Dark Sacrifice

by Angie Sandro

  “Sorry,” I mumble, taking a seat. I try not to watch as she pulls a Tupperware bowl from the refrigerator and pops it in the microwave, but I can’t stop. She hits the buttons with quick jabs. Her hips rock back and forth as if she dances to a song I can’t hear—hypnotic sways, graceful and efficient.

  My mouth goes dry, and I lick my lips.

  “You like gumbo, don’t you?” She turns her back to the counter and crosses her arms over her breasts. I drag my gaze up to meet hers. She’s scowling…so busted.

  “Huh.” I blink at her.

  She points at the bowl and says, like she’s speaking to a toddler, “Gum-bo, you like?”

  “Yeah, me like.” My lips quirk, and she grins back. Crisis averted for the moment. How long of a reprieve I get depends on whether I can get my raging hormones under control. A month in lockup messed with my self-discipline. More likely, it’s just being close enough to touch Mala that’s got me horny.

  “Cool, ’cause there’s a lot.” The microwave beeps. She pulls out the bowl and sets it on the counter. Her head tilts as she studies it with a frown. “A raccoon got in my chicken coop this morning.”

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to eat chicken killed by a raccoon? What about rabies?”

  Her nose scrunches up again. She pops the lid on the heated soup and steam rises into the air. My mouth waters, and my stomach punches me. I get the message—shut up.

  She gives it a test sniff. “Smells fine to me. Plus I ate some for lunch so I’m already infected.”

  “Boiling it probably killed any virus.” I hold out my hands.

  She sets the bowl on the table. “Careful, it’s hot.”

  “Thanks.” I take a bite. Good God, the girl can cook!

  She stands over me for a long minute. “Well?”

  “Delish, no poisony aftertaste.” I make the OK sign with my index finger and thumb, then shoo her off.

  “I hate you.” She stomps back into the living room.

  The spoon slips from my fingers, splattering hot soup onto the table. I’m stunned by how much those words hurt. It takes a long moment for my heart to slow enough to consider them in the context in which they were given. Why they bothered me in the first place doesn’t make a lick of sense. Not like she hasn’t said those words in the same grumpy tone before. I know they’re not true. That she’s teasing me.

  Maybe the difference is that this time they should be true.

  * * *

  Mala fixed up the sofa with sheets and blankets while I ate. She has me change into a pair of sweats, then practically forces me beneath the covers. She settles on the end by my feet, wrapping her legs up beneath her until she forms a tiny ball.

  She rubs her hands together. “They show Star Trek Next Gen. episodes every night. I’m on season three.”

  “Ah, the Borg.”

  “Uh-huh.” She grins. “Wish we had popcorn.”

  “Then it’d be a real date.”

  Her cheeks pink, but she rolls her eyes. “You’re in no condition to handle a date with me. Maybe after you’ve healed up so I won’t break you.”

  “Mala Jean…” Ms. Jasmine hisses, popping into the room like a vengeful sprite, and I lean back into the sofa. “Watch your language.”

  Mala looks like she wants to disappear. She glances at me then curls even more into herself. Guilt makes her eyes dart around the room. It reminds me of my promise to keep my distance. It’s so easy to fall back into old patterns.

  Ms. Jasmine filled me with a healthy dose of caution before she died, but her ghost downright terrifies me. I’d be a fool not to heed her warning. “Sorry, Ms. Jasmine,” I say.

  She scowls at me and shakes her head. “Not sure I like you stayin’ here, but long as you do, you’d better behave. I’ll be keepin’ my eyes on you.”

  Mala gasps. “Mama, he didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did I.”

  Ms. Jasmine gives an unladylike snort and vanishes. A flash of her white nightgown passes the front window as she takes up position in the rocking chair on the porch. I take the remote and turn up the sound, deterring any further conversation.

  We end up watching a couple of episodes. My injuries ache now that I’ve stopped moving. Locutus of Borg shows up prepared to assimilate when I fade, unable to fight off exhaustion. A shadow settles over my face, and I crack my lid enough to find Mala’s boobs in my line of sight. Her scent fills my nose, and I stifle a groan so she doesn’t hear. My hands clench into fists to keep from pulling her on top of me. I want to bury my face in her chest and inhale. If I could sleep like that every night, I’d die happy.

