The Brothers Bernaux [01] Raisonne Curse Page 6

  There was always a fine line between what their own curse would allow and what it would punish them for. Figuring out that line was the biggest challenge.

  Pryor sat on the bench by the back door, his head spinning as he leaned over to unlace his mud-caked boots. He rested there a few minutes before getting up to open the cabinet closest to the back door. They kept several waterproofed flashlights and cell phone chargers inside. He grabbed his cell, slumped back onto the bench and called Mercer.

  “Yeah?” Background noise nearly drowned out his oldest brother but the irritation lining that one, clipped syllable came through loud and clear.

  “I thought you’d be here by now.” Pryor hoped his own exhaustion wasn’t noticeable in his tone. “Sounds like you’re still in the airport.”

  “I’m in another one. Our plane had to set down. Wyatt’s did too.”

  Alarm skittered down Pryor’s back. He knew he didn’t have to say how unusual that was out loud.

  “Something’s going on, Pryor. I can’t think of anything strong enough to keep Wyatt and me out of the state, but every sense I have is on alert right now.” It sounded like he was walking fast because the volume of his voice changed several times, like he was moving his head.

  “It’s probably just coincidence.” Pryor didn’t believe it even as he said it.

  “No. We should have been there by now.” The noise suddenly cut off before he heard a muffled “Whataya doing? Trying to wash off a layer of skin? Hurry up and get out.”

  Pryor grinned, knowing his dictatorial brother had probably just cleared a restroom at the airport. The couple of times he’d traveled with Mercer had been eye opening. He and Wyatt always thought their brother was just bossy with them and became that way because he took over as sort of their father too young. But no. Pryor had watched his brother get pissed during a meeting and clear the room with one fuming glare and a word. Sometimes, all it took was a glare. Their mamere used to say his brown eyes turned devil black when he was mad.

  “What have you done with the Raisonne woman?” Mercer suddenly asked. “I know you didn’t listen to me.”

  The kiss popped into Pryor’s head first. That was none of Mercer’s business. Besides, he merely wanted to know what kind of spells Pryor had done. “Only a head wash. It didn’t work.”

  “Not at all?”

  Pryor shook his head even though his brother couldn’t see him, his gaze darting around the sunny kitchen. Wyatt had installed two-inch wooden blinds in the window over the sink and the light came as stripes that painted the cabinets and dark countertop.

  “Pryor?”

  “I think maybe it eased her hex a bit, but not by much.”

  “You didn’t let her leave, did ya?”

  “No, I didn’t. I’m surprised you even suggested she stay here overnight.”

  “I thought we’d be there by now to help, so I wasn’t expecting it to be an overnight stay.” He went quiet, then sighed. “Do you think she saw you?”

  Pryor rubbed his temples again. “I honestly don’t know. I do know she heard me and went looking. In the dark.”

  Mercer growled, his annoyance so strong, Pryor could feel it vibrating through the phone. “Not too bright, is she?” Mercer asked.

  That put his back up. Faster than it should have. “Oh, she’s plenty bright, Mercer. She just has a great big heart and didn’t huddle scared in the guesthouse after hearing someone crying out in pain. She’s fucking brave, is what she is. She stumbled around an unfamiliar swamp, got hit in the head during a storm, and ended up spending the night in a tree. She could have been hurt badly.”

  Mercer was quiet again. Even longer this time. “You like her.”

  “Yeah, Merce, I do.”

  “That’s not good.” His voice quieted, lowered. “Not good at all.”

  “Trust me, I know. I’m trying not to but she’s—” He leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. “She’s hard to resist.”

  “Remember what Dad told us? That the magic we perform can cause a sensual pull—that some of them will react with desire they might not really feel? Remember how Mom left after it wore off for her?”

  Their father had been sure his use of magic had hooked her in the beginning. Her kids kept her staying around for years, but the toll this life took on her became too much. It still hurt Pryor—every single time he thought about her. Sometimes, the memories of her pretty blonde hair, her smiles and the hugs he’d thought she meant made that first grief and disbelief come back full force. To this day, they didn’t know where she’d gone. Or even if she was still alive. He thought of trying to find her sometimes—just so they knew—but she hadn’t wanted them enough to stay. Even talking about finding her usually sent Mercer into a fuming, quiet rage that lasted days and made Pryor’s heart ache. Mercer had been closer to her, with her longer, and he would never forgive her. Not that Pryor had, but both he and Wyatt sometimes talked about her. Away from Mercer, of course.

  “I know all this,” Pryor finally said on a sigh. “I was told the same as you and Wyatt. What I don’t know is why you’re telling me that again.”

  “Because I can hear it in your voice. It’s more than just interest, already. Kind of working fast, aren’t you there, brother?” Mercer’s frustration increased and it showed in the gravelly tone.

  “I’m trying not to work at all here. The last thing I want to do is take advantage of her.”

  There were noises on the other end—the sound of more than one person coming into what he was still assuming was a bathroom. “Look, Pryor, I gotta go. You do what you can to keep her there. Well, not everything you can. You know what I mean.” He lowered his voice. “No more using. I’ll call Wyatt and see if he’s having better luck getting into the air.”

