Dark Sacrifice (2 page)

W
hite walls and a white ceiling lit by over-bright, flickering fluorescent bulbs combine with the sharp scent of bleach, sending shards of pain stabbing into my head. The multicolored robes and pajamas of the ghosts popping in and out of the tiny hospital room remind me of a kaleidoscope—one of those toys stuffed with spinning, shifting, colored patterns. It's hard enough for me to concentrate during the best of times. Tonight my blazing headache makes it nearly impossible.

“Thirty-six, thirty-seven…” I whisper, separating the routine counting of the ceiling tiles from outlining the details of my plan. I'm running out of time. In forty-eight hours, I'll be released from the psychiatric unit I was committed to for evaluation after that psychotic ghost, Lainey Prince, shoved me out of my body and used me to expose the truth about how her mother and Dr. James Rathbone refused to get her medical treatment after she delivered her baby.

So much evil has happened in my life. Enough for me to think I've gone crazy in truth, but I refuse to give up like Mama did. I won't let my “breakdown” destroy my dream of living a normal life. I will have a husband, children, and my dream job. I'm not stupid or ignorant of the challenges facing me. No police department will risk hiring an unstable officer. I can't even take credit for solving Lainey's murder, even though I figured out pretty much everything…a little late, but I did.

What hurts most is losing my clerical position at the Sheriff's Office. Too much of a liability, they told my mentor, Detective Bessie Caine. But giving up on becoming a cop without a fight—not an option.

Rage and grief surge, and I slam my fist into the mattress. The action releases some of the building tension. I inhale deeply and sigh, letting the air trickle out across my lips, then repeat the process. With each breath, my rapid heartbeats slow, clearing the anger fogging my thoughts.

My mind sharpens, and I focus again on the ceiling tiles. “One, two, three…”

I've spent the last twenty-nine days thinking up a plan to redeem myself. So what if it involves a little bit of personal retribution? Landry's father, Reverend Prince, and Dr. James Rathbone, the Bertrand Parish Coroner, murdered my mother and escaped into the swamp. I'm going to hunt them down like rabid dogs and bring them to justice. Dead or alive.

And I'll use the reverend's son to do it.

If I can survive two more sleepless nights without losing it.
As long as I stay focused on counting the tiles, I'll be fine. I won't give in to the whispered pleading of the ghosts who flock to my room for help.

Like Ms. Anne. The semitransparent old woman standing at the end of my bed, wearing nothing but the flannel nightgown she died in, kind of draws the eyes. Even sick and tired ones like mine. Ms. Anne was a patient in the mental ward. She passed away three days ago, but she hasn't passed on to wherever good little spirits go when their journey on earth ends. Heaven or hell? Somewhere in between? I don't really give a damn. No pun intended. I was an inch away from finding out the answer after one of the men who killed Mama shot me. I almost bled to death. Nope. I'd like to avoid firsthand knowledge of the afterlife until I die of old age.

Ms. Anne folds her hands in front of her as if in prayer. “Do you plan on ignoring me all night?”

I shiver from the cold spot she brings and roll to face the wall. Sick of seeing her. Tired of the guilt. Helping ghosts got me into this mess in the first place. I'm working on becoming more selfish.

“Please, Malaise. You were always nice to me. I want to rest, but I can't. Not without you.”

This is her second night holding vigil in my room, stealing my sleep. I resent her and the other spirits lurking out of sight, waiting for me to cave to her pressure. When I first got locked up, I couldn't help talking to the dead. They looked alive. And I've never liked hurting someone's feelings by being disrespectful, especially my elders.

But once word spread around the hospital that I saw them, ghosts flocked to my room like a murder of crows, squawking and psychically shitting all over my mind until I thought I really would go crazy. It felt like I walked around with a bubble of static electricity hovering over my skin—repeatedly shocked, my nerves jangling with a tingly, mind-numbing feeling. The more spirits who came around, the sicker I felt.

That's when I started taking psych meds. The pills fogged up my brain pretty fierce until I adjusted to them, but they helped me manage the spirits' connections to a degree. Now I can tune them out if I concentrate hard enough.

