Dark Sacrifice (5 page)

My heart races. This afternoon, the woman seemed sane. Now, not so much.

“Ms. Anne?” I whisper.

She spins with a low growl, and I lurch back into Kevin. His heavy hands grip my shoulders, which keeps me from bolting from the room. “Mala?”

I twist to look up at him. “It's Anne, Kev. She's kind of turned do-whack-a-do.”

He raises an eyebrow. “More than me, who's listening to you about seeing her spirit?”

“I don't know what's wrong with her. This afternoon she seemed normal. Sane. Which I know is strange. Wasn't she suffering from dementia when she died?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she's out of it again. I'm not sure if she even knows who I am.”

Kevin folds his massive arms, then shrugs. “Maybe her spirit is losing energy. You know. Like a battery draining.”

Wow, score one for Kev. That actually makes sense. If she didn't have the energy to maintain her presence, then her spirit would start to degrade. Lainey didn't, but Uncle Gaston said she sustained her rage by siphoning my energy.

I take another step, raising my hands. Ms. Anne's gaze follows me as I cross the room to kneel by her bed. I don't want to look away from her because I'm afraid she'll attack, but her eyes brighten as I fumble beneath the mattress.

“It's in the back corner,” she whispers. “I wasn't strong enough to move the bed.”

A quick tug on the metal frame assures me I need help to move it too. “The ring's in the far corner. Can I borrow your muscles?”

“What, and make you stronger? Nope. I'll keep them and help you move the bed instead.” Kevin flexes an arm.

“Ah ha, show-off. Think you're so funny.”

“I need charm to balance out my good looks.”

Together we pull the bed from the wall. The wedding ring winks at us from the corner—a shining beacon on the dust-covered floor. “Do you see it?” I glance at Kevin. He reaches down and picks it up with his thick fingers.

He sets the ring on my palm. It feels like it weighs a ton once the full meaning of its existence falls on me. I close my eyes. My lungs squeeze so tight with emotion that my chest aches. I can't breathe. Tears force themselves from between my sealed eyelids, and I let out a choked sob. “I can't believe it's real.”

“Believe it. You're not as crazy as everyone thinks.” He rubs my head. “Sorry for thinking you'd stab me in the eye.”

“I thought the guy deserved it at the time. Everything else that happened wasn't me. It was Lainey,” I whisper, staring at the ring. I glance at Ms. Anne. “Kevin will get this to your daughter.”

At the man's nod, the woman smiles and fades.

I
huddle beneath my blanket and stare at the ceiling tiles above my bed for the last night. Tomorrow, I go home. Whatever that means now that Mama's dead.

Three hundred and forty…three hundred and thirty-nine…

My body grows heavy as if weights are attached to my arm and legs, and I sink into my mattress. The heaviness settles on my chest, pressing my lungs flat. I let out the last puff of air. My spirit mingles with the carbon dioxide; the poisonous gas sighs over my parted lips before it leaves my physical body.

I float over the bed, lost. Where do I go with Landry gone? Do I try to find his spirit?

Between one thought and the next, I'm standing in his empty jail cell. His pictures, clothing, and the bloodstain on the floor…they're all gone. Nothing of Landry remains here. Where could his spirit be? Did the black vortex suck him someplace I can't follow?

I'm back at the hospital.

Dizziness drops me to my knees. The instantaneous transitions from one location to the other come without my conscious direction. I don't have time to prepare myself, say “To the blankety-blank­—away,” then magically appear at my intended location without a hair out of place and makeup refreshed. Not that I wear makeup anyway.

Hell. Focus, Mala.
Why am I back at the hospital? Is Landry's spirit here? Is he trying to find me too?

I twist to stare down the hallway. Fluorescent lights hum and flicker overhead. Inaudible whispers, a shushing of sound filters from open doors. I breathe out a cloud of frost that glitters like twinkling stars in the air and feel the icy tingle of cold concrete beneath my palms. The stench of antiseptic burns my nose.

I pinch my arm and wince. “Where am I?”

Plaster flakes off the walls. Grime covers the cracked linoleum. This isn't the hospital I'm used to seeing, with its pristine cleanliness and order. This is a darker dimension, like I somehow slipped between the cracks in the fabric of reality.

I watch way too many sci-fi shows.

“Hello?” I yell. “Anyone here?” My words echo down the hall.
Good going, Mala. Alert every monster in this place to your location.

A rattling
clank
…

It takes me a second to process the sound of a motor turning on—an air conditioning unit or boiler? So stupid. I'm overreacting. Nothing can hurt me; I'm here only in spirit. My physical body is safe in my hospital bed.