  “Okay. I’ll get everything ready for us. I think we’re going to need the bastard cedar seeds for this one.” Pryor stood and walked to the spell room. “Hey, Mercer?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If we manage to get this hex off Elita, I have a feeling it could come back from one of the others.”

  “I doubt it.” Mercer paused, then cursed. “But it’s possible it’ll grow quickly stronger on the others.”

  “That’s not good. Elita really cares about her family and I don’t like thinking of them getting hurt worse. Plus, there’s something attached to this spell I’ve never seen before—some kind of spirit or entity.”

  “A poltergeist?”

  “Maybe. It did come here with her. You think that taking it off her could make it more powerful on the others?”

  “I don’t know, but whatta we gonna do, Pryor? You can’t turn her down.” There was a loud thud, like Mercer had punched a wall. “I’ll call back as soon as I can. Remember what I said.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He was frowning as he hung up. He was all too aware of why Mercer felt the need to warn him off Elita. When he’d first seen her, he’d wanted to sleep with her immediately and a part of him had been pretty sure he would. The fire wasn’t only burning on his end of the candle.

  But one afternoon and evening with her had changed his mind. She wasn’t the type a man slept with just once. Not a man with any sort of brain in his head. Or heart in his chest.

  No, she was the kind a man held on to for good while spending the rest of his life being thankful as hell.

  He stood in the middle of the spell room and ran his hands through his hair, dislodging clumps of dried mud onto the floor. After sweeping up, he looked for the seeds they’d need in a bigger, generational spell because he knew they’d have to do it. Frowning, he eyed the shelves.

  The last time they’d used the seeds, Wyatt had said he’d stored them behind the oil lamps, so Pryor took several down and set them on the table. He found the small box and breathed a sigh of relief to see they had enough. Outside of ordering on the Internet, there was only one local place he could get the right seeds, and visiting the LaBarre brothers was his least favorite thing to do. They hated them, especi
ally Wyatt—though none of them would ever say what caused the long-time rivalry. Pryor suspected it was about a girl. Usually was with his overly charming brother. That raspy, rumbling, damaged voice of his drew them to him like he reeled them in on fishing line.

  He and his brothers had tried growing the trees themselves, but should have listened to their mamere when she’d said there was something about their land that didn’t like to make things easier for them. Sounded crazy, but more than once that theory had proved true.

  Everything else they’d need for the spell involved things they always had a lot of, so he left the supplies there and pulled off his filthy clothes. He’d run out and pick up Elita’s before he started the load. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked upstairs with the intension of getting a shower first. He stretched out on the dark red comforter on his bed—which he’d have to wash now—and instead dropped off to sleep.

  When he woke, he made a quick trip around the house to see if Elita had come in. Because he’d fallen asleep and not washed her clothes, he took her another pair of shorts he hoped wouldn’t fall off her and a T-shirt. She never had a chance to change into the ones he’d given her the night before, but he thought these might fit better. He searched everywhere for an old pair of shoes from when he and his brothers had been younger, but all he found was a pair of yellow rubber galoshes that looked like they might fit. He left everything on the stairs outside her room and brought her dirty things back to add to the load of clothes. Once that was going, he headed up to the shower in the one empty bedroom upstairs. His was still torn apart from a half-finished tile job.

  He felt bad that he hadn’t brought Moochon in for a bath before falling asleep, but knowing Moochon, the dog had probably gone swimming to get the mud off.

  Pryor stood in the shower with his hands braced on the wall, eyes closed as the hottest water he could stand pounded over his head. It burned as it poured over his face and down his body, but he stayed still, letting the heat seep into skin and muscles that always grew too cold in the swamp at night.

  That first moment of wakefulness was always followed by a sigh of relief, the realization that he had indeed awakened again when the night before he’d been sure he wouldn’t face the morning. He’d cheated death one too many times and occasionally, death’s grip held on to him for hours after he dragged himself from the water, the cold moving into his bones with a stubbornness that felt permanent.

  He placed his hand over his heart, reassured that it still beat.

  The image of Elita, covered in dried mud and tucked into the arms of the giant cypress, filled his mind. He rubbed his palm over the weirdling tattoo, half expecting it to move because the woman touched something so deep inside him, she made every part of him feel truly alive for the first time in his life.

  But she terrified him.

  That woman could so easily steal his heart.

  And he’d told Mercer the truth. The head wash hadn’t been enough. Her smudge man had been there, in the woods, its oily, noxious form crouched over her on that limb. His heart stopped beating when he remembered what it had looked like.

  The thing was cognizant. Getting more powerful.

  Because it had turned its head to watch him as he approached.

  After a childhood spent sleeping at Ma’man Raisonne’s, the heat didn’t keep Elita awake. Though her time up north had made her transition back kind of rough the first couple of days, she found that she slipped right back into old habits. She felt safer out here in this guest room. Couldn’t hear the voices that whispered to her every single time she stepped foot in Pryor’s home.

  The small shower in the guest room really was terrible. The water shut off a couple of times, came out in a ridiculous stream at one point, then blasted her into the tile. She ended up turning it off to soap everything, even using regular soap in her hair—which she’d regret once it dried—then jumping around in trickling water to rinse.

