Dark Sacrifice (4 page)

Hating Landry was so much easier when he was alive.

George studies my face with a frown. Does he read my confusion? “So what does that mean for us?”

“I'm not sure. We'll take it slow. Friends first, right?”

He studies my face for a long moment. Maybe it shows my grief. They say eyes reflect the soul, and every piece of me aches. Rather than argue, he pulls me down onto the sofa. I resist, trying not to touch him at first, but soon I curl up into the warmth of his side, glad I'm not alone.
Jeopardy!
distracts us. By the time we're halfway into the show, it feels like old times.

I solve the final question and get a tight squeeze as a reward from George right as Marcheline Dubois sweeps into the room with her typical flare for dramatic entrances. Her silver hair is worn upswept into a high bun and emphasizes her narrow features. Dark brown eyes boil with emotions too hot to contain within her small frame. “Mala, darling, I'm here,” she cries, throwing her arms open wide.

She sees George hugging me, and her arms drop. “George Jr.?”

“Aunt March, what are you doing here?” George asks as he bounds to his feet.

Her penciled-in eyebrows arch, and she taps her lips with the tips of her fingers. “Shouldn't I be asking you the same question?”

I resettle on the sofa in a more prim and genteel position. She's his aunt and my boss. I don't want her to think poorly of me for hanging on him like a floozy. Course, I'd feel better about the situation if George didn't look as shocked as his aunt.

Hmm, I'm feeling like a dirty little secret.
Again.

M
y stomach curdles at the pitying expression that crosses Kevin's face when he looks from Ms. March to me, and I slap my hand across my mouth to cover the sour, nervous hiccup. Hopefully Georgie won't smell the chili I ate for lunch, but he's focused on his aunt.

Kevin avoids my questioning gaze, moving to a corner of the room. This whole situation seems odd. He should be cracking up over this confrontation. His sense of humor is as warped as mine. Then there's the fact that Ms. March is here at all. We're not allowed to have visitors other than family. George counts as law enforcement—he apparently gets a special pass—but not Ms. March.

The crow's feet around her dark eyes deepen, and the skin flap beneath her narrow chin vibrates as she squares her shoulders. “I'm waiting for an explanation, George Jr.”

“What's the big deal, Aunt March? Mala and I are friends.”

“Friends don't mistake each other's laps for chairs, darling.”

He blushes. “It's not like that, I swear.”

My eyebrows lift. Ten minutes ago, “friend” was the most hated word in existence. Now he's throwing it out like birdseed at a wedding. “He's telling the truth, Ms. March. We're keeping our relationship casual. No kissing…or anything else. So don't worry. I don't have plans on becoming your new niece-in-law.”

“Ironically, that's the reason why I'm here,” Ms. March says, striding across the room with sharp clicks of her high heels. She lowers herself into the plastic chair across from us and crosses her legs at her ankles. Her hands fold on her lap, clenching so tightly her knuckles turn white.

George sits so stiffly he appears to have a stick rammed up his ass. He glances at me with wide eyes. “What's going on, Aunt March?”

“Yeah, you burst into the room like your tail caught fire.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “And what's with the cryptic comments? Is everything okay?”

She drums her fingers on the edge of the chair. “Well, I didn't expect George Jr. to be here, but I guess it's for the best. This news will undoubtedly affect him too.” She squeezes her hands into tiny fists. “I've gathered my courage and decided to defy your father.”

“Defy my father?” George scowls down at the floor. “Is that wise?”

“Well, of course not,” Ms. March huffs, rocking back in her chair. “But I'm doing it anyway, so don't scold me. I feel bad enough it has taken twenty-one years to gather my courage to say this. Since I've already damned myself, I might as well toss my wings into the lake of fire.” She closes her eyes and says, “I've come to see your sister.”

George glances at me, and I shrug back. How does he expect me to have the answer? I'm psychic, not a mind reader.

“What sister?” I ask for both of us.

Ms. March waves an all-encompassing wrinkled hand in my general direction, since her eyes are still squeezed shut. When we don't answer, she cracks open a single eyelid to study our expressions. “Mala,” she says with emphasis on the M and a birdlike tick of her chin toward me.

I pull on a fake scowl, trying not to laugh. “Merciful heavens, Georgie, shouldn't you have told me you're my brother before we kissed?”

“I'm not your brother,” George practically growls. “My aunt is confused.”

Ms. March stiffens her spine. “I'm neither senile nor deranged, George Jr. That girl is your father's blood kin, which makes her genetically more your adoptive father's daughter than you.”

