Dark Sacrifice (29 page)

Tears well up in her eyes, but she shakes her head. “How can you say that after what I've done?” She grabs onto the front of my robe, pulling me close. “Don't you get it? I'm evil, Landry.”

“Baby, I've got a demon sipping at my soul like it's a bottle of chardonnay. If anyone's evil, it's me.”

Mala sniffs, but she also loosens her grip on my robe. “That's not funny.”

“I wasn't joking. I said it to put this situation into perspective. You may not have listened to Magnolia, but I did. Magic isn't evil or good, it's the intentions of the person using it. Your intentions weren't evil.”
Only a little confused.
“You didn't kill Red. I'm not even upset about the demon trying to take him out. He deserves to suffer after all the people he's murdered. I'm just glad you weren't the one to kill him. Not 'cause he deserves to live, but 'cause you don't deserve to live with the guilt of his death.”

“Oh, Mother Mary, I almost murdered Red.”

“But you didn't. You stopped. Now we'll figure out a way to fix this mess. I promise.” If there is a way to save Mala from the consequences of her actions, I'll find it before I die. Whether that's bringing Dena back or letting her go, I don't know. But whatever it is, we'll figure it out together.

She's shaking her head. “You really mean this, don't you? I don't have to deal with this alone.”

“You're my girl. My heart, my incredible sexy body—everything I am or will be—is yours, Mala LaCroix. You'll never be alone again.”
In more ways than one.
I take a deep breath before spilling the rest of the news. “I told the Acker boys that you'll apply for guardianship. They're moving in with us.”

Mala blinks. “Say what?”

“Dad too. We're all going to be one big happy family. Isn't that great?”

B
lack mud oozes between my toes as I shift my weight and jerk on the rope, sending up a cloud of midges and the rotten-egg stench of stagnant swamp water. The edge of the damn crawfish trap lifts out of the water—like it's sticking its mesh tongue out at me—and refuses to tear loose from the twisted roots of the cypress tree. It's the same fight each and every time, only now the frayed rope will snap if I pull on it any harder. I have to decide whether to abandon what amounts to two days' worth of suppers crawling along the bottom of that trap or wade deeper into the bayou and stick my hand in the dark, underwater crevice to pry it free.

Gators eat fingers.
A cold chill runs down my spine at the thought, and I shiver, rubbing my arms. I search the algae-coated surface for ripples. The stagnant water appears calm. I didn't have a problem wading into the bayou to set the trap. I've trapped and hunted in this bayou my entire life. Sure it's smart to pay attention to my instincts, doing so has saved my life more times than I can count, but this soul-sucking fear is ridiculous.

I take a deep breath and pat the sheathed fillet knife attached to my belt. My motto is: Eat or be eaten. I personally like the last part. A growling belly tends to make me take all kinds of stupid risks, but this isn't one. If I'm careful, a gator will find my bite cuts deeper than teeth if it tries to make me into a four-course meal. Grandmère Cora tried to teach her daughter that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. Since Mama would rather fuck 'em than feed 'em, I inherited all the LaCroix family recipes, including a killer gator gumbo.

Sick of second-guessing myself, I slog deeper into the waist-high water. Halfway to the trap, warm mud wraps around my right ankle. My foot sticks deep, devoured. I can't catch my balance.
Crud, I'm sinking.

Ripples undulate across the surface of the water, spreading in my direction. My breath catches, and I fumble for the knife. Those aren't natural waves. Something's beneath the surface.
Something big.
I jerk on my leg, panting. With each heave, I sink deeper, unable to break the suction holding me prisoner. Gator equals death…But I'm still alive.
So what is it? Why hasn't it attacked?

A flash of white hits the corner of my eye—

Shit!
I twist, waving the knife in front of me. My heart thuds. Sparkly lights fill my vision. Blinking rapidly, I shake my head. My mind shuts down. At first I can't process what I'm seeing. It's too awful. Too sickening. Then reality hits—hard. The scream explodes from my chest, and I fling myself backward. The mud releases my leg with a
slurp
. Brackish water smacks my face, pouring into my open mouth as I go under. Mud and decayed plants reduce visibility below the surface.

Wrinkled, outstretched fingers wave at me in the current. The tip of a ragged fingernail brushes across my cheek. It snags in my hair. I bat at the hand, but I can't free my hair from the girl's grip. She's holding me under. Trying to drown me. I can't lift my head above the surface.
She won't let me go!

My legs flail, kicking the girl in the chest. She floats. I sit up, choking. I can't breathe and scream at the same time. I'm panting, but I concentrate.
Breathe in. Out. In.
The girl drifts within touching distance. Floating. Not swimming. Why doesn't she move? Is it stupid to pray for some sign of life—the rise of her chest, a kick from her leg—when I already know the truth?

