Make You Mine

by Macy Beckett

  She drove onward, toward the edge of town where modest single-family starter homes replaced businesses. Overgrown lawns littered with bikes and plastic toys turned her thoughts to Marc, who’d said he wanted to move back here someday. Allie wasn’t quite ready for a family, and neither was Marc, but she couldn’t help feeling a rush of excitement when she imagined buying a little fixer-upper with him and filling it with memories of their own. And, someday, children.

  If Devyn’s plan worked, their future would begin tonight.

  Candles, trinkets, and herb bottles clattered together in their box on the backseat—supplies for the mock cleansing ceremony she hoped would release Marc from his psychological barriers to intimacy.

  Dev’s thoughts must have traveled on the same wavelength. “You nervous?”

  “Not really,” Allie said, and meant it. “Marc’s totally committed. He did everything we asked of him, and we ran that poor boy all over New Orleans.” After he’d extended the olive branch to his pawpaw, she’d sent him hunting down gifts for Memère—everything from her favorite candy to the skin cream she’d used, which was only available in antique shops. “I even told him we needed eggs as a symbol of rebirth.”

  “Eggs?” Devyn asked. “Those aren’t hard to find.”

  “Snake eggs.”

  Dev shook her head appreciatively. “Nice one. You’re a harsh mistress, little sister.”

  Allie shrugged. “I’m not trying to be mean. The harder he works, the more invested he’ll be during the ceremony.”

  “Well, sounds like he bought in, so that’s good,” Devyn said. “It’s the first step toward that ‘purest faith’ he’s supposed to demonstrate.”

  “That’s the key,” Allie agreed. “He has to let go of everything he’s lived since childhood and understand that we can be together.” A shiver of unease trickled down her spine. Was she delusional to think his superstitious belief in the curse outweighed generations of poor role modeling?

  No negativity, she chided herself. Have a little faith of your own.

  Dev gave her a condescending pat on the shoulder. “Whatever you say. I’ll be focused on the real issue keeping you two apart—dark magic.”

  Allie suppressed an eye roll.

  They drove in silence until Allie spotted Marc’s truck parked across the street from the St. Bartholomew Chapel. It was dusk now, the sun reduced to nothing more than a smear of pink against the sky, casting the cobbled stones of the church in a romantic glow.

  But that gentle bathing of light was deceptive, much like the rite Allie was about to hold in the graveyard behind the chapel. There was nothing romantic about this crumbling ruin.

  Centuries of floodwaters and neglect had eroded the house of worship, giving it an eerie, sagging appearance, like the face of a weeping crone. Allie wished the parish would demolish it. She usually loved visiting historical landmarks, but for some reason, St. Bart’s had always made her skin prickle and her arm hair stand on end. When she stepped out of her car, she recoiled at the heavy odor of mildew thickening the air.

  She whispered to Devyn, “I can’t believe I let you talk me into having the ceremony here. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Where else would Memère’s spirit be strongest?” Dev asked. “Her tomb is here. And this is where she cursed old man Dumont.”

  “It’s hard to believe they were supposed to get married that night,” Allie said as she faced the chapel.

  Two oak doors, splintered with age and hanging from their hinges at awkward angles, guarded the sanctuary entrance. How long had Memère stood in that doorway and watched for her lover before learning he wouldn’t come? She must have been crushed—all her dreams severed in the blink of an eye, and in such a cowardly, public manner. Was it any wonder she’d lashed out the only way she knew how?

  Allie shook off a chill and pulled the box of supplies from the backseat, then tucked it against her hip while she and Devyn strode toward the cemetery behind the church.

  • • •

  When the crooked iron gate groaned on its hinges, Marc caught Allie’s eye and stood from the bench where he’d been waiting. He offered a grin and brushed off his backside, hoping he hadn’t gotten too messy.

