One Thousand and One Dark Nights
Once upon a time, in the future…
I was a student fascinated with stories and learning.
I studied philosophy, poetry, history, the occult, and
the art and science of love and magic. I had a vast
library at my father’s home and collected thousands
of volumes of fantastic tales.
I learned all about ancient races and bygone
times. About myths and legends and dreams of all
people through the millennium. And the more I read
the stronger my imagination grew until I discovered
that I was able to travel into the stories... to actually
become part of them.
I wish I could say that I listened to my teacher
and respected my gift, as I ought to have. If I had, I
would not be telling you this tale now.
But I was foolhardy and confused, showing off
with bravery.
One afternoon, curious about the myth of the
Arabian Nights, I traveled back to ancient Persia to
see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar
(Persian: شهريار, “king”) married a new virgin, and then
sent yesterday's wife to be beheaded. It was written
and I had read that by the time he met Scheherazade,
the vizier's daughter, he’d killed one thousand
women.
Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived
in the midst of the story and somehow exchanged
places with Scheherazade – a phenomena that had
never occurred before and that still to this day, I
cannot explain.
Now I am trapped in that ancient past. I have
taken on Scheherazade’s life and the only way I can
protect myself and stay alive is to do what she did to
protect herself and stay alive.
Every night the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales.
And when the evening ends and dawn breaks, I stop at a
point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more.
And so the King spares my life for one more day, so that
he might hear the rest of my dark tale.
As soon as I finish a story... I begin a new
one... like the one that you, dear reader, have before
you now.
Prologue
July
She was beautiful in death, as she had always been in life.
Lena Marceau lay with her blond hair fanned out like silk on the pillow. She wore a white nightgown.
Her hands were folded just below her breasts. She could have been an angel sleeping, filled with light and peace.
Ryder McKinley looked down at her, feeling numb.
“The medical examiner is ready to take the body,” Braxton Wild told him.
Braxton was a detective with the New Orleans Police Department and had called Ryder. He was also one of the few people who knew there was an association between Ryder and Lena Marceau.
He had reached out to Ryder after Stephanie Harrow called him. She had been the one to find her sister. Had told Braxton that she’d gone to the house and assumed that since the baby was napping, her sister was, too. But after about thirty minutes, she realized that Lena wasn’t just sleeping.
She was dead.
Stephanie was, of course, a mess. She was ready to take care of Lena’s two-year-old daughter, Annette, but she had been crying so hard, she’d had to call in a friend—Vickie Carmichael—to take the child.
Before Ryder even reached the Marceau mansion, Stephanie had been sedated, and she and the baby had been whisked off to Vickie’s house in the French Quarter.
There was no sign of any kind of trauma on the body; no sign of a break-in. Ryder knew Dr. Hugh Lamont, the medical examiner, and Braxton believed that Lena had committed suicide. Bottles of prescription medicine lay at her side. One was a strong sleeping pill she had started taking when her husband died a year ago.
Through her husband, Lena was the heir to a great estate. Not that there weren’t other members of the Marceau family, but old Elijah Marceau had died just before his great-grandson, and he had loved Anthony and Lena.
They had loved him, too. Not only his money.
Lena had never been one to care about material things.
Ryder and Lena hadn’t been able to catch up in a few years. When he’d been in NOLA recently, she had been in Europe. But they had communicated now and then on the phone, though mostly through email or social media.
“Ryder?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, moving aside.
The memory of her, so angelic, would live in his mind forever.
He kept his face impassive as he asked, “The autopsy will be in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t mind if I attend?” Ryder asked Braxton.
“No, of course not,” Braxton said and then hesitated. “We’ve worked with your Krewe people from the get-go down here, so my lieutenant had no problem with me inviting you along on a…routine investigation.”
“Thanks.”
“Ryder, it looks like suicide,” Braxton said sadly. “Maybe she just couldn’t endure the loss of her husband.”
Ryder gave him a rueful smile. “No. Lena loved Anthony very much, and she mourned him deeply. But she was a mother, Braxton.”
“Mothers aren’t immune to the depression that kills,” Braxton said gently.
“I don’t believe it,” Ryder asserted.
“Ryder, if all the M.E. finds is a mixture of her prescription drugs in her system, we’re going to have no choice but to call it a suicide.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Oh. Okay,” Braxton said.
Ryder gave him his best smile. “I’ll be there tomorrow. I know what we’re all expecting, but I’ll be there.”
“When do you go back to headquarters?”
“I have some time. We just chased down that drug runner who was targeting teens in the Southern cities. I have a bit of leave. I’ll be around.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Ryder smiled.
“I won’t step on local police. I’ll be an angel,” he said.
Then Ryder thought of her again. His beautiful, young cousin, lying there as if her dreams were sweet and wonderful.
Yes, an angel.
She had mourned her husband. Lena had loved Anthony. And he had loved her because what they shared hadn’t been about the Marceau name or the money.
She had his daughter...
There was a commotion at the front door below. Ryder glanced at Braxton, turned, and hurried downstairs.
The police at the entry were speaking with two people. One a young man, perhaps thirty, dignified-looking in a business suit. He had dark hair that had been pushed back in his nervousness, soft brown eyes, and a medium build.
The woman was older, thin, and straight-backed, with gray hair queued at her nape. Ryder knew them. He’d met them at Lena’s wedding. Justin Marceau, Anthony Marceau’s second cousin, and Gail Reeves, the head housekeeper.
“Ryder!” Justin said. “Oh, my God, I saw the ambulance—”
“Where’s the baby? What’s happened?” Gail demanded. “I’m trying to tell these buffoons I work here. I manage the house. Lena! Where is Lena? Where is the baby?”