Dark Sacrifice (12 page)

He's my dad—a preacher with a straight line to God. If anyone can get the 4-1-1 from heaven on how to fix me, he can. Otherwise, I'm doomed. “Didn't you hear me?” I grab his arm. “I said I was being sucked into hell 'cause of the evil I've done. But they resuscitated me and something from the other side hitched a ride inside of me. A demon.”

I see spirits.

“Dad, I need you to perform an exorcism.”

I
'm pretty sure George has a concussion.

Otherwise, he wouldn't be staring at me with crossed eyes. I feel horrible about him getting hurt. I should've told him about my seeing ghosts. No matter how ridiculous it sounds, at least he would've been ready for Acker's psychic attack.

Well, maybe nobody can be fully prepared for something invisible throwing rocks at their head.

What should I do? Tell him or not?

I bite my lip. The pros and cons run through my mind. Worst-case scenario is he arrests me for being mentally deranged and locks me back in the psych ward. Best case …he believes me.

Then what?

George leans back on the couch with a groan. He presses the ice pack against the lump on his head. Why isn't he saying anything? He's totally freaking me out. I should call for an ambulance.

I reach for the telephone. “I'm calling Dixie.”

George's hand falls on top of mine. “I'm fine. A little dizzy, but I'll be okay in a few. I'm off-duty right now.”

“Oh, the uniform confused me.”

He grunts.

I fall onto the sofa. He winces when his head bounces off the back of the seat cushion. “Sorry. I mean it. I'm really, really, sorry you got hurt. This is all my fault. If Acker...”

George sits up, dropping the ice pack. “What do you mean? Acker what? Was that him in the yard? Was he throwing rocks at us?”

“Uh, no.”

He grabs my arm. “Are you sure? We haven't found him yet. Dena says he hasn't been home since the night of the attack.”

“No, I swear. It wasn't him.”
Liar. Tell the truth.

Acker's dead. I killed him.
The words burn on the tip of my tongue. If I say them, I'll have to tell him the whole truth. Every sordid detail of how Lainey shoved Acker into the quicksand and how I didn't pull him out even though he begged for my help.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Does he hear my heart pounding? It feels like it's about to erupt out of my chest. Can he see the guilt written across my burning cheeks? I blow out a heavy breath and look toward the bathroom. The door's still shut, and I can hear the shower running. My body vibrates with the intensity of my need for Landry's support. I want him beside me. I need to be rescued before I blab the truth and damn myself.

I try to stand, but George shifts until he's lying with his copper head snuggled on my lap. The tips of his spiky hair brush the bare skin between the gap in my jeans shorts and T-shirt. “God, Mala. I've got the worst headache. You sure it wasn't Acker?”

Admitting I killed someone is even scarier than the moment when I realized I made my choice to save Acker too late. I feel shitty enough. I don't want to see the condemnation in George's eyes, or for Dena to find out. If that makes me a coward, then I'm a wussy chicken.

“Yeah. It was a dust devil kicking up debris. You happened to get in the way, that's all.” I place the ice pack back on his knot and lie like the black-tongued devil I've become. “Acker's not a fool. He's long gone. I bet he never, ever comes back.”

He tips his chin. Concern sparks the gold in his green eyes. “What about his kids?”

“Dena raised them after her mom ran off.” I brush a damp strand of hair off his forehead. “She'll keep on caring for them now that her daddy has too. She's tough.”

The water in the bathroom shuts off.

George sits up and grabs my hand, dragging me off the sofa. “I need to talk to you, and I don't want Landry overhearing.”

I follow him to the door, pausing to make sure Acker isn't in sight before leading him to a rocking chair. “What?”

“Landry said you're pissed about Dad. Is he right?”

A tight band wraps around my chest. I blow out a puff of air at the stupid question. Of course I'm angry. Why wouldn't I be? Mama with Daddy Dubois—hell, even Ms. March kept it secret from me for twenty years.

“Pissed barely covers it.”

He reaches for my hand, but I move it to my lap. A frown drags down the corners of his eyes. “Tell me.”

“I feel like a piece of shit scraped off the bottom of his shoes.” I blink away the blurriness covering my vision. I won't cry for him.
My father. What a joke.