“Whoa, Ms. March. What's going on?” Panic makes me choke on the words. “This isn't funny.”

George takes my hand. “Don't listen to her. She's playing some sick game, and I don't know why. She's never liked me.”

Ms. March's eyes water. “It breaks my heart to hear you say that, Georgie. I love you as much as I love Mala. It's my brother's fault we've never been on good terms. I've always resented the fact G.D. claimed another man's son as his own—legally adopted you and gave you his name—but abandoned his own flesh-and-blood daughter to be raised in poverty.”

George stares from me to her.

“Shut your mouth, boy, before you swallow a fly,” Ms. March says.

“Mala…she's…you're saying…”

“That's right. Malaise is a Dubois. If you look close, you'll see her resemblance to your father, and to me.”

“Holy shit!” George drops onto the sofa like all the air
whoosh
ed out of him. “So that means Dad had an affair with Malaise's mom?”

“To be fair, your parents had hit a rough patch at the time. Your mama's happiness, and yours, was the main reason he never claimed Malaise.”

“And Mama's inheritance,” George says bitterly. “All the money my real father left her after he disappeared. It must've been a dream come true for old G.D. Mama never would've agreed to stay married to him if she knew he had a bastard.”

I wave my hand to get their attention. “Uh, the bastard child's right here.”

Marceline's face blanches. “Oh my dear, this isn't how I wanted you to hear all this. Your father should be the one to tell you about himself, but he keeps putting it off. After we found out about Jasmine passing, I went to him again. He's too damn scared of ruining his marriage, his business, and his reputation to claim you, but he's an idiot.” She reaches out to take my hand. “You're not alone, Mala. You have family…you have
me
.”

“I should be screaming right now.” I glance at George. “Am I seriously not bothered by this news?”
Damn those antianxiety pills
.

“Maybe you're not upset, but I'm pissed that my dad cheated on my mother.” George pushes to his feet. “I'm going home.”

Marceline approaches George and lays a hand on his arm. “I know you need to speak to your father, but your mom doesn't know any of this. Why don't you take a few minutes and think how this will hurt her?”

“Of course it'll hurt her. Do you seriously think I can keep this a secret? Isn't it about time she learned the truth?” He jerks his arm free. “This should've been out a long time ago. If it had, maybe Mala wouldn't be locked in the mental ward and her mama wouldn't be dead.”

The panic finally hits when I realize he plans to leave. “Wait, George. Don't go.”

His cheeks redden. “I can't stay. Not now.”

“But why? Let's talk this over. Figure out what to do.”

Marceline comes over to the sofa. “Mala, darling, I'll be here.”

I pace to George's side, but he refuses to meet my eyes. “I don't understand why you'd lay this on us. Why now?” I spin back to Ms. March…or should I call her Aunt March? “Why didn't you wait until I was alone or left it until after I got released from the hospital? You knew how much this would hurt Georgie.”

“If I waited, I never would've been able to tell you. I've put this conversation off for years. Now Jasmine's dead. I couldn't leave you thinking you have no family. I've always watched out for you, and you need me now, more than ever.”

George snorts. “Be grateful she's being honest for once. At least she cares about your feelings. She never has about mine. I guess it's because we're not
blood
. Isn't that right?”

I reach out, wanting to comfort and be comforted by him, but he brushes my hand aside. “Georgie, don't go, please.”

He backs away from me like I've got herpes. “I'm sorry.”

Reality crashes down as he walks to the door. He doesn't look back. Marceline's arms circle me, and I jump. Damn she's stealthy for an older lady. Didn't even hear her coming, and now I'm stuck.

“What a jerk,” I say, turning into her embrace.

Ms. March presses my face against her shoulder. A large, wet stain imprints on the bosom of her silk shirt before I notice my tears. It takes a long time to pull myself together. She hands me a lilac-scented tissue from her giant purse. “It'll be all right, my darling girl. Let it all out.”

I sniff. “Well, this stinks. He's not coming back, is he?”

“Maybe not for a bit. He's in shock.”

He's not the only one.

Ms. March stares at me like she expects me to be excited that she decided to acknowledge my existence. I find the situation hypocritical, and I'm pissed.

“So,” I say slowly, “you're my father's sister?”

“That's right.” She brushes my hair back from my face with a trembling hand. I force myself to remain still, even though I want to move away. She catches my unease because she pulls back with a sigh. “I'm sure this is very difficult for you to understand.”

“Not really,” I say with a shrug, but it's a lie. I'm confused as hell.