Ms. Anne paces in front of my bed. “Mala, please. Tell my daughter I left my grandmother's wedding ring for her. It dropped behind my bed. She missed it when she cleaned out my room. Please. I want her to have it.”

I close my eyes and count backward from a thousand. By the time I reach seven hundred and eighty-five, my body has grown heavy and my thoughts drift. A smile lifts the corners of my lips as I let go. Thank God for meds.

Since being kicked out of my body, I'm no longer tied to it. I shift out of my skin and will myself to glide past Ms. Anne. Maybe my ability to astral project is a dream, but I think it's real. Why else would I find myself in the parish jail standing over a sleeping Landry Prince?
Again.

He lies on the bottom bunk in a dinky cell with his back to the wall. Even in sleep he seems alert, like he can't fully let down his guard. A black curl hides the eye I blinded. Guilt always sours my stomach when I look at his eye. I stabbed him when he'd only been trying to save my life. To be fair, I thought he planned on killing me. If he'd taken the time to explain that night…maybe things would've worked out differently. Maybe we would've thought up a plan to rescue Mama before she was murdered.

Or maybe I'd be dead.

I heave a heavy sigh, thankful I don't have a sense of smell as a spirit 'cause it probably stinks of feet and butt in the room. His cellmate doesn't look to have the best hygiene. It creeps me out the way he watches Landry while he sleeps. Hell, we're watching him together, but my stalking doesn't have a serial killer vibe to it.

The shadowed hulk on the top bunk rolls. The faint light bounces off the shiny object in his hand as he jumps lightly to the ground. He lands in a squat and pivots on the balls of his feet to face Landry. I can't make out the guy's features clearly, just an oversized, jutting forehead, smooth-shaven head, and lips twisted in a grimace. He quivers, and his clenched fist rises.

Between one breath and the next, he lunges.

I throw myself toward the guy, screaming “Landry!”

Landry's eye pops open, and he sits up, looking around wildly.

His cellmate dives through my body. He doesn't even shudder inside the cold spot and lands on top of Landry. He stabs downward.

Landry raises his arm, blocking the shank aimed for his heart. The razor-sharp tip slides into Landry's stomach at an odd angle. The block causes the guy to lose his grip on the shank, and the sharpened toothbrush remains stuck in Landry's abdomen. The guy punches Landry in the face, once, then again.

I crouch beside the bed, watching them thrash around, unable to help him. With a shout, Landry grabs the guy by his forearms. They roll off the bed, still fighting. Landry lands on his back, and the guy pins his arms to the ground with his knees. I see a flash of white a second before the guy slams the pillow over Landry's face and leans his upper body on top of it.

I run to the bars. The guard runs toward the cell. It looks like he trudges through mud. Each step takes an hour—sixty minutes longer for Landry to suffocate. The boy has enough issues. He doesn't need brain damage from oxygen deprivation on top of them.

Landry grabs my shoulder and spins me away from the bars. “Mala, what's going on?”

“I came,” I babble like an idiot. “Like every night. Only I caught him…Why is he's trying to kill you?”

“Who's trying to kill me?” He punctuates each word with a shake. “Why can I see you?”

Half of my brain figures out what's happening, but it takes the other half a few seconds to catch up, and only because Landry's cellmate still crouches over his physical body, holding the pillow over his face.
Oh, saints, Landry can see me.

“No!” I cry. “Don't die. Go back, Landry. Please.”

“What do you mean die? Mala—” His gaze follows mine. “Shit! That's me. Caleb's killing me…”

I shove him toward his body. He has to get back inside before it's too late.

A spinning black hole forms in the air, hovering a foot off the ground. Inky tentacles snake out of the mouth of the vortex and twine around Landry's waist. He shouts and grabs for my hands, straining to hold on to me as his legs lift in the air. More tendrils shoot out of the mouth and wrap around his ankles, spooling up his body until he's cocooned in darkness. I jerk on him with all my strength, but I can't break the suction. He's dragged from my arms—sucked toward the freaking darkness trying to eat him.

I awake in my bed, screaming.

My skin itches like a thousand baby spiders are skittering across my skin. I slap and brush off my arms, rolling off the bed. The bed sheets tangle around my legs, and I fling them off with a shriek. I crawl to the door and kick and pound on the metal surface, yelling for the orderly on duty.