Water laps at my chin. I wrap my arms around my legs. Shivers shake my body despite the warmth of the bayou, and my vision's fuzzy around the edges. I'm hyperventilating. If I try to stand I'll pass out. Or throw up. Probably both 'cause I'm queasy. I close my eyes, unable to look at the body anymore. Which is so wrong. I've studied what to do in this sort of situation. Didn't I spend a month memorizing the crime scene book I borrowed from Sheriff Keyes?
Come on, Mala. Pull it together.
A cop—even a future one—doesn't get squeamish over seeing a corpse. If I can't do something as simple as reporting the crime scene, well, then why not drop out of college, get hitched, and push out a dozen babies before I hit twenty-five, like everyone else in this damn town?

I lift my hands to scrub my face. Strands of algae lace my fingers. I pick them off. My legs tremble as I rise, which keeps me from running away. I have to describe the crime scene when I call the Sheriff's Office, and I imagine myself peering through the lens of a giant magnifying glass like Sherlock Holmes—searching her body for clues. Each detail becomes crystal clear.

Her lips are slightly parted, and a beetle crawls across her teeth, which are straight and pearly white, not a tooth missing. She's definitely a townie. A swamp girl her age would have a couple of missing teeth, given she appears to be a few years older than me. Her expensive-looking sundress has ridden up round her waist. Poor thing got all gussied up before she killed herself.

The deep vertical cuts still pinking the water on both of the girl's wrists makes my stomach flip inside out. I double over, trying not to vomit. It takes several deep breaths to settle my gut before I can force myself to continue studying the body.

Long hair fans out like black licorice around her head, and her glazed blue eyes stare sightlessly at the heavens. Faint sunlight glistens on the flecks of water dotting her porcelain skin. I've never seen such a serene expression on anyone's face, let alone someone dead, like she's seen the face of God and has found peace.

After seeing her up close and personal, I can't stomach leaving her floating in the foul water. Flies crawl in her wounds, and midges land on her eyes. Slimy strands of algae twine through her hair. Soon the fish will be nibbling at her. Unable to bring myself to touch her clammy-looking skin, I take a firm grip on her dress and drag her onto the bank—high enough above the waterline that she'll be safe from predators while I get help.

I'm halfway across the stretch of land between the bayou and my house when a shiver of foreboding races through my body, and I slow my pace.
Shit! I took the wrong path.
Usually I avoid traveling through the Black Hole. It's treacherous with pockets of quicksand. Cottonmouths like to hide in the thick grass, beneath lichen-smothered fallen trees. Those natural obstacles are pretty easy to navigate if you're alert. What makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle is the miasma that permeates every rock and rotten tree in the clearing I cross to get home. A filmy layer of ick coats my skin and seeps in through my pores until it infects my whole body with each step. I feel…
unclean
. I'm not big on believing in the whole concept of evil, but if there's any place I'd consider to be tainted ground, I'm walking across it.

Instinct screams that I'm not alone. I'd be a fool to ignore the warning signs twice. If I listened to my instincts earlier, I never would've found the body. I stretch out my senses like tentacles waving in the wind. Nothing moves…chirps, or croaks. A strange, pungent odor floats on the light breeze, but I can't identify it. My darting gaze trips and reverses to focus on the
Bad Place
. I swallow hard and yank my gaze from the dark stain on the rock in the middle of the circle. Mama said our slave ancestors used this area for their hoodoo rituals because the veil between the living and dead is thinner here.

It's always sounded like a whole lot of bullshit to me until I stumbled across the bloodstained altar and shards of burnt bone scattered across earth devoid of grass or weeds—salted earth, where nothing grows. Mother Mary, it creeps me out.

'Cause what if I'm really not alone? What if something stands on the other side of the veil, close enough to touch, but invisible? Watching me.

Whatever's out here can go to the devil 'cause I'm not waiting to greet it.

By the time I burst out of the woods that border our yard, the sun has started its downward slope in the sky behind me. I double over, hands on my knees, to catch my breath after my half-mad run. Our squat wooden house perches on cinder-block stilts like an old buzzard on top of the hill. The peeling paint turns the rotting boards an icky gray in the waning light, but it's sure a welcome sight for sore eyes.

With a final glance over my shoulder to be sure I wasn't followed, I dash beneath the Spanish moss–draped branches of the large oak that shades our house, dodging the darn rooster running for me with tail feathers spread. I brush it aside with my foot, avoiding the beak pecking at my ankle.

“Mama!” My voice trembles. I really wish my mother had come home early. But the dark windows and empty driveway tell me otherwise. I track muddy footprints across the cracked linoleum in the kitchen to get to the phone.

