It wasn't the night. It was him. He had said that he would come to her when she had met him at the soiree. He was kin, she thought, giggling. But no matter. He was distant kin. She had warned him about Papa, and he had said that he would come in the night, and her father would never know. It was so secretive, so romantic ... Yes, she could hear her name, he called her name.

She rose, feeling as if the air itself enwrapped her with a strange, sensual embrace.

She wanted to hurry to the courtyard, to dance beneath the magical light of the stars and the moon. She was very nearly eighteen, well in a marriageable age, and anxious that her papa should give her permission to wed. Other girls her age were long married. Papa was so strict! Tonight she dreamed of a lover, of a man to come, to touch her, make her feel more of this elusive magic.

The Wynn yard was deep. Wrought-iron chairs and tables sat along tile paths.

Fountains bubbled. In the far corner of the property, ornate graves and mausoleums housed the Wynn dead. She ignored them, having seen them all her life. They were but a part of her home. She looked up to the moon, to the stars. Her soft blond hair blanketed her shoulders like a cape as she spun about, and yet then ...

She paused, suddenly frightened. Behind her ... there was something.

No...

She spun about. Again. Again.

She looked to the house. It was so far away. And when she turned again, it seemed ...

It seemed that shadows had come alive. Shadows . . . writhing, dancing among graves and mausoleums, casting darkness upon the face of an angel here, a Madonna there. The shadows twisted and curved . ..

And inched forward.

A scream rose in her throat. She had to reach the house; she had to come to her papa.

She turned, and slammed against a man. She backed away, looking upward into his face. His eyes fell upon her with a light like fire. Warmth invaded her. Yet she remained too frightened to speak.

"My little beauty!" he breathed.

She wanted to feel sensual again, as if the breeze stroked her, as if there were magic on the air.

The fear continued to choke her.

"Little one ..."

He lifted her gown so that it fell from her shoulders. She stood naked in the moonlight. Captured by his eyes. In terror, yet unable to move. His hands brushed over her, slid over the down at her pubis, between her thighs, over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s again, to her throat.

"I.. . I must go in!" she managed to whisper.

"Of course."

"I must." She was vaguely aware that she was still standing there before him, naked.

"Yes."

He stepped aside. She started to walk. She felt the darkness behind her. Felt as if shadows and evil breathed down her neck. She quickened her pace. The air, the wicked air! Now it felt as if it touched her with a stroke of evil, down her back, against her neck ...

Yet evil was tempting. So tempting.

Evil felt good.

No...

The breath of air against her bare flesh was erotic. The whisper of it seemed warm against the winter, like a blaze stoked within her soul... Oh, G.o.d, oh, G.o.d, she was far too fanciful...

She turned, wanting to scream ...

But no sound left her lips.

For he touched her, drew her to him, seduced; and the warmth of her life's blood flowed between them, and the chill of winter became the fires of h.e.l.l.

Eighteen sixty-one came along, and Louisiana seceded from the Union. Sean came to Meg's house, bursting through the front door in a fury. Her household servants scattered, silently disappearing. They were alone on the beautiful broad staircase of Montgomery Plantation. He was in a rare pa.s.sion, all but breathing fire, and Meg felt a momentary unease.

"I have to go," he told her. Having money, he'd formed a cavalry unit with himself as captain. It hadn't mattered that he wasn't at all sure that war was right, or that the South could win a war. This was his home; these were his people. His unit was now being called to war, and he'd be riding away. "I have to go, and d.a.m.n you, d.a.m.n you.

I love you. Marry me."

"I can't!" she whispered, heartbroken.

He shook his head, his frustration and fury greater. He strode the three steps to reach her, and swept her into his arms. He kissed her deeply, ravaging her mouth. His hands were tearing into her clothing, touching her, touching her more, demanding greater and greater intimacy. Her clothing tore away, lay scattered across the stairs.

His mouth moved with an urgent hunger over her flesh until she was shivering and shaking and in a tempest to match his own. She kissed him furiously in return, nails raking his back. She very nearly bit into his shoulder...

She felt the Persian stairway runner against her back, the hardness of the wood beneath it. He made love with a reckless, desperate pa.s.sion, and when he was done, she found that she was sobbing, clinging to him, whispering that she loved him but that she could not marry him. Puzzled, he demanded to know why. And at last she told him that if they both survived the war, she'd explain. But marriage didn't matter. She'd be here, she'd be here waiting, and she'd love him until the end of time. That would have to be enough.

