“But what?” Wise eyes narrowed, awaiting her answer.
“But there is something about him that calls to me. Beckons me, like our souls are intertwined. Halves that found each other and can recognize it, even if we really don’t understand it yet ourselves. I sound crazy, right?” Beth rubbed her temples.
Aunt Grace smiled one of her famous, all-seeing, all-knowing smiles. “Very well, then, you deserve the whole story, don’t you?”
Beth sat upright. “Whole story?”
“Yes, the buried part. The part our family has kept mum about for a long time. Too long, in fact.” Grace chuckled and added in a hushed whisper. “Yes, the proverbial family skeleton falls out of the closet now.”
Beth wasn’t sure whether to be intrigued or scared.
“Oh, come now. No reason for such an alarmed expression. You already learned good and well about our certain … ah, shall we say gifts?”
Grace was right. Beth had always known they were all a bit different. Hell, most of the town seemed to shoot curious stares their way, but no one had ever elaborated on the stigma. Grace had a unique gift, which could only be described as insight. According to whispers she’d heard as a child, Great-Great Grandma Mirabelle had been a self-proclaimed witch, and Beth’s mother always had a nifty way of stopping things. Beth had dropped a vase once, and miraculously her mother had rescued it before it hit the floor. Thing was, she’d been across the room. Even as a kid, Beth knew her mother couldn’t have made it in time — yet she had.
Yeah, her family didn’t quite fit the typical Leave it to Beaver stereotype. But who was she to complain? They were a laidback, honest, open-minded, colorful bunch of folks. She’d met her share of the so-called “typical” families, who for the most part couldn’t stand being in the same room with one another. She’d never have been able to tolerate that sort of family. She loved her quirky but close-knit family and would accept them over the typical family, any day of the week.
“I suppose, yes, I’ve always suspected we were uh, unique?”
Grace choked on her tea so hard, drizzles of it ran down her nose. “Oh, I love that. Unique. Yes, I suppose that’s an appropriate description.”
“Okay, back to the story. Do you know who he is?” A strange, panicky feeling nagged Beth, as if Moss’s life depended on her solving the mystery. Like some internal clock ticked away, and the alarm was set to go off any minute.
“I’m not one hundred percent certain, mind you, but yes, I’m fairly confident I know who he is, and what happened to him,” Grace offered with a sly smile.
“And?” Beth nearly screamed in frustration. “Who do you think he is?”
“Well, sweetie, many years ago a legend began. One told faithfully around these parts from as far back as I can remember, but word of mouth dates the story clear back to the eighteen hundreds. My grandfather told the tale, as did many other grandfathers in these parts, I suspect. It was said to be based on true accounts. You’ll have to make up your own mind about that.”
Slamming back her hot tea, Beth had a feeling she’d lose the tea and head straight for the “spice” by the time Grace finished telling of Moss’s possible tragedy.
“A group of young settlers arrived late one foggy evening to settle down in these parts. Their leader found the safest spot he could, considering it was late and visibility was next to nothing once our famous swamp fogs rolled in. Many were quite unnerved with the chosen spot; however, nightfall decreed they must stop. Word said several protested, nearly violently, urging their young leader to move on, even if just a few more feet. But others had already settled the horses and had begun to bed down in their wagons. The leader, a young husband and father whose name has never been mentioned, had taken charge of the small group upon the untimely death of the original leader. Seems he allowed a few of the older boys to venture out for an evening’s constitutional. After asserting they were not to wander far and come swiftly back, he’d settled back and indulged in some much-relished Jameson Irish whiskey.”
“What happened?” Beth hurried her, sensing the “but” coming. Something bad must have happened. Behind every great legend was always a greater tale of tragedy.