  I squeeze my eye shut. She pulls the blanket up around my neck. I expect her to leave, but she doesn’t. I peek up at her. She’s staring at me with an expression—not sure I’m reading it right, but warmth spreads out from my center. She’s never looked so…

  Soft. Her head lowers, and she brushes her lips across my forehead.

  I sink into the cushions, totally relaxed for the first time in months. After getting a kiss like the one she just gave, I don’t have to worry about Mala shanking me. I’m finally safe.

  Voices drone in the background.

  Then silence.

  The house settles. It breathes.

  It screams—“Wake up!”

  I’m off the couch and halfway across the living room before full awareness hits. The sense of invasion makes my body tingle. A noise comes from the kitchen, the clank of bottles scraping across shelves in the refrigerator and liquid sloshing. My first instinct says to yell, but I don’t want to scare Mala if she’s getting a late-night snack.

  But why would she roam around with the lights off? And why would I feel such a heavy sense of dread? Moonlight shines into the dark room, casting crazy, puppet shadows on the walls. I turn fully around, checking the room to be sure nobody’s sneaking up on my blind side, then I pull a fat stick out of the umbrella stand. The wooden floor creaks with each step. I wait for the intruder to be alerted to my presence, but the sounds continue.

  At the entrance to the kitchen, I pause. I form a mental map in my mind. The table and four chairs are on the left side. Immediately to the right is a counter and the refrigerator. I take a deep breath and swing around the corner, stick raised. The light from the fridge makes me squint, so the full bowl of gumbo thrown in my face doesn’t soak my eye, but a good portion of the soup washes in. I fall back, screaming. My back hits the wall, and I slide down it.

  My eye burns so badly, I want to throw up. It hurts like my left eye did when I got stabbed.

  Oh, God. What if I’m blind?

  I need to wash it out, but don’t know where I’ve fallen in relation to the sink. Is it on my left or right? I feel up the cabinet and grip the ledge.

  A heavy hand settles on my shoulder, pushing me back down.

  “Mala, my eye.” I try to stand again. “I can’t see.”

  “Calm yourself.” The gruff voice freezes me. “You’re not blind, boy. Got a bit of cayenne pepper in your eye, is all. Wash it out, and you’ll be fine.”

  “No! You can’t be here.” I grab for the hand, but it moves.

  “I owe a debt. Don’t go interfering while I pay it.”

  A chill races through me. I blink repeatedly. Tears stream down my cheek, washing my eye enough for me to see my father’s blurry face above me. My hands shoot out, grabbing him by the throat as I launch forward. He falls onto his back, and I crawl up to straddle him. His fist connects with my cheek. My head snaps back.

  He shoves his forearm beneath my chin and pushes me off.

  I grab for his pant legs. My nails grip the seam on his jeans, but he jerks his leg free. Footsteps clump across the floor, then the back door slams against the wall. I run after him. It’s dark on the screened-in porch. The steps loom in front of me, and I stagger, unable to catch myself as I topple forward. The air whooshes out of my lungs when I smash into the ground. Pain flares through every part of my body, and everything goes dark.

 
CHAPTER 12

  MALA

  Dropped the Bomb

  I prop my elbows on the edge of the sofa and stare down at the side of Landry’s sleeping face. He’s lying on his stomach with one leg and arm trailing on the floor. The blanket’s twisted around his hips. I don’t know how he managed to tangle himself up. My fingers twitch with the temptation to straighten it and get him all tucked in again, but I might wake him. My daring last night still shocks me. He looked so peaceful that I couldn’t stop myself from kissing him.

  My lips tingled for most of the night. I tossed and turned for hours before finally crashing. I didn’t wake up once, and usually I do a couple of times in the night, especially since Mama…anyway, I slept like a log.

  If I hurry, I can get breakfast ready before he wakes up.