Kevin rushes into the room. “Mala?”

“Help me!” I grab for his arm.

With a deft twist of his body, he locks my arm up behind my back and presses my face against the wall in two seconds flat. “Calm down.”

I squeeze my eyes closed against the pain in my shoulder and try to relax against the wall. I can't stop trembling. “He's dying. Help me.”

The huge man releases my arm but blocks the door so I can't shove past him. He studies my face for a long moment. His shoulders relax in response to whatever my body language broadcasts. His lips flicker in the tiniest of smiles, and I want to smack him. His eyebrow rises as if he reads my violent thought. “You chilled enough to explain what's going on now?”

I release the breath I'm holding and drawl, “Yeah, like a Popsicle.”

“So, who's dying?”

I fold my hands in front of me, looking a lot like Ms. Anne when she begged for my help. Karma, what a bitch. “Now, this is gonna sound crazy, but I need to call the police.” I talk faster and faster in my attempt to convince him to help me. “It may not be too late. I just need to know if he's still alive. He has to be, right? He can't really be dead.”

“Girl, you right. You really done lost your mind if you think I'm taking you to use the phone. Why don't you calm down before I have to medicate you.”

My eyes widen at his tone. He'll do it. Shoot me up with a knock-out drug and I'll be dead to the world for my last day, or worse, he'll blab to Dr. Rhys about my “breakdown,” and I'll be committed indefinitely.

I draw in a hiccupping breath. “I'm okay, Kevin.”

“You sure? Don't sound okay to me.”

“I had a horrible nightmare. One of those dreams where someone you know dies, and it feels so realistic that it totally freaks you out and you can't rest until you hear that person's voice and know for sure they're okay.” I give him my best impersonation of a sad puppy. “Please, help me out on this. It'll take five minutes. Otherwise, I'll be worried. It might mess up my release. I don't want Dr. Rhys to have any reason to keep me locked up.”

Kevin shakes his head and laughs. “Don't give me that hangdog look. I'll take you, but I'm only doing this 'cause you remind me of my little sis.”

“Thanks. I'd hug you if I knew you wouldn't smash my face into the wall again. I owe you big, and I'll pay you back someday. I swear.”

“Just don't make me regret this,” Kevin says, and leads me out of the room.

My heart thunders as I stretch my legs to keep up with his longer stride. I focus on Kevin's back, praying Landry's ghost won't appear. If he had to die, I'd rather he didn't haunt me for eternity. The memory of that inkblot of a black hole sends a shiver down my spine. The last sight I had before I vanished had been of the darkness settling over Landry's body like a cloak. It soaked into his skin, burning him. Burning my palms. They still feel raw where I tried to hold on to him. He'd thrown his head back in a scream of agony so piercing I couldn't help but echo it. I've never seen or heard anything like what happened to him.

Not that I know squat about the supernatural, but the darkness doesn't seem like a good sign. I've always read when a person dies, they see a tunnel of white light. That their loved ones wait for them at the end. Landry should've seen Lainey and her baby waiting for him. Has he done so much wrong in his life that his ending won't be harps and winged cherubs?

Maybe Landry's destined for a hotter afterlife.

I squeeze my hands together, praying it isn't so. I believe that, as long as a person lives, they have a chance at redemption. I just have to find Landry and keep him alive long enough for him to atone for his sins. That is my task, right? Why I witnessed such horror in the first place.

“Use my cellphone,” Kevin says.

I jump at the sound of his voice. We've arrived at the personnel office. “Got it,” I say with a thumb up and a watery smile. “And Kevin…thanks. I owe you big.”

“You got five minutes.” Kevin leaves to finish his rounds. The cramped office contains dusty file cabinets and stacked boxes. I sit behind the desk, debating who to call. Someone with the authority to check on Landry. Someone who will believe me without question, and frankly, being able to explain my fear will stretch most people's imagination. Bessie's the best choice since she has the power to get information from the jail quickly, but I don't want to disturb her in the middle of the night. That leaves only one other person I can trust, but I'm not sure George will be willing to do Landry any favors. Not even to prove his professed love for me.