Chapter Ten
“Well, as I said, the man was young and unaccustomed to liquor and ended up drinking a tad too much. The story goes that when the boys didn’t return, his fellow settlers tried to rouse him. They were successful; however, he became ill and indisposed. Irate at his irresponsible behavior, several went searching for the boys themselves. The leader’s young wife, feeling somewhat responsible, led the search party out into the dark, unknown swamp, as her husband attempted quick sobriety. She refused to return with the others several hours later after exhaustive attempts turned up none of the missing children.
“When they returned, they angrily blamed their leader for the event. Having finally purged himself of the liquor, he faced the mob, and the frantic cries of the childless mothers sobered him into action. He promised the return of the children and took off in search of the lost boys and his young bride.”
“He never found them, did he?”
“Patience,” Grace tsk’d. “Hear the story out.”
Beth rolled her eyes and barely managed to restrain an exasperated sigh. Yes, she needed to hear the whole story, but at a much quicker pace. The way Grace retold the story left Beth feeling as if she should be sitting around a campfire while some counselor tried to scare the heebie-jeebies out of her.
“The remaining settlers claimed strange, frightening noises erupted through the deafening darkness. Many swore the swamp itself came alive in search of souls to claim. All hopes for the safe return of their lost children waned in those dark, bleak moments. Come morning, however, the young bride of their leader appeared with the rising of the sun. They say she appeared as an angel would, caressed in the rays of a new dawn, and with her were the missing children, all of them. None of the children had any memories of their night lost in the swamp, nor how they came to be back at the camp.”
“What happened to the young man? Their leader?”
“He was never to be seen alive again. Many years later, his heartbroken young bride had him declared dead and, according to records, she died a short time thereafter. Her heart, they said, never recovered from the tragedy.”
“How heartbreaking. No rumors of what became of him? A gator or bear attack? Someone went looking for him, didn’t they?”
“Nope, at least nothing on record. Strangely enough, the settlers claimed no memory of when the children came back. However, locals swore the swamp witch who was rumored to inhabit the area had caused the tragedy. Testimony from locals mentioned the disappearance of young, virile men out hunting in the swamps was a common occurrence. Legend tells that after a bad storm, if you listen close enough to the toads croaking, you can make out the pleas of those lost men begging to come home.”
“Uh, toads? You are joking, right? Isn’t that a little cliché?”
Grace shrugged, uncertain. “Maybe after she’s had her way with them and they start to bore her, she returns them to the swamp? Just not in the way they’d hoped.”
“So what are you saying? She’s a horny old toad?” Beth couldn’t stifle the erupting snicker. But she noticed her aunt didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smile. To the contrary, she sat stone-faced, and the cocked eyebrow not a good sign. “What? I was kidding. You don’t seriously believe some horny-ass old witch in the swamp was stealing men and turning them into toads, do you?”
Beth realized what she’d questioned. How did she doubt anything supernatural after what she’d witnessed firsthand with Moss? He’d turned into some sort of a reptilian type of creature right before her eyes, and she was going to doubt the plausibility of a witch turning virile men into toads? Her mind drifted back to Moss, and the image alone had her nipples puckering to tight, sensitive nubs as a
slow warmth pooled in her center. Well, hell, Beth supposed she could understand the draw of anyone wanting to keep Moss all to themselves. Especially if that someone was a supposed conniving, horn dog old witch.
“You originally said you suspected who he was, yet when you started the story you said his name was never mentioned. What did you mean?” Beth asked, remembering her aunt’s choice of words.
“You always were quick.” Grace beamed. “And yes, you are correct,” she continued. “As far as the legend goes, no name has ever been applied to the fearless young leader. However, local historical archives list one Mr. William Francis Markley as unaccounted for in the records of one Mrs. William Francis Markley. Only a note referencing the death of her husband turned up. No records reflect a Mr. Markley settling here. But there are a few vague mentions of the young Mrs. Markley, keyword being the Mrs., not widowed, but Mrs. Markley being added to towns register and church records. A few years later, another brief note declaring her husband, Mr. Markley, as deceased. Back in those days, all records would detail the husband’s assets and possessions, limiting a wife’s access. Understand that the rules were much different back then on what women could own without the aid of a husband. By all accounts, the only Markley mentioned with purchases, including the purchase of a piece of land, was a Mrs. Markley. Consider for a moment — if no Mr. Markley was around, why a death notice so many years later?”
