SPECIAL PREVIEW

She pinned up her long black curls. Pulled on a tan nylon cap liner. Positioned the straw-colored wig on her head. Posed in front of the mirror.

She raised the volume on the CD player. Refilled a glass of tequila. Drank without fear of ridicule. Loosened the bath towel, let it drop to the floor. Swaying her hips to the seductive song, After Dark, she traced the contours of her curves with her free hand.

South of New Orleans, the evening tide mirrored the silver moon and led her safe and sound to Chalmette. The air was curiously warm for that time of the year. She followed the rhythmic beat of the drums. The swampland teemed with other sounds, as well. Birds fluttering. Insects chittering. Reptiles slithering. Once in a while, she’d hear the splash of water. She shoved aside Spanish moss hanging low on bald cypress trees. The music enveloped her, pulled her in. Thorns snagged the hem of her long, ruffled skirt. She moved forward, uncaring. She was on a mission and would not be deterred.

Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. She ran her hand up her belly and over her breasts. Revisited the night spent in the arms of Doktè Jon: Her lover, offering freedom of expression. Her beacon, orienting her way in the darkness. Her buoy, bobbing in the Gulf of—

The spell was broken. She set the empty glass on the dresser. Turned off the soundtrack.

BJ wished she could forget his name along with everything else about him. At least now, whenever she tried to recall what Frank looked like, the only image that came to her mind was him staring up at her as his face sank beneath the surface of the Gulf.

She knew what she had to do in order to get him and blondie out of her life. She knew that, come what may, it was well worth the effort.

No longer under his thumb she was growing stronger every day. Her fear of snakes, for instance, ended the day she became one. It was during one of her trips to the swamp when she first practiced shapeshifting. Bérénice Jacquette was pleasantly surprised by her capability. Doktè Jon was also surprised when she allowed him to take the squirming boa constrictor off his neck and place it around hers. It was the night she came to him for the special powder she used on Frank.

She put on the clothes she’d laid out before taking a shower. Shut down her story-in-progress. Copied the file to her flash drive. Stuffed the laptop in its case while thinking about how there’s no marketing or advertising being done for her even though her debut novel, the first book in a planned trilogy, was on the bestseller list. Through her distracted publisher the best she could hope for was a radio interview with a local station.

There was nothing he could do for her now that she couldn’t do on her own. She proved it by setting up signings and readings at bookstores and libraries in six cities, with a clear plan to visit six more in the second half of the year. Twelve particular cities, each chosen after she’d spent a considerable amount of time researching real-life murder mysteries in their area.

Starting with Savannah, Georgia her monthly trips would take her around the country where she’d also gather more true-crime details to form the basis of forthcoming books. The yearlong tour was set to end in December at Wentzel Cabin in Chalmette just in time to celebrate her twenty-eighth birthday under the bright glow of a full Long Night Moon.

No matter what else was going on in her life BJ Donovan never lost sight of her goal.

She placed the wig alongside another wig in a clear plastic bag. Lay them on top of the clothes in her suitcase. Hauled three pieces of luggage and her laptop out to her car in the private parking lot of her apartment building on St. Philip Street in the French Quarter.

Anxious to be on the road, she hurried back inside to make sure everything except the refrigerator was unplugged, and all the windows were locked. She opened the shutters in her bedroom a couple of inches to look at the courtyard below surrounded by a wrought iron cornstalk fence. The place was usually deserted that time of day because many of the tenants were at work. She’d be gone for a while, but she wasn’t overly concerned about someone breaking in. The few possessions that mattered the most were never far from her.

She was also fairly certain the meddlesome homicide detective named Northcutt wasn’t going to bother her anymore. She hadn’t seen him since the last night they were together. The night in the barn when her brother and the cop’s partner both died.

His phone calls to her went unanswered and unreturned. When he stopped by her apartment she refused to open the door much less let him know if she was even there. She doubted Northcutt knew she’d bought a new car. Or that it was in plain sight. Like her papa’s car, rusting away in an overgrown briar patch near a field of rotted eggplants at Wentzel Farm.

After leaving a typewritten set of instructions for Gene, her new head chef at Wild Capers, she traveled through the night.

I can’t believe my kitchen staff never asked me how did my on-air interview with a television host in Saint Louis, Missouri go.

Crossing the state line into Georgia, BJ stopped to refuel at a service station featuring framed black velvet Elvis paintings slanted against two unequal stacks of used tires. Inside the peculiar little building painted hot pink, four open boxes of individually wrapped pralines and several cans of cashews took up half of the counter space.

