Reynaud's Redemption Read online

  “Shit!” he said on a breath.

  On weak knees, Baptiste stumbled back to his desk, falling heavily into his chair and letting his head drop to the wood with a thud. His heart pounded frantically. His breathing increased and sweat peppered his brow. Just as he feared he would pass out, a sudden rush of exhilaration soared through him and pushed him upright, taking his breath away. His magic crackled inside, his skin tingling, the hairs on his arms standing up. His erection throbbed. He was invigorated and stronger than he ever had been.

  “Wow,” he managed, pulling air back into his lungs in long drags. After a few more deep breaths, his heart rhythm slowed to normal and he burst into hysterical laughter. “If that’s what comes from just the spillover of an elder’s power mixed with a low-level magic user like Andrew, I can only imagine what the feeling of a full transfer of power will be like.”

  When his amusement ceased, his gaze fell on Andrew’s dead body across the room. He stared at him for a moment then picked up the phone.

  “Maxwell, come remove this body from my office and tell Reggie to pull the car around.”

  “Yes, Mr St John. Anything else, sir?”

  He paused. “Yes, send Louis to the conference room,” Baptiste added with a slow smile. “He has something I want.”

  Baptiste hung up and left his office. He perched on the corner of the long, mahogany table on the room’s right-hand side and waited. After a while, Louis burst through the doors. He paced back and forth before his boss, rambling. Sweat dampened his skin, and he clutched at his chest, tugging on his shirt. Before Baptiste could speak, Louis stopped and turned frantic eyes to him.

  “Mr St John, you have to help me. I— I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Louis pushed wet hairs back from his forehead before he took up pacing again. “I think—I don’t know—I’m sick or something. Whatever that guy we were watching…” He paused as if the name eluded him.

  “Tomas,” Baptiste supplied.

  “Yeah, Tomas. Whatever he had—I think I may have caught it.”

  The boy hadn’t caught anything, of course, but what else would he assume? The problem was that he was human. Louis stopped moving. Hot and sweaty, he raked wet hair from his face then stumbled backward from the strange sensations reeling inside him. Baptiste almost smiled. He employed almost as many humans as he did magic users to do menial jobs for him. He treated them all the same, except his human flunkies were on a need-to-know basis when it came to assignments involving enchantments of any kind.

  He watched the young man. The power he had inadvertently inherited had sent him into a frenzy. Humans had no powers. They could learn to wield it, if they were so inclined, but it was not a part of them like it was Creolytes. Tomas’ earth magic had nothing to anchor itself to, thus it moved around frantically within Louis’s body, shocking his system.

  Louis continued pacing and tearing at his clothes, mumbling about going to the doctor before he tore his skin apart. He turned wide eyes filled with distress to his employer.

  “Please, sir, is there anything you can do to help me?”

  “Of course, Louis,” Baptiste answered with a smile. “What kind of boss would I be to let you suffer?”

  Baptiste stood, crossed the room, then extracted the wayward magic from the young man in the same manner as he had Andrew. After he’d recovered, Baptiste left the room, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.

  “Maxwell, there is more to dispose of in the conference room. See to it.”

  “Yes, Mr St John,” came the reply.

  Baptiste exited the building. Reggie swung the door open to his limousine.

  “Where to, Mr St John?”

  “Take me to see François.”

  Baptiste sat back during the ride. He closed his eyes and stroked his pulsing cock through his pants, enjoying the exhilarating surge of new energy coursing through his system. The enchantment in his soul danced joyfully, welcoming the immense power of Tomas’ earth magic. It merged beautifully, enhancing and stimulating his own. The feel was orgasmic, addictive. He had to have the rest of it… Had to have more.

  Just over an hour later, the cobblestone streets and brick buildings of downtown New Orleans were behind him. Emerald green grass and blossoming trees of the lands just off the Mississippi River loomed ahead, unaffected by the overheated days they had suffered in the last month. Huge white columns decorated the long porch that wrapped around the front and sides of the great house that came into view. Large windows stretched from floor to ceiling on the first and second floors.

  The plantation had gone into business more than two hundred years ago and was a landmark to the area. Baptiste had only claimed ownership five decades prior. He had kept it operative and modernized over time, making its sugar cane production one of his most lucrative enterprises.

  The car jerked to a stop in front of the residence. Baptiste had just enough time to straighten his tie and put his clothes back in order before Reggie opened his door. With a confident stride, he took the few steps leading to the porch but before he could reach the large French doors, they swung open.

  “Good afternoon, Mr St John,” an older gentleman in a black suit and white gloves said with a slight bow.

  “Good afternoon, Luke.”

  Baptiste glided past him, covering the floor of the immaculate foyer in a few quick movements. Luke picked up the pace behind him, but stopped when he reached the elegant staircase.

  “Are you here to collect the monthly reports? Although a few days early, I can have them ready for you shortly.”

  “No, I am not. I am here to visit François.”

  Baptiste trotted up the winding stairs, gliding hand over the smooth, polished brass banister as he walked along the corridor toward the bedrooms. Two men sat at a small card table at the end of the hall. He saw no magic in their auras and dismissed them as expendable.

