Day Dreamer Read Free

skirt and grabbed the knife as she pounded down the stairs with Jean right behind her. By the time she reached the bottom, she had the knife hilt firmly in one hand, the weapon hidden in the folds of her skirt.
    She was panting from fear and exertion, poised to throw the basket at him should he attempt to stop her. Her low heeled slipper hit wet stone and she nearly fell back against the wall. The basket flew up and out of her hand then went crashing down and sent a shower of food splaying at her feet.
    Furious, Jean grabbed her by the arm, hauled her up, then threw her back against the courtyard wall so hard that it nearly knocked her breathless.
    “Let me go!” she gasped.
    “What did you see?” All pretense of politeness had vanished. He was pressing into her now, leering into her face with fevered eyes full of loathing and his own dark fear.
    Celine struggled. Ready to strike, she clutched the knife in her free hand. “I’m warning you. Let me go, Jean. Now.”
    “Tell me what you saw.”
    “Someone! Help!” Her cries echoed off the walls in the narrow, confined space.
    “No one is here. I gave them the evening off. Those black devils are no doubt on Congo Square parading up and down, aping their betters. They won’t be back until curfew.”
    “Which won’t be long now.” She tried to squirm out of his hold.
    “I’m sorry, Celine—”
    “For what? Let me go or you’ll be sorry.”
    “It’s too late. I had to find out if, like the old woman, you knew too much. When I saw you on the street, I realized you might be able to touch her and immediately know what happened. Your gift is much stronger than the old woman’s, even though you only see the past. Like her, you know what I have done, so alas, now I’ll have to kill you, too.”
    The old woman? Kill you, too? Too?
    “What do you mean? What have you done?” Her heart was racing. “Did you kill Persa? Why? Why, Jean?”
    “As I said, like you, she knew too much.”
    It was too horrible. She couldn’t believe him, refused to accept what the visions had revealed—until she felt his hands slip around her throat. His fingers tightened on her windpipe and she knew the terrible truth. She had to get home.
    Before she blacked out, she pulled her right arm back and drove the knife between his ribs. Perot gasped and let go of her as he fought for breath. Celine watched in horror as he staggered back, his hands flailing at the knife hilt that protruded from his side.
    Too paralyzed to run, she stood numb with shock. Jean slipped and stumbled back, falling against a small fountain where a marble figurine of a nude cherub rode astride a spitting dolphin.
    Jean reached out, trying to right himself. His blood-smeared hand slid down the damp marble. Rich dark blood, Creole blood, oozed from his wound. It pooled in the puddles on the stones.
    His head bounced once against the paving stones and then he lay perfectly still. Celine glanced up at the house. Every room except the one she had occupied was dark. The kitchen and slave quarters on the ground floor were deserted. She gathered up her skirt hem and began to run, through the porte cochere, past the gateway grille, along the deserted street. Her slippers were quickly coated with mud, the gown of her skirt and the petticoat beneath it sodden and heavy.
    She had to get home, desperately hoping she was not too late to help Persa. The bells of the cathedral marked the hour, the sound echoing ominously through the shadowed streets.
    She darted around the lamplighter on the corner. The light reflected rain falling in steady sheets driven by the wind off the river. She stepped off the banquette without looking and wound up calf-deep in filthy gutter waste. But she did not allow the discomfort to slow her down.
    There was no city guard in sight as she rounded the last corner and headed toward the old cottage. Single-story, small and cramped, it was still home.
    Celine raced through the close-board fence and small