Savage Bayou (Things that go Bump in the Bayou Book 2)

by Alizabeth Lynn

  Ophelia opened her mouth, but he was already gone. She frowned at Carissa. “Maybe he won’t find the test.”

  Carissa slapped her forehead. “Oh crap! I forgot it was down there. I’ll go stop him!” But they heard the bathroom door shut before she could stand, followed by Daniel’s much slower footsteps.

  He stepped into the living room, and even if Ophelia hadn’t seen the test in his hands, she would have known he’d found it. His face was red from his chin to his hairline, and his blue eyes glowed lightly. Carissa quietly stood and removed herself from the room, but neither one of them paid her any attention. Daniel crouched down in front of Ophelia. He held up the test, the pink plus sign as obvious as a billboard.

  “Is this yours?” he asked softly.

  Ophelia sat her coffee cup on the end table and took his empty hand in hers. She pressed it to her still flat belly and nodded. “It is.”

  His eyes latched onto their hands. “But how?”

  Ophelia laughed. “Daniel, you were already a dhampir when you were changed. You didn’t have to die for it to trigger your bloodlust. Just because that’s the dominant part of you now doesn’t mean the rest of you stopped working.”

  He raised his gaze to hers. “Really?”

  “Really. I’ve thought about it a lot, and it’s the only thing that makes sense. You and Aden are a lot alike.”

  “And I get to be a father again.”

  Ophelia lovingly cupped his cheeks in her hands and pressed a kiss to his lips. “You get to be a father again.”

  A huge grin split his face, and he grabbed her by the waist, standing them both up and spinning her around in a circle. “I get to be a father again!”

  Ophelia laughed. “I love you, Daniel.”

  He sat her down and placed his hand back over her belly. “I love you, too, Ophelia.”

  They buried Janice under a large oak tree in the center of Jaune Memorial Cemetery. And no one wore black. Bright colors dotted the chairs surrounding the gravesite, and edgy rock spilled from the speakers of the boom box Ophelia’s brought to the occasion. Janice wouldn’t have wanted tears, although they weren’t all prevented.

  Some of the werewolf wives got together and prepared a meal for when they returned to the estate, but for now, her hand in Daniel’s, Ophelia watched silently as a group of Aden’s pack members manually lowered the rough, hand-made coffin into the sun-warmed ground. Ophelia tossed in the first handful of dirt, and dashed away the only tears she would shed.

  Janice had been her mother in every sense of the word. She’d been her shoulder to cry on, her hand to hold, and her love would last long after this day. Ophelia blew a kiss toward the grave, and silently turned away, her vampire on her arm, as they left the sunlit cemetery. Looking toward the group of friends awaiting them at her truck, Ophelia swore she wouldn’t let Janice die in vain.

  She would have a hand in Jeremiah’s death if it was the last thing she ever did.

  Myrick stormed around his office, his cloak flowing behind him as his fury built. Once again, his prey had escaped. Lightning flashed, thunder booming angrily across the storm-black sky as he paced and cursed. First Carissa and Aden slipped through his fingers, and now the traitors, Daniel and Ophelia not only escaped from Jeremiah, but they also ran the dhampir and his minion out of the state. Incompetent cretins. Myrick stalked over to the table where his crystal ball reclined on a pillow of red velvet. But the clouds within were as dark as the sky. His inner eye would show him nothing.

  Myrick flung his cloak from his shoulders to land over the offending magickal object. He could feel his power slipping. Already his hair was flecked with gray, and more was discovered each morning. His strong, flawless hands were wrinkling before his eyes. He wanted to wait for the chosen children, but that would not be possible. His anger was zapping his magick even faster than the wait. He pressed a tense finger to the button of his intercom.

  “T, bring in one of the reserves.”

  Static crackled over the airwaves as T responded, “Yes, sir.”

  Ten minutes later, and a few more gray hairs, T walked through the double doors of Myrick’s study, pulling a slight form across the floor. The child wore a silken hood over her head, and ropes tied her arms behind her back. Her extremities were covered in dirt and bruises, and her clothing was torn and ragged, but she was sturdy. Myrick could already taste the magick brimming just beneath the surface of her skin. Unlike with fruit, the best time to pluck power was before it ripened.

  His nostrils flaring, Myrick advanced on the whimpering child. She’d curled her body into as much of a ball as she could muster, as if that act would save her. The sorcerer chuckled, more thunder and lightning punctuating his mirth. Crouching down, he stretched his hands over the terrified form. He didn’t touch her, he didn’t want the taint of her innocence, but her power and her youth, oh, those would be his.

