by Penn Cassidy
Contents
Bienvenue à la maison
Trigger warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Coming Next
About the Author
Where to follow:
Other books by Penn Cassidy
Copyright © 2021 Penn Cassidy
* * *
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
* * *
Editing by: Bookish Dreams Editing
Proofreading by: Proofs By Polly
Cover by: Moore Books Design
Formatting by: Inked Imagination Services
* * *
[email protected]
Bienvenue à la maison
The song beckons me. Haunting, tragic and utterly lovely. It calls me to a place deep in the Louisiana bayou, where impossible things creep in the shadows.
* * *
Following the voice on the wind, I scratch at the blood coating my skin and dance along the swamps with the crickets. Hands caress my arms and lips coax at mine, begging for me to let them inside. Begging me to surrender. Two men—if you can call them men—tell me I'll never leave this place. These lights, this music, this nightmare… It scares me but it thrills me, enough that I can almost forget about the blood on my skin.
* * *
My name is Moria Laveau, and I think I've done something very, very wrong.
Trigger warning
This book is a work of fiction, but it contains triggering content that might upset some readers. If you are sensitive to abuse and trauma, this book might not be for you. Carnival of Bones is a medium burn/high heat menage romance and contains graphic sex and harsh language that is not suitable for anyone under the age of 18.
Dedicated to the lovers of the night, the dark, and the macabre. To those who smile at shadows and welcome their embrace. Dedicated to the weirdos, the creepers, the lost, and the wicked. But most of all, dedicated to you, reader. Always to you.
I’d spent so much time trapped inside of my own head that I was pretty sure I’d made a home there, content to hide from the world by sleeping until nothing hurt anymore.
But like all good things in my life, eventually it came to a screeching halt without any warning.
I was standing in the dark, staring straight ahead while some kind of odd music played in another room, somewhere too far away for me to place. I think that was what jolted me out of whatever trance-like state I’d been in until now.
Cold seeped into my bones, like when you swallow ice water a little too fast and you can feel it travel through your body.
It was a strange sort of cold.
Empty, in a way.
My breath left my lips in puffs of vapor, but somehow, my feet felt oddly warm. Almost offensively hot, like I was standing on a blacktop road in the middle of a summer day.
I looked down at my feet, but my eyesight was too blurry to make anything out and it was too dark.
Sight began to come back slowly, starting with vague, dark silhouettes and shadows against a grey backdrop. I blinked away tears that fell from my irritated eyes until they cleared.
The only visible light was leaking in from below the closed bedroom door. I realized I was standing in my master bedroom, right at the foot of my bed.
The clock on the bedside table must have been reset at some point, because instead of numbers, four short dashes blinked at me.
It was dark outside the window on the far wall, covered in long gauzy white curtains that billowed in the warm breeze, carrying with it the smells of the city. Next to it, the balcony door was open, and noise filtered inside as if someone had suddenly turned up the volume. My ears even gave a small pop.
So much music and laughter rang out through the night—the honking of horns and the blare of trumpets. Still, that damn music wouldn’t go away—the out of place melody that didn’t belong here. It was, however, slightly duller than it had been before, growing quieter by the second.
Taking a tentative step, I slid over the hardwood floor, frantically latching onto the nearest object I could find in order to keep myself upright. My fingers curled around the oak footboard of the bed, my weak arms threatening to give under the weight.
The floorboards groaned as I pulled myself back upright, but my foot slipped out yet again, sending me toppling over with a curse.
Long, flowing fabric tangled around my ankles, and I frowned as I realized I was wearing a long white dress, not something I even knew I owned. At least I couldn’t remember buying anything that looked so delicate and beautiful. I was more of a jeans and T-shirt sort of gal unless there was a special occasion.
Am I still dreaming?
It was hard to tell sometimes. I hardly ever left the house these days, and that left a lot of time on my hands. I mostly took naps or read the occasional book, so for all I knew, I could be sound asleep on my sofa right now and wake up any second.
I’d been staring at the strange white dress when something occurred to me. Something that made my arms give out as well as my shaky legs. Blood. So much of it. Too much of it. I was saturated in the stuff.
My first thought was that I was covered in some kind of sticky tar, but then I recognized the sharp, coppery scent that now thickened the air to the point of making me gag. I’d never seen so much blood before.
Austin’s going to kill me…
The thought hit me by accident. If this blood left a stain on our beautiful, original hardwood floors, I’d be bruised for weeks. Days if I were really lucky. I choked, suppressing the violent need to gag again. Slipping further, my knees hit the floor painfully.