  “Mr St John, we weren’t expecting you,” the first man said, knocking over his chair as he leaped from his seat.

  “It would seem so. Where are Moreau, Laurent and Martin? They are supposed to be guarding François.”

  “They… They, uh… They went, umm…” the first man stammered.

  “Martin is inside but the other guys went to chat up the women working outside,” the other rushed out, shaking the table as he rose.

  “Bring them to me at once.”

  Baptiste walked into the room as the two men fell over one another to do his bidding. The room was less like a bedroom, resembling more of a small living room. The space easily held a table with four chairs against one wall with a sofa, coffee table and television set arranged by another. Martin lay on the couch with his head back, eyes closed. Rude noises came from him as he snorted and licked his lips. Baptiste groaned and went over to him.

  “Get up, Martin,” he growled, kicking his leg.

  Martin sprang from the couch with a loud snort. Now that the man stood before him, Baptiste sensed Tomas’ power inside him.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Martin, but you have not developed X-ray vision since you’ve come to this plantation to work, have you?”

  Martin’s confusion showed on his face. He scratched his head and thought before answering. “Uh, no,” he said, sounding somewhat unsure.

  “Then how do you expect to see the signs of François’ departure from this world from out here?”

  “Oh! Well, sir, I was just—”

  “When the others return, I want you to go to my house and wait for me. There is much we need to discuss,” he told him then turned his back and entered the doorway off to the left.

  Getting rid of that buffoon will be a credit to the population.

  Baptiste pushed the door closed and leaned against it. François lay on a king-size bed on the far side of the room. The long, satin curtains on the grand windows remained shut, blocking out the midday sun. At the foot of the bed, a sheet lay crumpled at François’ feet. His hands lay across his belly, clasped together with his fingers interlock
ed. The thin, white pajamas he wore stuck to his skin and sweat dripped from his brow. Baptiste would have thought him dead from his positioning. The only telltale signs of life were the wetness of his skin and the slow rise and fall of his chest. Baptiste smiled and stepped closer.

  “Someone has passed on,” François stated, not turning to look at Baptiste. “Who was it?”

  “Tomas is dead, François. I am sorry.”

  François turned to look at him. His eyes shifted over his form in a searching fashion. He parted his fingers and extended his arm to hold his palm out in front of Baptiste. He scoffed low in his throat then relaxed onto his pillow again as he retracted his hand.

  “You carry Tomas’ magic within you, yet claim to be sorry that he is dead. A contradiction, no?”

  Baptiste clenched his fists at his sides and narrowed his eyes at the old man.

  “Is that to be my fate too, mon ami? I have long known your plans, young Baptiste.” His voice was soft—his French accent strong. “You have always had a heart for power. Many years ago, I wondered why Madame Cousteau chose Reynaud over you. In time, I knew why.”

  “And why is that, François?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  François looked up at Baptiste and smiled. “One who feeds off power is never full and always hungry. You are made stronger with magic that was not given to you at birth. I am aware that you seek to add mine to what you have taken, but I am not so weak as to give up my life force just yet.”

  Anger flowed through Baptiste as the old man turned away from him, closing his eyes—essentially dismissing him. Baptiste growled low in his throat and stormed out. Martin jumped to his feet, seemingly ready for Baptiste’s next orders. In smooth succession, Baptiste turned to walk toward Martin and slapped his face. The blow sounded like the crack of a whip. Its intensity knocked Martin back onto the sofa. Baptiste continued past him and left the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Baptiste grunted as he rifled through a stack of papers in an open folder on his desk. With a low growl, he slammed the top of the pile and snatched the phone from its cradle.

  “Maxwell, get in here,” he commanded and whacked the receiver back in place.

  He rocked his chair back and waited. Maxwell, a tall, thin man, with no hair, rich brown skin, dark eyes, and a thick goatee, entered moments later.

  The man had been his most trusted worker for almost twenty years. Maxwell was just a boy of seventeen living on the streets when he was caught stealing from one of his establishments. He pretended to be a worker from a different store and liberated food and money from them. Finally caught, he was brought before Baptiste for punishment. When the full story was told, Baptiste found the boy to be clever, resourceful. He thought Maxwell mirrored many of his own qualities and instantly took a liking to the boy. Deciding there were obviously changes that needed to be made in his organization, Baptiste hired Maxwell on the spot to make them.

  With his notebook opened and pen out, Maxwell took the chair before his boss and crossed his legs.

  “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “I have looked through this stack of papers ten times and I cannot find the monthly reports for Maison Douce,” he told him, pointing at the paperwork. “Who is supposed to collect them?”

  “That would be Andrew, sir.”

  “Well then, where the hell is he? Why isn’t he doing his job?”

  Maxwell’s brow rose. “Andrew was one of the young men I had to, umm, dispose of last week, Mr St John,” he reminded him.

  Baptiste was lost for a moment as to what Maxwell was trying to tell him, then recognition widened his eyes.

  “Oh yes, him. Well then, get someone else from his little group to retrieve the reports.”

  “Andrew and the men that followed him were in charge of several small tasks at Maison Douce, sir. All five of them were terminated in the same manner.”

