The First Male (20 page)

“You don't like the tea?” he asked.

“I prefer a little Southern comfort, if you know what I mean,” she said with a grin as she sipped again. There was an overt sensuality in the way Clara sipped her liquid. Simon could tell that it burned her throat as it went down, but there was an undeniable
pleasure in her pain. Simon watched the way her well-manicured hand gripped the glass; she almost caressed it, stroking it with gentle force. Simon exhaled, hoping Brooke hadn't noticed the wanton look that crept into his eyes. Of all the things he expected to feel for this
psychic
, lust wasn't one of them. He glanced at Brooke, who had more than halfway finished her tea, and then he took a sip. And another one. And another one. The sweetness of the tea hit his palate hard, but he did not balk.

“Tell me why you're here, Simon. What do you really need?”

“I need someone to help me figure out what's going on with me.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, as Simon's eyes darted nervously across the room, skillfully avoiding her gaze. He wasn't sure what it was about her that made him nervous, but he felt something stir in his spirit. It wasn't quite a warning, but it made him tread cautiously.

“I've been having bad dreams. Of snakes.”

She simply sipped.

He continued, “And, I think there's a spirit that's haunting—no, that's not the right word—let's say, trying to communicate with me.” He took a much bigger drink from his cup and then exhaled. Saying the words to someone other than Brooke felt good.

“Oh, I see. What do you think this spirit wants from you?”

“That's why I'm here.”

“Has anything like this happened to you before, or is this all new?”

“Nah, this is definitely new.”

“Sometimes a spirit will attach itself to a person their whole life, or it will attach itself to an object, like this house—this house is full of spirits; some mournful, some scornful, some vengeful, and some are my protectors.”

“Your house is haunted?” Brooke spoke with alarm, her eyes cutting across the room.

“Of course it is, chile. This is an old plantation home. Slaves were burned here. Slaves were hung here. You can't inflict that much pain on a piece of land and expect it to remain unaffected.”

“Why do you stay here, then?” Simon asked.

“The spirits ain't after me. They know I have slave blood running in my veins. Let me tell you something, when Donna first started working here she had more accidents than I could count; she fell down the stairs, a door slammed on her fingers and broke two of them. Once, her apron caught fire in the kitchen. At first I thought she was clumsy, but one day I actually saw a spirit hovering about her head. I actually saw it. Well, I called Savannah—one of my friends who is descended from a long line of powerful witches—and had her put a protection spell on Donna. Ever since then, we've been fine.”

“Okay, this is kinda freakin' me out,” Brooke said.

“No need to worry, honey. Everything's gonna be fine. Trust me.”

“Now, where was I? Oh yeah, have you recently had any traumatic experience? A head injury or car accident, perhaps?” she said to Simon.

“No. I'm fine.”

“Is the anniversary of the death of a parent or loved one approaching?”

“I wouldn't know. I grew up in foster homes. I don't know my real family.”

She scratched her forehead. “Interesting.”

“Any special occasion coming up that you can think of?”

“No, none.”

“His birthday,” Brooke inserted, “his twenty-first birthday is in two weeks.”

“Ahhh, twenty-one, such a mystical age.”

“You think that has something to do with what's going on?”

“Perhaps,” she said after thinking for a few moments, “we'll know soon enough. All right. Well, let's get on with it.” Clara set her drink down, got up and moved over to a credenza in the back of the room. She opened one of the drawers and pulled out what looked to Simon like a small, colorful branch from a bush that was tied together by a blue satin string. She produced a lighter, and, with the flick of her thumb, the bush was on fire. Quickly, she blew it out. She walked around the room chanting and waving the smoking branch about the room. Simon looked at Brooke, who shrugged her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Simon asked.

“Shhhhh,” Clara said. “The room needs to be open, too.” The stench of the burning twig filled the room with an odor that was a mix between burning grass and incense. She placed it in a silver chalice that sat in the center of a small table in the back. “Now, we are ready. Simon, please come here.” Simon moved over to her.

“Please, take a seat.” Reluctantly, Simon lowered his body into the wooden chair. Clara took a seat directly in front of him. “You must not be afraid. You must open yourself up to me if I am to help you.” She placed both her arms on the table and opened her hands. “Give me your hands.” Simon looked over at Brooke who watched with an attentive eye. Even from his distance, he could see that her breathing was elevated by the rapid rising and deflating of her chest. Clara's ghost story must have had really gotten to her.

Simon sat directly across from Clara and stared into her beautifully dark eyes. He was convinced she was trying to read his thoughts. She stared at him and did not blink.

“Give me your hands,” she said. Slowly, Simon raised his arms and put them onto the table. “Don't be afraid, Simon. No harm can come to you during this reading.” Simon inhaled loudly and placed his hands inside hers. As soon as her fingers wrapped
themselves around his hands, he felt her desire; such burning desire. She shifted in her seat. He could smell the sweet stickiness of her longing gathering between her firm legs. She wanted him in a carnal way, and he was suddenly afraid that he'd give in to her. He wanted to recoil, to pull away from her grip, but he could not—it was simply too pleasurable. An erotic tingling sensation traveled through his fingers, up to his elbows and shoulders, then wound its way down into his genitals. A wonderful, warming feeling twisted its way through all of his erogenous zones, and he felt an unfamiliar, yet utterly irresistible, tickling in the depths of his balls. The sensation became more and more intense and he moaned with a deep pleasure that was usually reserved for sex.

He looked at Brooke, and she looked back at him with concern, but then he returned his gaze to Clara. He had to.

