by Lyla Payne
The possibilities that churn my guts up, that keep me wishing there were eyes in the back of my head, are the two that have to do with the curse. Perhaps the girl is connected to what’s happening with the curse, or out at Drayton Hall. Maybe she’s appearing to take the place of Mrs. LaBadie, now that she’s gone.
But why would she show up in my path? Amelia is the one carrying the male baby, and that’s what the curse was designed to prevent all those years ago, that baby boy from growing into an adult. Sure, I’m a pain in the ass but I’m not who they’re after. Not really.
The thought of the creepy little girl or anyone else slinking into town to finish what Mrs. LaBadie started quickens my steps toward home. Just because Millie’s been better doesn’t mean she’s okay, and I curse myself for not saying yes to Mama Lottie sooner.
Mama Lottie. If I’m facing my worst fears, it’s that she had something to do with tonight. She’s tired of waiting, as the state of my face could already attest to, and Daria warned me to get the deal done sooner rather than later. She wouldn’t want to kill me, of course, but like with Clete, it’s not going to hurt for me to understand that she’s in charge.
I don’t know why I’m dragging my feet. Amelia needs that curse to be gone. Beau might or might not understand, but until I hear what exactly Mama Lottie wants from me, there’s no way to manage the fallout.
I think there’s too much I don’t know. Voodoo, Gullah, hoodoo, witchcraft—all of it lands so far outside my purview that I’m blind. I’ll have to trust her, do her bidding without understanding the repercussions, and I do not trust her. Not in my head, not in my heart, not deep down in the parts of me that know things I don’t.
It feels like walking out into a swamp, or across quicksand, or you know, into the Fire Swamp without knowing exactly where to step. I get home, feeling as though the locks on the door aren’t enough, and go check on my cousin. She’s asleep on her side, belly pressed into a pillow and her blond hair spilled over the edge of the bed. As I watch her breathe, all I can think is that if I’m hoping Mama Lottie’s going to be my Westley, I’m in for quite the disappointment.
By the time Saturday night rolls around I’m mostly relieved. The stages of denial, avoidance, fear, and acceptance have come and gone. I’ve reached impatience, and Daria’s running late.
My dress, which I’m hoping isn’t too casual for the wedding we’re not invited to at Drayton Hall, itches my collarbones. The heels are inadvisable for traipsing around the soft ground near the water but appropriate for the rest of my look. The last thing we need is for anyone to get suspicious or a stray camera to pick us up and a security officer to make note of the girl in the little black dress paired with Chucks.
Daria arrives, finally. We’re meeting at a gas station up the road about five miles from Drayton Hall so we can arrive together. More relief blows my breath out in a sigh as I take in her appearance, which is nice and unobtrusive.
Well, her hair is pink, so maybe unobtrusive is the wrong word. But she’s paired the new hair color with a soft, yellow A-line dress and a pair of wedges that couldn’t be a better wedding style if they’d come straight off a Pinterest page.
She opens my car door, eyebrows raised. “Where’d you get the new wheels?”
“It’s Amelia’s.” I don’t elaborate or answer the obvious unasked question. I don’t want to talk about the other night.
“Nicer than yours,” she comments, sliding into the passenger seat. “Doesn’t smell weird, either.”
“Thanks for noticing.”
We drive the five minutes to Drayton Hall in silence, our nerves tangling in the air. It would make me feel a lot better if Daria could act as though this might be a normal day on the job, but other than her hair color, she’s not much for pretending, as far as I can tell.
Borrowing Amelia’s car gives us the double bonus of not smelling like moldy nachos and being unrecognizable to the perimeter cameras, since Jenna said they’re still functioning. I don’t think Cordelia has a private APB out for my old beater or anything, but…maybe she does. There’s no telling what lengths she’ll go to in order to keep me away.
We follow the line of cars, and the parking attendants point us this way and that until we are at the end of a tidy little row of neat sedans and newish SUVs. Whoever’s getting married has some stylish, wealthy guests, but that’s no surprise. Renting out this piece of land doesn’t come cheap, not even for a few hours.