  Baptiste threw his hands up and jumped from his chair. “Good grief, Maxwell. Am I running this business by myself? Surely you’ve put someone else there. Who is running that house now?”

  “I put Luke in charge of the day-to-day business.”

  “Well, why hasn’t Luke found a replacement for Andrew and his men so that I have my paperwork?”

  “No one knows they are actually missing yet but us, sir.”

  Baptiste fixed narrowed eyes on Maxwell. “I need those papers, Maxwell. Fix this.”

  Maxwell left his chair. “Of course, sir. I will inform Luke that others will be coming to Maison Douce at once.”

  “And Maxwell,” he called out, causing the man to turn. “Make sure Luke is dealt with for this inconvenience.

  “Yes, sir.” Maxwell hesitated at the door. “Mr St John, might I suggest a visit from Desiree?” he added as a second thought. “You seem to be in need of some stress relief.”

  Baptiste wrapped one arm around himself and tapped his chin in thought. An image of long, sensual legs, ample bottom and a generous mouth appeared in his mind’s eye. Her beautiful body covered in a black satin corset and fishnet stockings had ridden him to completion on many occasions. Baptiste shook his head hard, dissipating the thoughts. He was in no mood for that today.

  “No, send Cindy to my house this evening instead.”

  Maxwell’s brows rose. “Cindy, sir? Are you sure?”

  Cindy… White sundress fluttering past her knees, modest cleavage, soft, blonde hair pulled back into a low, demure ponytail. She was docile and compliant when he made love to her, letting him take control as her gentle moans goaded him on.

  “Yes, Cindy will do.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

  After a while, Baptiste opened the folder again then retrieved a small laptop from his top drawer. He entered the information into the database on the computer, flipping each page at completion. When he was done, Baptiste gathered the papers and put them into an envelope in a file cabinet behind his desk. Returning his gaze to his laptop, he frowned.

  “Dammit.” He shook his head and snatched the phone up again. “Maxwell! I need those—”

  The door flew open.

  “I have the monthly reports from Maison Douce, Mr St John,” Maxwell said, extending the pages toward him.

  Baptiste shifted his eyes to the receiver then back to Maxwell before he returned it to its cradle.

  “Thank you, Maxwell. You are efficient, as always.”

  Maxwell left the room with a nod, and Baptiste added the information from the sheets and hit save. He stared at the completed graph on the screen and smiled.

  “Now that’s more like it.” The pleasure in seeing the final numbers started to fade as other thoughts entered his mind. “When was I last at Maison Douce?” he mumbled. When comprehension dawned, his lip curled.

  “Oh, yes. François dismissed me from his presence like a common servant,” he grumbled. Rocking his chair, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, perhaps it is time I went back over there. Someone has to put that old man in his place,” Baptiste muttered and picked up the phone. “Reggie, bring the car around.”

  A short while later, Baptiste walked up the stairs at Maison Douce, and the door swung open.

  “Good afternoon, Mr St John.”

  Baptiste raised an eyebrow as he passed the man, greeting him. “Who are you?”

  “I am Jacques, sir. I was sent over from your other establishment, the houses at Cynthiana Winery. Per Maxwell I am to run le Maison Douce until further notice,” he explained with a crisp bow.

  Baptiste nodded and continued across the floor. “Have you been apprised of the happenings of this house?”

  “Yes, sir. Maxwell has informed me of my duties.”

  “Very well, you may return to them,” Baptiste said and continued to the staircase. He took the steps quickly. The flunkies he saw on his last trip were at their stations again. When they spotted him, they jumped to their feet to greet him. Baptiste acknowledged them with a curt nod but nothing else as he entered. No o
ne sat in the outer room of François’ bedroom. He crossed the bedroom. Michael, a young, mediocre magic user, sat in the corner wearing headphones. Baptiste caught his attention and jerked his head, gesturing him to come to the outer room.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Michael said, pulling the door shut behind them.

  “Status, Michael,” Baptiste said, ignoring the pleasantries.

  “François’ magic continues to fade, sir, but the fire still burns with intensity inside him.”

  Baptiste rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “How much longer before he expires?” he grumbled.

  Michael lifted his hands in an unsure gesture when he shrugged. “It’s hard to say, Mr St John.”

  “You’re a fire user, aren’t you? Can’t you tell?”

  Michael shook his head. “Though his body weakens, he is an elder. His magic remains strong. It could be today, next week—even next month.”

  Baptiste took a long, deep breath then exhaled. “Fine. I’m going to talk to him. Stay out here until I return.”

  Michael nodded and Baptiste went back into the bedroom. Everything was exactly the same inside, including François’ appearance. He moved closer to see if the older man was asleep.

  “Have you come back to inform me of another death, young Baptiste?”

  Baptiste squeezed his eyes tight at the sound of François’ pet name for him. The sound grated on his nerves whenever he heard it, equivalent to someone’s nails scratching on a chalkboard.

  “No, François, I came to talk to you,” he answered as calmly as he could.

  François chuckled low. “I see. We really have nothing to discuss, mon ami. Your pretense to chit-chat does not cover the real reason you have come. And I have a notion as to what that may be.”