I want out of this place. If I'm here for a reason, I need to find it. Or at least find a quick way back into my body. I'm in a cross section of the hallway. It stretches in four directions. In front and behind me, the walls shine from reflected light. White sheets cover abandoned hospital equipment. Trash litters the floor. Doors, painted red, stand out from the grimy, grayish white paint of the walls. The last door to the right at the end of the hallway stands open.

Welcoming.

The hallways stretching to my right and left are the complete opposite. Pitch black, thicker than road tar—the complete absence of light—forms a visible barrier I don't want to step across. It reminds me of the black hole that swallowed Landry.

A sound from the darkness freezes me. I stretch out my senses, listening.

Heavy breathing…

…turns into malevolent laughter, like one of those creepy clowns. High-pitched giggles that make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

“Mala,” the voice cracks, hoarse with age. I recognize her, but don't.

Don't want to.

Can't.

A raspy sound. A shush. A single flame lights the darkness, then twin glowing orange circles. The pungent scent of tobacco burns my nostrils. Footsteps move in my direction. I back up. If she touches me, I'll burn.

No. It's a sensory memory. This isn't real. None of it.

Sizzling agony pierces the wound in my shoulder as a forked tongue thrusts inside me, sucking out my blood. My soul. Drinking me down. Binding me to her.

I press my hand against my shoulder. Warm, sticky liquid covers my palm. “Aunt Magnolia,” I whisper, “don't.”

“You swore at the crossroads, where all bonds are formed. Come to me.”

It's obvious which direction I should go in. Even though I'm scared.

I take a step.

Darkness wraps me tight, smothering my senses. No sight, sound, taste. I float…at peace.

Bessie's late. I've been sitting in the dayroom, plucking at piano keys for half an hour, having already finished with the checkout procedure. The duffel bag with my psych medication and personal belongings sits at my feet. All I need is her. When Bessie finally enters the room, all the air rushes from my body. Part of me didn't believe I'd really get to leave. I thought for sure something had gone wrong.

I sprint to throw myself into her muscular arms and bury my face in her shoulder.

She pats me on the back for a long minute then pushes me away. “Are you this happy to see me, or is something else wrong?”

I sniff. “I'm so happy I can't stop crying tears of joy.”

“And this has nothing to do with Landry getting hurt?”

Hurt? Not dead?
I grip her arm. “What do you mean? Landry got hurt?”

Bessie ducks her head. “George said he told you about Landry getting attacked. I'm not springing this news on you, am I?” She rubs my arm.

“No, his roommate shanked him and then smothered him with a pillow—”

“George told you that?” she blurts out.

No, I saw it with my own eyes. Oh God, my head's gonna explode.
I rub my temple hard, trying to stop the veiny knot from throbbing. “Bessie, he's dead.”

She shakes her head. “Who?”

“Landry's dead. George said he died.”

“Oh, yes, he did…die…”

I want to pull out my hair. “Bessie!”

“The guard knew CPR. The shank got caught on a rib so it didn't hit any vital organs. He'll be sore and laid up here in the hospital for a few days before they ship him back to the jail. Matter of fact, I've got to go check—”

My legs give out on me halfway through her explanation, but she doesn't notice until I'm sitting on the floor. She grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet.

“Can I visit him, please?” I rock from foot to foot. “I've got to see him. The last thing I said to him...” I groan.
He thinks I hate him.
“We can stop off at his room, right?”

Bessie's been shaking her head the whole time. When I finally shut up, she says, “I'm sorry, but he's still in protective custody. Plus, you're not family.”

“Please, Bessie.” I take her hand. “I thought he was dead. I haven't slept. Won't be able to…”

“
Cher
, you're not a cute little girl who can wrap me around her finger anymore.”

“Fine, let me suffer not knowing if he's really okay.”

“We'll walk past his room on the way out of the hospital. Maybe you'll be able to peek inside the room to verify I'm telling the truth since you don't believe me.”

Whoa, guess two can play the guilt game.

We're buzzed through the locked doors leading out of the psych wing, and I follow Bessie onto the elevator. My heart races faster when the doors open on the second floor, and she strides down the hallway. “Are you sure about this?” she asks. “It's not too late to change your mind. Landry will never know you were here.”

“I have to see him.” My hands shake, and I lift the duffel bag onto my shoulder. Sweat stings my eyes. I can't get the image of his death out of my head. I have to see Landry, to know for sure he really lives, or I'll be a scattered mess.

“What about your mama?” Bessie turns to face me, blocking my path.

I stop rather than running over her like I'm tempted to do. Why do we have to talk about this now? Landry almost died. No, he
died
. Something came out of the vortex and grabbed him. Darkness covered him—tried to eat him. I tried to save him, like he saved me, but I failed. Or maybe I didn't. Ugh, I'm so confused.

Focus on what you know for sure.

“Bessie, he didn't kill Mama. His daddy and his friends did that.”

“He's incarcerated for attacking you.”

