A Father's Duty. Joanna Wayne

could hear sucking noises behind her, footsteps in the swamp, coming closer and closer.

      She kicked at the sheets, and all but fell out of bed before reality checked in enough that she could regain her equilibrium. She reached for the lamp and flicked it on, knocking over a glass of water she’d left on the bedside table.

      She grabbed a handful of tissues and soaked up the water, though her mind was drifting back to the nightmare she’d been caught in minutes ago.

      The same young woman who’d been haunting her while she was awake had now taken over her mind while she slept. Georgette had dealt with these crazy psychic experiences all her life, but never had they come at her with this frequency or intensity.

      She wondered if this was what it was like for her mother and grandmother. Had they once fought it the way she did, only to finally give up and accept this as part of their lives?

      No. Her grandmother maybe, but not her mother. Isabella Delacroix embraced the gift like a lover. It was Isabella’s life. It would never be Georgette’s. Yet Georgette couldn’t shake the fear as she walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk. She’d walked away from the gift every time before, but something was different this time.

      Her mother would probably know why. But asking her mother would mean going back to the house she hated and admitting that the curse was claiming control over at least part of her life.

      She took her milk to the balcony. Her condominium was on the top floor of a converted warehouse just a few blocks off the Mississippi River. The view from the balcony was magnificent, but all Georgette could see tonight was a swamp and a young blond woman running for her life.

      Damn the gift and damn Tanner Harrison for forcing this on her. If he was involved with this young woman in any way, she’d find out and she’d make him pay. She’d find out at any cost.

      Which meant that, as much as she dreaded it, she’d have to make a visit to Isabella Delacroix.

      “YOU GOT A DOLLAR, mister? I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast, and I’m real hungry.”

      “Hungry, are you?” The guy took the dirty hand Becky held out to him and pulled her beneath the streetlight. He shoved her mass of thick, black curls away from her face. “What’s your name?”

      “Are you a cop?”

      “A cop? Whatever gave you that idea? I’m a businessman, and I may be able to help you.”

      “Hmmp. Not a lot of people looking to help me, but my name’s Becky Lane.”

      “Are you from around here?”

      “What’s that got to do with anything. I stay here now.”

      “I see. Do you have any family here?”

      “You sure ask questions like a cop.”

      “I can assure you that I’m not in law enforcement.” He looked her over, from top to bottom and up again. “You may be exactly the kind of girl who can do well in my business.”

      Becky studied the man, afraid of what he might really want from her. He was a honky, tall and skinny, with slicked-back black hair that looked as if he’d soaked it in motor oil. The man gave her the creeps, but he was dressed nice, and she was hungry.

      “I just need a few dollars or whatever you can spare,” she said.

      “What you need is a job, so you can buy your own food and some nice clothes. A young lady has needs.”

      “What kind of job are you talking about? I’m not a hooker, you know.”

      “A hooker? Such a disgusting term. I don’t deal in disgusting. I deal in class.”

      “How old would I have to be to get this job?”

      “Eighteen would be old enough. You look eighteen to me.”

      She was barely sixteen, though she did look eighteen when she wore lipstick and had her hair fixed. She didn’t mind lying about her age, as long as he didn’t want some kind of proof. “I’m eighteen, but I don’t have a driver’s license or anything like that.”

      “You won’t need to drive in this job.” He led her to the circle of illumination beneath a streetlight, then tugged on her blouse, pulling it to the back so that the fabric fit tight around her breasts. “You have a nice shape and nice skin,” he said, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “Men like light-brown skin when it’s as soft as yours. We’d have to do something with that hair, of course, and you’ll need decent clothes, something expensive. Have you ever worn silk?”

      She didn’t answer, just stared down at her worn, dirty jeans and stained sneakers.

      “I’m talking high-class, Becky. Very high-class. No gutter talk. No gutter clothes. No gutter ways. Just high-class dancing, and being friendly. You’re a friendly girl. I can tell. This will come naturally to you.”

      “When would I start?”

      “We’ll talk about that later. In the meantime, let me take you to see a friend of mine. She’ll see that you get a good meal and have a nice bed to sleep in tonight. The rest of this can wait until tomorrow.”

      Food and a bed. She wasn’t about to turn that down. As for the job, she’d make up her mind about that later. “What’s your name?” she asked.

      “Mr. Gaspard.”

      “That’s a nice name.” And so far he seemed like a really nice man. She hadn’t met too many of those. Maybe New Orleans would be the place where her life got turned around for good.

      GEORGETTE PARKED her beige sedan in front of the shotgun house in old Algiers. Some guys next door were working on their car in the street, their jeans hanging so low on their hips, she could see the band of yellowed underwear at their waist. They were shirtless and shoeless, and one was gulping down a can of beer.

      He finished it, crushed the can in his hands and tossed it to the curb as she got out of the car and started up the front walk to her mother’s house. Some parts of old Algiers had experienced a rebirth over the last few years. The historic old houses had been restored and the yards and streets cleaned up. They’d started neighborhood watches and gotten rid of the run-down vacant houses frequented by addicts looking for a place to flop.

      A neighborhood like that would have tossed Isabella Delacroix out.

      The old feelings were potent as Georgette climbed the front steps and knocked on the door. It had been over a year since she’d seen her mother and then it had been at a café in the Quarter at Isabella’s request. It had been five years since Georgette had been in this house. That had been the night her grandmother had died.

      Georgette lifted her hand to knock again, then dropped it to her side. She couldn’t do this. She absolutely couldn’t be drawn back into curses and gris gris and mysterious spells. She turned and had reached the steps when she heard the door open behind her.

      “Georgette.”

      Her mother’s voice crawled under her skin the way it always did. It was lyrical and haunting, as much a part of who and what Isabella was as the bright colors she wore and the bracelets and earrings that jingled when she walked.

      Georgette took a deep breath, then turned to face her mother. “Hello, Momma.”

      “Come in, Georgette. Please. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”

      Georgette looked for words but didn’t find them, so she just walked to the open door and stepped inside. Isabella hugged her then stepped away and started straightening some magazines on a small table. The house hadn’t changed. The front room was where her mother did business. Telling fortunes, reading tarot cards, giving psychic advice. As always, it smelled of incense and spices, and was dimly lit by lamps whose shades were draped with red silk cloths. Music played in the background, an aria from an unfamiliar opera.

      “Come