The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(104)
Author: Karen White
Loud chatter erupted as several people quickly moved toward the nearest exit. Christopher and Mimi led the way, while Jaxson and Cooper and several other guests helped guide the group out of the dining room, and a saint I couldn’t name but who carried a shepherd’s crook led the last stragglers out through the kitchen.
Only Robert remained, his gaze focused on the ceiling and the wildly swaying chandelier, as flecks of painted plaster dusted both him and the table, sprinkles of white seasoning the leftover food.
Beau struggled to a stand; his legs bent like a surfer’s to keep his balance as the wind buffeted us. “Go, Nola. Please. I need to draw him up here, and I can’t be responsible for what happens next. Or who might come through with him.”
I shook my head, my eyes tearing from the force of the wind.
“Then hold on tight,” he shouted. He grabbed the now-empty clientele book and held it in the air. “Antoine Broussard, you son of a bitch, it’s time to meet your maker and face the justice you deserve.”
The house shuddered, causing Beau’s feet to shift. I stifled a scream as he struggled to regain his balance. “Come on and face me, you coward. You hid behind threats and money to ensure you and your family maintained a good and respectable reputation. But it’s all over now, you bastard! Everyone knows what you’ve done. There’s nowhere to hide. And you know what? You’re not wanted here. It’s time to leave.”
The wind ripped the clientele book from his hand, then hurled it across the attic at the window, shattering the glass. I pressed my forehead against the floor, covering my face as shards flew into the spiraling squall, cutting any exposed skin. Peering up at Beau, I saw he had on his forehead a red gash that was dripping sideways because of the strength of the wind.
I remembered one of the things Melanie had told me about dealing with spirits was that you shouldn’t goad them, because it made them angry and unpredictable. Unless, I thought as I peered down into the dining room and saw the chandelier now swaying gently, it was important to draw a spirit close so they could be dealt with and eradicated. Just like the Ghostbusters but without a proton pack.
The wind picked up strength, rushing at us from the rafters. I stayed flat, barely able to lift my head to see Beau dropping into a squat, his hands gripping the floor. “You were the one who ruined your family, Antoine. Not Robert. Not me. It was you, you sick bastard.”
I opened my mouth to tell him to stop, but the words clogged my throat as Beau’s head jerked backward before his body was flung down the length of the walkway. He lay unmoving, with his head facing me, his eyes closed, and blood trickling from his nose. I screamed his name and began crawling toward him, digging in the toes of my sneakers to move me forward.
Something that felt like a foot stepped hard on my back, pressing me against the ground, forcing the air from my lungs and making it impossible for me to move. I watched as Beau’s foot slipped toward the edge of the walkway, pushed by unseen hands.
I tried to scream his name again, but I couldn’t breathe, the pressure on my back crushing my lungs. Tiny spots of light danced around my peripheral vision. I watched in paralyzed horror as Beau’s other foot slid to the edge. “Adele,” I managed to choke out. “Please. Beau . . . needs . . . you.” The dancing lights behind my eyelids grew bigger, obscuring my vision until I could no longer force my eyes to stay open.
I awoke to the smell of pipe smoke drifting past my face, and I sat up with a start, noticing that the pressure on my back had gone. The temperature in the attic was just as low, but the wind had diminished to a strong breeze. I saw the wet footprints first, my gaze following them to the spot where Beau had been before I’d passed out.
Beyond that point, water spots tinged with pink marked Beau’s path to the far wall, where he now stood with both hands gripping the hand railings. Blood dripped down his face, and a flash of white appeared as I approached. “Thank God you’re alive. Because if you weren’t I’d kill you with my bare hands for scaring me like that.”
My own smile wobbled. “Sorry.”
The house groaned, the wind picking up again but at a greatly diminished force, like an injured dragon saving its energy for one last attack.
Beau wiped blood from his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Just leave, Nola. Please leave. He’s still here.”
“So is your grandfather. And your mother.”
“I know. They’re the reason we’re not dead.” He looked up toward the roof. “Jeanne is here, too. To forgive him. He just needs to ask.”
I looked toward the door leading to safety, then back at Beau. The tobacco smoke was stronger now, and I could hear the slow tread of wet feet against wood coming up from behind us. “Good—so there’s five against one. I like those kinds of odds.” I swallowed. “I’m not leaving until this is done.”
He gritted his teeth. “You’re a slow learner, aren’t you?” Then, throwing back his head, he shouted up to the rafters. “Killing another person isn’t going to make things easier for you, Antoine. You will need to admit your sins if you ever want to find peace. You are no longer needed here in the place you loved in life but made miserable for so many others, including your own family. Including your daughter, Jeanne.”
The breeze billowed drunkenly, blowing away the pipe smoke and replacing it with the putrid stench of rot and dead things. I fought the urge to vomit, knowing that his energy would feed on any show of fear or weakness.
Beau’s head dropped as his chest rose and fell and his hands, which gripped the railing, turned white as he fought for consciousness. He lifted his head and rested it against the wall behind him. “Of all your sins, killing your own daughter is the most unforgivable. We all know what you did—what your brother did. You chose to protect a rapist over the life of your own daughter.”
Beau’s legs flipped out from under him, landing him on his back. I heard the crack of his head as it hit the wood. I pushed past my paralyzing fear and crawled toward him, touching his foot. “Beau?”
He held up his hand, either to show me that he was okay or to command me to leave—or both—then slowly pulled himself up, bracing himself against the rail.
His chest rose and fell as he struggled to catch his breath. He was losing this battle, and Antoine knew it. The wind and the reek of decay intensified, and I could only hope that this show of force was hiding a dying energy, and that Beau had a reserve hidden somewhere in his stubborn body.
“Jeanne forgives you, Antoine. She forgives you. You don’t have to release your guilt and self-loathing on the world anymore. The world has left you behind, and your daughter is showing you the path toward a better place. She’s offering you peace.”