  She’d asked him to wear white tonight to symbolize pureness of heart, and she matched him in an ivory cotton sundress that brushed her ankles. The sight of her took his breath away. Together, they almost resembled the ill-fated bride and groom who rested here among the dead, their stone tombs facing each other across a gravel path in an eternal standoff.

  “Hey,” he said, glancing up at the swollen moon. “Nice night for curse breaking.” His words teased, but Marc’s stomach was in knots. He needed this ceremony to work.

  “The best,” she agreed. She balanced a box of supplies on her hip, and Marc took it from her and asked where she wanted to set up. She scanned the dim graveyard, then pointed to a stone altar near the church’s rear wall. “Over there.”

  “Wait,” said Devyn, joining them from behind. She reached inside the box and pulled free a small crystal dish. “We need dirt from Edward and Memère’s tombs,” she said. “Blended in here to heal the rift between our families. I’ll get it while you two dress the candles.”

  Marc wasn’t sure what dressing candles entailed, so he tagged along with Allie and helped her clean off the limestone slab. They arranged an assortment of thick, white candles along the surface, and Allie dabbed them with scented oils that reminded him of medicated ointment—eucalyptus, maybe.

  Next, she placed a framed photo of Juliette Mauvais in the center of the altar, adding to it a small statue of a dark, horned man.

  “Who’s that?” Marc asked.

  “Legba,” Allie explained. “He’s an ancient spirit who’s considered an intermediate to the world of the dead.” She lit a single yellow candle and said it would help in seeking Legba’s guidance. The candles illuminated Juliette’s portrait, almost as if announcing her presence, too.

  Despite the headdress concealing the woman’s dark curls, the resemblance between Juliette and Allie was striking—right down to their mismatched eyes. But there was something else behind those eyes, a cold edge that raised Marc’s hackles. She was a beautiful woman, but not someone he’d trust with his heart. He couldn’t understand what his great-great-grandfather had ever seen in her.

  It occurred to Marc that he probably shouldn’t be thinking ill of Juliette during the ceremony—not if he wanted freedom from her spell. He crossed himself and apologized to her spirit . . . wherever she was.

  Devyn returned with the bowl of dirt and set it atop the altar. “Ready?”

  Marc glanced between the two sisters. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Did you bring gifts for the spirits?” Allie asked.

  Marc jogged back to the bench to fetch his paper bag. “Got it right here. Even the snake eggs.”

  “Put the tokens on the altar.” Allie said. When he’d finished, she indicated for him to kneel, then joined him on the soft grass and spoke directly to the statue of Legba. “Marc Dumont presents these favors and seeks your permission to commune with the spirit of Juliette Mauvais.” She added a few coins to the altar. “As do I.”

  Devyn knelt beside Allie. “Now we’ll join hands and pray.”

  Marc was surprised when Devyn recited the Our Father. He didn’t know what kind of prayer he’d expected, but it wasn’t that. After amen, Devyn lit a stick of incense, filling the humid evening air with a hint of exotic spice.

  While Marc and Allie remained kneeling, hands joined, Devyn stood and told him she was going to invoke Legba. Then she began chanting in Creole, and Marc could swear he felt ice skitter down his back. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

  “Now that we’ve asked his permission,” Devyn explained, “I’ll use a smudge stick to remove any negativity clinging to yo
u.”

  A smudge what? Marc looked to Allie with a question in his eyes.

  “Just be still,” she whispered. “You don’t have to do anything.”

  With a bundle of dried herbs in hand, Devyn ignited one end and gently blew on it until a billow of sage-scented smoke wafted up from the leaves. She circled Marc with the smudge stick, coating him in the smoke. After waving it above his heads a few more times, Devyn placed it on the altar and called to her great-great-grandmother.

  “Juliette Mauvais,” Devyn said, “we invoke your spirit and offer these tokens in hope that you will show mercy on Marc Dumont and break the hex upon his family.” Devyn went on to recount the story of Juliette’s betrothal to Edward, culminating in his abandonment on their wedding day. “Your vengeance was justified, but now we pray that you will show mercy on Marc. Unlike his fickle-hearted ancestor, he comes to you on bended knee seeking forgiveness and a bond with Allison Catrine, daughter of your own blood.”

