Dark Sacrifice (9 page)

The reverend takes a jerky step backward. “Surely you're not here to exact retribution?”

Retribution.
Nice word. I'd like to do some good, old-fashioned smiting on this lot of hypocrites. “Retribution is needed for the evil deed he committed when he
saved my life
.” I wave to Landry. “Come. Let us go live in sin.”

Landry flashes me a lecherous grin. He does those so well that my tummy flutters. I'm mightily impressed. “Thanks,” he says.

The reverend blinks. I guess my over-the-top derision finally penetrates his fear of an all-out brawl between me and Landry on the church lawn. He frowns and shakes his head. “Are you sure you want him to go with you?”

Several folks in the crowd echo his question. I turn to the circle of people and take in their hostile expressions. I've been holding on to my anger pretty well, I think, but the judgment and condemnation in their eyes does me in.

Not like I've ever excelled at holding my tongue anyway. “What's wrong with you people? Most of you have known Landry his whole life. You sat in service with him, supported him at football games, and had him visit in your houses. I know you must feel betrayed by the actions of his parents”—I turn my gaze from face to face in the group, and eyes drop one by one—“but Landry saved my life. He ran into my burning house to rescue me and lost an eye in the process. He went to jail for a crime he didn't commit. Please don't hold the actions of his parents against him.”

The Borg Collective pauses for a moment, and I hold my breath. Will they listen? Or will the mob mentality escalate this into something far worse? I subtly check for an escape route. In five big steps, I can reach Landry, and then we'll sprint for the truck.

“She's right,” the reverend says, and everyone's eyes land on him. They're listening to him with an intensity they didn't have when I spoke. They respect him despite his youthful appearance. He turns to face Landry, and I relax my stance. “Landry, I'm ashamed of my behavior. I shouldn't have let my emotions get the better of me. Will you accept my apology?”

“Thank you,” Landry says simply, but his voice chokes with emotion. That in itself influences the rest of the crowd. Sympathy and guilt fill their expressions. A few others shout apologies as the group disperses, heading into the sanctuary.

The reverend stays. “They're good people,” he says. “We were all thrown after what happened. It's hard to believe a man of the cloth…” He shakes his head. “I'll help load the boxes into your truck. Let me know if anything's missing.”

Guess he's not planning on inviting Landry to stay in his home.

He turns to me and holds out his hand. “I'm Reverend Shane Williams.”

“Mala LaCroix,” I say, shaking his hand.

Landry comes to stand so close our shoulders brush, and a shiver runs down my spine. I want to reach out for his hand, but I'm too embarrassed. I'm kind of afraid of this quieter, more sober Landry. “Tell Molly I'm sorry for intruding,” he says to Reverend Shane. “I didn't mean to startle her. I didn't know you'd moved…”

Shane claps a hand on Landry's shoulder. “No, you have no reason to apologize. Molly should've handled it better. The pregnancy has her a little high strung.”

I stiffen. “Pregnancy hormones don't make women irrational. You should be proud of how your wife handled herself.”

Landry's arm wraps around my shoulder. “Yeah, Mala would've done the same thing. At least Molly stopped attacking me once she figured out why I was there.”

Shane frowns. “Still—”

I pull Landry's arm down. “I'll start loading the truck. It was nice to meet you, Reverend Shane.”

After loading one of the cardboard boxes into the back of the truck, I slide onto the driver's seat and wait for the men to finish. I watch through the mirror as Landry shakes hands with Shane. He slides into the passenger seat with a huge sigh.

A comfortable silence settles between us as I pull onto the road, instinctively heading home, then I glance at Landry. “So where do you want me to drop you off?”

He shrugs. “The park…”

“You're messing with me now, right?”

“I wish, Mala. I don't have any money. I don't have a house. My relatives are either dead, in jail, or on the run from the law. What do you think I should do? I almost wish I was still in jail. At least there I had a cot and three meals a day.”

“And some freak who shanked you.”

He shrugs again. “Rumors about a hit had been floating around for weeks. I just didn't think Caleb would be the one to take the bait. I thought we got along fine.”

“You're crazy. Didn't you see the way he watched you while you showered?” I gulp, patting my lips with my fingertips. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. Did he catch the shower part?

He's grinning. “
So,
” he draws out the word, “you were watching me in the shower?”

Crap!

“Whoa. Why would I want to see you naked?” I wave my hand in front of my burning cheeks.

“Oh, so you don't know where my mole…”

My gaze drops to his butt, then back to the road. The heat in my face intensifies. I flip the vent in my direction. Cold air slaps me across the face. “No comment.”

He chuckles.

“Back to the original topic of where to drop you off, I take it you meant Paradise Park?” I glance at him with a sly grin. “I bet crazy Junebug will let you move into her cardboard-box apartment.”

He tips his head back onto the headrest and closes his eye. Huh? Does he think I won't drop him off there? Is he that confident that I'll take care of him?

