FROZEN ANGEL

CHAPTER 1 

The air hung with such humidity in the streets of New Orleans that afternoon, Armelle's limbs felt coated in syrup. Praline heat, she thought, as she steadied her breathing - sticky and seductive. She could smell the brown sugar wafting from the open windows of the candy shops, imagine the rum cocktails pouring in the bars lining the streets. Everything in the Old Quarter simmered and boiled until it distilled into something rich, intoxicating, and far too addictive for a single taste. 

And, surely she had to be either addicted or crazy to pose as still as death in these conditions? Traffic noises and conversation snatches wrecked her concentration. The heat leeched her energy. She'd posed for nearly an hour with no results until weariness weighed her down and a headache loomed at the back of her skull. 

"Is she real, mommy?" Armelle heard a little girl ask. From the corner of her eye, she could just see blond curls and pink plastic sunglasses perched on a little freckled nose.  

"She's real a person, Susie, just not a real angel," the mother said from somewhere to Armelle's right. "She's only pretending to be made of stone like those angel statues we saw in the big cemetery tour." 

"Like playing make-believe?" the little girl asked. 

"Yes, but for money, sweetheart. She's what is called a performance artist. Some people do that when they can't get other kinds of work."  

Irritation stabbed Armelle just to the left of one fake wing. Well, what did she expect? It's not like the truth read any better -- a doctoral student dressed like a kneeling angel to lure a ghost. No, she corrected, not a ghost, a past life event. And, in order to recreate exactly the right conditions for the phenomena to occur, she had to stay focused which was nearly impossible on a busy street. 

I'm addicted to this place, she thought. A sober person would have left at the first sign of danger. Surely she had to be either addicted or crazy to pose as still as death in these conditions? Traffic noises and snatches of conversation wrestled with her concentration. The heat leeched her energy. She'd posed for nearly an hour with no results until weariness weighed her down and a headache loomed at the edge of her temples. 

I'm addicted to this place, she thought. A sober person would have left town at the first sign of danger. A sober person would never watch her career shatter into a thousand pieces, or push her body to extremes day and night. And, more significant than anything, a sober person would never kneel perfectly still in the burning heat waiting for a man who had been dead for over two centuries.  

But she could not stop herself.  

Maybe she wasn't trying hard enough? Or, then again, maybe she was trying too hard? 

Coins clinked in the little bowl at Armelle's feet but, the moment she dipped her head in thanks, the headache detonated. Startled by the sudden pain, she instinctively pressed her hands against her forehead and waited for the throb to pass. As she counted the seconds, the child's chatter receding along with the honking horns and traffic noises of the Old Quarter.  

When she opened her eyes, the street had plunged into a watery light that smeared her vision and blurred everything around her. She blinked, stunned. Instead of exhaust fumes, the pungent odor of dung stung her nostrils. A horse whinnied nearby. Waves washed ashore from somewhere behind her, though she had been standing nowhere near the river.  

She had crossed at last.  

A man's voice speaking French rose out of the background. "Answer me, damn it! Are you a spy, is that it? Speak, why don't you?" 

All at once, her vision cleared and Armelle blinked up into a man's face. Dark hair plastered a bruised forehead above a jaw clenched in pain. One eye was swollen shut. Blood soaked the linen of his shirt and she read ferocious pain in his eyes.