Dark Sacrifice

by Angie Sandro

  The vision in my right eye turns glassy at the edges, like I’m peering through the narrow lens of a prism. My chest feels tight. Each breath wheezes with an unnerving gurgle as air struggles to pass through my constricted lungs. A tremor hits my handcuffed arm, and pain flares when the metal cuts into my bleeding wrist again. Why can’t I control myself? It’s like my body’s in revolt, determined to give me a painful reminder of how lost I am.

  The blond nurse who enters the room with Bessie restrains my free arm and shouts for the jail guard standing duty outside. Her words filter into my brain, a rush of sounds but no meaning. Only her agitated tone cuts through the fear that consumes my mind and body—a pressing weight that smothers me with each step Mala takes toward the door. She’s the only thing holding me together, and she’s leaving.

  My throat closes. I’m suffocating.

  Nobody acknowledges me.

  Mala, I’m dying. If I don’t say it louder, she’ll leave. Meaningless, guttural mewls pass my lips. I’ve forgotten how to speak. How pathetic… I jerk my arm again. Can’t she hear me screaming?

  Bessie pulls on Mala’s arm when she half turns back in my direction. I grip the sheet, trying to sit up. The nurse slaps a hand to my shoulder and shoves me back onto the bed. A curse flies to the tip of my tongue but falls back down my clogged throat.

  Bessie whispers in Mala’s ear.

  What is she saying?

  Disgust darkens the detective’s eyes when she glances over Mala’s shoulder. She knows exactly what she’s doing—separating us one slow step, one hateful word at a time. She wraps her arm around Mala’s back and steers her out of range of my peripheral vision. I turn my head to compensate for my blind left eye, and Mala reappears like a magical creature—as beautiful and fragile as one of the porcelain statues decorating the shelves in her living room, yet strong enough that she hasn’t broken no matter how many times I’ve dropped her.

  Whenever I see Mala, my heart tries to cut its way out of my chest. Such an idiot. I deserve to die.

  Failure burns. I couldn’t protect her when she needed me the most. I did nothing when she got shot but fall to the ground and cry until Dad carried me away. The whole time, Mala fought alone to survive. She never would’ve been in danger if I hadn’t been a selfish prick and begged her to help find Lainey’s murderer.

  Don’t call for her to come back. Be a man, not a pussy. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking my own promise. Blood trickles down my throat, and nausea causes my stomach to buck. The vision in my right eye dims then blacks out, mimicking my left. Panic forces me upright with a gasp. The light turns on again. I pant for air. Hands press on my shoulders, forcing me back into the bed. I rock my head from side to side. The guard appears, standing on my left, and the nurse on my right side.

  “What’s the matter with me?” I beg for an answer.

  Do they hear this time?

  I reach for the nurse’s hand but misjudge the distance.

  The nurse takes my wrist instead and checks the IV line inserted into a vein. “He’s having a panic attack,” she says.

  The prison guard’s garlic-tainted breath blows in my face. “Maybe we should leave the handcuff on until the meds take effect.”

  “You gave me drugs?” But I just woke up. I try to focus on the woman’s blurry face. She bobs in and out of my line of sight like I’m standing on the deck of a ship. Dizziness makes me want to beg her to stand still. My stomach clenches again, a reminder that I haven’t eaten solid food in two days. Acid burns my throat, and I cough.

  The nurse pops into view again. At least at first I think it’s the same woman, and then details sharpen. Her features have changed. Long, tangled black hair curls across her dirt-stained, blue scrubs. She would be beautiful if the vision didn’t show the decay eating the flesh off of her frame. Her icy fingers trace the angled planes of my cheekbone. The skin burns, then turns numb. I breathe out a cloud of frosted air and blink rapidly, trying to focus on her wavering form. Shadows coil around the edge of her body—an aura of darkness, weaving patterns over her skin.

  I close my eye, breathing deeply.

  When it reopens, I whimper. “Mala said you’re not real.”

  Her smile sends prickles across my bare skin.