I stare out across the rippling grass to the trees bordering the woods. I drink in the rich, earthy smell, letting it cleanse the foulness of my thoughts. “I feel hurt…betrayed. And disgusted”—I stab him with my eyes—“by you, George.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“You said for me to tell you how I really feel, so listen closely. I don't care about my sperm donor. He means nothing to me. You, I trusted. And now I can't even imagine a world where we're a couple.”

“You don't mean that.”

I lean forward. “Oh, come on. Stop lying. You totally suck at it. Do you really see us dating? Going to family dinners together? What about getting married, huh? Think our parents will approve?” I drop my hand onto his hard thigh and squeeze.

The color drains from his cheeks. He grabs my hand and moves it back onto my lap. “Don't…”

“It's okay, George. I feel the same way.”

“Don't tell me how I feel.”

“Admit it. The kiss, the whole idea about us being together, none of it ever felt totally right to me or for you either, I bet. I was an emotional mess. I needed someone to help ease my grief for Mama,”
and Landry
, “and I love you.” I flick a rock off the table and watch it roll across the deck. “We love each other, but as friends. Now I guess our feeling will morph into a brother and sisterly kind of warm-fuzzy. I'm cool with that.”

George slams his hands down and pushes up out of the chair. “Well, on that note, I'll be heading out.”

“Wait! What?” I scramble up. “Are you sure you're okay to drive?”

“The conversation cleared the fog from my brain.” He stares at me for a long moment, and I wish I could read his thoughts. I did all of the talking. He didn't disagree, but he hasn't agreed either.

I watch from the porch steps as he walks to his Land Rover. He moves too fast for me to keep up even if I wanted to. The tension tightening my shoulders drains off as I slough off the guilt I feel about having used George. I never should've kissed him. Worse, I never should've tried to force myself into a relationship with him when, the whole time, I couldn't stop thinking about Landry.

“It's done,” I whisper, waving good-bye.

Once the Land Rover vanishes down the windy driveway, I go inside, yelling “Landry, it's safe to come out now.” I flop down on the sofa and start flipping through television stations. “Don't sulk. I'll let you pick the movie. Or we can play a game. Landry?”

Silence.

“Hello?” My heartbeat quickens as I get up and walk across the room. The bathroom door remains half closed but opens with a slight push. I squint, ready to slam my eyelids shut if he's naked. An oppressive weight presses around my body, like the air thickens, syrupy and muggy. The open shower curtain shows the empty tub. A steady drip forces me to tighten the faucet. A coppery taint mixed with the sharp pungency of urine makes my nose crinkle. My vision blurs as a crimson squiggly line wavers in the air, like in a comic strip. The cartoon equivalent of stink hovers above my trash can.

I breathe in. The squiggle rushes into my nose. Fills my lungs.

Blood.

I stumble, overcome by the pure power in the blood. I inhale again and again. With each breath, the tingle grows inside of me until my skin and hair crackle. My hand trembles when I pull a bloody wad of toilet paper out of the trash can. I hold it up to my nose and inhale the sweet scent of Landry's blood. Heat rushes through my body, pulsing between my thighs. The surge of lust shakes me to my core.
Whoa, holy pheromone rush.

I've gone all kinds of crazy.

“Landry!” The search of the bedroom and kitchen doesn't take but a minute. With each frantic step, panic fills me. The
ding
of the washing machine has me sprinting to the side porch. It's also empty. So is the side yard.

“Landry,” I scream, spinning in a circle.

Crap! He left me.

I shouldn't have spent so much time with George. I know how jealous Landry gets. Why didn't I think about that? What do I do? Go after him?

No. No, he'll be back. All of his stuff is inside.

I breathe in again.

Landry's faint scent comes from the woods to my left. I scan the ground for footprints because I can't really have turned into a bloodhound. It's not really possible for me to be able to smell Landry.

Oh God, I'm a total mutant freak.

I hold my breath until my lungs strain and my vision gets spotty. My gasp brings in a rush of aromas: the sweet hint of clover, the rotten-egg stench of stagnant water, and the nose-curling sharpness of chicken poop. No blood.

At the shed, I find two sets of footprints. One I assume belongs to Landry. The other looks exactly like the boots I followed through the woods. My Goldilocks. Landry must've seen them and tracked whoever made the prints into the woods. If there really was a fourth guy at the house the night Mama died, Landry could be walking into a trap. Landry's tough. He can handle a lone guy in a hand-to-hand fight, but not if there's a gun involved.