It wasn't enough, he told her, but it was all that he had And he made love to her a second time, more gently, and yet with the same searing pa.s.sion that all but stole thought and reason from her.

Then he rode away.

CHAPTER 5.

Sean read and reread the police reports taken by the officers who had thus far worked the homicides. On Monday morning he'd be having his first meeting with the task force a.s.signed to the murders, and he wanted to make sure he hadn't missed important details in any phase of the investigation.

A tourist couple had first come upon the body of Jane Doe in the cemetery. The husband's rueful statement read: "Okay, so we were warned that the cemeteries were in a dangerous neighborhood, but we weren't expecting anything like this. I'd even heard that there were bones sticking out of the graves now and then, but, oh, G.o.d, nothing like this.

Nothing like this."

Pierre had made an interesting comment in his medical report: Jane Doe, laid out on a tomb as if on a bed, had been left in a very similar position and appearance to Jack the Ripper's fifth victim, Mary Kelly. Jane Doe's head had been completely severed, and though Mary Kelly's hadn't, the body mutilations were incredibly similar, down to the way that parts removed had been arranged around the body.

The photos were enough to make even the most street-hardened cop sick for a week.

Luckily, the discovery of the body had been early and the young couple in the cemetery had been so shocked and horrified that they hadn't looked long before hysterically hailing a police car on the street. No one but cops- and the murderer (murderers?)-had seen the body. The police had been honest with the press regarding the fact that she had been decapitated and mutilated, but the police had carefully guarded details of that mutilation.

The young couple had returned to their home-in Alaska, thank G.o.d for small favors-that very night. The wife had been sedated, and both she and her husband begged not to be identified to the press. She was hysterical, anxious not to be a.s.sociated with the murder in any way. So much for tourism; Sean doubted they'd be returning to New Orleans. Still, it had been a break for the cops. Too many people wanted the sensationalism of a press interview. The young couple from Alaska had been far too afraid of the murderer.

Sean picked up Pierre's forensic report. The list of trauma to the poor, savaged body was endless. The good seemed to be that most of the wounds were postmortem. He didn't need the medical report to remember the autopsy. He'd stood by Pierre while the medical examiner cut into what was left of the body, speaking his findings to the microphone suspended above the body in an even, enunciated voice. It wasn't something he'd forget.

He set the report down, and dragged his fingers through his hair. Jane Doe, decapitated, destroyed. A pimp out on Bourbon Street. Decapitated, not mutilated. Did the killer only mutilate women? Was it even the same killer, or did they have a pair of maniacs with similar method roaming the streets. It wouldn't be the first time unrelated murders had occurred with fearfully close timing in New Orleans.

He looked over at the computer screen on his desk, then pushed the exit b.u.t.ton with an aggravated sigh.

It wasn't that he couldn't find similar homicides across the country. The problem was that he could find far too many. The microchip had done amazing things. He'd described their recent murders for the computer, and it had seemed that the information returned to him scrolled endlessly.

He'd pushed the wrong keys, he told himself morosely. Crimes, solved and unsolved, from more than a century past had appeared. Jack the Ripper appeared on the screen, along with the New Orleans Axeman, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Theodore Bundy. He needed to try again, entering-for the time being- only the past few years' worth of unsolved crimes. "Voodoo, hoodoo," Jack said, arriving by the side of his desk and plopping down a stack of books.

Sean looked up at him.

"Read the morning papers?"

Sean shrugged. "Under the circ.u.mstances, I think the press has been kind. Did I tell you that you had to come in here today?"

Jack grinned. "I knew you'd be in."

"Ah. Well, you're a good kid, Jack."

"I've been trying a few angles. Doing a lot of reading. What do you think of voodoo?"

Sean leaned back, arching a brow. "What do I think of voodoo? Let me see ... okay, back a few centuries ago, slave traders dragged men out of Africa. Those guys brought pieces of an old religion with them here. For instance, a snake is important in many of the voodoo rites; it is referred to as the great Zombi. Their 'voodoo' was something they could use against their masters. Then Marie Laveau came along and made voodoo into big business.

She worked as a hairdresser and used the gossip she heard to make the populace believe she knew the deep, dark secrets and desires of her clients, and had the power to 'see.'

Today, voodoo is still a major source of income for many shop folk in the Quarter."

"All right, all right. Scoff, but I've been reading."

Sean arched a brow, grinning as he waited. He wasn't scoffing at the concept. Voodoo was like any other cult or magic. Sometimes, those with homicidal tendencies were influenced by the practices. And gris-gris, voodoo magic, could work off the power of the mind, just like any other so called "magic."