“The wedding’s out back, too?” Daria asks, peering up at the unchanged exterior of the brick house.
“Yeah. The structure wouldn’t support this many people. They even keep the tour groups smaller than twenty. This way.” I lead her onto the path that wraps around the house, passing the buildings where they sell souvenirs and books, organize groups, and the one that was half my office for a few weeks last month.
We don’t have to go far before the transformed back lawn dazzles me with beauty—a giant white tent draped with white twinkle lights, inside and out. There are blue and pink hydrangeas hanging in giant bouquets, the faint strains of what sounds like a string quartet, and guests that are dressed in matching pastels as if they all received a memo about it.
I guess my little black dress isn’t perfect for any and all occasions, after all, but Daria fits in like she’s one of them. Maybe she was in another life. There’s no telling.
“Let’s mingle for a minute,” I murmur to Daria. “Then we can slip out the back.”
The marriage ceremony has obviously concluded, and we’ve moved on to the reception. The inside of the tent houses dozens of tables draped in periwinkle blue and sporting more lights. Tea lights float in bowls of water and more flowers. The parquet dance floor is huge and currently occupied by a dozen or so guests, including the bride and groom.
“I love her dress,” I start to comment, turning to find Daria gone from my side.
It doesn’t take long to find her pink hair in the crowd of blondes and brunettes—she’s in line at the bar, balancing a full plate from the buffet table, leaving me to wonder how long I assessed the décor and bridal fashion. Too long, obviously, and my stomach grumbles at the sight of her crab puffs.
I stomp over to her with as much indignation as I can manage in my heels. Practice makes perfect, and even though less than a year ago, attending faculty cocktail parties was part of a normal week, it seems six months in flip-flops and tennis shoes has taken its toll.
“What are you doing?” I hiss at Daria as she accepts what appears to be a vodka and soda from the bartender.
“What? It’s not quite dark yet and I’m hungry. Sue me.”
I eye her drink. “Hungry, huh?”
“Hungry.”
“Me, too.” I step up to the bar, trying not to wobble. “What’s free?”
His lip curls in distaste at my crass question, but I left my wallet in the car. The bride and groom must at least be picking up the tab for well liquors because the chances that Daria hid money in that dress are slim to none.
“It’s an open bar, ma’am.”
I feel my eyes go wide. My back breaks under this, the last straw. “Ma’am? Don’t you mean Miss?”
His cheeks go red, but the expression in his eyes doesn’t change. He had enough of me before I opened my mouth the first time. “Of course, miss. What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a Long Island Iced Tea.”
“Are you sure that’s smart?” Daria asks, peering around my elbow. “You know what they say about negotiating with ghosts when you’re tipsy.”
The bartender almost drops the bottles of rum and vodka he’s maneuvering over my glass. Daria smirks, and I elbow her in the boob. “Would you stop? It’s one drink.”
“Famous last words.”
“Shut up.” The drink tastes good and, more importantly, numbs the tips of my frayed nerves in the most glorious way. I hobble over to the buffet table and fill a plate with crab puffs, turkey pinwheels, some kind of chicken, and some vegetables fo
r good measure.
Daria trails behind me and we find a table, one that’s half-empty and toward the back. The other seats might belong to some of the people on the dance floor, or maybe this is the sad, awkward singles table and is to be avoided at all costs.
Based on the guy with the pieces of food stuck in his bright red Duck Dynasty beard and the woman who seriously, seriously needs to acquaint herself with the business end of a waxing kit, I’m guessing the latter.
Daria watches me suck down the rest of my drink, and we clean our plates in silence, watching people celebrate love and eternity and a bunch of other shit I’m not sure how people can promise each other. How are we supposed to know how we’re going to feel in five or ten years? In thirty? We could be totally different people, depending on what life hurls at us.