I should call the Sheriff's Office and have Dixie send George back out. No, he's not on duty. Plus his head wound. Andy and his K-9, Rex, would be better.

What about the plan?
My eyes go to the footprints, and I pause. My stomach twists. I want to throw up. This is my best chance to get revenge. I can't throw it away, even for Landry. I spent countless sleepless nights in the psych ward contemplating how I would avenge Mama. How I would be the one to bring those men to justice and prove I could be a cop. I even planned how I could use Landry against them. Now I'm more worried about his safety than my reputation…my future.

His dying made me forget my anger toward him. I won't let anyone hurt him.

Part of me wants to rush in to rescue him. It takes all of my strength to hold myself to a steady walk. My eyes scan the ground, following the tracks. Landry's scent fades. God, I hope that was my imagination working overtime and not another crazy symptom of my family's magic. My preconceptions have been turned upside down. Magic, ghosts, death visions, and freaking time rifts…Speculative fiction's supposed to be escapism, reserved for TV or books. It shouldn't intrude on the natural order of the world.

The spongy ground muffles my footsteps. A hush, broken only by the rustling leaves overhead, brings the sound of Landry's voice. I crouch down, sliding through the underbrush, planting each foot with care not to step on a branch.

Landry's voice rises...begging for help. My stomach clenches. I brush aside the leaves blocking my view with a trembling hand and freeze. Betrayal surges through me, sharp and ugly. It eats into me, stripping through the layers I've built up over the last month to dampen my hate, leaving me raw and open.

Landry stands in the clearing, holding on to a man I prayed I'd see but didn't really believe I'd ever get a chance at. Still might not. Landry looks like he's about to take out his father all by himself, and I can't let him. Reverend Prince killed my mother, and he stands only a few feet away. He's mine.

My fingers tingle with the buildup of power, ready to shoot a blast of energy across the clearing and blow Reverend Prince apart, just like I destroyed the door when I tried to rescue Mama. It takes every bit of control to remain still. Landry's standing too close to him, and I might hurt him by mistake. If I plan the moment just right, the rev won't see me coming, and Landry won't be able to stop me.

D
ad stares at me for a long minute, then laughs. His whole body shakes. He glances up at me with tears streaming down his cheeks before going into another fit of giggles.
Not cool.

“You're joking…” He chokes. “After what happened…me believing Jimmy Rathbone about Jasmine performing a hoodoo ritual on Lainey…” He wipes his eyes with the dirty cuff of his shirt. “You're testing me.”

“Dad—” I release him and collapse against the trunk of a nearby tree.

He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I promise, son, I'm of sound mind. What happened to Jasmine…to the nurse you spoke of earlier…I'm of sound mind, and I have a debt to pay.”

His words get me mobile again. “What does that mean? Do you plan to hurt Mala?”

“That's what I'm trying to explain, son. My inaction let harm come to that girl. I won't rest easy until I perform penance for the wrongs done to her and her mother.”

“Swear to it.”

A branch cracks. I turn around, searching the brush. A shadow darts into my blind spot too fast to see what made it.

Dad grabs my arm, squeezing hard. “I promise I'll give my life to keep that girl safe.”

All the pent-up tension rushes out, and I sag, nodding. I believe him. My dad. “You said something happened to the nurse? Do you mean the one all over the news? Gloria Pearson?”

“Sit down.” He waves to a downed log. I make my way over to it and collapse. Dad sits beside me, crossing his legs. Dirt cakes his bare ankles. I wonder if he has any clean clothes.

He tips his dark head and stares at the sky. “Rathbone and Gloria were dating. Maybe the whole time Lainey carried his baby. Of course, none of us knew about her, and I'm not sure if Lainey knew about Gloria.”

“So Gloria helped you escape 'cause Rathbone asked her?”

“Rathbone didn't want me getting arrested for Jasmine's murder. He knew about George testing the knife for DNA and did the blood analysis himself. It was only a matter of time before they had proof of my being there. He and Gloria drugged me, then they sneaked me out of the hospital.” His blue eyes flicker. “I didn't know about the part he played in your sister's death at the time. Poor Gloria told me when she found out about Rathbone murdering Lainey and the baby.”

