Dark Redemption

  Dark Redemption

  Angie Sandro

  New York Boston

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  For Nate, Kierstan, and Maxwell. I love you.

  Chapter 1

  Mala

  Crazy Like a Rabid Raccoon

  I glance at the clock. Crap. We’re late. Again.

  I stumble down the hall and push open the door to my old bedroom. When the Acker boys moved in, I moved into Mama’s old room. They have their own twin beds, but both boys startle easily. They sleep together most nights.

  I shake the larger blanket-covered lump at the foot of the bed. “Jonjovi.” I hiss the last syllable through my teeth, careful not to wake Axle. “Wake up.”

  Jonjovi sits up, rubbing his blond head. He squints in my direction, then tries to lay back down. “Aw, Mala. Just five more minutes. Please.”

  “We’re running late.”

  “Didn’t you set the alarm?”

  “No, I forgot. Hurry and get dressed. No time for a shower. I’ll drive you to the bus stop.”

  Jonjovi scrambles off the bed. “What about the twins?”

  “Landry promised to get them on the bus.”

  Jonjovi’s lip pokes out. I’ve learned how to read his skeptical expression. I also know he’s right to doubt Landry’s ability to get the twins to do anything they don’t want to do. And right now, they’re on a finishing-high-school’s-bullshit kick. Daryl and Carl’s grand plan is to drop out and work odd jobs like gator wrangling or taking city folk on haunted-swamp tours.

  No. Come to think of it, Landry came up with the haunted-swamp bit. He figured he’d put my swamp and his ghost-seeing ability to good use by starting his own business. I shot that plan down faster than the wild turkey we ate for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m not losing all the insurance money Mama left for me ’cause some sue-happy idiot gets his arm eaten by a gator.

  I sigh. “We’ll worry about the twins later. Go on.”

  Truth is, I understand the reasoning behind the twins’ quest for fast money. They want to support themselves and their little brothers. The idea of living off my insurance money rubs them the wrong way. Makes them feel less than manly. Course I’d feel the same in their position—chock-full of raging testosterone—and prickly over being beholden to someone else. But no matter how uncomfortable I may be, I always pay my debts.

  What the Acker boys don’t realize, and for all our sakes I hope they stay oblivious to the truth forever, is that I owe them more than I can ever repay. I let their sister die. Or rather, I didn’t bring Dena back from the dead when I had the chance.

  At least not completely. I trapped her in limbo during a conjuring gone wrong. Brain dead.

  I blink back tears that well up whenever I think of Dena and lean over to gently rub Axle’s back. At twelve, Jonjovi’s pretty good about controlling his temper, but three years age difference is huge when it comes to the baby of the family. If Axle wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, he’s liable to flip out into a total meltdown, setting the tone for the rest of the day—his first day back to school after Thanksgiving break.

  “Wake-y, wake-y, it’s time for eggs and bac-y…” I sing. “Time to get ready for school.”

  The kid buries himself under blankets. “I’m not goin’…”

  “Come on, Axle.”

  The blanket bundle rolls across the mattress. I catch his foot before he topples off the bed and lands on his head. His social worker would be royally pissed if the kid had bruises when she checks up on him. And I’d be declared unfit for guardianship before appealing to the court.

  “Kids, breakfast!” a voice booms through my paper thin walls.

  Axle throws the blanket off and scampers from the bed. “Coming, Rev.”

  I can’t control my eye roll. All of the kids respect Reverend Prince. I’m the wicked stepmother—a place filler—until they need me. Every move I make with them is wrong. I can’t replace Dena in their hearts or remove the pain in their eyes, no matter how guilty I feel. The only way for their lives to return to normal is to give them their sister back, even if it’s at the expense of my soul.

  I make it sound easy. As if raising the dead’s like baking homemade bread. Just throw the correct ingredients into a bowl, add yeast, and let the dough rise. Only everyone in these parts knows that there are more steps involved in the process of raising a zombie. I just don’t know what they are. And the one woman who does know, my aunt Magnolia LaCroix, Hoodoo Queen of New Orleans, is someone I’ve done my best to avoid.