"The Marquis de Vaudreuil made a ruling, back in 17-something, that any slave master who allowed his slaves to congregate would be fined heavily. Slaves caught congregating could be whipped, branded with a fleur-de-lis, or even put to death."

"Ouch," Sean said, and shuddered.

"So even back then, folks were d.a.m.ned afraid of what voodoo could do. After 1803, when the Americans took hold of New Orleans, things changed. Lots of West Indian slaves had been brought here-and naturally, we Americans were more enlightened. Slaves began to congregrate, and practice voodoo. Okay, so to some, it was an innocent form of religion."

"Umm," Sean agreed. "Lots of dancing, drinking of tafia- stuff nice and strong in alcoholic content. Enough people together in a frenzy and an energy is created- psychologists have studied the results of group energy among voodoos-and ye olde Shakers, too-who, incidentally, were never accused of much black magic. You can get a similar level of excitement in a good Baptist tent meeting."

"Right. But there are doc.u.mented cases where voodoos practiced a lot of different sacrifices."

"Drinking the blood of a kid-or a black cat. Black cats can give a good voodoo some serious power," Sean said.

Jack cast him a serious frown in return. Sean shrugged. "Go on, prove your point here."

"Sean, in 1881, a pair of voodoos were arrested when they tied their son across a fire and beat him to death with a stick. In 1863, half a human torso was found in the home of a woman suspected to be a priestess."

"Anybody can do anything in the name of religion. Look at the tortures of the Inquisition."

"This is New Orleans, today-" Jack protested.

"And Jack, I'm d.a.m.ned proud of you. You've done some good reading, and since we don't know what will turn up in this investigation, anything you've learned may prove to be important. Now, what have you learned about Jack the Ripper?"

"He was never caught, and there are a million theories as to his ident.i.ty. Some Ripperologists are convinced that he might have been attached to the British Royals, and others believe he was a menial Polish worker-known as Leather Ap.r.o.n. Some believe he was Montagu Druit, and some believe that the Maybrick diary is true. Had the police only had today's scientific knowledge, some of the truth might easily have been proven-either to exonerate or condemn those suspected and arrested. Some say the police wanted a cover-up-especially if the murders involved the Royals in any way. However, had they had modern technology and used it, dozens of speculative books might not have been written, and the Ripper Tour in London might not be nearly so popular."

"Helpful, very helpful," Sean said.

Jack shrugged. "There are books on Jack the Ripper in that pile as well."

Sean leaned back. "You don't seem to think we have a copycat killer."

Jack shrugged. "Jane Doe-ripped to shreds. Like the Ripper's last victim, not his first.

I think our killer was playing. He had plenty of time with his victim, knew about Jack the Ripper's crimes, and meant to send us scurrying for books and coming up with profiles and deeply pondering the issue. Then again, this killer likes attention. We're a big, busy, multi-ethnic city. To get attention, a murderer has to go for sensationalism. This guy doesn't want a few lines in the press and a three-minute spot on the local news. He's going for the spotlight."

Sean was silent.

"Well, what do you think?"

Sean grinned. "I think you're going to make a d.a.m.n good homicide detective."

"As soon as I quit getting sick over the corpses," Jack said.

Sean shook his head, studying the forensic reports once again. "You've got to have heart and soul for the job, kid. Trust me. Guys like Pierre give us a h.e.l.l of a lot to work with, but half the battle still comes down to gut instinct. Like your last comment on the killer. He wants his crimes known. He wants to puzzle us. Play games. Keep us unnerved- which we are. We have no idea how, where, when, or who he'll strike next. G.o.d knows, so far we've been lucky. Not too many of the details on our Jane Doe are known, and people still see a pimp and a prost.i.tute."

"Well ... I hate to say it, but ..."

"But what?"

"I mean, I really hate to say it because ..."

"Because what?" Sean demanded, exasperated.

"I happen to think she's the most exciting creature I've ever happened upon, but ..."

"Could we be referring to Maggie Montgomery?"

"Well, frankly, we've got nothing. Not a d.a.m.ned thing from the cemetery-poor Jane Doe slashed to bits-and nothing that even resembles a lead. The girl died without scratching a microscopic piece of flesh from her killer. Then we've got our pimp. Dead in his Armani suit. And nothing-except a trail of minute blood drops leading directly to Miss Montgomery's building."

"And stopping at the door."

"But going to the door."

Sean nodded slowly, watching Jack. "Tell me, in your study of the voodoos, did you come across a cult that siphoned human blood from corpses?"