“Her betrayal must've pissed him off.”

Dad's jaw flexes. “Jimmy probably thought he could sweet-talk me into believing he was innocent of killing my daughter. Gloria ruined that.”

“So he killed her.”

“He was too much of a coward to dirty his own hands. He brought someone to do the deed for him. An accomplice.”

My breath catches, and I let it out slowly. “Who?” I ask, trying not to put too much emphasis on how important the answer is to me.

“Wish I knew. He didn't speak in front of me, and he wore a mask that night. I was more concerned about you. I didn't bother trying to see his face. Gloria drugged me before leaving the hospital. I faded in and out during the drive. We ended up at Acker's lodge. They kept me in a drugged fog in one of the back rooms. Guess they were waiting for his friend to arrive to take care of putting me out of my misery.”

“What about Acker's kids? Did they see you?”

Dad shakes his head. “I didn't see Acker. My guess is the guy killed him too. I doubt the kids ever knew we were there.”

I nod. Acker's barn is set off about half a mile from the main house. The land had a tendency to flood, which left few safe areas above the water line for farming. And Acker couldn't afford to care for large livestock. He'd come up with the idea of turning it into a hunting lodge, and with church contributions and monetary help from friends, they converted his barn. It now boasts three bedrooms with bunk beds, three baths, an area for cleaning game, and a large living room.

I've only seen the inside once. Private and secluded, it's the perfect hunting lodge since it's so close to Forest Service land. Grown men could congregate there without their nosy wives' interference. They didn't even have to worry about Acker's wife, since she ran off with another man.

I blink, realizing I've lost track of the conversation.

“I was pretty out of it,” Dad says. “I overheard Gloria and Rathbone arguing about killing me. She balked at murder. Then a car came. There was more arguing, but I couldn't make out the identity of the other man by his voice. It sounded familiar, but my head was all jumbled from the drugs. I blacked out again. When I came to, I was alone but for the bodies. I'm not sure how they died. I didn't get close enough.”

“Why didn't he kill you too?”

Dad shrugs. “My guess? The guy killed Rathbone and Gloria before they had a chance to tell him about me. That or he figured I was so out of it he could take me out of the equation later. I didn't stick around for him to come back.”

My stomach sours at how close he came to getting killed. “What about the bodies?”

“I went to Jasmine's house. The police had already come and gone. I figured it for the perfect place to hide out. Who would think to look for me at the scene of my crime, right?” He shakes his head. “The bodies had been moved by the time I finally gained the courage to go back. I don't know where he disposed of them. Can't feel too hurt over Rathbone's death after what he did to your sister, but Gloria…”

“How do I find this guy?”

“You don't have to worry about finding him, son. That's what I'm trying to explain. He's cleaning up Rathbone's mess, one person at a time. He's gonna come after you and Mala. No loose ends. He'll be coming here next, and I'll be waiting. I won't let anything happen to you or to Mala.”

Dad and I come up with a plan. I'll hide his lurking about the property from Mala, while he does his best to protect us. The relief at not being alone in this almost has me skipping through the woods as I return to the house. Okay, maybe skip-limping—sklimping—'cause those damn broken stitches sting like the devil. My one regret is keeping Dad a secret from Mala. I swore after the whole “accusing her of murder” issue that I would be up front with her, but…hell, I can't risk her flipping out.

If Dad gets arrested, I'm screwed. There's no way I can protect her solo. How am I supposed to stop a murderer whose face I've never seen? The dude hides in the shadows. I'm bait. Pure and simple. Mala and I both are. We need someone to reel this guy in while we dangle on the hook, and I sure as shit don't trust DA Cready to pull off a save.

Mala is sitting on the front porch when I return. The sun makes her brown hair shimmer with auburn highlights. It tangles in wet curls around her waist. She catches me staring and grimaces. “I had dirt and sticks in it from Acker's attack. It's so thick, I have to let it dry out some before I braid it.”

She's so pretty.

I edge up the stairs, trying to keep her on my blind side. If I can't see her, I won't feel guilty.

She bounds into view, and I jump. “Where have you been?”

I scowl. “Like you care.”

“If I didn't, I wouldn't ask.” She steps closer and lays the tips of her fingers against my chest, and I suck in a breath. “Your stitches tore.”

