by Angie Sandro
Bessie’s action energizes the huddled party guests, and they realize the dynamics of the hostage situation have changed with the death of Magnolia. Isabel grabs George’s mom and Molly and ushers them past the unconscious Ferdinand. Mala’s father still lies beside the bodies of his daughter and son, but he manages to roll to his knees. I guess the neck wound missed his carotid artery, because he drops his hand. The wound’s no longer bleeding. After a quick check of their pulse, he runs over to his sister.
All of this happens in the real world between one revolution of the shining, silvery blue spiral of energy opening behind Magnolia’s chair and the next. Its inky tentacles whip at the air, still too short to reach us bodiless souls loitering within its soon-to-be grasp. It grows with each revolution, and I fight the wind drawing me toward the mouth of the vortex—toward Mala, who clings to Magnolia’s cane with both hands. She bats at her uncle, but Gaston dodges her hits.
George, who must’ve been brought here in spirit form by Gaston, also lunges for him, but the old ghost twists aside. He shoves George into Mala, and she stumbles toward the vortex. A snapping tentacle smacks her in the back, toppling her forward, then catches her before she hits the ground. It wraps around her waist.
George grabs on to her hands and pulls against the tentacle, but they’re both being dragged across the hardwood floor. They have no traction. Nothing to hold onto.
“Don’t let her go, George,” I yell, while taking a running leap. I slide across the floor. My hands circle Mala’s wrists just as Gaston slams the cane across the back of George’s head. I kick my feet toward him, but the soldier sidesteps to grab George by the back of his shirt. He shoves him toward the vortex. If Deputy Dawg’s soul gets sucked in, he’s gone. Gaston will have a new body, and I’m not in a position to stop it.
“Gaston, stop. You’re killing him,” Mala cries, then twists her face upward. Her dark eyes tilt down at the corners. “Let me go, Landry. Help my brother.”
Does she actually think sad-puppy eyes will work in this situation? “Fuck no!”’
“You have to. It’s the only way to stop this thing.” Black ooze drips down her cheeks instead of tears. The shadow beneath her skin ripples, trying to separate itself from her soul and claim her body as its own. “Landry, please. It’s trying to get free so it can take my body. I can’t let it have what it wants. It’ll only kill again and again.” She twists her fingers in my grip. “Let me go.”
“Who’s the one who gave a speech about not being a martyr? Don’t you dare let go of my hands. I had Dad give you the tea. The one you refused to drink. Well, you drank it and said, ‘Mmm mmm good, give me another cup.’ That’s why you had the shits tonight.”
God, I can’t stop cussing. Is she even hearing me? If she gives up, we’re both doomed. Because if she sacrifices herself to keep the Loa of Death from getting free, then I’m going with her.
Yelling comes from behind us, and I look over my shoulder. Sophia has her arms locked around Gaston. I can’t hear her words. The whirl of the wind from the vortex drowns out her words. Gaston’s shaking his head, still dragging George closer to the tentacles. She stops suddenly and clasps her hands as if in prayer and then shifts her gaze to Mala, and finally to me. Her lips move. Good-bye.
Then she’s running toward the door.
Gaston drops George’s leg and dives for her. His arms wrap around her waist, and she twists in his arms until they’re face to face. Her arms circle his shoulders and then cup the back of his head, drawing his mouth down to hers. A tentacle wraps around them both and jerks. They’re flying backward into the vortex, but their lips never break the kiss.
“Wow. Now that’s a death scene to be remembered,” I say, looking down at Mala.
Black tears trail down her cheeks. The tentacle around her leg gives another tug, and she lets out a squeak. Her eyes close as she whispers, “Kiss me.”
I draw her wrists up, using her weight to slide our bodies closer together. Her arms circle my neck, and her lips part, sighing out black vapor. I breathe it in, breathe her in as I claim her mouth. I fall into the kiss, losing myself. All I know is her. The taste of our souls mingling, combining, driving out the spirits of the loas who infect us because there is only room for the two of us. ’Cause yeah, I drank the nasty-ass tea too.
A fading rustle of scales passes through my thoughts. “She’s one whopper of a catch, host.”