  I sniff the air, and my mouth waters. Bacon, even burned and extra-crispy, smells heavenly. If I want breakfast, I have to hurry. I check to be sure the boys are at the kitchen table, then grab a change of clothes and run into the bathroom. The bus will be at the crossroad in twenty minutes. After a two-minute shower to wash off the filmy sweaty layer coating my skin, I pull on clean panties and then try to stuff myself into my tight jeans. They won’t button.

  Freaking Reverend Prince and his homemade pie experiments. The man can’t cook worth a damn because his wife took care of the kitchen duties for twenty-five years, but bless his heart, he takes his duties seriously. He promised to help me care for the Acker kids and do all the housework while he stayed with me. It makes for a crowded house. It’s been almost impossible for Landry and me to find any private time. The rev takes offense to any impropriety or allusion to sex outside of marriage. He’d shit a brick and then stone us with it if he ever caught wind of our midnight trysts in the toolshed.

  The image of a naked Landry going down on me flashes before my eyes, and my heart rate speeds. The muscles down low clench. Sweat breaks out. I fan myself, not wanting to get all hot and bothered right after freshening up, but that man sets me on fire with nothing but a smoldering glance or the quirk of his dimpled smile. Guess that’s the inherent power of true love. Really steamy sex. Ha.

  A firm knock on the bathroom door startles a high-pitched, guilty squeak out of me.

  Reverend Prince yells, “Mala, open up. Your food’s getting cold.”

  My face flames hotter. I swallow hard, not trusting myself to sound normal. I crack open the door, only to have a plate shoved through the crack. I grab it from the rev’s hands with a muttered “Thanks,” and close the door.

  The greasy eggs slide across the plate as I set it on the counter, and my stomach gurgles. I take several deep breaths, eying the toilet. The kids like to leave floaters. Every so often, Axle will call me into the bathroom to show off a particularly large specimen. Once he even had one in fluorescent green. I think the culprit was a heaping bowl of Apple Jacks, but really, I’ve got no idea what he ate to turn his poop that color. Those boys just aren’t right in the head.

  My stomach settles after a few deep breaths. Happiness over not puking up my guts gives me the courage to tackle the important matter I’ve put off for over a week. With shaking hands, I pull the brown paper bag out of my jumbo-size bag of sanitary napkins—the one place none of my male houseguests would touch. The directions on the test say to pee on the stick first thing in the morning. It takes a couple of minutes for my bladder to relax, and all the while, those damn individually wrapped maxi pads seem to m
ock me. It’s been almost two months since I bought them, and if I’m really unlucky, those pads will survive for another eight unbloodied months.

  My toes curl on the cold floor. Barefoot and pregnant. My life’s a cliché.

  Pee splashes on my fingers.

  No! Everything will be fine. Landry and I used protection. I put the condoms on him myself, except that one time. But I’m also on birth control. So what if my tender breasts, weight gain, and nausea are all symptoms of pregnancy. When put together, they could mean many things.

  Another hard knock rattles the door, and I almost drop the test stick into the toilet. “What now?” I yell, studying the white center of the test stick. Is that a…no, it’s too soon. Oh hell. Are those two faint lines? Are two lines good or bad?

  Bang, bang, bang.

  “I’m coming!” Damn it! I flush the toilet. “Hold on.”

  I stuff the test stick back into the bag of napkins, wash my hands, then grab a rubber band and wrap it around the buttons on my jeans to hold them together.

  I’m breathing hard by the time I finish pulling on a baggy, purple sweatshirt, about ready to blow up. Whoever’s outside better have a damn good reason for disturbing me. The boys know they should keep away when I’m in here. I fling open the door. “What?”

  “We’ve got trouble,” Carl says. The look on his face sends a chill down my spine.