  I enter the kitchen, and the smile flickering on my lips fades. The pot I used for the gumbo is sitting upside down in my drying rack. There had been half a pot left when I went to bed. I know guys eat a lot, but damn. I need to hit the store and stock up on supplies pretty soon or we’ll starve to death. Which leads to another problem—where am I gonna get money? I have a few thousand in savings at the bank, but the money won’t last long without Mama’s income to help with the bills. I’ve already lost my clerical position at Bertrand Parish Sheriff’s Office, but I should be good at Munchies Diner & Ice Cream Parlor. My new aunt wouldn’t fire me, I hope. I’m screwed if she does.

  I feed the remaining chickens and gather eggs, then go inside to cook breakfast. I don’t know what Landry likes, but I figure I can’t go wrong with bacon and scrambled eggs. I was surprised to find the package of bacon in the fridge yesterday. It isn’t something I buy for myself, or any of the other weird items stocked in the pantry, since they’re so expensive. I guess this kind of food is what I get when Tommy and Maggie go shopping for me: bacon, baloney, processed cheese, and Tater Tots.

  Good grief, who eats Tater Tots outside of school cafeterias?

  Landry stumbles into the kitchen as I set his plate on the table. His face has a puffy, unhealthy cast to it. The bruise on his cheek looks darker today than it did yesterday, and he hobbles like an arthritic old man. He crumples into the seat and rests his head in his hands.

  “How are you feeling today, Frog Prince?” I fight the welling sympathy urging me to kiss him again and plunk a glass of orange juice on the table. He grunts.

  “That good, huh?” I dish up my own plate and sit down across from him. The first bite of bacon rolls my eyes up in the back of my head. So good.

  “I’ve got something to tell you,” Landry says, looking up. “Last night I—”

  “Ate all my gumbo, I know. Saints, boy. Do you know how many hours it took to make that? You’ll have to find a job if you want to stay here. I can’t afford to support you if you’re gonna be eating me out of hearth and home.”

  “Huh? No. That’s not—”

  “It’s what I’m talking about,” I interrupt, giving him the stink-eye. “M-O-N-E-Y. Don’t think you get to live off me like I’m some sugar daddy.”

  “You’re a girl, no daddy plumbing involved.”

  “Eww, don’t make me throw up my bacon.” I stuff the last strip in my mouth and lick my greasy lips.

  His eye focuses on my mouth, and my breath catches. Crap, I’m thinking about kissing him again. If he leans across the table…No, no, Mala Jean. It’s too soon. It’s just that I missed him. And I can’t believe he’s within touching distance, and still staring…Oh God! I stick a strip of bacon in his open mouth. “Eat up, you need to regain your strength.”

  He pulls it out with a scowl and drops it onto the plate. “Don’t you feel any sympathy for my bruised brain? Stop distracting me.”

  I’m distracting him? Laughter erupts from deep within me. It takes a bit to regain control because he wears such a disgruntled expression. Poor guy. “You’re the one who keeps interrupting. This is why I’m glad you’re living here. Really. I didn’t know how stressed out I was until you came. I slept great last night, knowing you were in the other room. I didn’t tell you yesterday, but someone squatted in my house while I was in the hospital. Goldilocks took off after I came home, but part of me worried he’d come back. I’m not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m just not.” Duh, why do you think? I trust you to keep me safe. I smile, but he continues to stare at me. He seems so different from before the fire. The vibe he gives off is like he carries a deep grief inside him and the results have turned him colder and more reserved. I noticed it last night. He joked and laughed, teased me as we watched TV, but the smile didn’t touch his eye.

  And in some ways, the distance seems even greater today.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  “I’m trying to figure out how I’ll protect you.”

  I laugh his declaration off. “Protect me from what? Rogue raccoons? Don’t worry. The guy’s long gone.”

  “Maybe.” He frowns. “Maybe not.”

  If I’d known he’d be so worried, I never would’ve mentioned the squatter. The doorbell rings and I get up, but Landry rushes past me. He practically runs to the front door, and I scramble to stay just a few steps behind. When I try to pass him to open the door, he pushes me behind him and holds his finger to his lips.

  “Who is it?” he asks.

  “Who the hell…” George sounds pissed.

  I gulp and hip-bump Landry aside to open the door.