  Marc’s grip tightened around Allie’s hand as they shared a hopeful glance.

  “Let their love heal the ancient rift between our families,” Devyn implored to the heavens. “Please accept his show of faith and free him from your wrath.” Then she gave Marc an encouraging nod. “It’s time.”

  From what Marc understood, he was supposed to prove his faith. But what did that mean, exactly? “What do I say?”

  “Whatever’s in your heart,” Devyn told him. She nodded toward the street. “I’ll give you two some privacy and wait by the car. When you’re finished, someone needs to thank the spirits and release them, but Allie knows how to do that.”

  She kissed her sister on the head and gave Marc a don’t screw this up glare, then strode out of view. The iron gate creaked and clicked shut, confirming her departure.

  Marc’s heart sprinted under the pressure. He didn’t want to screw this up.

  “It’s okay.” Allie cupped his face with one hand, her eyes brimming with patience. “I love you, Marc. Just tell me what you want.”

  That sounded easy enough.

  Marc was crazy about Allie. He wanted her to move in with him, to share his bed and fill his arms like she’d done on board the Belle. Those short weeks with her were damned near perfect—she was damned near perfect—and he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice by losing his nerve.

  It was time to sac up.

  He took a deep breath and began. “Allie, I want . . .”

  Marc paused to catch another lungful of air. God bless, it was hotter than hellfire out here. How could anyone breathe this soup?

  Allie stroked his cheek. “Go ahead, baby.”

  He swallowed hard while sweat broke out along his upper lip. He released her hand and blotted his face on his shirttails, but that didn’t help. For every drop of sweat he wiped away, three more appeared to take its place. Before long, he was sweating like a sinner on judgment day.

  He opened his mouth to try again. “I want . . .”

  Damn it, he couldn’t get enough oxygen.

  Holding up one finger, he said, “Just give me a minute.” His collar seemed to be choking him, so he undid the first three buttons. A glance down showed his chest rising and falling, so why did it feel like he couldn’t breathe?

  “Are you okay?” Allie asked, her whiskey-and-gray eyes widening in concern.

  Marc’s hands had turned to ice. He wiped them on his trousers and tried a third time. “I want you . . .” to move in with me. Move in with me! He screamed it internally, but the words turned to dust. Then a ball of fear rose in his throat and fanned out to squeeze his ribs as surely as any heart attack. His chest grew heavy and his vision blurred. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was dying.

  There was only one explanation—the cleansing ceremony had failed.

  He was still cursed.

  “Marc?” Allie’s voice was barely a whisper. “Talk to me.”

  Unable to bear the mingling of shock and fear in her gaze, he stared at the ground. “I want to keep seeing you.”

  “Seeing me?” she asked in disbelief. She seemed to chew on that for a while, the distant croak of cicadas filling the silence as seconds ticked by. “Seeing me,” she repeated, “or sleeping with me?”

  “Both.” Shit, he was going down in flames, just like last time. He scrambled for control of his tongue. “But it’s more than that,” he quickly added. “I want to spend time with you, cook you dinner, and curl up on the sofa to watch old Westerns. And what I said before still stands: I won’t cheat while we’re together. I swear it.”

  “You won’t cheat while we’re together.”

  The flatness of her tone prompted him to peek up from beneath his lashes. When their gazes caught, he was shamed by the pain he saw there. The way she stared at him reminded Marc of the time his mother had caught him stealing baseball cards from the drugstore when he was six years old. More than angry, she looked disappointed, like he’d let her down.

  “For however long that lasts, right?” Allie asked. “And when someone new catches your eye, you’ll do me the courtesy of breaking up with me before you take her to bed. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Marc didn’t know how to answer that without digging himself a deeper hole. In truth, Allie was the only woman he wanted, but according to statistics, they wouldn’t last a lifetime. He’d promised to be faithful to her for as long as she kept him around—what more could he offer?