After a few elongated seconds of pleasure, Clara lifted her intense gaze and the engorging of his manhood slowly subsided, much to his chagrin. Usually, when he was turned on, only the act of release could turn him off. He looked dumbfounded and his eyes were glazed; but, he exhaled slowly several times, never releasing his gaze, hoping that whatever she had done she'd do again. This was the first time he had been fucked so thoroughly, while his clothes were still on.

“Okay, let us begin,” she said. She closed her eyes, tightened her grip around his hands and took in a long, ragged breath. She held it in for a few seconds and expelled it lightly from her lips. She repeated the action a few times.

Suddenly, she withdrew both her hands quickly and opened her eyes.

“What is it?” Brooke asked.

“There is darkness here,” she said in a grave tone that sent chills up and down Simon's arms, “a great darkness.”

“What are you talking about?” Brooke asked as she rushed over.

“Stop, chile. Go back over there.” Clara's unequivocal tone left no room for argument; Brooke hesitated, but did as she was instructed.

“Are you okay?” Simon asked, more out of concern for himself than for her. “What darkness?”

“I don't know yet, but something wants to claim you—
desperately
.”

“What do you mean,
something
? A ghost?”

“No, this is something else.”

“What the fuck?” Brooke exclaimed.

“Quiet!” She commanded in a gruff voice that no longer sounded like hers. She leaned over and took a lingering inhale from the smoldering bush, letting it fill her nostrils. “Give me your hands.” The expression on her face was solemn.

When she grabbed his hands, she shuddered, but did not relinquish her grip. Her eyes rolled into the back of her skull and Simon suddenly felt immobile and mute. He wanted to free himself from her, but he could not. An electric current surged through his body as he watched Clara's face twist and contort. She released one hand and reached over to the pad and paper on her right. She scribbled something that looked like indecipherable hieroglyphics and then her handwriting gave way to letters that looked more modern, except it was a language he didn't know. She continued writing until she scribbled something that shocked the disbelief out of Simon. He looked at the paper and even though it was written upside down from his vantage point, he could clearly see the words
Adelaide Thibodeaux
written in cursive.

Then, a terrified voiced suddenly filled his head:
Simon, no!
The voice wasn't one that he recognized, but there was real fear in it; a fear so strong that it shook him to his core.

He suddenly found the strength to rip his hands away from her
grip. When he did, a force hit Clara so hard that she slid across the room in her chair and crashed into the bookshelf behind her, sending figurines and trinkets flying across the room. When she hit the shelf, she fell to the floor hard, but her hand still gripped the piece of paper with Addie's name.

“Clara!” Brooke and Simon screamed simultaneously as they rushed to her aid. Simon leaned down and lifted her head off of the floor. A small amount of blood had pooled at the corner of her mouth and her eyes were wide.

“Clara, can you hear me?” he asked. “Are you okay?” Clara coughed, spitting out a trace amount of blood onto Simon's arms.

“They . . . they . . . both want you,” she said to him with tremendous effort.

“Who?”

“He . . . will . . . come . . . to claim you. You must choose.” Clara's voice began to fade.

“Clara!” Brooke screamed.

“What have you done?” Donna asked as she raced into the room. “What did you do to her?”

“We didn't do anything. I swear!”

“Get out of here before I call the police!”

“But we didn't do anything. We need to get her to the hospital.”

“You need to leave!” Donna said again. Brooke and Simon looked at each other, wanting to protest, but they did not. Brooke stood up and turned toward the door, reluctantly. As Simon began to rise, Clara grabbed him by the collar, stuffed the paper into his hand, and pulled his ear close to her mouth. She struggled to speak, but was only able to enunciate a few words.

“I won't tell you to leave again,” Donna said with more authority in her voice. Simon took one last look at Clara and moved toward the door, looking back again for a few moments. He hugged
Brooke and they exited the room and walked down the long hallway toward the foyer.

“I don't know what just happened,” Simon said. His voice was low and he sounded despondent, as if he had come to the end of the road and was left with far more questions than answers. “What did I do to her?”

“You didn't do anything to her.” Her words were full of doubt and offered little comfort.

“I hope she's okay.”

“I'm sure she'll be fine. She's used to this supernatural stuff, I'm sure. What did she say to you just then?” Simon kept walking down the hallway and didn't answer her until he reached the front door, and then he paused before speaking. “She said, ‘Be wary of shadows,' and then she handed me this.” He opened his hand and unballed the sheet of paper.

“Oh my God,” Brooke exclaimed. Simon looked at her face and she was genuinely spooked. “A. Thibodeaux. Adelaide Thibodeaux. Who is she?”

“I don't know, but I guess I'll find out soon enough.” Simon opened the door and let Brooke exit first. He closed the door behind him and hopped down the few steps that led to the walk-way. He took a few more steps and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looking back at the eerie structure that loomed behind. “I know why this place creeps me out.”

“Why?” she asked hesitantly.

“I've been here before.”

C
HAPTER
14

T
here was nothing sweeter to Simon's ears than the sound of cool vodka being poured over crackling ice. It was like soothing music after a long day. He watched Brooke add a splash of cranberry juice to both glasses before handing one to him and raising the other to her mouth. She joined him on the sofa and they drank greedily and silently, savoring the cool burn.

They had barely spoken to each other on the ride home, and when Brooke attempted to turn on the radio as a distraction, Simon immediately turned it off. His mood allowed no room for the latest hip-hop lyrics or thumping bass lines; he opted instead for the familiar melody of rubber tires pounding against the ragged streets.