some haint interfering, spoiling her body's pleasure.

Inexplicably, she started to cry. She hadn't cried since she was ten and discovered her mother dead in their attic apartment.

Furious, Marie wiped away tears.

Jacques zigzagged down the street's heart. His shirt, now loose, flapped like a sail.

She almost called out to him. What would she say? "Stop." "Don't leave." "I'm a stranger here."

Why hadn't she told him her name? Marie Levant. Yet, for most of her life, she'd been called Mary. Only one day in New Orleans, and the r became guttural. Plain Mary became Marie, spoken with the flair and accent reminiscent of her mother. "Ma-r-ie." Her mother had called her that: "Ma-r-ie. My little girl."

"Aw, Ma. Dearest Ma." She exhaled bitter smoke.

The sun crowned like a baby, spreading blood across the horizon. Blackbirds dove, screeching like their feathers were on fire.

Where was she?

"Don't you know, child? City of Sin."

She spun around. Her apartment was empty.

Yet as surely as she was alive now, breath harsh, blood rushing beneath skin, wish...