Wet Grave (Benjamin January, Book 6)
In such attractive novels of crime and personality as Die Upon a Kiss, offered Down the River, and A loose guy of Color, Benjamin January tracked down killers during the sensuous, atmospheric, dangerously appealing international of outdated New Orleans. Now, during this new novel by way of bestselling writer Barbara Hambly, he follows a path of homicide from illicit again alleys to glittering mansions to a depressing position the place the oldest and deadliest secrets and techniques lie buried . . .
It’s 1835 and the relentless glare of the past due July sunlight has slowed New Orleans to a standstill. whilst Hesione LeGros--once a corsair’s jeweled mistress, now a raddled hag--is stumbled on slashed to loss of life in a shanty at the edge of New Orleans’s so much lawless area, there are few to care. yet one among them is Benjamin January, musician and instructor. He good recollects her blazing ebony attractiveness whilst she seemed, exquisitely gowned and convenient with a stiletto, at a demimonde ceremonial dinner years in the past.
Who would wish to kill this girl now--Hessy, they acknowledged, may flip a trick for a bottle of rum--had a few quarrelsome “customer” made up our minds to put off her? Or might or not it's one of many sexual predators who roamed the darkish and seedy streets? Or--as Benjamin involves suspect--was her killer somebody she knew, an individual whose cautious seek of her shack indicates a cold-blooded crime? a person whose boot left a chillingly exact print . . .
His inquiries at taverns, markets, and slave dances show little approximately “Hellfire Hessy” considering her glory days in Barataria Bay, as soon as the lair of gents pirates. Then the homicide is swept from his brain by means of the supply of a crate choked with contraband rifles--and another telltale boot print left by means of its claimant. whilst a homicide rapidly follows, Ben and Rose Vitrac, the lady he loves, worry the workings of a serpentine brain and a treacherous plot: one merely they could desire to thwart in time.
All too quickly they're fugitives of colour within the stormy bayous and marshes of slave-stealer kingdom, headed for smugglers’ haunts and sinister plantations, the place one fake step will be their final towards a...Wet Grave.
From the Hardcover edition.
There. God knew how for much longer Shaw was once strong for. January cursed himself grimly as he smashed one attacking slave around the face, seized the cane-knife from the attacker's hand, and slashed at another—for himself, he did not care if the Avocet ladies lived or died, and resented being installed the placement of shielding them. no longer whilst Rose and Dominique wanted his presence in the home. He stomped, kicked, thrust a bloodied slave again during the door, risked a look over his shoulder. Shaw used to be.
Her hand, with its previous cane-stalk scar that she instructed her pals had come from a scratch with a hat-pin. The doorways stood open onto Rue Burgundy, and over the stillness of the city and the thrumming of the cicadas a market-woman cried her gingerbread in an extended sing-song wail. “Besides, i do know Rose, and Rose might by no means have married a guy who outfitted houses.” “Then she's as silly as you.” “Yes.” January smiled. “That approach we all know we will be happy.” And his mom seemed up at him, wondered, and for.
identify. “British did not run round like this, though.” He fired, and a looming horseback form flung out its hands and fell. “Sure is like tryin' to shoot weasels via starlight,” Dillard agreed, and spat tobacco. at the back of the fallen trainer the Indian defend yelled whatever: January became and acquired off a shot at extra ragged, wolf-like shapes clambering over the rocks above the line, heard one other bullet strike the trainer roof. a guy within cried out. A rider loomed out of the airborne dirt and dust, bloody spittle.
Of beaver-hunters, brutes who skinned for the Rocky Mountain Fur corporation and boasted of the half-breed women they might raped within the villages north of Taos. She'd paid Franklin Mulm, the Nantucket's proprietor, fifty cents for the privilege of receiving her consumers in a single of the cribs—“The one again of that tree there, that he rents to women who do not paintings for him regular,” defined the badged slave, whose identify used to be Cuffee—and there'd been an altercation over the remainder of the cash owed her. “Talk approximately.
Marrying, who'll have Aurelie Viellard for a spouse's mother, which no one merits, even a lady who offered off her nurse and half-sister, let alone spending the remainder of her existence searching for husbands for these ghastly sisters of Henri's. . . . have you learnt they are attempting to make a fit with previous Theobald Trudeau for Manon? he is a wonderfully great guy, in fact, whether he does cost cash a pound for fairly traditional China tea. . . . now not that the way in which the women glance is their fault, of.