  “Don’t fight us. We’re trying to help,” the guard’s voice comes from my left side, and I jump. I stop myself from turning away from the ghost in front of me. She can’t hurt me if I don’t take my eye off of her.

  No. That’s not right. Mala said ignore her.

  A heavy weight hits the underside of the mattress and lifts it an inch into the air. I grab on to the metal rail. High-pitched, chittering and snicking noises come from beneath the bed, then the sound of ripping. Vibrations from inside the mattress shake me.

  I lunge forward. “It’s coming!”

  Don’t they hear it? Feel it?

  The guard holds me down like a lamb for sacrificial slaughter. My blood’s going to stain these sheets. They’ll regret not listening. “Stop,” I beg the nurse, who holds padded restraints in her hands. “Don’t…don’t tie me up, please. Help me.”

  Sharp claws dig through the padding. The monster struggles to reach me. I told Mala about it, but I didn’t have time to fully explain what’s happening to me. If I had, would she have left me alone with it? Or would she have stayed to fight with me?

  Unless none of this is real. What if this is all in my head?

  Additional restraints tie me to the bed. They wrap around my legs and arms. Heavy, padded straps I can’t break. The heaviness in my chest changes, and my muscles relax. The drug the nurse injected into the IV drags me down.

  CHAPTER 8

  MALA

  Into the Wild

  Bessie hustles me out of the room.

  “Call me when you get out,” I say over my shoulder. Landry watches me leave in silence. His expression shows he’s terrified but trying to be strong. Guilt wiggles inside, but I can’t stay. The real nurse and prison guard enter the room. They have a better chance of calming him down than I do. Still, each step drags. I’m abandoning him. What if the ghost attacks again? He can’t protect himself. He doesn’t know how to block the spirit’s entry. I’ve had months to practice building mental shields, and I’m still fooled.

  What I don’t get is how he can see ghosts in the first place. He’s always been sensitive to the spirit world, but I thought it was only because of his connection to Lainey. Did this happen because he died? Or is it that snake he said buried itself inside of him?

  Bessie tugs on my arm, and I follow her through the hospital without making a fuss. As we exit the sliding glass doors, I throw one last look over my shoulder and shudder. I hated hospitals before. Now I’d have to be unconscious and dying to come back. I lift my chin to the sky and let the warm, cleansing rain wash over my face. The air smells of earth, pure and crisp. No more bleach or blood. I’m free.

  Bessie covers her head with her hands. “Let’s go!”

  The impatience in her voice snaps me forward, and I hit almost every puddle during my dash through the rain to her car. Bessie has the door open by the time I catch up. I toss my duffel bag onto the floorboard, then slide onto the front seat next to her. I study her from the corner of my eye. The darkness in her expression sends a ripple of unease through me.

  I wipe my wet palms across damp jeans and ask, “Want to talk about why you’re upset?”

  “What did Landry do to make you scream like that?” Fury makes her voice vibrate. She slaps on the windshield wipers.

  Why does everything have to be a fight? “Nothing.”

  “So you said.”

  “Because it’s true. You and George are always so determined to see the worst in him.”

  “George? What does he have to do with this?”

  “You’re both always quick to blame Landry.”

  “And you’re always quick to defend him.” She glares out the window. Tension keeps her shoulders bunched. Dr
ops splash against the windshield so hard it’s like peering through a sprinkler.

  I twist in my seat so I face her. “I love how much you care about me. That you always see the best in me. Even going so far as to praising me to Cready, but…” My gut clenches, and I breathe out the words. “I’m not worth it.”

  Her eyes widen.

  I hold up a hand. “I’m the one to blame for all of the horrible things that have happened to Landry. Losing his eye. Being locked up in jail. His attack.”

  “That’s bull—”

  “No, it’s the truth! You saw his face. He got the shit beat out of him. How could he do anything to me in his condition?” Bessie’s expression tightens. There’s no point in continuing the argument. She’s too protective. God, thank you for this woman.

  With a grin, I poke her shoulder. “You know, this isn’t even about me and Landry. You were pissed before you entered his room. What did you talk to Cready about?”

  She doesn’t crack. “Work.”