“I know. Now get the fuck out of my head.”
Chapter 31
Mala
Billionaires Suck
My nose twitches when I park in front of the Acker place. Smoke rises over the top of the house, bringing the smell of hickory-smoked ribs. The crawfish boil started an hour ago, and I’m starving and pissed after having two hours of my life sucked away. Two ridiculous hours that I can’t get back while I, the legal heir to Magnolia LaCroix’s fortune, arranged to donate the majority of my aunt’s money to a variety of charitable organizations, while ignoring her attorney’s constant questioning of my decision to throw away a billion dollars.
The answer was simple. ’Cause I don’t want her dirty money. Nobody can guilt me into keeping all of it. Or call me a fool to my face for getting rid of it, unless they want a beat down.
Harsh words, maybe. But true.
But I didn’t answer his questions. And even though I loathe Magnolia with a passion, I only told the lawyer to donate the majority of her money. I didn’t say all. She hurt a lot of people in Paradise Pointe, and I aim to see they’re made as whole as possible monetarily. The absences of the people who passed because of my aunt can’t be fixed, but their families won’t have to worry about how they’ll pay their bills during their time of grief. Or ever, if they invest well.
The one good thing is that the survivors of the birthday party tragedy don’t remember anything other than that a minor earthquake rocked Paradise Pointe, and the epicenter was located beneath Aunt March’s house. They don’t remember Magnolia’s reign of terror. They do, however, remember the pregnancy debacle. And lucky me, I’m still getting asked when the baby is due even though it’s been almost two months. And I’m definitely not rocking a baby bump. Or getting married in the foreseeable future.
I grab my briefcase and climb out of the new van. Cold wind nips at my cheeks, and I wrap my jacket tighter about my body. We could’ve held the party inside, but the birthday boy insisted on having us all out in the winter air. I think Axle’s a little demented. Cute, though.
He sees me first and races across the lawn with a new graphic novel, Dark Knight Returns. “Mala, who do you think would win in a fight? Batman or Spider-Man?”
“Batman.”
“Hey, you answered without even thinking about it.”
“What’s to think about?” I hold up my fingers. “He’s rich, smart, and does the right thing even though he doesn’t have superpowers.”
His nose crinkles. “But Spider-Man’s a genius who can shoot webs, throw a car, and walk on walls.”
“Batman punched out Superman. Beat that.”
His head tilts as he contemplates that, then he sighs. “I guess Jonjovi’s right. I need to read more.”
We walk across the lawn chatting, and I tell him about Reverend Prince’s secret trunk of comic books, his prized collection, which another charitable donation from the Aunt Magnolia fund saved from being auctioned off on eBay. All of the Prince family’s medical bills and attorney fees are paid. With enough left over that the rev can finally get his own place. Thank you, God!
Rap music blasts from the backyard. Carl’s on a new kick about becoming a DJ. Says he can work parties with his new equipment. Yes, some of Magnolia’s money went to the Ackers. If any family has suffered from what she’s done, it’s them. Pepper doesn’t have to sell the house now. Not that Dena would let her, and since her father put all of his assets in her name, Pepper doesn’t have much choice but to play nice if she wants to keep her family and a roof over her head. The kids were fine without her. They’d be sad, but
they’d survive if she took off again. The boys and Dee now have their college educations paid for. So as long as Carl graduates, I’m cool with him having a part-time job as a DJ. But it’s his mama’s and Dena’s business to deal with if he gets out of line.
“I’m back,” I yell, throwing open the gate.
Bessie, the Acker boys, and my handsome fiancé sit around four card tables set up side by side in the yard. Heaping piles of boiled crawfish sit in the middle of each table. My family has already loaded up their plates with the side dishes: yellow corn, potato salad, deviled eggs. All of the kids, except for Daryl, who’s watching his weight, avoided taking any of the salad, peas, or green beans. My guess is his crush on Astrid is ramping up in intensity, and he’s getting ready to make a move. Will true love prevail? Or will he feel the soul-crushing heartache of rejection? I can’t wait to find out. That’s the thing. I can finally find out things set way in advance. I have time. Well, besides the two hours I can never get back.