Beau’s face hovers in my mind, all soft green-brown-gold eyes and tempting dimples. My cynicism eases, my impatience and irritation skittering into the recesses of my mind. For now. Because no matter what, I can’t imagine not caring about him.
Maybe marriage is not about feelings at all. Maybe it’s about commitment and faith and trust and all those things that just don’t sound romantic at all until they catch you when you fall, maybe save your life.
Hmm. I eye the bottom of my glass, wondering what in the hell the bartender dumped into it, then get to my feet. The drinks must be strong, since the warmth has made its way down to my toes now, and hits my belly when I stand.
“Where are you going?” Daria asks.
“Get another drink.” I check my phone. “We’ve got another ten minutes or so before it’s dark.”
“Fine. Get me one, too. And some more crab puffs.”
I leave her there, explaining to the woman how we know the bride, which is apparently because we were all sorority sisters at the university. Who knows which one, but maybe it doesn’t matter unless the bride isn’t a fan of Greek life.
That’s Daria’s problem, since she felt so keen on striking up a conversation. The bartender doesn’t look all that happy to see me, even after I compliment his Long Island pouring skills, but hands over the two drinks all the same.
I barely get five steps toward the buffet before a guy sweating his ass off in a heather-gray suit and sporting a boutonnière pops into my path.
“Hey, beautiful. Wanna dance?”
Before I can tell him to get lost, the DJ’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, asking for all the single ladies to come to the dance floor. I give tipsy groomsman a faux-rueful glance and attempt to step past, but he blocks me.
I do not like the way he’s eyeing my naked left hand, wrapped around Daria’s drink.
“Looks like you’re headed to the dance floor either way.”
“Um, no thanks. I have to get this drink to my friend.”
“Is she single, too?”
I ignore the question, managing to sidestep him and make it back to Daria. I’m the one sweating now, and I drop next to her and suck down half my drink. It tastes way too good, and despite my knee-jerk reaction to Daria’s monitoring my alcohol intake earlier, she’s not wrong about me needing a sharp mind to confront Mama Lottie.
“Come on now, gals! I happen to know there’s at least half a dozen of you lovely, single ladies in the room! Come on up front on your own so I don’t have to coax you up with a spotlight and a personal visit…” The DJ’s voice booms, like nails on a chalkboard.
I ignore his not-at-all veiled threat, suddenly freaking out all over again about the upcoming ghostly chat, never mind the lubrication. Daria’s still chatting it up with our tablemates.
“Ladies, in the back, don’t think I can’t see you!” The DJ pauses, the scratchy trill of his voice moving closer. “Three of you, aren’t there? At the table near the exit?”
Daria looks bemused by how quickly her conversation partner seizes up at the idea of having to go stand in a clump of other single losers and pretend to want to catch a wilted clump of flowers. I hardly blame her, but even before the twentysomething DJ, who is so not as cute as he thinks he is, shows up at our table, I’ve realized he’s one of those types. The follow-the-rules, everyone-plays, if-my-life-sucks-so-does-yours types.
I get to my feet without being asked and so does Daria, but it takes another two minutes of embarrassment before caterpillar-eyebrows joins us. We’re not even supposed to be at this wedding but not one person seems to notice or care. Which was the plan, I guess.
There are about twenty-five of us single gals milling around the dance floor aimlessly, and it looks as though they’re all trying to decide, like I am, which is going to end up being the rear of the herd. Daria still seems amused and knocks back her drink in two giant gulps before clapping her hands together like she’s warming up for a big game.
I cock my head. “You lookin’ to get yourself hitched, little lady?”
“Hey, I’m almost thirty, no guy in sight. These feet aren’t gonna rub themselves for the rest of my life.”
“That’s sweet.” I can’t help but laugh at her idea of married bliss.
The DJ gets on with this whole silly thing, finally, and we all find ourselves fighting to not catch the bouquet. Which lands square in my chest.