Beth rolled the information around her mind a bit. It would make sense his widow would need to stay a Mrs. in order to retain the respect needed for making substantial purchases. The laws may have changed, or maybe rumor had it wrong and she’d fallen in love with someone else, thus declaring her husband dead.
“But as much as this does make sense, given the era when women had little to no rights, what makes you so certain this mysterious Mr. Markley is my Bog Man, or even the young leader who disappeared?”
“I don’t think I know. That’s who he is. I’ve seen him in my visions before.”
“You’ve had visions of him?” Beth hadn’t seen that coming.
“Sort of. Vague ones, mainly of his emotions and inner torments, and not just his. Sadly, others as well. Though his emotions have come through the strongest. Even after all these years, he’s never forgiven himself for drinking too much and losing the children and his wife.”
“But he didn’t lose the children. You said they returned the next morning.”
“And so they did. But, sweetie, he never returned. Therefore, he has no idea the children were all returned unharmed. To his knowledge, due to his indiscretion with alcohol, he not only lost the children but also lost his young bride. His pain and anguish have reached me many, many a night.”
A sudden ache stabbed her heart. She now understood why Moss had walked away. He feared hurting her, or worse, losing her — too great a risk in his mind’s eye. Hell, he still believed he’d lost his wife and the children and been the cause of their deaths. No wonder he seemed so confused and hurt. Technically, he was the one lost in the swamp, never making it out.
She had to find him. Prove the children as well as his wife had walked out of the swamp unscathed. Show how their lives had gone on, and how only his hadn’t. No one had died on his watch or while under his care, and he needed to stop blaming himself for something that had never happened in the first place.
“Okay, what can you tell me about this supposed man-stealing witch causing all this bullshit?”
“She is quite old, strong, and extremely vengeful. Legend speaks of a sultry she-demon named Octavia. If the rumors are true, she isn’t one to challenge lightly.”
“Okay, warning taken. Now tell me how I find the ole hag and stop her.”
“Very carefully, honey, and most certainly not on your own. We will have to plan carefully before making any moves toward her.”
Chapter Eleven
Beth began her trip home, going over and over all the things she’d learned and tried to formulate the best plan. Should she find Moss and attempt to convince him of the truth first, or remove the threat itself first — the threat being the witch. Millions of questions and possibilities began running rampant in her thoughts.
She wasn’t sure of anything except her desire to help Moss and experience his passionate touch again. She needed to make right that which had been made so terribly wrong. But how? Where should she start?
Lost in thought, she rounded one of the many sharp bends in the dirt road leading away from Grace’s place. She was way out in the heart of the bayou when her sixth sense kicked in. A strong sensation of wrongness enveloped her. So intense, nausea had her stomach bubbling and her vision swimming. The lightheadedness too severe to continue driving, she attempted to brake and pull over. Smashed the pedal over and over with no reaction. The car, if anything, seemed to be speeding up. Panic assailed her mere seconds ahead of the sudden impact. She was in trouble, big trouble.
Her car plunged nose first into the swamp. She had a fleeting thought about the airbag recall notice she’d received and ignored before her skull careened with a jarring impact into the steering wheel. The incredible pain so shattering, tendrils wrapped around her entire body. Vibrating through each muscle and every bone. She was struggling to overcome the intense pain when the sounds of gushing water pierced her consciousness, but she couldn’t breathe, much less think about escaping. The darkness enveloped her in a pain-free embrace.
Beth came to when the warm, murky swamp waters rose past her neck. She knew panicking wouldn’t help, but damned if she didn’t anyway. She was trapped in her car, in pain, and about to drown in what would no doubt end up being her watery coffin.
