Black Bayou (The Dark Legacy Series Book 1)

by Sara Clancy

  He read the message and erupted in a short burst of bitter laughter.

  “You can’t still think you’re having kids, Maggie. Be serious.” Finally, he met her eyes and his smile faded. “Both your parents are serial killers. You want murder babies?”

  ‘I’m not a killer.’

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s in your genes.”

  The last tendrils of warmth inside her died, leaving only ice and an empty ache.

  ‘Are you breaking up with me?’

  “I’m sorry, Maggie. I didn’t sign up for this.” It made her stomach churn as he pressed a small kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t bother to open her eyes. Tears seeped free as she curled back onto the bed. Rain tapped the window, the air chilled, and the room fell silent.

  Chapter 2

  It was just a whisper but it was enough to stir her from sleep. Absently she rubbed her neck, her healing stitches scratching against her palm. The hospital never really stilled, but the small hours of the morning lulled it into a restless peace. The light from the hallway cut a deep gouge into the dark shadows of the room. Sleep rolled over her and she didn’t want to shake it off, but she heard her name again and cracked her eyes open.

  The room was still, and looked wider now that a lot of the machines were no longer needed. The shadows on the far side of the door shifted. She peered into the darkness, unable to understand what she was seeing. At one moment, it looked as if a man were standing there, concealed in the shadows. But each time she blinked, it was gone and all she could see was the wall. Her breath caught in her throat as the mass shifted and stepped towards her. It was huge. Large enough to block out the light of the doorway like an eclipse.

  Every step it took made her bed tremble. The wheels creaked sharply; the sound was lost under her panicked breathing. It loomed over her, growing darker, wider. It smothered out every last ounce of light. Rancid air washed over her face like a putrid arctic wind. She could feel its breath against the shell of her ear as it whispered her name.

  Something crashed through the shadow and shattered it. A sudden burst of light blinded her as she was hit in the chest. Air rushed from her lungs as she slammed back onto the bed. Pain sliced along her arm. She kicked and screamed as she struggled to push the weight off. Her eyes adjusted and she could see the man on top of her, his face twisted with rage, her own blood glistening off the blade in his hand.

  She kneed him in the crotch. With a gasp, he buckled forward and slammed his fist into her face. Pain exploded within her skull and she slumped, head swirling, vision blurring. People swarmed the room and the man was dragged off of her. His screams invaded her pained daze and rolled onto her side. It took two orderlies and the police officer combined to drag the man through the door. The whole time, he thrashed like a wounded animal, snarling, saliva foaming from his lips as he stared only at her.

  ***

  “That is one hell of a shiner,” Detective Rhodes said as he pulled up a seat.

  Marigold forced a small smile and placed the ice pack back over her eye. It still throbbed, but not as much as the stitches that now held the skin of her forearm together.

  “How did you get that?”

  She was confused until she noticed that his attention was focused on the slip of collar bone that poked out from under her sweater.

  “Had a nightmare. They gave me nail clippers,” she croaked. “Who was he?”

  Rhodes puffed out his cheeks as he leaned forward. “We’ve been looking back through your parents’ work histories. We found a couple of victims in Ohio. He was the husband of one of them.”

  She shook her head as best she could.

  “We never lived in Ohio.”

  “This was before you were born.”

  Her skin was suddenly too tight. “How long had they been doing this?”

  “We’re trying to figure that out. But Maggie, they were nurses for a long time, there are going to be more. You need to be prepared for that.”

  “How?”

  Cracking his knuckles, he edged closer, and changed the subject. “You’re getting discharged tomorrow. Have you thought of where you’re going?”

  “Home,” Her gaze lowered. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “No one told you?”

  A chill crept across her skin at his expression. “What happened?”

  “Two days ago firefighters responded to a reported fire at your home. There were too many people in the street. They couldn’t get close.” He hesitated for an agonising moment before he finished, “There’s nothing left.”