I drop my briefcase on the ground and slide into the chair beside Landry. He leans in for a long welcome-home kiss that inspires Jonjovi and Axle to pretend gag, ruining the party mood for everyone else at the table. Landry and I ignore them all.
Kissing saved our lives. Cliché, maybe. But true.
Landry pulls back. He wipes the barbecue sauce from my lips with his thumb, then slowly licks it off. My thighs clench, and he grins, knowing how he affects me. “I take it you didn’t kill the lawyer,” he says with a smirk.
“I can’t tell if that’s a question or a statement.”
Bessie sucks the juice out of a crawfish head and drops it onto the pile of discarded shells. “I didn’t get dispatched to a call, so I guess everything went fine. Unless she hid the body.”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” I say. Only I’m not sure if she’s joking. Ferdinand fucked her over. After all those years of not being able to get past her husband’s death, she finally allows herself to let a man in, and it turns out he’s in cahoots with an ancient ancestral spirit. How’s a decent woman supposed to get past that and trust again? My biggest regret is that he got away with everything because nobody else at the party but us remembers what he did.
“I think Bessie’s hilarious,” Dena says, dropping a plate in front of me. She winks, then hustles away from my swat. She and her mom are running the second grill with the boiling pot of crawfish, while Reverend Prince and George take care of the meat. My eyes linger on my brother for a bit. Landry catches me staring, and he scowls.
“He’s fine. And you’re hovering again.”
“I’m not hovering. I’m sitting in my chair.” He raises an eyebrow, then lowers his head to gnaw off a huge hunk of meat from the bone. Not passive aggressive at all. “Fine, I’ll try to stop. It’s hard. Every time I see him I think ‘what if?’”
What if Sophia hadn’t stopped Gaston from throwing George into the vortex? What if we hadn’t gotten him to the hospital before the ticking time bomb in his head went off? I hope wherever Sophia landed, she is happy.
Landry grabs my fingers and brings the back of my hand to his lips. “The autopsies on Judd and Tank were able to pinpoint the location affected by the possession, and the neurosurgeon caught the problem in George and fixed it. Plus, he drank the magic tea. So again, he’s fine. Besides, I don’t see you freaking out every time I sneeze.”
He sounds grumpy about that. “That’s because you’ve already died and come back. I don’t want that to happen to George. The dying part. But if he did die, yes, I’d want him to come back too.”
Landry stuffs a corncob between my teeth. “You’re rambling. Eat.”
So I do. And I ignore the dead woman staring at the steaks on the barbecue. Mama sees the trespassing ghost and runs over. I’m surprised when she doesn’t go into her grumpy “get off my lawn” spiel and kick her off the property. Something must be wrong, because heaven forbid that the crazy spirit world I half live in will hold off on falling apart until later.
Oh well, even when things unexpectedly go sideways, I won’t have to deal with the chaos alone. It’s funny, but not. See, I once wondered whether my ancestors always had an affinity for the dead or if some ancestor asked the Loa of Death to grant her his power. Now I know the answer. Generations of LaCroix women were possessed by that spirit, but I broke the family curse.
My future children and grandchildren are safe. They’re free to love and live their lives in harmony with our gifts. As for myself, I intend to live a long, happy life with this man that I love, and when we die, Landry and I will be buried together and eventually our children and their families will be buried around us. But for right now, I’m alive. Loved. Accepted. Safe.
So yeah, ghost lady can wait until I finish my ribs.
Did you miss the beginning of Mala and Landry’s love story?
Please see the next page for an excerpt from Dark Paradise.
Chapter 1
Mala
Floater
Black mud oozes between my toes as I shift my weight and jerk on the rope, sending up a cloud of midges and the rotten-egg stench of stagnant swamp water. The edge of the damn crawfish trap lifts out of the water—like it’s sticking its mesh tongue out at me—and refuses to tear loose from the twisted roots of the cypress tree. It’s the same fight each and every time, only now the frayed rope will snap if I pull on it any harder. I have to decide whether to abandon what amounts to two days’ worth of suppers crawling along the bottom of that trap or wade deeper into the bayou and stick my hand in the dark, underwater crevice to pry it free.