  It doesn’t take but a second to figure out what’s wrong with this picture. I press my hand against my rolling stomach. “Oh no. Not again…”

  Daryl strides down the hall. “We’ve searched everywhere we can think of at our place. Landry’s gone.”

  Great! My maybe-baby’s daddy has wandered off in his sleep again. Pray to God he hasn’t walked into the swamp. “Keep your voice down,” I whisper, rising on tiptoes and craning my neck to see over Daryl’s shoulder into the kitchen. Reverend Prince continues to spoon scrambled eggs onto the plates in front of Axle and Jonjovi.

  Landry will kill me if his dad finds out he’s sleepwalking. He’s been very, very determined to keep his affliction secret, no matter how much I argue the need for honesty.

  I grab the twins by their arms and drag them toward the front door. “Do you swear this is a legit walkabout? You’re not trying to scam me into letting you stay home from school, right?”

  The twins tag-team the promise, fingers crossing their hearts. Their identical blue eyes widen with barely checked panic. “No…” Carl begins.

  “…way,” Daryl finishes. “He was missing when we woke up this morning. We searched the whole property. Even the…the…lodge where we found him the last time.”

  My stomach twists at the memory of Landry asleep beside the bloodstain on the floor. Vomit burns the back of my throat. I swallow the sourness down. No time to puke.

  I lean my head against the cool wall, then push off. “Okay, the rev will drive you to the bus stop. I’ll search for Landry. He can’t be far.”

  “But you’ll need help,” Carl says.

  “You’re going to school, Carl Acker.” I stab the end of my finger at his chest. “No excuses. You’re a minor and legally bound to attend classes. I know you think getting a job will better your situation, but you’re gonna screw yourselves into getting the government involved. Social Services will snatch Axle and Jonjovi and put them in foster homes if you act up.”

  “No, I’m staying with you,” Axle wails, running into the room. He throws his arms around my waist, almost knocking me over. I curse under my breath as Jonjovi slowly follows him into the room. How did this happen?

  “You were yelling,” Reverend Prince says, answering the question I didn’t know I had asked aloud from the kitchen. He doesn’t even stop washing dishes to come into the living room. When did this become my normal life? The kids look scared, and I feel like shit for making them feel this way. Which pisses me off even more. My emotions are topsy-turvy, spinning all over the place like a damn Tilt-A-Whirl. And I can’t control them.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t lose you guys.” Tears sting my eyes. “I swore to Dena that I’d protect you. Don’t make me into a liar.”

  A knock on the front door sends a wave of relief coursing through my body. Landry’s back.

  Carl echoes my grin and throws open the door. “Where have you been? Oh no…”

  I’m moving before I fully have time to process what I’m going to do. Instinct has me yanking Carl behind me while grabbing a baseball bat from the umbrella stand at the same time. I raise it over my head, ready to defend the kids from whatever danger stands on my doorstep.

  The older woman slaps the bat aside with her clipboard. Her piercing scream sends the chickens scurrying across the yard. My heart falls into my stomach and lands in a lump of “Oh, shit.”

  I’ve screwed up. Big time. How am I going to fix this? Excuses run through my head. I’m frozen with them. The kids’ social worker is halfway across the porch, heading toward the sheriff’s deputy standing at the base of the stairs.

  Deputy George Dubois shoves his gun back into the holster when he realizes the only danger is me making an ass out of myself. He grabs the woman by the arm. “Everything’s okay, Mrs. Moulton.” He fixes a hard glare at me. “Mala Jean?”

  I stumble across the porch. The twins huddle at my back, whispering. Axle peeks his head around the door. Reverend Prince takes matters into his own hands by bypassing the kids and heading toward the social worker who cowers behind George.

  “Genève Moulton, what an unexpected surprise.” He grins his infamous congregation-worthy smile and holds out his hand. “What has it been? Ten years?”

