I stared at the empty space where she’d been, then glanced at the closed door across the hall and back at the empty space.
I couldn’t just knock on his door and tell him I had a message from his dead daughter. I’d learned the hard way that I needed to impart info from beyond with a little more tact. Therefore, I had to get him to tell me about Genevieve and what had happened to her before I could ever tell him “it” wasn’t his fault.
Whatever “it” was.
Curious, I dug my laptop from my overnight bag and Googled. Genevieve Doucet brought many returns, none of them a child, which made me even more reluctant to mention her to Bobby.
Still, I’d never known a ghost to lie. She had to be his daughter.
Was he unaware of her? I didn’t think the child would attach herself so strongly to someone she hadn’t spent time with during her life, but one never knew. There was information missing, and though I had no idea where to hunt for it, I kept trying.
I searched on Bobby Doucet, got a ton of hits, the Times Picayune mostly. His cases exclusively. No marriage announcement, no birth announcement either, but that didn’t mean much. Perhaps he’d gotten married elsewhere. Perhaps they were just private people. Newspapers only printed the announcements they were given, and, in some cases, were paid for.
At a loss, I moved to the window. My Puritan and his wolf stood in the yard.
I was out of my room and down the stairs before I considered that they’d only be gone by the time I got there. Nevertheless, I opened the door and went outside. The two remained, though they’d moved closer to the trees.
I glanced over my shoulder, at what I have no idea. My father was in bed, or at least in his room. Bobby too. No one here but me and my shadows.
The Puritan beckoned. I sprinted across the distance between us. I didn’t need to be asked twice.
Up close, the wolf was huge, the top of its head level with my waist. The man laid his hand on the beast’s back. The two nearly blended into the night—he all in black, the wolf too. Only their eyes shone like jewels—onyx and emerald.
I wished, not for the first time, that I could paint. Their image, here in the dark, with the trees at their backs and the moon just coming out, would be exquisite. However, my artistic skills ran toward stick folks and primary-colored collages. Not a surprise considering my occupation.
“Is there something you need?” I asked.
The wolf snorted. The man’s lips and his fingers curved—a smile for me, a calming stroke for the wolf. “I’m here to help you, child.”
“Usually ghosts come to me for help.”
“Most do, aye.”
His accent beguiled. I’d never realized what a sucker I was for accents. How could I? In New Bergin, there weren’t any.
“Where are you from?”
“Is that what you want to ask after so very long?”
He had a point, but his not going poof the instant I approached after so many years of doing just that seemed to have frazzled my brain.
“It’s as good a place to start as any.”
“I suspect it is. Well, then…” His fingers continued to stroke the wolf as he lifted his gaze to the night. “I was born in Scotland.”
“When?”
“A forgotten time.”
“I doubt that.”
He lowered his gaze to mine. “Perhaps I only wish it was forgotten, as it appears to have returned. You must beware of the hunters.”
Living in the woods, I’d been taught young to have a care during the hunting time of the year. But it was bow season not gun—the latter being far more dangerous by virtue of bullets instead of arrows, and more morons per square mile. While killing with a bow required some skill, blasting a rifle did not. Either way …
“There’s no deer hunting after dark.” Of course morons were often unclear about what constituted darkness—as well as hunters’ blaze orange. Hence the accidental shootings of the many.
“That is not the kind of hunter of which I speak.” The wolf gave a very feminine yip, and he nodded as if he understood. “You must beware the Venatores Mali.”
“My Latin is … nonexistent.”
“Hunters of evil,” he translated.
“Evil what?”
“Witches.”
I laughed. “Right.”
“You are talking to a ghost yet you laugh at the concept of witches?”
I stopped laughing. “Isn’t the time for the persecution of religions past?” Except for Muslims, Jews … maybe he had a point.
“Though the burning of witches was couched in religion, it had nothing to do with God.”
Had to agree there.
“I wasn’t referring to the burners’ religion, but the burnees’.”
“I do not understand.”
“Wicca is a religion.”
“What is Wicca?”
“The religion of witchcraft.”
The wolf snorted again.
His gaze sharpened. “Are you of this religion?”
“Me? No.” I stifled a nervous giggle at the idea of telling my father I was Wiccan. His head might explode.
The discussion of fire reminded me of something. “The black-eyed ghost from the alley said, ‘He will burn us all.’”
The wolf snarled.
“Hush, Pru.”
“Your wolf is named Pru?”