Benjamin January is forced to travel to Haiti to seek his family’s lost treasure, in order to save everything he holds dear When Jefferson Vitrack – the white half-brother of Benjamin January’s wife - turns up on January’s doorstep in the summer of 1838 claiming he has discovered a clue to the whereabouts of the family’s lost treasure, January has no hesitation about refusing to help look for it. For the treasure lies in Haiti, the island that was once France’s most profitable colony – until the blood-chilling repression practiced there by the whites upon their slaves triggered a savage rebellion. The world’s only Black Republic still looks with murderous mistrust upon any strangers who might set foot there, and January is in no hurry to go. But when Vitrack is murdered, and attempts are made on January’s wife and himself, he understands that he has no choice. He must seek the treasure himself, to draw the unknown killers into the open, a bloody trail that leads first to Cuba, then to Haiti, and finally to the secret that lies buried with the accursed gold. “Hambly's long-running series pulls no punches" ― Kirkus Reviews “Series fans should particularly enjoy this one.” ― Booklist Barbara Hambly holds a degree in medieval history from the University of California and has written novels in many genres, from mysteries to science fiction and fantasy. Married to science fiction writer George Alec Effinger, she lives in Los Angeles and teaches at a local college. Crimson Angel A Benjamin January Novel By Barbara Hambly Severn House Publishers Limited Copyright © 2014 Barbara Hambly All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-7278-8427-5 CHAPTER 1 'Rosie!' The young man sprang from the cab in Rue Esplanade, took two strides toward the steps of Benjamin January's high-built old Spanish house, then turned back to pay the driver – which gave January the chance to put his head through the French door into the candlelit parlor and signal Tommy, one of the runaway slaves currently taking refuge beneath January's roof, to get the hell back under the house. If one had to run a school without scholars in this poverty-stalked year of 1838, January reasoned, the least one could do was take advantage of the fact and give shelter to those fleeing through New Orleans, heading North. In this poverty-stalked year of 1838, anything you could do to give God a better opinion of you and your family would be a help. He stepped back on to the gallery as his wife rose from her bent-willow chair, her face alight with pleasure, and the young man bounded up the stairs: 'Look at you!' As their visitor caught Rose's hands and spread them out to suit his own action to his words, January wondered where he'd seen him before: tallish and a little awkward, with just enough blond in his walnut-brown curls to catch glints from the mosquito-smudges that ranged along the gallery rail in the humid summer dusk. His French was purest Creole, but his dark silk waistcoat and the cut of his frock-coat screamed American . Only when Rose cried, 'Jeoff!' did January guess who this had to be, and who the young man's face reminded him of. He looked like Rose's white brother, a planter down on Grand Isle named Aramis Vitrac. And a little like Rose. Rose and 'Jeoff' turned to him, and Jeoff caught his hand. 'You must be Ben.' Like Rose, this younger brother ( surely younger, since Aramis – younger than Rose – has the plantation ) had a lovely smile, though unlike Rose he displayed it freely. Like Rose he was tall, but he still had to look up at January's massive height. 'I have to start by thanking you, sir: I've never seen my sister look so happy.' January returned the smile. 'I try, sir.' 'Jefferson.' The young man produced a card. 'Jefferson Vitrack.' He pronounced it American-fashion, rhyming it with hat rack, instead of putting stress on the final syllable and giving it a glottal French 'a'. Even before he held the card close to the nearest mosquito-smudge to read it, January knew the address would be north of Mason's and Dixon's Line. He was half-right. One address was in Philadelphia, the other in Washington City. Both places where the younger son of an impoverished French planter could find more opportunity to afford well-cut coats and sober silk waistcoats than he'd have in the bayous of Louisiana. Rose's hazel-green eyes sparkled with delight behind her spectacles. ' Jefferson now, is it? Jeoffrey is no longer good enough?' Jeoff laughed, and Zizi-Marie – January's niece, who like the runaways was sheltering under the big old house's ramshackle roof, though in her case this was due to the fact that her father hadn't worked since the bank crash eighteen months previously – brought out a branch of candles from the parlor to set on the little wicker table. But when she bent to gather up Baby John from under his tent of mosquito-bar to take him inside, Jeoff cried, 'Whoa, who's this?' and for a time they grouped around the infant: talk, laug