Gators eat fingers. A cold chill runs down my spine at the thought, and I shiver, rubbing my arms. I search the algae-coated surface for ripples. The stagnant water appears calm. I didn’t have a problem wading into the bayou to set the trap. I’ve trapped and hunted in this bayou my entire life. Sure it’s smart to pay attention to my instincts, doing so has saved my life more times than I can count, but this soul-sucking fear is ridiculous.
I take a deep breath and pat the sheathed fillet knife attached to my belt. My motto is: Eat or do the eating. I personally like the last part. A growling belly tends to make me take all kinds of stupid risks, but this isn’t one. If I’m careful, a gator will find my bite cuts deeper than teeth if it tries to make me into a four-course meal. Grandmère Cora tried to teach her daughter that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. Since Mama would rather fuck ’em than feed ’em, I inherited all the LaCroix family recipes, including a killer gator gumbo.
Sick of second-guessing myself, I slog deeper into the waist-high water. Halfway to the trap, warm mud wraps around my right ankle. My foot sticks deep, devoured. I can’t catch my balance. Crud, I’m sinking.
Ripples undulate across the surface of the water, spreading in my direction. My breath catches, and I fumble for the knife. Those aren’t natural waves. Something’s beneath the surface. Something big. I jerk on my leg, panting. With each heave, I sink deeper, unable to break the suction holding me prisoner. Gator equals death…But I’m still alive. So what is it? Why hasn’t it attacked?
A flash of white hits the corner of my eye—
Shit! I twist, waving the knife in front of me. My heart thuds. Sparkly lights fill my vision. Blinking rapidly, I shake my head. My mind shuts down. At first I can’t process what I’m seeing. It’s too awful. Too sickening. Then reality hits—hard. The scream explodes from my chest, and I fling myself backward. The mud releases my leg with a slurp. Brackish water smacks my face, pouring into my open mouth as I go under. Mud and decayed plants reduce visibility below the surface.
Wrinkled, outstretched fingers wave at me in the current. The tip of a ragged fingernail brushes across my cheek. It snags in my hair. I bat at the hand, but I can’t free my hair from the girl’s grip. She’s holding me under. Trying to drown me. I can’t lift my head above the surface. She won’t let me go!
My legs flail, kicking the girl in the chest. She floats. I sit up, choking. I can’t breathe a
nd scream at the same time. I’m panting, but I concentrate. Breathe in. Out. In. The girl drifts within touching distance. Floating. Not swimming. Why doesn’t she move? Is it stupid to pray for some sign of life—the rise of her chest, a kick from her leg—when I already know the truth?
Water laps at my chin. I wrap my arms around my legs. Shivers shake my body despite the warmth of the bayou, and my vision’s fuzzy around the edges. I’m hyperventilating. If I try to stand I’ll pass out. Or throw up. Probably both ’cause I’m queasy. I close my eyes, unable to look at the body any more. Which is so wrong. I’ve studied what to do in this sort of situation. Didn’t I spend a month memorizing the crime scene book I borrowed from Sheriff Keyes? Come on, Mala. Pull it together. A cop—even a future one—doesn’t get squeamish over seeing a corpse. If I can’t do something as simple as reporting the crime scene, well, then why not drop out of college, get hitched, and push out a dozen babies before I hit twenty-five, like everyone else in this damn town?
I lift my hands to scrub my face. Strands of algae lace my fingers. I pick them off. My legs tremble as I rise, which keeps me from running away. I have to describe the crime scene when I call the Sheriff’s Office, and I imagine myself peering through the lens of a giant magnifying glass like Sherlock Holmes—searching her body for clues. Each detail becomes crystal clear.
Her lips are slightly parted, and a beetle crawls across her teeth, which are straight and pearly white, not a tooth missing. She’s definitely a townie. A swamp girl her age would have a couple of missing teeth, given she appears to be a few years older than me. Her expensive-looking sundress has ridden up round her waist. Poor thing got all gussied up before she killed herself.
The deep vertical cuts still pinking the water on both of the girl’s wrists makes my stomach flip inside out. I double over, trying not to vomit. It takes several deep breaths to settle my gut before I can force myself to continue studying the body.