  Myrick closed his eyes and breathed deep. A burning red glow filled the room as he chanted words too low for even himself to hear clearly. An ancient incantation in a language no longer known to man, the drumbeat of his heart, the power of his soul—all melded together in one bursting flame of power. Myrick rose to his feet, eyes open and staring at the child before him. With a scream, her body stretched taut beneath his hands.

  The red glow surrounded her, pulling endless shrieks from her throat as it burned the power and youth from her body, stretching her bones, growing her form. T dropped the rope, pulling a sheet from a cabinet close by, which was then spread over the child’s body, leaving only the hooded head visible. The red light began to pulse, and with a flourish, T removed the hood, eyes gleaming with madness and glee. A wizened old woman stared back at the sorcerer, her dark, frightened eyes brimming with tears as her body slowly sank back to the floor.

  No sound came from the old woman’s throat as the crimson glow slowly faded. Myrick threw back his head and laughed, the sound of power-filled madness bouncing around the large room. His skin was once again smooth and young, and he knew what he would see when next he gazed at his reflection: A dapper man of no more than twenty-eight, broad of shoulder, with flowing black hair, and piercing blue eyes. Power swirled inside his black heart as T wrapped up the old woman – readying her for transport to their storage facility – and hauled her from the room without a word.

  And the sorcerer laughed again. His enemies may have escaped him twice, but there would not be a third time. He would find the one who bore the most powerful curse of all, and when she fell, he would have the power he needed to secure his future. With Annixia by his side, getting the children he desired would be no issue at all.

  Immortality would be his, and no power would be greater.

  **If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review!**

  Here is a

  sneak peek

  from

  Cursed Bayou,

  Coming

  Soon

  Chapter One

  -April 03, 1900-

  The perfume of blooming flowers hung heavy in the air as she padded barefoot through the woods. Blood stained her dress; the one Papa brought home to her for her birthday the day before. She shivered a little as the humid bayou breeze ruffled her skirt. She’d lost everything, and the thought of that made her skin cold despite the warm summer temperature.

  Tears fell in silence as she picked her way through the trees, the branches pulling at her long strawberry hair. Having never ventured so far from her Realm, she prayed she would come upon civilization sometime soon. The moon cast long shadows over the ground, and leaves took on a life of their own as they blew, scurrying across the tops of her feet. A sob wrenched from her throat as she came upon a clearing instead of an outlet.

  Standing in the middle, the moon shining cheerfully above her, the light glistening on the blood of her dress, her heart shattered. On a wail, she sank to the ground, her shoulders wracked with her heart’s pain. She curled into a ball, not caring if there were animals around. Not caring what happened t
o her at all.

  There was no way out of her pain, no way out of the bayou. She didn’t understand how to read the stars, and without Papa to guide the way, she didn’t know how to leave the Realm where they lived. She was all alone. Alone, and so very, very helpless.

  The sound of footsteps rose behind her, leaves crunching under the steady, plodding weight, and she found she did care what happened after all. She sprung to her feet and turned around. At first she saw nothing, but ever so slowly, the figure of a man appeared at the edge of the trees, and with him came the mingling scent of wood smoke and leather.

  Her heart leapt, and for one wild moment she thought the man was her father, but then he stepped into the moonlight, and her heart cracked open again. Long legs encased in strong black leather ended in knee-high boots of the same material. A long-sleeved flowing snow-white shirt hung on a muscular torso to just past the waistband of his pants. Shaggy flame-red hair framed a strong face with high cheekbones, crystal-blue eyes, and a full, sculpted mouth.

  The stranger eyed her with caution, no doubt concerned over the mess on her dress. So bright was the moon; she could see the suspicion clearly in his thunderous gaze. After what seemed like an eternity, the man took a couple of steps forward, his hair moving in the gentle bayou breeze. The closer he moved, the taller he grew, and the stronger his scent became. She was tall, but this stranger was taller still. When he stopped in front of her, she had to look up to meet his eyes. She was eye-level with his chest.

  Fear gnawed in her belly, overwhelming her sadness, as he gazed at her with those tumultuous sapphire orbs. Hesitantly, he smiled, the expression transforming his chiseled and suspicious face into something boyish and exceedingly handsome. Nervously, she fussed with the skirt of her soiled dress.

  He looked down, surely noticing the slashes the knife had made on her upper arms, the backs of her hands, and fabric of her bodice. A frown marred his features, and he reached out, taking her small hands in his large ones. He turned them over, inspecting the marks, then turned his gaze upon the dress.

  “The blood on your dress, it’s not all yours, is it?” he inquired, his deep Cajun lilt calm and soothing.

  She shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes. “The rest is Papa’s,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

  The man let go of her hands, reaching out to tilt her chin up until their eyes met again. The suspicion was gone as he used his thumb to wipe away an escaping tear. He cupped her cheek in his palm, and for the first time in months – for the first time since she’d heard the sorcerer’s name – she felt safe.