I tried to crawl towards the bedroom door, but my arms were shaking and a sob was crawling up my throat.
Cold, sticky liquid squished between my fingers and toes as I crawled. It was slimy and repulsive to the touch, smelling like old pennies. I still managed to pull myself up using the thick brass doorknob and yanked the door open, practically throwing myself into the hallway.
The hallway was dark too, so I slapped a hand around, fumbling for the light switch, smearing blood everywhere. In my panic, I couldn’t find it. Instead, I clumsily managed to knock down every single picture frame I’d meticulously hung up and heard them crashing to the floor behind me, glass shattering everywhere.
“Austin!” I cried out, voice scratchy and rough, barely more than a whisper.
I called his name again and again, and it hurt even worse the third time around. My throat was raw, and I could taste blood in my mouth, making me retch again.
Finally reaching the living room, I was about to call out my fiancé’s name one more time, but I immediately knew he wasn’t there.
The TV was on, but it was only static, which was weird because we didn’t have cable. I hadn’t seen static like that since I was a kid. It gave me the chills, because all I could picture was every single horror movie I’d ever seen in my life.
The fireplace was smouldering, which was also strange because I couldn’t remember starting it up,
given the fact that it was way too hot out this time of year and Austin was barely ever home long enough to bother with it.
His keys were gone from the hook by the front door, telling me he’d probably gone to the bar with the two stuffy, annoying men that were visiting from the Chicago firm that I didn’t know all that well.
That was pretty much all he ever did anymore, so it wouldn’t be a complete shock. Drinking, cheating on me with random tourists, or making my life a living hell was just another Tuesday. Since we’d lost the baby, he’d slowly morphed into someone I didn’t recognize.
I shuddered at the thought of him stumbling home drunk again, mad at the world and making me deal with the aftermath like he always did. He blamed me for our daughter’s death, unable to accept the fact that miscarriages happened sometimes, leaving nobody to blame but mother nature herself.
It was my fault, according to my once happy, loving fiancé. My fault for letting my devil magic poison his child.
He’d never been a graceful drunk either. Alcohol seemed to make his dick limp and his brain duller than normal, which honestly wasn’t saying much.
It’d been a little over a year since we lost Gracie before she even had the chance to meet us, and I still hadn’t managed to pry myself away from the monster Austin had become. A part of me tried to stay out of hope—hope that he’d wake up and come back to me again one day.
I was an idiot.
If he was gone for the night, it made my current predicament even worse. It was late…or maybe just super early, but I usually wasn’t alone for long unless he was at work. I needed a working clock to know for sure, but he definitely should have been back by now.
Usually when Austin geared up for a night out with his stupid friends, he’d fuck me hard and rough, regardless of if I wanted it or not. He’d whisper in my ear all the things he’d do to me if I left this apartment while he was gone, and then he’d kiss my lips to the point of pain, telling me about all the ways he'd reward me if I complied, promising to put a baby in me again someday.
‘Reward’ was an interesting word for what he gave me—just another night of fake moaning as he rutted against me like a prepubescent fucking boy.
The thought of getting pregnant again made me physically ill. Austin had no idea, but I’d had a IUD implanted not long after the miscarriage. He’d kill me if he found out.
Something frantic woke up inside of me as I stood in the middle of the living room, overwhelmed with a sense of confusion and loss.
The need to get to Austin suddenly overwhelmed every other thought. I didn’t know where it came from. Most of the time, I was desperate to get as far from him and his fists as possible.
I supposed I should be worried about the blood in the bedroom, still seeping into the porous hardwood, but it was like a single-mindedness had taken hold.
I couldn’t remember anything about the night before. Everything was gone. It was a blur of shapes, sounds, and music.
According to the calendar on the wall next to the key ring, it was March first, so that made sense. The music outside my apartment window seemed like the only thing anchoring me right now, the only thing that clicked into place.
It was Mardi Gras, and the Quarter was already in full swing.
Yesterday, I'd gone to visit my grandmother like I usually did before the festivities started. Grandma Annette was a mambo with too much time on her hands, and she needed my help putting together her wares for the parades.
She got a kick out of selling things off to the tourists who flocked to the French Quarter looking for vampires or spooky voodoo baubles to bring home as souvenirs.
I remembered spending hours chatting with her, nursing a Sazerac, even though it’d been the early hours of the morning. Grandma Anne didn’t care.
I loved spending time at her house in the bayou, far enough away from my miserable life. She didn’t know all the dirty details, but I could tell she disliked Austin, and her knowing glares whenever I mentioned his name said enough. Grandma knew best, always.