  Her insides plummeted, leaving her hollow and cold. “There has to be something.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What about Braveheart?” she said as her voice cracked around each word.

  “Braveheart?”

  “He’s a Carebear. I got it for Jas because she was afraid of the boogieman.” She viciously wiped her cheeks. “He was her favorite. I wanted to keep Braveheart.”

  “Maggie, there’s nothing but ash.”

  “There’s a Christmas angel. It’s gold and has glass as a halo. Dad always lifted us up to put it on the tree.”

  “Maggie.”

  “I don’t have any photos. I don’t have anything. I don’t have anything!”

  Rhodes stood up and grabbed her by her shoulders, squeezing until the sparks of pain pulled her out of her spiralling thoughts. She tilted her face up to see him, her skin straining against the stitches.

  “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  Slowly, Rhodes sat back down like any sudden movement would break her. “There’s your aunt Delilah.”

  “I don’t have any aunts. I don’t have any relatives.”

  “Actually, you do. On your father’s side.”

  Flipping through his phone, he pulled up a picture of a well-dressed woman. It was strange to see the same features that had been so endearing on her father look so intimidating.

  “You even have an ancestral home,” he smiled. “She still lives in the same house they grew up in. Right in the heart of New Orleans. French Quarter, not too bad.”

  “Dad said he grew up in Alabama,” she mumbled as she looked down at the picture again. “What else did he lie about?”

  Rhode delicately removed the phone from her hand. “She’s offered to take you in. I think it’s a good idea. Things here are just going to get worse until wounds start healing, and no one can heal while you’re here. Don’t worry, I’ll inform the local cops of the situation, they’ll keep an eye on you. But where everyone else is concerned,” his sympathetic smile didn’t make the words any easier to hear, “it’ll be good for you to get off the radar.”

  “For me to disappear, you mean?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded as he closed his phone. “Yeah, you need to.”

  She nodded as her fingers trailed along the line of stitches that crossed her neck. “Okay.”

  ***

  Mountains crumbled into fields. The fields sunk into swamps. The disintegrating world was framed by the bus window and Marigold leaned against the glass, watching the twisting highway pass by. The air conditioner did its best, but it couldn’t keep the growing heat at bay. Back home, summer had only been hinting its arrival; here its presence was undeniable. They passed muddy-flats with houses on gigantic stilts and rows of identical homes painted conflicting colors. But she never saw anyone. It was as if the world had been abandoned and she, alone, had been left behind for the elements to claim.

  As a parting gift, Rhodes had given her a map of the city. Bright red ink circled her new home while yellow highlighter marked the closest police stations, ‘just in case,’ as he had said. It was spread over her knees and she mindlessly traced the path she would need to take to get from the terminal to her aunt’s house. All communication between them had been through Rhodes, and while she yearned to at least talk to the woman she would be living with, she didn’t feel it was her place to push it. If distance was w
hat Delilah needed to cope with this madness, then Marigold had no choice but to give it to her.

  She looked up to see buildings close in on all sides. The warehouse district was never the prettiest place in any city and this was no exception. It had been a childish notion, but she had hoped for something akin to love at first sight. Like she would see New Orleans and be hit with the absolute, undeniable knowledge that she could be happy here. But all that met her expectations were towering structures of brick, steel and shadows. A change would be good, she reminded herself again. You’ll get used to it. You’ll be fine. Just breathe. She folded the map and slipped it carefully into the backpack that held every possession she had in the world with room to spare.

  Steam rose from the concrete as the bus pulled into the open terminal. A new excitement simmered over the crowd and the other passengers began to gather their belongings. She pressed harder against the window and tried to keep her attention away from the numerous families that slipped past her to the door. Ever since she had left the hospital, there seemed to be a swarm of three-year-olds. She knew they weren’t Jasmine. Some of them weren’t even slightly alike. But the second they squealed, reason was pushed aside and Marigold had to fight the instinct to reach out and pick them up. Most of the time she won, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from being drawn to them like the ocean to the moon. Of course, this didn’t go over too well with their parents.