  “I’m Liam,” he told her, “and you can come with me if you’d like.”

  She smiled through her tears, and blinked her eyes clear. “Papa calls me Melina,” she whispered, “and I would be glad to go with you.”

  To be continued…

  Acknowledgements, and a note from the author

  Jennifer and Jessica, you’re the backbone of these books. Your talent, friendship, and support is more than anyone could ever ask, and you never cease to give it. Despite writer’s block, murderous sleep sheep, and faulty internet connections, you’ve each persevered, and through your strength, I’ve continued to find the will to keep on torturing my characters.

  Jessica: Good lord, woman! Not only are you a fantastic editor, but you wield the sarcastic word hammer as skillfully as a certain mythological God would wield his. It’s thanks to you that there is double my usual amount of snark. (This means, readers, if it’s too sarcastic, it’s not my fault.) Also, without your dedication, I don’t think Aden would know whether to wear his shirt, take it off, or have it disappear into thin air. For that, he thanks you, and promises to be more diligent with his clothing decisions in the future.

  In all seriousness, though, thank you. Between disappearing shirts and cars, and from plot holes to words we’ve never heard of, you’ve polished this book until it shone brighter than any diamond. For that, and your friendship, I am eternally grateful.

  Jennifer: You’ve been there over every hill, and held the safety net after every drop. You’ve created concept after concept for covers, scene dividers, and chapter headers. You’ve given me hours upon hours of friendly advice, brainstormed ideas, and a good, swift kick in the e-pants whenever I’ve needed one. Without your friendship, and your down-to Earth attitude, I may have given up long before now, but you’re right about so many things, and I just can’t give up.

  For that, I owe you so much more than a signed copy of my books. You are a one-in-a-million person, a fantastic author and cover designer, and I thank God I can call you my friend.

  Buddy: Of course, I must also thank my handsome redneck. Without your faith in me, your pestering, and your occasional grumpiness, I wouldn’t have learned so many new ways to torture my characters. Oh, and your love. That helps, too. I love you with all my heart, and I cannot wait to see what other ways you spark my imagination in the next four books. I have a feeling my characters won’t be nearly as pleased as their author…

  Mom: I wouldn’t be at this point without you at all. You passed on your love of reading and your talent for writing, and I can only hope I’m doing both justice. I know we don’t see eye-to-eye on genres and quite a few other things, but you’ve never given up on me, and you’ve always encouraged me to follow my dreams. So, I have, and now I’m here. You may not have passed me the Big Boob Gene, substituting it for Frizzy Hair from Hell, but I still love you, and I’m blessed to have you as my mother.

  Betas: Thank you so much, Michelle, Stefania, Stephanie, Tripp, Niquie (Why does Word think you should be ‘Nyquil?’ Does this mean I should have been medicated this whole time?), and Julie. Your dedication to beta reading has removed a huge weight from my shoulders. Every scrap of feedback or positive word has helped spur this, and every other book I’m working on, to new heights. You play an invaluable role in my writing process, and I look forward to working with all of you in the future.

  NOTE: I realize there are probably a few people I haven’t mentioned—friends, acquaintances, random strangers that held the door while I tried to wrangle the screaming, Tiny Spawn of Celestial Nightmares that masquerades as my toddler—but I imagine y’all can forgive me. If not, well, there are plenty of torture slots that need to be filled. I’m only joking…mostly. I probably won’t name any after my friends.

  Everyone else, you’re fair game. You’ve been warned.

  About the Author

  In 1984, on a dreary December day, the screaming began…and there hasn’t been an ounce of silence, since. From verbal to written, words have always held a peculiar fascination for Alizabeth Lynn, so much so that the only dream she’s ever had was to be a writer. From that glorious Kindergarten moment when she first learned the proper way to hold a pencil, to 1998 when computers offered her a new way to save the never-ending flow of story-thoughts that lived in her mind, she’s always had an idea brewing.

  Her career has run the gamut from atrocious poetry, to The Book that Shall not be Named, but she lived, and she learned. Since those lessons, Crimson Bayou, the first book in her Things that go Bump in the Bayou series, was officially released in December of 2014. She was also included in two anthologies, which were published independently in October 2015, and she has more books waiting in the wings.

  Alizabeth is a Northwest Louisiana native that currently calls a little West Texas town “home.” Living there with her fiancé, two children, and feline writing buddy, she balances her writing with taking care of her family, running an independent formatting company, and trying her best not to lose what’s left of her mind. Copious amounts of coffee and chocolate help, but at the end of the day, it all comes down to one simple thing: she is living her dream, in every way that matters.

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