  So yeah, she’d sleep out here, but maybe shower in there next time.

  Of course, she planned to go home as soon as his brothers arrived and they could do their spell together. She couldn’t help but wonder what that would be. The thought of lying in that chair helpless while three different gorgeous men washed her hair made her feel weird and squirmy.

  Grinning, she shook her head as she tried to open the window higher than she’d left it the night before, but it wouldn’t budge. She moved the curtains aside so possible stray breezes could find their way into the room better. She only put on the T-shirt Pryor left her the night before and her underwear, grimacing at the damp material she’d washed before her shower.

  Elita did pull down the covers to sleep on the dust-free sheet, but didn’t cover herself. She trusted Pryor not to come in here while she was sleeping. She wasn’t sure why, but she did. Maybe there was something faintly creepy about him, but she had a feeling that was due to his magic. The man himself seemed to be made of integrity. On top of a lot of other really good, manly things. Chuckling over her sleepy-stupid thoughts, she snuggled down into the soft mattress.

  Elita had expected to have trouble sleeping in the strange room, but she dropped off fast.

  When she woke, she was shocked to find it already dark. Embarrassment sent her limbs into motion—or it should have. Every muscle was frozen. Elita tried to move, terror quickly chasing away any other emotion as she strained to get control over her body.

  That was when she realized she wasn’t alone.

  Shadowy figures stood around the bed. None had faces, but she could feel their stares like they physically held her down with their eyes alone. Something was vaguely familiar about them—the shape of broad, male shoulders, the cut of hair. And they stood in threes.

  They reminded her of the generations of Bernaux brothers in the photographs. She opened her mouth to ask what they wanted but like her body, her voice was frozen in her chest. Completely helpless, she could only watch as they stood silently, could only wait to see what they wanted.

  It seemed to go on forever. Inside, she became a vibrating mass of fear and frustration. The frustration came from her growing desperate need to know what they wanted from her. For they wanted something—that was obvious. She couldn’t see faces, but their pain—their terrible, terrible pain—scented rotten in the air, like a water-logged corpse pulled from the swamp and left in the sun.

  Something moved in the corner, and her gaze shot to land on the smudge man as he slithered in the air toward her. He circled the stalwart, staring ghosts, and as he came closer, her fear increased until she began to shake from it. She could sense his intent to hurt her while she lay helpless, could literally taste the oily hatred he leaked into the room.

  He moved to dart between two of the standing spirits and they stepped together, blocking him. The shadowy figure slithered around to slip between others and each time, they stepped together to block him. Years of Bernaux as sentinels. She knew that was who they were.

  Why did they protect her?

  She didn’t have a chance to find out because she woke up for real to find it was still light outside. Elita sat up, holding her breath as she looked around the room which was now bright and obviously empty. Her heart beat hard in her chest and she put a fist there as she searched every corner in the room.

  She couldn’t see the smudge man now…but she still felt his presence.

  Chapter Five

  She found the shorts and a shirt on the top of the steps outside the door. Pryor had even taken her dirty shoes and left a pair of kid’s rain boots. She stared at the yellow boots, amusement managing to briefly break through, but she was still too shaken up for it to stick. Hands trembling, she hurriedly pulled on the black shorts and T-shirt, her gaze darting around the room, searching for shadowy figures, including the one that had turned her life into a living nightmare the last few weeks.

  The boots were a little small, but anything was better than walking barefoot out there. Her purse was still where she’d left it on the b
ed last night. She carried it into the bathroom and shut the door behind her—as if that could keep any lingering ghosts out. They could be in here with her now. She didn’t always see them. One look at her overly pale face and big eyes made her glad she kept a few makeup basics in her bag because she…well, she looked like she’d seen a ghost.

  She found blush, half-melted lipstick and mascara. It went a long way to making her look less scared.

  Too bad she couldn’t do something for her emotional state.

  She dropped her lipstick, bent to pick it up and realized that the pain in her back wasn’t bad. Turning, she lifted her shirt and stood on her toes to see in the tiny mirror over the freestanding sink. She’d lost the bandage sometime during last night’s fiasco, but the new wound opening looked days old instead of less than twenty-four hours. She touched it and it was still faintly sore, but not what she’d expect. She turned her arm to see that the new wound from yesterday’s tangle with the bathroom cabinet was nearly healed as well.

  Something Pryor had done had started her on a faster healing process.

  Shock ran through her like an electrical current. Had those blisters on his hand been worse because he’d not only been trying to remove a hex, but heal her as well?

  Elita turned back to the mirror. Sweat already glistened in the hollow of her throat, so she brushed her hair and pulled the thick mass up into a ponytail.

  She stared at her reflection and it hit her that she didn’t know what she was going to do if this didn’t work. Pryor’s first try with the head wash hadn’t—that much was obvious—but after seeing his hands, she didn’t know if she could take advantage of him again.

  The still, shadowy figures from her dream came back to her. Pryor was young—around thirty, like her—so it was unusual that his father and uncles were all dead. She’d tried to remember the pictures and couldn’t remember one with a set of older brothers.