  She locked her eyes on her scarf and fussed with it as the bus emptied. It took a bit of adjusting to ensure the knot covered her permanent scar, as it kept slipping. They had removed her stitches before she left the hospital, but her skin was still swollen and raw, and it now looked more like a contagious rash. Her ivory complexion only made it worse.

  Eventually, she was alone, but she made no effort to get off the bus. Instead, she twisted her hands around the straps of her bag until the coarse material ground against her skin like rope. The idea flittered across her mind that if she just sat there long enough, they would take her back. Back to mountains and melting snow. Back to laughter and smiles and blissful ignorance. They would take her home. The contents of her bag dug into her arms as she clutched it tightly to her chest. There’s no going back. She drew a breath until her lungs were so full they ached. Before, she had never appreciated it. Now, the sensation calmed her. The only home you have is waiting for you in the French Quarter. It’s time to go home.

  Her first step into the Louisiana heat was like hitting a solid wall. Humidity made the air as thick as a swamp and she instantly began to sweat under her sweater. She stripped it off as quickly as she could and shoved it inside her bag. Since they had only thought to bring a set of winter clothes to the hospital, every other scrap of clothes she owned had been destroyed in the fire. She had planned to hold off on buying any new clothes until she met her aunt. Shopping would give them a chance to bond and at least have one thing to talk about. But, as the heat seeped from the stone slabs and became trapped in her hiking boots, she knew she couldn’t last that long.

  Pulling her backpack onto her shoulders, she tried to get a sense of where she was and which way she needed to go. Straight down Julia Street to the streetcar stop on the corner, she recalled. It took her three minutes to realise she had been going the wrong way and a few more to backtrack. When she arrived at the right corner, there was no bench or awning, just a strip of grass that divided the street, a no man’s land with a single pole that people milled around. She edged closer just in time to see a public streetcar rumbling down a sunken track. Bright red with yellow trim, it looked like an apparition from the past, forged from sun and heat.

  It was surreal to get onto the wooden structure with its little silver bell. She took a seat to find even the wood was warm. The glass window was pushed up slightly, allowing a breeze to slip through, and she leaned into it as she counted off the streets. At Canal Street, she slipped off, the memorised instructions repeating in her head like a mantra. It only took a few moments for the next tram to arrive. Canal down to Poydras, the last stop, any further and they’d end up in the Mississippi River. By now, she was on the outskirts of the French Quarter and the buildings had more beauty and style, like an echo of the past had bled into each structure.

  Sweat pooled at the nape of her neck and she longed to take off her heavy wool scarf. The new stitches on her forearm sweltered and itched under layers of bandages; it was impossible to keep her nails away from them. The tram rocked harder as it neared its final stop. This time it wasn’t a stick in a patch of grass, but instead looked like a real train station. Already desperate for fresh air, she shuffled to the wide opening of the door. The combined body heat of the crowd was unbearable, but they pressed in all the same. Metal squealed against metal as the streetcar made its final jerks. She was trying to shift away from the others and create just enough space for air to pass between them when someone whispered her name. She snapped towards the voice but couldn’t catch sight of who had spoken. In the crush of bodies, she caught a flash of red, a slip of blue, a tuff of strawberry blonde. Jasmine?

  Pain sliced across her back. Her knees buckled, her hand slipped, and she tumbled from the streetcar to smack against the concrete with a bone-rattling thud. The impact stole the air from her lungs and she struggled to get it back. Every inch of her body throbbed with the blow, making it impossible to tell if she was actually injured. The unforgiving slab singed her fingers as she clawed at it and tried to push herself up.