  “Answer me,” she demanded.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not you. It’s the curse. We didn’t break it.”

  Her eyes turned to slits as she released a humorless laugh. “The curse.” She pushed to standing and brushed bits of dried grass from her dress. “What if I told you it’s not real?”

  Marc shook his head. “It is. I can feel it. But maybe if we try again—”

  “There’s no such thing as magic!” she shouted, shocking the cicadas into a beat of silence. Her eyes welled with tears as she snatched the wooden talisman from the altar. “See this? Legba is no more real than Zeus or Athena. He’s just a legend.” She tossed aside the statue and pointed to Juliette Mauvais’s portrait. “And her? I don’t know if Memère’s spirit is in heaven or in hell, but I know this—she’s not hovering around Cedar Bayou, meddling in your love life. She’s gone! She has no power over you!”

  Marc didn’t understand. “Then why did we just go through all this?”

  “Because I’m an idiot.” Bending at the waist, she began blowing out the candles, one by one. “I thought the curse was causing you a mental block, and if I could convince you it was broken, you might actually commit to me.”

  Still on his knees, Marc drew back and turned a blank stare to the stone altar. It had taken days to find all those stupid tokens, especially the snake eggs. And what about the time Allie had gone catatonic? Was it an act?

  “So none of this was real?”

  “None of this was ever real,” Allie said, exasperated.

  Only one candle remained burning, but it was more than enough to illuminate the tears threatening to spill free from her lashes. A spark of anger ignited inside Marc’s chest, but it died just as quickly. As much as he hated her deception, the sight of Allie’s quivering chin hit him like a kick to the gut.

  “There’s no hex, Marc,” she said. “It’s all in your mind. The plain truth is that you don’t love me enough to take the risk. You’ll follow your daddy’s path because it’s safer and easier than forging your own trail and maybe getting hurt along the way.”

  “That’s not true. I’m nothing like my father.”

  “You’re exactly like him,” she said. “Just without the children.”

  That stung, but when Marc geared up to defend himself, he couldn’t summon a single argument to refute what she’d said. Still, he refused to dwell on the topic. Aside from genetics, he and the old man had no
thing in common.

  “I want more,” Allie went on. “More than a physical relationship. I deserve your whole heart, and it looks like you can’t give me that.” A tear spilled down her cheek. “Or you won’t. And there’s no hex to blame for it.”

  Something broke behind Marc’s breastbone. Hurting Allie was the last thing he’d wanted to do, and now he was losing her. He wanted to get back on track—to show how much she meant to him—but he didn’t know how.

  Her breath hitched, but instead of breaking into a sob, she locked her spine and peered down at him, square in the eyes. “So now that you know the truth, does it change anything?”

  “Allie, please,” he said, splaying his hands like a beggar. “I honestly do care about you. Let’s slow down and talk this out. Maybe we should take a few days apart to—”

  “I didn’t think so.” She licked her fingers and used them to extinguish the last candle. “Good-bye, Marc.”

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but he heard Allie turn and pick her way along the gravel path leading to the street, leaving him alone with nothing but the acrid burn of smoke in his nostrils to prove that this debacle had actually happened.

  Glued to the ground, he knelt there and stretched an arm toward Allie’s retreating shadow. “Come back,” he called. “Please, Allie. If you’ll just listen . . .”

  But she continued on her way until she disappeared from view, and that fissure behind his breastbone widened into a virtual black hole.

  The night’s events seemed surreal. How had everything fallen apart so quickly?

  A reflective glimmer of moonlight drew his attention to Juliette Mauvais’s picture in its frame. The old biddy smiled down at him in sepia tones, her expression haughty, as if mocking his pain, and it occurred to Marc that on this centennial of the woman’s botched wedding day, it was a Dumont who’d been dumped at the altar.