“Because I was whacked out of my head and couldn't remember what really happened that night, but I do now. Landry saved my life. If he hadn't taken me away, I would've watched Mama die and probably would've been killed myself. I couldn't have come back from seeing that. I'll never testify against him.”

“You mean that, don't you?”

I spin at the familiar voice. Assistant District Attorney Mitchell Cready stands in the last doorway to the right at the end of the hallway. During my early ghost-walking days, I spied on this guy while he interviewed Landry about Mama's murder. Cready seems like a good person, if overly determined to the point of not paying attention to the evidence right in front of his flat face. I get that he wants to use Mama's death to further his career, but I won't let him do it at the expense of justice.

Cready walks over to me—or rather struts. “Bessie said you were being released today.” He gives his impersonation of charming. In reality, he looks like a yawning gator—all teeth and no personality. “I thought I'd meet you in person and check on Landry's status. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

I snort and cross my arms. “Not sure how you can justify keeping him in custody with no evidence. Now he's been assaulted. What do you think the press will say once the news leaks?”

Cready holds up his hands, palms forward. “Hold on, don't attack me.”

“If you're this defensive over a simple question, how are you ever going to placate the press? They'll be all over you like flies on cow pies,” I say, trying to sound mature by not cussing him out. With arms crossed, I stalk toward him until we're nose to nose. “What are you doing to keep Landry safe? Why did his cellmate stab him in the first place? It's a bold move—murder—a potential death sentence. He has to have more of a motive than Landry snores in his sleep.”

Cready doesn't back down. “What do you know that I don't?”

My eyes widen, and I stumble back. Crap! I almost spilled too much. I'd seen how Carl watched him before the attack, like he was waiting to receive the order to take him out. Don't ask me why I know this, but I believe it with all of my heart. Maybe part of my gifts also leads to mind reading, except I bet reading that guy's mind would be like gazing into a Port-A-Potty.

Cready glares at Bessie. “What did you tell her about the attack?”

“I didn't have to say anything. Mala's sharp. She's the one who figured out Mrs. Prince and Doc Rathbone killed Lainey. Everyone forgot about the girl's murder after what happened to Jasmine, but I haven't.”

My head swells. I didn't think anyone realized I had solved the case, given I'd been possessed and on a rampage at the time. A huge grin stretches my lips.

Bessie's jaw flexes. “Speaking of girls getting murdered, Cready. We need to talk.”

He nods, then tips his head at me. “I'll arrange for Landry's release. I'd already been thinking about dismissing the charges.”

“Huh?” I glance at Bessie. “Seriously, just like that?”

Maybe I should consider law school if I can't clear my reputation enough to get a job in law enforcement. But that's a worry I put on hold because Cready's still talking and what he's saying gives me hope.

“Bessie's right. You solved Lainey's murder. You're smart enough to know whether Landry participated in your attack. If you're not willing to testify against him, then I'm wasting taxpayer dollars keeping him in custody.”

I release the breath I've been holding. “So he's free.”

“Why don't you go give him the good news while I speak with Bessie.”

I glance at her. Sparks are about to fly out of her ears. What pissed her off? She can't be this upset over Landry being released.

I edge around Cready, nod to the officer standing guard at the door, and enter the room. I don't breathe for several seconds. I can't. Landry is lying on the bed. The blanket tucked around his waist reveals his abdomen and the bandage wrapped around his wound. His face is a swollen, bruised mess. My stomach tightens in sympathy. Despite the damage, he appears peaceful—body fully relaxed without the tension that filled him while in jail. Angelic.
Yeah, right.

“I know, I know. I'm pretty. You can't help but stare,” he slurs his words. His good eye cracks, but the lid is swollen. I'm not sure if he can see me.

I swallow around the lump in my throat. “I've never thought of you as pretty, Frog Prince.”

His frown turns into a wince. “Oh, Mala.”

“Who did you think you were flirting with?” I hate the jealousy in my voice.

“If I'd known you'd be stopping by, I would've made myself presentable. Combed my hair or put on deodorant. I thought I was talking the nurse into an extra Jell-O cup.” His hand inches across the bed, palm upward. I cross the room and thread my fingers through his.

His hand trembles slightly in mine. He's weak. But warm and alive. My chest tightens with the emotions threatening to erupt from within me, but I hold them back, afraid I'll freak him out. “How are you feeling? Are you in a lot of pain?”

He shakes his head.

“Did you hear Cready? He's dropping your charges.”

“So I can go home. Not that I have a family to go back to anymore.” He pauses. “Guess you don't either. I'm being…insensitive.”

The words sting with bitterness. Is he thinking about what happened to Mama? Or his parents? I sit on the edge of the bed and lay our clasped hands on my lap. “Yeah, you are a little. At least your parents are still alive.”