Nancy K. Duplechain - Dark Trilogy 03 - Dark Legacy (29 page)

“So it’s over?”
I said.

“Miles
gravely shook his head. “There will be more. Nephilim, demons, vengeful spirits
… monsters. There’s always more waiting. And I’m afraid ours is a dark legacy
that we must carry on.”

“But there’s
light, too,” said Cee Cee, hugging me to her side. “A lot of it. And we always
seem to find each other.”

Miles smiled
sadly. “Yes. One light can be a beacon. Together, we can dispel thousands of
shadows.”

Seven pies, eight
cakes, three rib roasts, four briskets, six barbecue chickens, five baked
chickens, three vegetable platters, four fruit platters, six kinds of potato
salad, seven cornbreads, four bowls of mashed potatoes, five bowls of rice
dressing, three plates of brownies, four plates of cookies, three ambrosias, five
different salads, four platters of boudin, one fried shrimp platter, and one
gigantic pot of hen gumbo. It was that grand Southern tradition: when someone
dies, bring a dish. We had to move Clothilde’s funeral reception to the
Abbeville Civic Center last minute because it would have been a fire hazard to
have that many people in the little church hall. It turned out that she had
helped many people during her long life.

She was buried
next to Paw Paw Willie in the Bancker Cemetery. I noticed Lucas in the corner
of my eye. He looked over at the spot where we had dug up Savoy the year
before. I wasn’t afraid of this place anymore. I was so much stronger now, and
much of that was thanks to Clothilde. Lyla let me wrap my arm around her.

After our battle
in the bayou, we buried the cougar in as decent a grave as we could make and
got a big stone as a marker. Cee Cee blessed her, and we all prayed for her. A
few days later, Lyla picked out a cat statue to put on the grave.

Felix took Casper’s
and Sonja’s bodies back with him to Paris. Saul, Aimee and Olivia helped him
deliver their bodies to their families.

Miles had Noah
cremated. A couple of weeks after Clothilde’s funeral, I joined him and Cee Cee
and Ruby on a quiet spot on
a
pier in the Irish Channel in New Orleans. It was the
day before Thanksgiving, and there was a chill in the air. Miles opened the urn
and scattered its contents over the Mississippi. The ashes swirled in a gust of
wind before settling onto the water that reflected a sky as gray as Noah’s
eyes.

We went back to Miles’
house afterward. He told us he locked up the Heart and the grimoire in his
vault. He served us coffee and tea. We spoke of Noah and shared memories, but I
could tell it was still too painful for Miles. He went along with it, though,
because that’s what you do. You don’t let your grief consume you, at least not
in front of other people. Ruby mostly stared out the window, lost in memory.
Cee Cee laughed the most.

I was not
surprised to see a single purple feather being used as a bookmark. It was in a
book of poems resting on a little table in the corner of the room, next to a
comfy chair. When Miles wasn’t looking, I opened it to see the poem:

Let
the angels rejoice!

Let
the angels dance!

Let
them circle Heaven

With
proud and glorious wings!

But
let them not forget their brother

Who
strayed to seek the dark.

He
shall return one day, his light renewed,

And
follow the stars, onward home.

***

That night, I
went back to Clothilde’s. I took my time going into the house, stopping on the
porch to sit on the swing. I could faintly hear Hank Williams on the little
radio in the kitchen. It blended in with the sound of clanking dishes and the
blender. A weird combination of onions and pumpkin and cinnamon wafted onto the
porch. They were preparing some of the Thanksgiving dinner early so that we
just had to worry about the turkey and the salad tomorrow.

I didn’t feel
like celebrating a holiday, especially a family one, but Lucas had convinced me
that it would be good for us. I heard Jonathan and Lyla giggle from the kitchen.
Although I couldn’t make out what Lucas was saying, from the tone it sounded
like he was making a series of corny jokes. Knowing him, he pulled the raw
turkey out of the fridge and made it dance. Just thinking about that set me off
with my own extreme attack of the giggles. Before I knew it, tears were
streaming down my face, but from laughing, not crying. I was actually wheezing
and started coughing.

Lucas came out
the door, wiping his hands on his apron—Clothilde’s green apron with the
daisies on it.

“You okay?” he
said.

I nodded, fanning
my face with my hands, trying to cool off. He gave me a strange look but
grinned anyway.