  “A murder?”

  She turns a slow scowl in my direction.

  “It is, isn’t it? A murdered woman.”

  “What makes you think so?” Maybe because the ghost’s pissed off and keeps appearing before me. Man, it would make my life easier if I could trust Bessie with the truth. “You told Cready you needed to speak with him after talking about Lainey’s murder.”

  “You are too sharp for your own good.”

  “So who was she? How did she die?”

  Bessie spears me with her gaze. “How about if you don’t refer to the woman in the past tense since we don’t know for sure she’s dead? Right now she’s listed as a missing person.”

  My palm itches from the gooey feel of rotting flesh still coating my hand. Will it ever wash off? “Is she a nurse?”

  “Yes. Gloria Pearson disappeared four weeks ago—the night Reverend Prince escaped from the hospital. I’m sure he had help since he was in no condition to drive. Gloria’s car still hasn’t been located.”

  “Ah, he kidnapped her to help with his escape. Then killed her.”

  “Mala,” Bessie snaps. “Missing person.”

  Given the fact that Gloria haunts the hospital, she probably died there. Whether her body remains hidden on the hospital grounds or has been disposed of in another location is the question I need to answer.

  I get her being angry. Being murdered would piss anyone off, but why does she despise Bessie, if the bitch comment refers to her and not me? Does she feel like Bessie should’ve found her body? Does she want me to find her? Crap! I really don’t want to get involved, but if Reverend Prince kidnapped her, I already am.

  I’m gonna find that psycho before he hurts anyone else. And I’ve got the biggest lure of all time—the soon-to-be-released son of the devil himself. Landry Prince is going home, and Daddy will be waiting.

  I can’t wait to join in the happy family reunion.

  * * *

  Bessie’s daughter, Maggie, had fried up some okra and buttermilk-soaked chicken. The meal waits on the buffet table when I walk into their house. The smell sets my mouth to watering, and I barely spare time to give her a hug before I rush to the table. I have a plate of food in one hand and a mouthful of chicken by the time I turn to the dining table and see who else makes up my welcome home party.

  Georgie sits at the end of the table. Far enough away that if he drowns in his own gravy, I won’t have to give him CPR. Why in the world would he invite himself over? He’s the last person I want to have a conversation with.

  The jerk leans back in his chair and gives me a lazy grin. My heartbeat kicks up a notch. Damn his infernal soul! Does he have to be so hot? Lately, every time I see him, I think the same thing.

  I flop down in my chair, fanning myself with one hand. “George,” I say with a haughty nod.

  Maggie’s boyfriend, Tommy, leans around George and waves. “Welcome home.”

  “Yeah, welcome home,” George says.

  My stomach sours. My first home-cooked meal in over a month, and he’s ruining it. So unfair. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, I can pretend he doesn’t exist. It works on ghosts.

  One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight…ooh, deviled eggs.

  I snatch four off the platter. Maggie sets by my elbow.

  Bessie sits on my other side so I’m squished between her and her daughter. Maggie and her boyfriend, Tommy, give each other long, penetrating looks throughout dinner. They monopolize the conversation, which suits me fine since I don’t have to come up with small talk. George sends a raised eyebrow in my direction during a particularly uncomfortable silence, and I shrug.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” I ask, unable to take the suspense. “If I’m making you all uncomfortable, let me know.”

  “What?” Maggie’s voice hits squawk decibels. She shifts in her chair and melts me with sad eyes. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. We’re the ones making you uncomfortable, aren’t we?”

  “Told you this was a bad idea,” Tommy says around a mouthful of food.

  “It’s the only time we’ll all be together. Mala’s going to stay with her aunt soon.”

  I frown at Maggie. I hadn’t told her or Bessie about my aunt problems. Either of them. Did George blab the news about Marcheline to Bessie? Who I decide to stay with is nobody’s business but my own.

  Maggie stands up, and Tommy puts down his fork, a rarity, which means whatever she’s about to say is important. “’Kay, I might as well get this over with before I make the situation worse and this dinner gets out of control.” She turns to her mother. “Everyone else already knows this. Tommy asked me to marry him, and…well, I said yes.”