“Dueling Banjos,” said the cashier with steel-gray hair and cat-eye glasses, referring to the music coming out of the old and frayed speakers mounted near the ceiling. “Ooo, Burt. That sexy hunk of manhood can eat crackers in my bed, any damn time. Him or Elvis. I ain’t picky.”

No idea what the woman babbled on about, she paid for her gas with cash, more than ready to get the hell out of there. Glancing back, she caught the woman licking a praline.

BJ arrived in the city of Savannah on a cool and breezy Thursday afternoon. Checked in at the Zoysia Hotel wearing a short blond wig and tinted reading glasses, and using blondie’s name and identification. Their features were similar, but a keen eye would’ve caught dissimilarities on the drivers license.

Before entering her room she put on the thin white gloves Uncle Jessup and the missus made her wear during their fake Christian services in the tool shed every Sunday morning. The same gloves she’d worn the day she was finally able to exact her revenge on Frank and blondie.

BJ unpacked the smallest suitcase. Neatly arranged her toiletries in the bathroom. Placed the luggage next to each other near the door. Thought of something she meant to do earlier. She unlocked the medium-size suitcase. Dug out her mama’s grimoire, the special textbook of dark majick she’d found hidden in the hayloft along with a mysterious box when she was a child. Flipped the pages back and forth until she found what she was looking for. Committed the spell to memory. Buried the book beneath the wigs.

Dined on a romaine salad with creamy vinaigrette and pimiento, and pasta carbonara. At the end of her meal the waitress arrived on cue with another glass of Sangria and the check.

BJ spent the better part of the night on foot discovering Savannah’s dark side by taking the Ghost Tour. Entertained the idea of featuring Wrights Square, one of the most haunted places in the city in the first episode of Suite Sue 2.

Once again, standing close to the door to hide her actions from the security cameras, she got the gloves out of the front pocket of her jeans and put them on. About to go inside, she cast a glance both ways in the corridor making sure she hadn’t been followed.

She entered her room, snapped the lock and secured the door with the chain. Kicked off her shoes. Collected the glass and a bottle of tequila she’d unpacked earlier. Her feet sinking into the plush multicolored carpeting, she walked fast to the other side of the king-size bed.

BJ sat down at a polished dark wood table centered between two midnight blue armchairs in front of a large plate glass window. Turned her chair closer to the table. Began typing in the password for the laptop. “Oops.” She reluctantly removed the gloves. Wearing them added a little mystique to her mission. They added nothing, however, to her typing skills.

She made herself more comfortable in the chair. Pouring tequila in the glass she reflected upon how much better the silvery kind tasted compared to the gold shit she always thought she loved. She opened January’s part of her new story. Sipped the hard liquor, enjoyed the rush of warmth. Resumed typing.

Alma LeVeaux hurried across the busy hotel lobby, shoved the thick glass door aside, and stepped out into the cool Georgia night.

Under the luster of a Wolf Moon she paced to and fro in Wrights Square disguised as Suite Sue, a high-price call girl—who was also an American serial killer.

She lured married businessmen, men who reminded her of her husband Rex, to ritzy hotel suites where she murdered them with the use of dark majick, thereby killing Rex over and over again.

It wasn’t a nightly ritual. Most of the time she ignored men. But that time when Rex took his fists to her then went out of town the next day acting as if nothing had happened—nothing to account for the bruises on her flushed, tearstained face—something dark and ugly crawled up from the depths of her soul. Something that became quite lovely when it oozed out of her pores.

“Hmm.” BJ highlighted the last paragraph in yellow to either delete it or reword it later.

Turning on the charm, Alma batted her eyelashes at any man who gave her more than a passing glance. She had no idea what sort of creep the escort agency was sending her.

Last night, Rex was on a drunken rampage. His latest conquest, a pole dancer who worked weekends at a strip club, dumped him after their first date. Rex found a way to put the blame on Alma.

She could smell the woman’s cheap perfume on his shirt as he beat her nonstop for nearly two full minutes. She didn’t know why he’d spared her face this time but she was glad he had. Makeup doesn’t conceal a swollen black eye.

A pair of black stockings perfectly covered up the bruises on her legs. And whoever drives her home tonight, figuratively speaking, won’t be telling anyone about the welts on her back put there with a thin leather belt.

A tall, clean-shaven man with sandy brown hair approached, his smarmy college-boy stare undressing her every step of the way. His features resembled Rex LeVeaux’s enough to be him.

“Hello. Are you, uh, what is it, Sweet Sue?” Lofty chuckle. “Is that your workin’ name? Are you the gal the fancy hooker service arranged for me to meet tonight?”