  The woman steps around George to take it. Her firm, no-nonsense pump and release of his hand reasserts her sense of authority. “Why, Reverend Prince, it is indeed a pleasure to see you again. I imagine it’s closer to fifteen. My husband and I now live in Lafayette and attend services there. The Acker case was transferred to me yesterday, and I thought a visit would be appropriate.”

  “Ah, so you’re here on official duties.”

  Her smile could crack ice. “I admit to being curious about Ms. LaCroix’s application for guardianship. And your involvement with this family seems unusual.” Her eyes practically glitter with curiosity. She waves toward George. “I never imagined I’d be greeted so violently on a routine home inspection. I’m certainly grateful that Deputy Dubois arrived right after I did.”

  George shuffles his feet. “I’m here on official business…”

  My eyes widen, and I wave for him to shut up! She’s going to assume someone called the cops on us for being disorderly. “Deputy Dubois isn’t here officially, officially. He’s my brother. Right, Georgie?”

  “I’m not your brother.”

  “Adopted…”

  My cowardly, nonblood-related, older brother raises his hands and steps back. I’m on my own. Start with an apology. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Moulton. This is all a huge misunderstanding. I thought…I didn’t exp—”

  Her glare stuffs the words back down my throat. Her wrinkles perform a gremlin act, multiplying across her forehead to form a scowl. “I assume you are Malaise Jean Marie LaCroix? The girl who filed to be the Acker children’s guardian?”

  I nod, trying to speak over the lump forming in my throat. I wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans before holding out my hand for her to shake. She stares at it with a moue of distaste, and I let it drop. Her eyes scan the kids clumped around me.

  “And you older boys must be Carl and Daryl.”

  The twins exchange a raised-eyebrow grimace. Daryl speaks for them. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Daryl and he’s Carl.”

  Mrs. Moulton taps her long nails against her lips. “Which means you’re Jonjovi and Axle Rose.” She glances back at Reverend Prince. “Is there a specific reason why the boys aren’t going to school today?”

  “The bus…” I glance at my watch and then clap my hands. “We still have ten minutes. Everyone grab your backpacks. Let’s move.”

  The kid
s scramble back into the house like rats after chicken feed. I leave Mrs. Moulton in the capable hands of Reverend Prince. She probably hates me now. Anything I say will only make my situation worse. I hope he can explain why I almost brained her with a baseball bat. After all the attacks I’ve been through the last couple of months, I have a react-first, think-later kind of mentality. Which is not helpful now that all of my enemies are dead, in jail, or locked in a mental hospital.

  George follows me into the kitchen. He stands beside the table while I hand out bagged lunches. “I really am here on official business, Mala,” he yells over the chattering kids. “I have a case I want to talk to you about. A murder…”

  I cover Axle’s ears. “Not in front of the little ones, Georgie. ’Sides, I can barely hear myself think. Unless it’s an emergency, it can wait until after you drive the kids to the bus stop.”

  “Me, drive?”

  “I need to stay here and take care of Mrs. Moulton. Somehow convince her I’ll be a fit guardian for the boys.”

  “Yeah, you totally screwed that up,” Carl says with a snicker.

  Daryl snorts. “Idiot.”

  “Brats, get to school.” I swipe at them with a lunch bag.

  A clearing throat spins me around. Reverend Prince and Mrs. Moulton are standing in the living room, and once again I want to crawl through the floor. George takes pity on the disaster that has become my daily life and helps to hustle the kids outside. Of course, they freak out over riding in his patrol car. Axle talks him into turning on the siren, and they ride off down the driveway accompanied by blaring wails.

  I spend another minute contemplating whether to run for it. The only reason why the kids were placed in my home while they did the Kinship Placement assessment is because Reverend Prince is friends with someone in authority at the Department of Children and Family Services. He convinced them that the kids had been through enough trauma and that keeping them together in the same community would help them heal. Besides, at fifteen, the twins would just run away from a foster home.