  Hands grabbed her, hurled her up. Choking on a scream she whirled around, expecting to see her parents and a flash of metal. She would have ended up back on the ground if it wasn’t for the crowd’s gentle hold. They carried her weight until she was steady enough to stand on her own. Someone dusted off her backpack. Another retrieved her broken sunglasses. Caught between gratitude, embarrassment, and fear she numbly mumbled thanks and apologies. The whole time her eyes searched the crowd. A sharp ache still pulsated from her back and convinced her that she hadn’t just slipped. Someone had pushed her. But, as she looked over the sea of faces and couldn’t find anything beyond concern or polite disinterest, doubt began to gnaw at her conviction. Her brain shoved it all aside when she saw her connecting streetcar letting on the last of its passengers.

  “I’m okay,” she assured as she extracted herself from the crowd. “Thank you. I just slipped. I need to go.”

  Marigold forced herself to run the short distance and leap on board just in time. It hadn’t occurred to her how beat up she looked until, after one glance, an elderly man insisted she take his seat. With a grateful smile, she gingerly inched down to sit on the very edge. She couldn’t bring herself to lean back. It didn’t matter that she had landed face first. It was her back that was killing her.

  Faint aromas of spices, sugar, and the tiniest hint of salt drifted into the air. It prickled at her attention until she craned her neck to get a better look at the world around her. The wide Mississippi River stretched out alongside the path of the streetcar, a mat of sapphire blue and warm rich brown. Amongst the shipping boats, she spotted a lone paddle steamer, something out of a Huckleberry Finn novel, chugging lazily upstream. Life seemed to bubble up from the river and soon the streetcar was surrounded with activity.

  On the other side, Jackson Square came into view, the large cathedral in the middle a giant of pristine white. Dozens of artists and fortune tellers had set up small stalls along the worn iron gates that lined the square. A spotted horse pulled an open carriage down the bustling streets as jazz music and laughter wafted up with the summer heat. Energy infused the air and entered her with every breath.

  It pulled her in and suddenly she had a thousand sights and smells to distract her from the ache in her chest and the sting in her muscles. The swirling masses of the French Quarter engulfed her, vibrant and beautiful, and just how she had imagined it. She was almost reluctant to look for clothes instead of exploring but she couldn’t hold out any longer. Not able to afford anything other than clothes that screamed ‘tour
ist’, she headed into the nearest gift shop. Once the air conditioning touched her, she was fighting herself not to linger.

  With the store worker’s permission, she headed into the changing room with a pair of flip flops, denim shorts, and a t-shirt with a New Orleans Saints logo. The Saints weren’t her team, but it seemed like a nice gesture to her new self. Her back felt like it was on fire as she pulled off her long-sleeved shirt. Something wet brushed against her fingers and she froze. Blood? She clutched her shirt to her chest as she tried to catch sight of her back in the mirror. Three deep scratches crossed her skin from her right shoulder to her left hip. They were fresh but had already stopped bleeding. Snatching up her backpack she looked for what could have caused the scratches, but there wasn’t anything on it.

  Dismissing the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, she pulled on her new shirt and headed out towards the selection of baseball caps. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as the air behind her stirred. She whipped around, arms raised to fend off a blow, but no one was near her. A few people were in the racks and the shopkeeper was on the other side of the register, but that was it. Each of them was watching her, some outright and some more discretely, but they were all looking. It took her a moment to realize what they were actually looking at; she wasn’t wearing her scarf.

  Her scar itched as she grabbed the nearest light linen scarf and looped it around her neck. It wasn’t enough. She just wanted to sink into the floorboards and disappear. Instead, she pulled a baseball cap over her tangled hair and slipped on the largest pair of sunglasses she could find, hoping they were big enough to cover the slowly healing black eye. She could feel their eyes on her as she paid and hurried out of the door. She ducked into the swirling crowd until the sensation died off.

  St. Ann Street took her along Jackson square. After so many days of isolation, the noise was intoxicating and eased the tension out of her shoulders. Brick houses rose up on either side of the street, their balconies decorated with iron fences and hanging plants heavy with flowers. She slowed to glance down Bourbon Street as she crossed it. There were too many people to be able to cross it in a straight line; the crowd pulled her across restaurants, bars, souvenir shops, and stores that advertised peep shows before she managed to get to the other side.