Ms. Dixie Fontaine answers on the first ring. “Sheriff's Office, what's your emergency?” The 9-1-1 dispatcher's lazy drawl barely speeds up after I tell her about the dead girl. “All right, honey. I'll get George on over. You be waiting for him and don't go touching the body, you hear?” She pops her gum in my ear.

A flash of resentment fills me, but I'm careful to keep my tone even. “Don't worry, I know better, Ms. Dixie. I only touched her dress—to drag her from the water.”

“That's fine, Malaise, quick thinking on your part. Bye now.”

“Bye,” I mutter, slamming the phone in the cradle. I breathe out a puff of air, trying to calm down. I'm antsy enough without having to deal with Ms. Dixie's inability to see me as anything but a naive kid. I'm not an idiot. How can she think I'd make a rookie mistake like contaminating the crime scene? I've been working with her now for what? Nine…no, ten months. Hell! What does it take to prove myself to her? To the rest of the veterans at the Sheriff's Office who remember every mistake I've ever made and throw them in my face every chance they get?

Disaster. That should've been my name. Instead, I've been saddled with Malaise. Well, whatever. I stomp into the bathroom, slip off my muddy T-shirt and cut-off jeans shorts, and take a scalding shower. I scrub hard to get the scummy, dead-girl film off my skin. It takes almost a whole bottle of orchid body soap to cleanse my battered soul and wash the tainted, dirty feeling down the drain with the muck.

The whole time, three words echo in my head.
Deputy George Dubois.
My heart hasn't stopped thudding since Ms. Dixie mentioned his name. The towel I wrap around my heaving chest constricts my rapid breaths like a tightened corset. Hopefully, I won't do an old-fashioned swoon like those heroines from historical novels when I see him.

It's a silly reaction, but George comes in third on my list of People I Want to Impress the Most. It's not that his six feet of muscled, uniformed hotness tempts me to turn to a life of crime just so he'll frisk me and throw me in the back of his patrol car. Nope, that pathetic one-sided schoolgirl crush passed after we graduated and started working together. I'd be as cold as the dead girl if I couldn't appreciate his yummy goodness, but the last thing either of us need is for a romantic entanglement to screw up our professional relationship.

George epitomizes everything I want to become when I “grow up.” He graduated from Paradise High School my freshman year and went to the police academy at the junior college. Once he turned twenty, he got a job at the Bertrand Parish Sheriff's Office.

When news of a part-time clerical position floated around town, guess who stood first in line for the job assisting Ms. Dixie with the data entry of the old, hardcopy crime reports into the new computer system. It's not always what you know at BPSO, but
whose
ass you kiss to get hired as a deputy. The recession left few open positions, forcing rookies to compete against seasoned officers who were laid off at other agencies. I don't have family to pull strings for me, but I've made job connections with people in positions of authority while obtaining practical experience working for the Sheriff's Office. I refuse to leave my future to the fickle whims of fate.

My last year at Bertrand Junior College begins in two months. I'll graduate with an Associate of Arts degree in Criminal Justice. I haven't decided whether to transfer to a larger university for a BA, but if not, I will definitely enroll in the police academy next summer. One year. I just have to survive one more boring year, and I'll finally get to start living out my dream of becoming a detective.

Calm down, Mala.
I fuss with my thick, russet curls for a few minutes in the bathroom mirror then give up and pull it back in a high ponytail. My hair's a lost cause with the darn humidity frizzing it up. I finish dressing in my best jeans and a lavender T-shirt. Rocks pop beneath tires traveling down the gravel driveway. Instead of remaining barefoot, I slip on my rain boots, not wanting to look like a complete heathen or worse, reminding the higher-ups at the crime scene of my true identity—the prostitute's bastard.

Rumors about Mama's choice of occupation have been whispered about since before my birth. You'd think being the daughter of the town whore would be humiliating enough to hang my head in shame. Then add in the fact that most folk also think she's a broom-riding witch. The kids in school were brutal, repeating as gospel the stupid rumors they overheard from their parents, who should've known better. It boggles the mind that people in this day and age can believe ignorant stuff like Mama can hex a man's privates into shriveling if he crosses her. The only good thing about being the witch's daughter is it keeps most boys from straying too close. I don't have to deal with a bunch of assholes who think I'll blow them for a couple of twenties and an open bar tab like Mama.

With one last rueful glance at my face in the mirror, I shrug. This is as good as it's gonna get. I run onto the front porch and freeze halfway down the steps. The patrol car I expect to see in the drive turns instead into a good view of Mama on hands and knees beside her truck with a flowerpot stuck under her chin as she pukes in the geraniums.
Crud! Georgie will be here any minute.
I've got to hide her in the house. She can spend the night heaving up what's left of her guts in the toilet without me babysitting her.