A rush of anger. Asshole. Thinks he can talk to me in the same sarcastic tone of voice Rex uses. Instantly detesting him, Alma struggled to keep her emotions in check. Wondered if she should continue, since he’d managed to put her in a crappy mood?

“Yes,” she said, ending the word in a hiss.

He lit a cigarette. No thought to offering her one. Blew smoke in her face, by accident or not. Smiled clumsily, revealing an uneven row of upper teeth yellowed by nicotine. He looked her over.

“You’ll do in a pinch, I reckon,” he said, staring at her crotch.

“Ooo, such a chaw-muh, you are.”

“Yeah, well.” He laughed quietly to himself. “So, what’s next on the agenda? I’ve, um... I’ve never done anything such as this before. Normally, I don’t need to. I usually do just fine on my own.” He scratched the top of his head. “Lately, though, it’s been kind of hard getting out at night.”

What? Her eyes narrowed in anger and she fought the urge to walk away. Another cheating heart on the prowl? A vision of a unique pair of handcuffs came to her. “I have a suite at the Zoysia.”

He ground out the cigarette on the pavement with his foot. “Sweet. A real classy place, so I heard.” He jerked his head up. “You don’t expect me to foot the bill for the room, do you? I’m not a poor man, by any means, but I’m also not a rich man. And there is no way to bury a hotel bill on my credit card statement.”

“Relax, it’s all taken care of.”

When she didn’t hear him following her she twisted her head around and looked behind her. He was just standing there taking a long drag off a new cigarette and staring at her ass. “Are you coming or not?”

He choked on the smoke. Coughed hoarsely. “Yeah, I’m, um, I’m comin’, honeypot. Sort of.” He flicked the cigarette at the ground. Walking alongside her he said “By the way, if you feel the need to whisper my name while we’re, y’know, in the throes of passion, you can call me John. Get it? John. Like a pimp. It’s not my real name, of course, but if you’ve got to call me something, that’ll do.”

Alma snorted in disdain. Throes of passion? Where does this fool get off thinking he’s even got what it takes?

She led him to the service elevator the hotel employees used. Cameras had been strategically placed on all sixteen floors of the old, majestic, brick and mortar building. The second she got off the elevator on the thirteenth floor she sharply bowed her head making the sides of the long blond wig fall forward to hide most of her face. A practiced move she had perfected.

Inside her room with the door locked, she pulled off the wig and cap liner. Flung them on an empty suitcase rack. Fluffed up her own hair, then pushed it off her shoulders.

“Wow. You look totally better, er, different. I mean, you look more mysterious,” he said.

Her long eyelashes swept the air with a fleeting glance. “You’re still the same.”

“Huh?” He examined himself in a full-length mirror.

The bathroom light was on. She pulled the door toward her, creating a narrow strip of white on the carpet. Turned off all of the other lights, darkening the area around the bed. Unhooked the straps on her high heels. Unbuttoned her blouse.

The man watched with wide-eyed fascination. “Don’t you need music for that?”

“For what?”

“For the little striptease act. I read something about it in the brochure the escort service provided. Many of the women will do a little dance for the customers.”

Dumb stupid idiot. Irritated, she flapped her hand in the general direction of him. “Take off your clothes.”

He moved at his own speed. Creased his trousers before hanging them over an armchair. Sat on the edge of the bed to remove his socks. Combed his hair with his fingers.

Alma tossed back a shot of tequila. Watched the man watch her.

He patted his pillow. “C’mon now, honey bear, time’s a wastin’.”

Everything about him lit a fire under her. She was especially fed up with all the stupid pet names he’d given her. Sweetiepie. Muffin. Baby. Not once did he ever call her by her real name. Could it be because he never bothered to ask what it is? She, too, took her time undressing. Not to create a little mystery and excitement, but rather to give herself time to think straight.

Alma came around to the right side of the bed, the side closest to the bathroom. She slung a floral comforter to the foot of the bed, the top end landing on the carpet. Peeled back the corner of the flat sheet, unhurriedly crawled in on her knees. She glanced at him to gauge his interest when she lay down on her back.

Mentally rehearsing the spell she had looked up earlier, she felt around under the mattress with her fingertips for the little antique metal box adorned with real gemstones that held an extraordinary powder containing fresh remains of poisonous toads, nettles, and a number of other ingredients, along with a potent toxin found in the organs of puffer fish.

She brought the box closer to the edge of the mattress. Glimpsed his way and saw him hanging his shirt and necktie on a wooden coat-hanger in the closet. Shoved the box under her pillow before he became aware of her strange movements.