“How did you know?” Can she feel my heart race beneath her palms? If she knew how little control I have when it comes to her, would she keep touching me like this? I edge aside, and her fingers drop. I draw in a slow breath.

Eyes as black as a raven's wing stare up at me. A tiny frown creases her brow, as if she's trying to read what I'm struggling to keep hidden. I look away.

“You're horrible at keeping secrets, but I'll forgive you this time.”

I gulp. “Huh?”

“You should've flushed the bandage and bloody tissue down the toilet. Although my septic tank thanks you for not clogging it up.” She slides her arm through mine. My gut tightens as I hold back a groan. “The first aid kit is still out from when I patched up Georgie. You're next, buddy.”

Ugh, George…why throw him in my face?
I pluck her fingers from my arm. “I'm fine.”

“You're mad at me?” Her bottom lip pokes out in an unconscious pout.

She's killing me.
“Why would I be mad?”

The darkness hovering over her returns, and she frowns.

I go inside, and she follows a few steps behind. When I try to go into the kitchen, she swivels around me and blocks the way with wide-stretched arms. “Uh-uh, not until I bandage you up.”

“I'm okay…”

She shoves me toward the sofa. I fall onto it with a grunt. “Take off your shirt.” Her voice trembles on the words, and her eyes stay locked on my chest as I slowly lift the T-shirt. The tip of her tongue flicks out to wet her lips. Heat fills her eyes. I close mine and lift the shirt over my head while trying to slow my heavy breathing so she doesn't notice. I drop the shirt onto the floor.

Mala drops to her knees between my legs. Her hand trembles. My stomach muscles contract when her fingertips brush across my skin. Her gaze flits up to meet mine while she removes my makeshift bandage. “Are you trying to get an infection?”

“Do I hear worry in your voice? Better watch out or I might think you care about me.”

“Don't be an idiot.” She takes a cotton ball from the first aid kit, pours antiseptic on it, and dabs it on my wound. I let out a low hiss. My manly quotient for the day is seriously depleted. I'm too damn tired to hide my pain. At least my dick's not embarrassing me by acting up with Mala within touching distance.

Until she leans forward and blows the sting from my wound.
I think I'm gonna die.

I stare at a crack in the ceiling and try to think distracting thoughts. Nothing's coming to mind. My body's too hyperaware of her—the floral scent of her hair, the touch of her right breast brushing across my knee, the shine to her lips. I want to drag her across my lap and…
Shut up, brain. Just shut up.

“You're not upset about George, are you?” Mala asks, pressing on a bandage. She gets up and flops into the chair across from me, draping one leg over the arm. Her foot rocks back and forth as she picks at a loose string on her cut-offs. She epitomizes casual, as if she doesn't care about my answer. Well, fine. Two can play that game.

I lift my feet onto the coffee table. I try to look relaxed, but tension keeps me stiff even when I fake slouch. “What does your relationship with George have to do with me?”

Her skin reddens until her cheeks look like caramel apples. “We're not in a relationship.”

Ha! Liar.
“Are you sure? 'Cause you both act like you are. ‘
Are you okay,
Georgie Porgie?
'” I coo, imitating her icky-sweet voice.

Her jaw flexes. “I do not sound like that.”

“Wanna bet? I had to get out of here before I threw up my breakfast.”

“Take it back.” Her hands ball up into fists.

“No takebacks, Mala. Admit it.”

“Aah!” She launches out of the chair.

I have a second head start. I scramble over the back of the sofa, placing it between us. “
Oh, Georgie.
Did my itty-witty baby get an owie?
”

“Stop talking in that annoying voice!”

Her cheeks glow even brighter, and her frizzy hair looks like she stuck her finger in a light socket. Her chest heaves with each breath, stretching her T-shirt. She takes advantage of my distraction. She lunges forward, and her breasts slam against my chest. My arm wraps around her waist as the impact of our collision sends us flying onto the sofa.

Air
whoosh
es out of my lungs.

Mala's eyes widen, and she freezes. She stares at my mouth.
Mesmerized by my luscious lips
…only it turns out to actually be the case. Her eyes go dreamy as her head tilts downward, and her lips purse. I close my eye and roll sideways.

She hits the ground with a muffled curse.