A day's growth of beard covers his cheeks. Even in the dimming light, the knife scar that bisects his left eyebrow looks red and inflamed, not having had time to fade. I study the eye patch. “Can you see anything out of your eye?”

His mouth hangs open slightly. Snores fill the cabin.

“I'm sorry for hurting you,” I whisper. “Will you forgive me? If it wasn't for me you wouldn't have been in jail. You wouldn't have died.”

The truck hits a rut. I grip the wheel with both hands and pay more attention to the road leading out of town. I'm glad I'm not going back home alone. I swear someone was living there. I've had a lot of time to sift through the clues I didn't notice last night—the unfamiliar, musky scent in the air, the rumpled bedding, and the food in the refrigerator. Why would Bessie restock the fridge if I was staying with her?

I had a squatter. I don't know how long the person had been staying there or if he or she had moved on, but having Landry around will make me feel a lot safer.

I park in front of my darkened house. I forgot to turn on the porch light when I left. I open the door to light up the cab. “We're here. Wake up.”

Landry twists with a full-body stretch. Muscles flex and ripple, and my mouth dries. When he sees me, he smiles just long enough for my heart rate to speed as heat rushes into my face, then the brightness in his silver gaze darkens.

He opens the passenger door and climbs out, then sticks his head back into the cab. “Why did you bring me home? Won't you feel uncomfortable?”

I lick my lips. “You can either sleep on the new sofa or on the back porch in the hammock.”
Or in my bed.

“I don't know—”

“I'm afraid of living here alone. Okay?” I climb from the truck and slam the door before he can respond. I'm suddenly terrified. What if he can't handle staying here?

I stride to the back of the truck and drop the tailgate. “If you've got a problem staying with me, just say so.”

“Did I say anything?”

“No.”

Landry squints in my direction. He places one hand on the rim of the truck bed as he walks. “It's just…how can you even stay in this house after what happened?” He edges me aside and stretches for one of the cardboard boxes holding his belongings. “Aren't you worried about this place being haunted after what happened?”

“So far I haven't found a place that
isn't
haunted. This is my ancestral home. The only spirits here are my family, since only LaCroixes have lived and died on this land since the 1850s.” I shake my head, eyeing the woman sitting in the rocking chair on the porch. “'Sides, Mama will kill me if I sell this place and move to town.”

Landry follows my gaze and drops the box.

“Are you okay?”

He squeezes his eye shut. “I'm fine.”

“What's he doing here?” Mama stomps down the stairs. “Thought you and Georgie Porgie got a thin' goin'. What with all the kissy face at the hospital, he's not gonna be happy.”

“Kissing? George…” Landry turns in my direction.

I shove him toward the house. “Uh, why don't you go inside?”

Mama's open mouth closes with a snap. “Does he see me?”

I pick the box up off the ground and push it into his arms. “Go on.”

Mama walks around me and waves her hand in front of his eye. “He can see me?”

Landry swats her hand out of his face. His arm passes right through her, and he groans. “I'm insane.”

“Holy crap! How did this happen, Mala Jean? He got a batch of LaCroix blood in him I don't know about?”

I shake my head. “Plenty of people who aren't LaCroixes see spirits, Mama. I think it happened because he died.”

Landry stumbles up the steps and falls into a rocking chair. “I don't feel too good. My head hurts.”

Mama sits in the chair next to him. “My head's a little wobbly too, but I got an excuse seein' as how I'm dead. Damn, I could use a drink right about now.” She leans forward, and Landry shivers. “Do you really see me? Hear me?”

Landry spares me a quick glance, then nods. “Ever since I woke up in the hospital.”

“Yeah, he died. And there was this black whirlpool thingy that tried to suck Landry inside. This black stuff oozed onto his skin, burning into him. What do you think it could be?”

Mama smoothes her nightgown down over her lap. “How would I know?”

Oh, she infuriates me!
“You've been dead for over a month now, Mama. Haven't you learned anything about how the other side works?”

Landry reaches toward her, then stops. “Anything you can find out will help, ma'am. Please.”

“Well, you know I'm not much for studyin'.” Her dark eyes flick up to meet Landry's, and she shrugs. “Maybe Mala's Uncle Gaston knows.”

“Is he here?” He reaches out again. This time his hand passes through her arm, and he shudders. The hairs in his goose bumps stand at attention.

Mama shrugs. “He's around.”

“What do you think the black stuff could be?” I ask.

“Maybe he soaked up some evil from the other side and got a demon ridin' around inside him. Best sleep with one eye open.”

“I only have one eye,” Landry says.

“I was talkin' to my daughter.”

A
fter adjusting to the shock of Ms. Jasmine being not alive but still kicking, Mala and I head to the truck to finish unloading my stuff. I drag a box labeled
CLOTHES
from the truck and drop it on the ground. No crunching noises come from inside from anything breakable. My head tips to the side, and my gaze slides back to the woman sitting in the rocker next to Mala.

I see dead people.