“This is bound to cause a stir in our community.” She picks at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Life will be even more difficult for you, I'm sorry to say.”

“Difficult for you and my”—bitterness coats my tongue with a sour taste as I say —“father.” I glance up to meet her gaze, and I give a half smile. “I'm used to being the object of scandal. Everyone knew about Mama being a prostitute. I bet a few of her regular clients' wives will be thrilled to hear the news of George Sr.'s paternity.” I ignore her attempt to speak. “What I don't understand is why you never told me, Ms. March. I've worked for you for years.” I meet her gaze and glance away. “Are you ashamed of being related to me?”

Ms. March gasps. “No, not you, darling. You're perfect. None of this is your fault.” She grabs on to me again. I don't fight to get free of the hug. It feels too good to be in her arms as I listen to words I've always dreamed of hearing.

“I've loved you from the moment I held you in the hospital. You were the most beautiful baby in the nursery, and I swore I'd take care of you. No, the problem was that I promised to keep our relationship secret. I tried to talk your father into claiming you when you were born. I said, ‘G.D., that's your kin. Be proud she's healthy and beautiful.' But, back then, he didn't have a pot to piss in, and he had ambitions. He wanted a proper wife and family. Your mama wouldn't have been able to help him get those things, not with the way she carried on and all those pesky rumors about her and her family.”

Everything fucked up in my life always stems from Mama's reputation. She never cared how her choices affected me. It's not fair but I don't know why I'm so upset. I should be used to it by now. I just wish my own father would've seen me as a person and not an extension of her.

I shake my head, opening my stinging eyes wide. I don't want to cry again.

Ms. March releases her grip and leans back to study my face. Whatever she sees makes her frown. “Mala, I know this is a lot to take in. But I love you. I want you to come home with me.”

Shock makes me step back from her. “Oh. Well, that's…uh.”

“Is this a problem?” She edges closer.

We move around the room like we're zydeco dancing. “Yeah, I love you too.”

“But you don't want to live with me?”

A huge part of me wants to say “yes.” I've basically raised myself, and it would be nice to have someone take care of me for a change. This woman has been a huge part of my life. She's never failed me in the love department. By living with Aunt March, I can avoid facing the pain of going back to the home Mama died in. But the longer I wait, the harder it'll be.

“I appreciate the offer, but it's a little late.” I pick at a hangnail. A quick glance up shows her dejected expression. “I'm twenty, Aunt March, not twelve. It's time for me to grow up, don't you think?”

She sighs. “I guess I understand. Still, the offer is open.”

I grin and pat her shoulder. “At least, if I had to finally find my father's family, it's someone I can stand to be around. I've always liked you.”

“And you've always held a special place in my heart.” Aunt March smiles back. “Well, it's getting late. You have a big day tomorrow. Call me if you change your mind.”

With a heavy heart, I watch her walk out the door. I almost call her back, regretting my decision, but it's for the best. Staying with her would be a supremely easy out. Plus I bet her old plantation house is full of restless spirits. They'd drive me insane with all of their demands.

When Ms. Anne saved me from Spooky Pocahontas, I realized that, no matter how hard I try to block out the spirits, it doesn't work. It just pisses them off. Or makes them sad. If ignoring them doesn't make them go away, then isn't it time to try something different? I have a debt to pay to Ms. Anne. If I help her with her problem, maybe she won't follow me home.

I tell Kevin all about Mama and Lainey and my new ability to “see” ghosts, and he agrees to become my ghost-busting partner in crime. He even consents to let me search Ms. Anne's old room. He says he's helping because he believes me, but I think he believes it'll be therapeutic if I confront the truth that I'm delusional. Part of me agrees with his unspoken stance on confronting the crazy. I still don't quite believe what I'm seeing is real. I need the tangible proof of a ring for my own peace of mind.

Kevin's bulky presence infuses me with courage. With a deep breath, I step into the old woman's bedroom. At first it appears empty, then a surge of energy crackles across my prickling skin. A blurry, flickering image catches my peripheral vision, but I concentrate on Ms. Anne. She paces in front of me, and with each step, she solidifies. Her clouded eyes focus in my direction, and she hisses. Her braided, salt-and-pepper hair bounces on her shoulders with each step. Moans rumble up from deep in her gut and echo against the walls, soaking her sorrow and pain into the paint. The sound ripples in waves over my skin, raising goose bumps. It's the kind of intense emotion people sometimes feel when entering a house where someone has died, a residual resonance of the haunting spirit's emotions.