Dark Carousel (Dark #30) - Christine Feehan Page 0,59

at her. “He told me about you. He was very proud of you and the work you did. He said the pupil had exceeded the master in skill.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Ricard was very modest, but he was the best in the world. If you wanted your carousel restored right, to the absolute glory it once had, you asked for him.”

“Which is exactly why I did. His reputation was impeccable.”

Charlotte stepped down into the sunken room. The basement extended throughout the length of the house. Although it was one large room, there were several half walls that made the space appear to be a giant maze. Carousel horses of every era dominated the room, but the half walls separated them by age. There was a work space with all kinds of tools and paints. Carving tools. Old paints made from leaves and flowers. Everything anyone loving carousels could possibly want or use.

Charlotte looked over her shoulder at Tariq. “You carve.”

He shrugged. “I find it satisfies something in me I can’t define. There’s a kind of peace in carving. The wood shavings curling, the block of wood taking shape, the detail. I feel as though I can take an inanimate piece of wood and bring it to life. I like it.” He sent her a self-deprecating grin. “I can’t say I’m all that good at it, so don’t examine mine too closely. But I like carving.”

Charlotte loved the expression on his face. He was so handsome with his long, thick, very dark hair and his gemlike blue eyes. Gorgeous. All man. Sophisticated. Yet he would sit down in his basement, using his hands to create something beautiful. He really loved the carousels just as she did; she could hear it in his voice. She liked being able to breathe life back into them, and clearly he liked creating the life in them.

“I name them,” he blurted out, admitting something he clearly thought was crazy. “The older ones. I like to name them.”

“Because they seem real,” she murmured. “That’s beautiful.”

“It’s insane. I don’t let the children down here,” he said, suddenly all business.

She was fairly certain he was embarrassed by his admission, but it endeared him to her even more.

“There are too many ways they could hurt themselves. My tools, the horses themselves. The oldest are still wrapped.” He indicated the section closest to his workstation. “I bought those from a collector’s estate recently. They’re the ones I wrote to Ricard about. The collector, Paul Emery, had pictures of them, and some of the wood has deteriorated as well as the original paint. Paul bought the horses and chariots for his daughter. He apparently hung the four horses up on his porch for her and her friends to use. His wife died in a car accident right after his little girl was born, and he claimed he spoiled his daughter as much as possible.”

Charlotte could see the four bundles wrapped carefully in Bubble Wrap. Just behind them were four larger ones she was certain were the chariots. She couldn’t wait to open the Bubble Wrap to see them. The pictures indicated they were some of the oldest carousel horses in existence.

“His little girl became ill shortly after he bought the horses for her and eventually she died. The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Emery was dying when I spoke to him about the horses. He had insisted any potential buyer speak to him before the transaction was complete. He believed there was some kind of curse on the horses. He explained that over the last few centuries, anyone owning the horses and using them eventually succumbed to some unknown disease. He wanted to make me aware of the curse before I purchased them. He had been given the warning and it went unheeded as, apparently, it had for all the collectors before him.”

She turned and faced him, fascinated. “He died?”

“Yes, of the same illness as his daughter. As had the collectors before him and their families. Apparently anyone who has owned those horses died of an unknown withering disease, or . . .” He paused, watching her face. “Or the owner was murdered in the same manner as your brother and Ricard Beaudet.”

She felt the color drain from her face. “Tariq. Is that the truth?” A chill went down her spine and goose bumps rose on her arms. She could see by his expression that he was dead serious. “Tariq.” She whispered his name. “That’s horrible. How many collectors or