  Sunlight hits the top of George’s red-gold hair, making him sparkle. Not like a glittery vampire, more like a fallen angel. The uniform lends him an air of authority, and I try not to cringe beneath his glare. His hand rests on the butt of his gun, and his star winks at me on his chest. My hands get sweaty, and I wipe my palms on my jeans.

  Landry stands directly behind me, breathing down the back of my neck, and I wish I could wave a magic wand and vanish. “What do you want?” I ask, not even trying to be polite.

  “I came to check on you.” He glances at Landry, who hovers over my shoulder. “What’s he doing here?”

  I stiffen my back, reminded I don’t answer to George. Not like we’re together. He dumped me in the middle of the road and drove off without sparing me a backward glance. What if my squatter hadn’t moved on? I could’ve been killed. Plus, he’s a liar. No guilt.

  I tip up my chin. “Landry’s my roommate.”

  “He’s what?”

  “My roommate. Paying rent.” I shrug. “I didn’t want to stay out here alone.”

  George gives Landry a heated glance. “You’re paying rent.”

  “Yeah,” Landry says, and I cringe at the angry burr in his tone. He goes over to flop down on the sofa like he owns the place and picks up the remote. “I’m watching TV. If you’re gonna talk, take it outside.”

  I grimace in Landry’s direction but step out onto the porch. I don’t close the door. I don’t trust myself with George. I’m pissed, and he has a way of making me lose my head. Besides, I’m not ready to forgive him for being such a jerk. “I’m fine. Now go away.”

  “Bullshit. You’re crazy to let Landry stay here. Did you quit taking your psych meds?”

  Low blow. Jackass. I swallow the curse. “Did you talk to your dad?”

  George scowls. “Your father, remember. He’s your bio father and my adoptive.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Not whatever, Mala. It means there’s no blood relationship between us.”

  “So? If that mattered, you wouldn’t have freaked out. The only reason I can figure for you being so mean is that you’ve obviously got a problem with this whole sharing-a-daddy situation.”

  “I have a problem with him cheating on my mother with the town whore.”

  The word drips off his tongue with ease. He doesn’t notice me stiffen. Or my hands balling into fists at my sides. Sure he’s angry, but the whore is my dead mama he’s talking shit about.

  The rocking chair tips backward, and I gulp back my startled scream. Mam
a materializes and gives me a devilish grin. “Oh, girl. You and Georgie Porgie found out about Senior being your daddy?”

  “Yes,” I hiss, not caring that George’s eyes widen in surprise. “Yes, George. Mama, the town prostitute, had an affair with your stepfather and got pregnant with me.”

  “Hey, I wasn’t whorin’ around when I got pregnant with you. Senior and Georgie’s mama were separated. He only married her for her money. Not like they loved each other. She was still hung up on her other husband, but he ran off and left her alone and pregnant.”

  I ignore her. “What if your father loved my mama? Would that make you feel better about the situation?”

  Mama laughs. “He wasn’t in love with me any more than I was in love with him. We had a one-night stand, and the condom broke. Gosh, you’re so naive.”

  “Doesn’t matter if he loved her or not, Mala,” George says. “Wrong is wrong. I can’t understand why you aren’t angry about this.”

  “She is angry,” Landry says, coming outside. “Sorry for eavesdropping, but you’re not keeping your voices down, and I can’t hear my show over the yelling.”

  George steps forward. “Mind your own business, Landry.”

  Landry shrugs. “It’s just sad. You’re throwing away your chance with Mala ’cause you’re butt-hurt about her father having a one-night stand twenty-one years ago while your parents were separated.”

  George turns to me. “How does he know about this?”

  Before I get a chance to respond, Landry jumps in feet first.

  “How many times do I gotta tell you that Mala and I are friends? Let’s get off this topic and move to something more important. Why Caleb King tried to murder me.”

  George rocks back onto his heels. “We’ll finish our conversation later, Mala. In private.”

  Not if I can avoid being alone with him.

  I think he reads the answer in my eyes because his lips tighten. He turns his attention to Landry. “We interrogated King, but he’s not talking without a lawyer present. My guess is you pissed him off. You have a way of getting under a person’s skin.”