She freaked the hell out, screaming like a banshee as she lashed out toward the windshield before turning her frantic measures toward the driver’s window. If she ever got out of this, she was never buying a car with electric windows again.
Her life began flashing before her eyes as she thought about all she’d wanted to do. Things she’d done and wanted to do again, like being in Moss’s arms, wrapped entirely in hard, male love.
Luckily, before she began swallowing the not-so-appealing, thick, pea-green swamp water, a strange inner calm settled and brought with it an inner strength. She knew then she would not just sit there and die. Fuck that. If she was going out, then she would at least go out fighting. Okay, and maybe with a bit of screaming and cursing too.
Following her instincts, she started kicking on her door. Now that the car had fully submerged, the pressures should have equalized, making the door a more feasible route. She made a vow to never again tease Robby about watching all those “Survivor Man” type shows. She also vowed to pay more attention to them when they were on.
Seconds before running out of air, the strange sensation surrounding her grew stronger and with one last shove, the door opened with more velocity she would have thought possible. Shooting out of the car, she swam to the surface, gulping in the blessed swamp air. Never had humidity tasted as good as it did now.
She only had a few minutes of profound relief before thoughts turned to what might be lurking in the water with her. The soundtrack to Jaws began playing in her mind, and every nearby splash had her life flashing before her eyes again. Best she get on land fast.
Dragging her trembling body up onto the closest bank, she clawed her way farther from the water’s edge. Gritty dirt embedded painfully deep under her nails as she distanced herself from the water’s edge and any hungry gators lying in wait. She lay there trying to gather her thoughts and wits about her, her breath still coming in short, ragged bursts. She’d defeated death, but just barely, and was smart enough to know it.
• • •
“Did you really think you could do something like that and I’d just let you walk away?” The question dripped evil. Its hiss rolled through the swamp, causing a menacing echo. Though he couldn’t see her, he felt her anger ru
mbling in her words.
If Moss had hackles, they would surely have raised. Instead he had scales — or, rather, sometimes had scales. Even so, he couldn’t quite stop the slow, rising smirk he knew he sported as he remembered the humiliated state he’d left the bitch left in. Especially the knowledge that the incident had been all the old hag’s fault. Once her spell wore off, clarity had kicked in, along with the thankful realization it hadn’t been his Beth he’d been so brutal with, but the evil bitch herself.
How many others shared his fate? Were there only a few, or were there hundreds of others like him? Held captive for her own perverse sexual pleasures? After all this time, surely he would have encountered more than just Damien, the only other one like him he’d ever encountered, if there were.
A bright orb appeared and without warning burst into a bright, blinding flare. When his nocturnal sight adjusted to the sudden intrusion, Octavia stood before him, and she wasn’t a happy camper.
“Well, smile while you can, my love, for it will be short-lived. I’ve left you a gift in the southeastern end of Bog’s End. One I’m sure you’ll enjoy.” With her parting shot, she vanished. Simply vanished, in what appeared to be a puff of red smoke.
Her whispered promise oozed revenge, and he knew without a doubt she’d killed yet another innocent to prolong her worthless, miserable life. She loved nothing more than to flaunt her powers and, more to the point, her power of immortality. For that alone kept him bound to her, never to be free to go on to his family and beg their forgiveness. If he could even gain entrance into heaven. He knew, for the crimes he’d committed, he shouldn’t be. No honorable or worthy man should even think to ask forgiveness for such a heinous crime as forsaking one’s own wife for the lust of another. He hadn’t meant to follow the devious Octavia that night. But when he’d caught sight of the beautiful woman, wandering about when looking for the children, he’d assumed the woman lost herself. But the way she’d toyed with him. Luring him, flirting as she had … he’d become enchanted and lost track of time. Didn’t matter he’d been ensnared by a spell, he should have never followed in the first place.
Swamp Magic (Crimson Romance) Page 6