When I got
myself under control I said, “You weren’t by any chance making the t—” I
couldn’t finish my sentence without busting out laughing again.

“Making the
what?”

I waved for him
to stop. “Making the tur—” I was crying again.

He started
laughing at me. “Making the what?!”

I was wheezing
again but blurted out “Making the turkey dance!”

He had to lean
against the door and put one hand on his knee to steady himself. His face was
the color of a boiled crawfish. He caught his breath. “The hell you talkin’
‘bout?”

“Nothing,” I
said, finally catching my breath, too.

He sat next to
me on the swing and held my hand. “I think you’ve lost it.”

“I know I have.”

After we settled
down he said,
“How’d
everything go?”

“It was okay.
It’ll take a while for them. For all of us.”

He nodded and
squeezed my hand. “Well, I’m glad you’re home.”

I put my head on
his shoulder. “Me, too.”

Five
years later …

It
was one of those days when you feel a charge in the atmosphere, when
possibilities abound, dreams are on the verge of coming true, and though you
find yourself on a sharp edge between a deep ravine of fear and a green valley
of happily ever after, you feel an electrified wind of potential, gently
pushing you toward happily ever after. That’s what I felt on my wedding day
when I saw Lucas waiting for me at the altar. Miles had sensed this and gave my
arm a little squeeze as he walked me toward my soon-to-be husband.

We
held the ceremony in the little Catholic church in Abbeville, only about two
miles from Clothilde’s house—
our
house. It felt weird calling it that. During
the ceremony, I looked over my shoulder to see Lyla stealing glances at her
boyfriend, Peter, in the second row. He sat behind Cee Cee who was a human
faucet. I think she went through three handkerchiefs. I tried not to look at
Lyla, though, because she stood next to Carrie, and every time I caught her
eye, she made me giggle.
Even Ruby looked happy for me.

Jonathan,
now twelve, was the best man and, in front of everyone at the reception, he
picked Lucas up and hoisted him onto his shoulders. We got some surprised looks
from most of the guests, but Lucas didn’t scold him. After Jon set him down,
Lucas hugged him and said, “Thanks for the ride, buddy.”

It scares me
sometimes how quickly time has gone by. I watch Lyla change each year, shooting
up a few inches, and what baby fat that was left fell away. Her neck became
long and slender, and her eyes began to twinkle more around boys her age, but
for the last year she only had eyes for Peter. She just got her driver’s
license and, thanks to Lucas, is the only girl in her class who can drive stick
shift on a 1993 pickup truck. I hesitate to call her a typical teenager after
all she’s been though and given her power. She plans to put that ability to
good use by becoming a veterinarian. She has a part time job at the veterinarian’s
office here in Abbeville.

I’d like to say
there was a happily ever after for us, but fairytales aren’t reality. But there
is happiness. Lots of it.

The older I get,
the more I think of Clothilde and how hard she fought to take care of us. I
miss her and my parents, my brother, and Noah, too. I look back on my childhood
when everyone was alive and happy. But despite my stubborn will to hold on to
the past, I’ve come to realize that I still have a family, even if it’s
different from the one I started with. Change is constant, and we have to
evolve or we wind up bitter and resentful, wishing to be with ghosts instead of
the living. I catch myself feeling mournful of those I lost, but then remember
what Clothilde said just before she slipped away: “There is no death.”  Those
words echo sometimes, just as I’m about to fall asleep.

C’est
Tout

The last couple
of years of my life have been a whirlwind. I don’t think I would have survived
without my friends and family, and the support of so many wonderful people who
kept my spirits up in the difficult times.

Thank you to
Gretchen, my dear friend who always helps me to see the sunny side of life. In
my eyes, you’re really Carrie in my books, so don’t feel too badly about the outcome
of the Gretchen character.

To my mother for
going above and beyond with her support.

To the Knighten,
Deville and Harris families (and of course the outer branches) for their kind
hearts and comforting words during a very difficult time for our family. A
special thank you to Bert Harris for her love and dedication when it was needed
most.

To my test
readers: Travis Fontenot, Alice Fontenot, Gretchen Frith and Christopher Shawn Pujol.
Your advice truly helped me to make this book the best it can be.

And thank you to
you guys, the readers, who continue to help me live out one of my biggest
dreams.

NKD

6-29-2014