I used to love that line. It's not so hilarious now that it applies to me. I've seen two ghosts. The first scared the shit out of me. Ms. Jasmine creeps me out. She looks so alive that she crackles with energy. Like I could touch her if I want, but whenever I try, a biting cold settles in my bones. My finger joints still ache as if a thunderstorm heads in my direction.

“I'm certifiable,” I mumble, shaking the cobwebs out of my head and setting off rockets instead. Pain explodes behind my damaged eye and radiates outward through the back of my skull. My vision swims, and I lean forward with a groan. It hurts less with my good eye closed. For the moment, I welcome the darkness.

I hold on to the edge of the tailgate with both hands. The metal bites into my palms. It's the only thing keeping me from falling over. I breathe in through my nose and exhale. After doing this a few times, the ache dulls enough for me to open my eye.

Mala stands hunched over, peering into my face. The tip of her nose brushes the tip of mine. I rear back, tripping over the box I'd set on the ground. She grabs my arm, steadying me before I fall flat on my ass.

“Are you okay?” She wiggles her eyebrows in that funny way she has of trying to make me smile. I'm not sure if she knows she's doing it or if she does it on purpose. Either way, it works 'cause I want to make her smile in return.

“I'm fine,” I lie with an easy grin.

“Are you sure?” Her fingers tighten around my bicep.

I place my hand on top of hers. “Is this an excuse to feel me up? I know you like my muscles.”

Her face turns pink.
Got her!

She jerks her hand free and shoves it into the pocket of her ratty jeans. Her nose crinkles. “You wish.” She waves her hand toward the boxes. “How about if you get what you need for tonight and bring the rest inside in the morning?”

Her dark eyes meet mine again. “What?” she asks.

“I didn't say anything.”

“I know. That's what's making me nervous.” Her lips purse. “You know you're sleeping in my bedroom, right?” She clears her throat and rocks back on her heels. “I mean my
old
bedroom. Alone. I'll sleep in Mama's room. Although my bed sucks, literally. It's got a giant hole in the middle of the mattress.”

I grin and tip my chin toward the house. “I'll sleep on the sofa. Your mama would kill me if I slept in your bed, even without you in it. She's already giving me the stink-eye.”

“That's just how she looks when she's craving a drink.” Mala shrugs. “At least now I don't have to worry about her stumbling home drunk.”

The sadness underlying her tone makes me wince, but Mala doesn't notice. I've got to be careful she doesn't. I don't want to give her another thing to feel guilty about. I pretended to be asleep during the drive. Her apology almost broke me. I owe her more than I can ever repay in this lifetime, and the only way to do that is if I stay by her side.

I slam the tailgate closed.

Mala shuffles impatiently at my side. When she catches me watching, she says, “Hurry, I have to pee.”

“Charming.”

She laughs, tickled by my response. The girl's got no shame, at least when dealing with me.

That's it, Landry. Keep it light. Fun.

I can't afford to scare her off.

Truth, though, I'm not sure how long I can keep it together. I've been teetering on the edge of a complete breakdown since I woke up in the hospital. I thought the pain in my damaged eye had been intense. It's nothing compared to the constant burning beneath the surface of my skin that I've felt since I “died.” Ms. Jasmine's idea about a demon hitching a riding makes me nervous as hell 'cause it feels like the truth.

I follow Mala into the house, carrying the box containing my clothing. I drop it in the middle of the new, blue sofa. The first time I ever saw this room had been the night Ms. Jasmine got dragged out. She fought so hard, kicking and scratching. I thought for sure there'd be damage to the place.
I should've helped her.
“Other than the sofa, it doesn't look different.”

Mala pauses.

“I didn't mean to say that.” I run my fingers through my sweaty hair, shoving it back.

Her gaze focuses on the eye patch, then darts away. “It's okay. I thought the same thing when I came home. Bessie, Maggie, and Tommy cleaned the place for me. Had the curtains and undamaged throw pillows cleaned to get out the smoky smell.”

Self-conscious, I shake my head. Black bangs fall to brush the tip of my nose. I tilt my head sideways so the hair only covers the left side of my face. My chest tightens again.
Remember to breathe.

I pace the tiny room, studying the porcelain statues on the shelves. The velvet Elvis's blue-eyed stare follows me censoriously around the room, and I feel the sudden urge to apologize to the man of the house.

I grunt. “Has Elvis ever talked to you?”

“Are you asking if I'm crazy?” Mala hustles into the kitchen.

I follow after I get over the shock, focusing on the switch in her perky little ass. Damn, she looks hot in those tight jeans. My mouth opens to comment on just how good she looks, but I catch myself before I insert fat-shoe-in-mouth and clamp my lips shut.
Don't scare her or she'll kick your ass out.

I trip over a peeled-up strip of sea green linoleum and grab for the edge of the counter. Losing an eye screwed up my depth perception. I misjudge the distance and end up going down on one knee. I bite back the curse and push upright, breathing hard.

Mala turns with a frown. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, nothing…”

“Then stop hovering behind me and sit down.” She waves toward the table. “You're making me nervous.”

“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.