The win—or loss, depending—finds me smiling for pictures with the pretty blonde bride, who is nice enough not to ask who in the hell I am and what I’m doing at her wedding. With all the people here, she probably figures I’m a distant cousin of her new husband’s, or maybe the date of a work friend. We get away with it, anyway, and I stuff the giveaway flowers in my handbag on our way out of the tent.
We pause in the shadows, taking ten minutes to open the doors of communication in our minds, ask our spirit guides for help, and make sure we’ve got ourselves in order before moving forward. Daria’s anxiety seems to have lessened, probably because of the booze. It’s helped mine, too, and my hands are barely shaking as we slink toward the darkness.
The remnants of music tickle my ears as we trade the lights and laughter and other evidence of living people for the darkness of the path winding along the water. We pass a couple here and there, one with a toddler who clearly needed to burn some energy, but by the time we reach the spot under the biggest oak tree where Mama Lottie has greeted us before, there’s no one about to witness my betrayal of a man who is nothing short of amazing.
In the past, we’ve had to wait. Had to search her out, let Mama Lottie arrive on her terms. Assert herself, I think, so that we didn’t assume her spirit was at our beck and call.
Tonight, though, she’s already here. It’s not hard to tell, because hanging from the tree in front of us is a carbon copy of the giant snake that bit my boyfriend.
Chapter Eleven
The slinky reptile issues a low, menacing hiss, its black eyes fixed on the two of us. We stop walking, for obvious reasons, and my stupid heels sink a full two inches into the mud. The white mist from the other afternoon, the one that busted up my face, winds around the snake. It grows and stretches, shimmering until it solidifies into a person shape, then sprouting a turban and a generous figure that can only belong to Mama Lottie.
She’s got a shit-eating grin on her face, as though this is some circus act and she’s waiting for a round of applause. Maybe it’s the marginal terror on both of our faces that’s causing her so much pleasure.
“I thought you’d be back, Graciela Harper. Wasn’t sure, though, because you sure took your sweet time. Seems like it’s been a month of Sundays.”
It’s hard not to notice how cleanly she speaks, without a trace of an accent even when she uses local vernacular. Her tone is clear, her speech clipped…like that of a Northerner.
I force a smile, glad that I can hear her. Worried I can hear her.
Maybe the worst part is feeling, in my gut, that it depends on whether or not she wants me to, and nothing I’m doing or learning has anything to do with it.
“I’m back.”
“You have my answer, then?”
I swallow, n
ot expecting the moment to have arrived so soon. A million and one questions zip through my mind like circling horseflies in the worst part of summer. They land and bite, begging to be noticed and asked, but there’s no time.
I know what I came here to do, and what she’s going to ask or how we’re going about it are really just technicalities at this point. Except for one thing.
“I’m not going to hurt anyone. Not physically, not any other way. No dead Draytons.”
Her grin stretches wider. “I’m not that stupid. The family that took mine deserves to suffer, and death is a blessed release, girl. Surely you’ve seen enough in your lifetime to realize that.”
The images that flood my mind are my grandfather’s last days—the struggle to breathe, the exhaustion, the willingness to lay back and slough off the body that was bringing nothing but pain and discomfort.
I blink away the tears, staring at her. It’s amazing, what she can do. How she can affect a world that she shouldn’t belong to anymore.
“Say you’re amenable,” she demands. “A curse for a curse. I help you break the curse on the males in your family line, you help me make sure the Drayton family suffers like I’ve suffered.”
“Why, though? These Draytons have done nothing to you. They’ve kept up your house, let people see the cemetery. Let you be out here.” The trickle of desperation inside me turns into a flood, as though someone has opened a gate. “I’m not sure a single one of them even knows you existed. Why punish them for the mistakes of their ancestors?”
Her face hardens into deep lines, pure hatred spewing across the space between us. The snake responds, jerking upright before slithering off the branch to curl behind her neck, then coiling around her arm. It stares at me as though an extension of the ghost, one poised to do real, physical world damage.
A shudder works through me. Mama Lottie proved her influence by killing Mrs. LaBadie. If that had been her.