  I sit back in my chair, wishing I could dive beneath the table to avoid the explosion. This is why Maggie used me as a buffer between herself and Bessie. I shake my head at Maggie in sympathy. Poor girl picked the worst day to spring this news on her mother. If she’d bothered to run it by me first, I would’ve warned her about Bessie’s sour mood.

  My breath catches when Bessie calmly wipes her mouth, folds the napkin, lays it on the table, and rises. “Conference in my office,” she tells Maggie. “This means you too, Tommy.”

  The air puffs out, and I suck in a deep breath, light-headed.

  Whew! Thank God I’m only an honorary member of the family.

  They trail Bessie out of the room, like scolded puppies with their tails between their legs. I bite into a crispy chicken thigh. The juice fills my mouth, and I moan. So good.

  “Well, that was awkward,” George says.

  A startled laugh erupts out of me, and I almost spit out my chicken. I’d forgotten about George. Awkward? Very. I chew up the mouthful. What sort of response does he expect? “Uh, yeah.”

  “This is probably something they should’ve told Bessie about without guests present.”

  “Maybe they needed us to provide moral support. Did you see Bessie? She didn’t even lose her cool. Everything will be fine.”

  “You might be right.”

  “Do you approve of the marriage?”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Do you want me to answer that question here?”

  I glance toward the closed office door and shake my head. I haven’t had time to wrap my mind around the idea of a Tommy and Maggie wedding. She told me about it, and I didn’t take her seriously. After that, Mama died. I didn’t think of much else at that point. Even with Bessie’s outward appearance of calm, I still listen for the screams. The odds are fifty-fifty that I’ll be attending Maggie and Tommy’s funerals instead of a wedding, but I won’t say no to a slice of wedding cake.

  Tension tightens my shoulders, and my head aches from my racing thoughts. The last three days I’ve been bombarded with nonstop drama. I can’t even process…it’s too much to deal with. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. “I just want to go home,” I whisper. Is that too much to ask for?

  George clears his throat, and I grimace. Now what?

  “I can drive you, if you want.”
/>   My eyes pop open. Do I?

  “Let’s go.” I stamp down the guilt as I write Bessie a quick note about “wanting to give them privacy to discuss the wedding” and “thanking Maggie for the brunch.” I practically run from the house, afraid they’ll come out of the office and catch me. George leans against his forest green Land Rover. I totally missed seeing it in the driveway when Bessie and I pulled in. Where the hell was my mind?

  “Thanks for the ride.” I gift him with a smile. He kind of deserves it with this latest rescue attempt.

  “We need to talk.”

  Famous last words. I stifle another groan and don’t run off.

  George acts like the perfect gentleman. He’s tricky like that. He opens my car door, takes my duffel and throws it in the backseat, then waits for me to climb in before closing the door for me. He even keeps silent during the drive. My anxiety reaches higher levels once we leave town and turn onto the gravel road winding through the bayou. It’s been over a month since Mama died. I’m scared to see what the place will look like. Will there be signs…bloodstains? Will the air still be tainted with the scent of smoke and burnt flesh?

  A shiver forces my trembling hands under my arms. I rock forward, trying to catch my quickening breaths before I go into full panic mode.

  George stares at the road and asks, “Sure you want to do this?”

  “Can’t avoid it or you forever.” I meet his gaze and nod. “I see confusion in your eyes. You have feelings. Glad I’m not hitching a ride with a complete sociopath.”

  I turn to stare out the window.

  “That’s not fair, Malaise. I was shocked by Aunt March’s news.”

  “Shocked? Oh, I totally get being shocked.” I grip the armrest with a shaking hand. “I almost passed out when Bessie told me that Landry’s alive. That he didn’t die like you said.” My voice rises, “How could you keep that from me, George?”

  A muscle in his jaw ticks.

  “The whole time you were visiting me…he was in the hospital. You said nothing.”

  “So what!” His face is cold when he glances at me. “After what that asshole and his father did, why do you care?”