Being near such a strong woman for a few hours last night had been the reminder I needed that I didn’t have to put up with Austin and his temper. I’d actually been hiding money away lately, building a nice savings for myself and preparing to leave him if I ever found the strength to actually do it.
Beyond my time at her place, packaging jars, herbs, and little trinkets and baubles, my memory was one big blank slate. There was nothing to tell me how I got from her place and back to the Quarter, back to my bedroom, and why I was covered head to toe in blood and wearing this strange white dress.
I stumbled to the front door, not bothering to grab my car keys. During the Mardi Gras celebrations, driving would be impossible. So I decided I'd have to do this on foot.
My building was beautiful, but sometimes living here was a hassle, being smack dab in the center of it all.
It was a historical building, and I used to love it. The flooring through the halls was cobblestone, and pillared arches rose up around me, creating vaulted ceilings reminiscent of old French architecture mixed with hints of Spanish influence here and there.
I’d lived here since before Austin and I had even dated, thanks to my father’s will after he passed. So technically, it was Austin who should have to do the leaving.
The halls were empty, but I could hear the thumping of music coming from every which way. Taking the staircase nearest the door, I quickly and shakily descended two flights before reaching the bottom level and coming to a stop just outside the front entrance.
Humidity hit my face, and so did the blaring sounds of music and laughter. It washed over me in a heavy, familiar wave, nearly making me fall backwards.
Frenchman Street was packed with people, mostly tourists already drunk and shouting at each other, but also with locals. Some wore grotesque-looking masks, some wore fake wings, long colorful dresses, or crazy hats. Most had beads around their necks or paint on their faces, and they were all smiling.
That’s probably why I’m wearing this ridiculous dress, I deduced, once again clutching at the bloodstained garment.
Everyone dressed up for the parades, myself included, even though I hadn’t been allowed to attend last year. Even before we lost Gracie, Austin gave me so much shit for wanting to go out and celebrate with everyone else.
Damnit, why the hell can’t I remember anything?
I studied people as they passed by, hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone I recognized, namely my fiancé or my grandmother. Hell, I even looked for people in our small community who'd known me since I was born and who would help me without a second thought.
I knew I wouldn’t find my Austin among the happy faces. He hated this time of year. Always had.
He wasn’t native to NOLA, so he didn’t understand the culture. He grew up in California, far away from this place and our strange way of life.
He used to humor me and put up with my cultural practices, rolling his eyes at my antics, as he liked to call them, but over the past year, he’d outright punished me for them.
Stumbling down the busy street, nobody paid me any mind. On nights like these, New Orleans was filled with oddities and beautiful costumes. Besides, most people were too wasted to pay attention to me.
The practitioners were out tonight too—some the real thing and others tourism witches, who capitalized off of Vodou culture in order to make money.
The real Vodou practitioners were easy to spot if you knew what to look for, what to listen for. Authenticity wasn’t something you could fake with a bunch of beads and voodoo dolls. Also, I'd grown up with most of them. We were a pretty tight community, and we took care of each other.
I mostly rolled my eyes at the tourists carrying around human hair dolls and bags of chicken bones. They had no idea what they were doing or what to look for, but it was entertaining, to say the least.
Grandma Anne loved the tourists because they paid her bills. But little did they know, she was the real deal.
&nbs
p; Carnival season was the time for New Orleans to shine—when people from around the world and all walks of life flocked to our streets, just begging to be amazed and dazzled by what they perceived to be trickery and sleight of hand.
They visited shops for spells, herbs, and crystals, but if they truly knew where to look or if they were just that lucky, once in a while, one might stumble in on a mambo who took pity on them.
Tourists were endlessly entertaining, and I really did love this time of year. You could easily pick out the young college girls, wide-eyed and eager, dressed in Hot Topic gear, hoping to grab themselves a vampire boyfriend.
I didn’t recognize any of the people sweeping by me as I weaved through the crowd. Parades were passing through, people in bright colors playing instruments and dancing.
I searched for my grandmother among them, knowing she and some of the other elders would be out and about tonight, catering to the poor souls who spent hundreds of dollars on trinkets, food, and booze.
My mind began to feel fuzzy around the edges, and faces started to blur.
One singular thought kept looping through my head like an endless carousel. I need to find Austin before he realizes I’m not home. He’s going to kill me if I don’t get back.
It was practically a chant now. I could feel it growing, the stark, bone-chilling fear licking down my spine at the prospect of him walking through that door without me there to greet him.
Still, I didn’t turn back around. I didn’t go back to our apartment, though my mind screamed and raged at me to get back to my fiancé.