He got in on the other side of the bed. Quickly concealed the lower half of his body with the sheet as though he, too, had something to hide. Awkwardly inched closer to her.

Moving fast, Alma was on her knees again.

He grinned. “Now we’re cookin’ with gas.”

She slung the sheet aside. Straddled his legs.

He lightly gripped her thighs. Craned his neck, hoping to see her ass in the mirror. “I swear, girl, you’re as purdy as a speckled pup. Mmm, talk about best laid plans. You’re as limber as a dishrag.”

She bent down slow and easy to keep from jolting his mind out of the gutter it had crawled into. Unintentionally grazed the tip of his nose with an erect nipple when she stretched sideways to slide her hand under her pillow. Her heart seemed to stop beating when he pulled her closer, worked his mouth over her nipple and started sucking on it. She lurched back, clutching a pair of handcuffs in her fist. Used the sheet to wipe off his saliva.

“Red on yellow kills a fellow.” In a heartbeat, she had his wrist hooked to the wood spindle headboard.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing,” he screeched, jerking his arm all about trying to break free. “I’m not into the kinky stuff. I, I, I’m simply not. That’s not what I paid for. I, I’m a married man. My wife, she, we, we don’t do this kind of stuff.” In a softer tone he added “Could be why I’m here instead of there.” His voice shot up a notch. “Let me go before—”

“Before I put a spell on you? I don’t think so.”

As if on cue, the heater turned itself on, the motor whirring softly. Alma glided her tongue once across his stomach. He gasped. She felt his body stiffen. Caressed him. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His breathing grew louder and raspier. He wiped perspiration out of his eyes.

She seized the moment to cuff his free arm.

Captivated by her actions he’d begun to relax. Moaned a little, now and then.

She reached under her pillow a third time. Whipped out the box. He raised his head to get a closer look at what she had. She flipped the lid back with her thumb. Blew a white substance in his face. His head immediately hit the pillow. He stared unblinking at the ceiling. She put the box on the nightstand. Got off the bed. Waited a few seconds for any signs that the powder hadn’t been administered correctly.

Alma lit a white candle. Wrote JOHN on a torn corner of a white sheet of paper. Keeping her voice down she said, “By the power of three, as is in life, I invoke thee to give thy truth, not to me, but to your wife.” Shouted his name. Blew out the candle.

She turned on the CD player. The hypnotic sounds of music and chanting filled the room. Slow dancing her way back to the bed, her body twists and turns similar to a ghost-white boa constrictor descending a bald cypress tree in the swamp.

She took hold of the top sheet. With a quick snap, she pitched it over the comforter and onto the floor. Came around to his side of the bed. Switched on the lamp, tilted the fabric shade. The harsh light turned his eyes to white pits. He was unable to close them.

This time she was the one doing the top to bottom inspection. Snorted at the sight of a body gone to flab. “Too much mashed taters and gravy, sweetiepie?” She took out the scalpel she’d hidden in the nightstand drawer. Held the razor-sharp surgical instrument above his eyes, giving him a moment to view his terrified expression in the flat side of the blade.

Lamplight winked at the shiny chrome as she twirled around the room to the beat of a guitar and drums. She returned to him, her hips leisurely moving side to side, and delighted in his misery. She sat by his legs and gripped his dick, the top half drooping over her forefinger. A feeble worm on a fishing hook.

She looked at him again, his face and body completely paralyzed by the strange powder. Easy enough to imagine his fear. She’d seen the same expression on the faces of three other losers. He knew what she was doing. Or was about to do. But he was unable to scream for help, much less beg for—

The music abruptly ended. A heavy silence followed. She blinked in confusion. Released him, revolted by the clammy feel of his skin. Wiped her hand on the sheet. Backed away from the bed. She was in a bustling hotel, not in a secluded cabin in the swampland.

Before leaving New Orleans, she’d thought up a new technique to sever connections between her and the three men in Louisiana in order to mislead and thwart the police investigation. But this new way of killing wasn’t working for her. Alma thought it might be wiser to use the incantation that would render him deaf, mute, and blind. The same incantation used on Virgil Wentzel.

Bérénice reached out so fast to grab the bottle of tequila she almost knocked it over. Added a little to her glass. Squeezed her eyes shut to stem the flow of tears. Cleared her mind of the image of her mama lying at the bottom of an old stone well.

She looked around the room trying to find something to focus on to help drive away the memories. The blinking cursor on her laptop? She slid the glass out of her way. Drank freely from the bottle. Concerns of becoming an alcoholic like Virgil were cast aside. He wasn’t her real papa.