Swamp Magic (Crimson Romance) (7 page)

He roared as he exploded. His body jerked as his seed shot down her throat. Only then did the demons release him to view the extent of his rough deed.

Her eyes were swollen, her mouth red from being stretched so forcefully. Worse yet were, her damp, tear-stained cheeks as she lay on her side gasping for air. Her frail body trembled from his abuse and now no doubt in fear of him.

Guilt assaulted him over what he’d done. What he’d forced on her. Losing the energy to fight, he allowed the lethargic aftershocks to consume him. He sank into the darkness, sliding down the wall, in utter despair over his ruthless attack on the woman he loved.

He truly was the monster so many claimed him to be.

• • •

“What in heaven’s good name has spooked you hard enough to be perched up here on my doorstep with that kind of frown?”

Beth looked at her aunt, realizing she must look like complete shit. She took a deep, steady breath, before plowing forward. “I need some of your worldly advice.”

Oh, yeah, those words would pique her aunt’s interests into helping her before unpacking from her latest gambling trip in Biloxi .

“Pfft. It’s man troubles, isn’t it? Sweetie, let me tell you. You can’t live with ’em, and you sure as hell can’t live without ’em. Trust me, I’ve been alone long enough to understand the latter,” she stated with a wink and clucked her tongue.

Yep, Aunt Grace always had the ability to read someone in
five seconds flat. You never went to her place when trying to hide something. She could get blood from a turnip, should she decide she wanted to.

“Yes, man troubles it is,” Beth
rushed out with a heartfelt sigh.

“Well, sweetie, you came to the right aunt. I’ll fix us some of my special tea while you tell me all about him. And honey, I mean everything. Don’t leave out the juicy good stuff.”

By special tea, she meant her signature spiced tea. Earl Grey meet Jack. Jack Daniels.

Leaning over, Beth grabbed the overstuffed suitcase out of her aunt’s hand while Grace unlocked her front door. She followed her aunt inside the warm home, hope springing with each step she took. She prayed Grace would be able to help her, as she sensed time was running short.

The swamp’s numerous frogs croaking coupled with the crickets chirping obnoxiously loud drew Octavia achingly back to the present. She’d allowed Moss to leave as she lay heaped, humiliated, and more than a little angry.

So he wanted to play rough, did he? Well, so be it. Rough he’d receive. She would teach Moss to respect her, fear her, even worship her.

She tapped her finger against the floor as an idea formed. Yes, she knew exactly how to achieve his punishment, thus bringing him to his knees and killing
two birds with one lovely little spell.

The Beth woman she’d seen in his memories, whore that she was, would just have to die. But not before being tortured, painfully and long, all in the presence of Moss. Yes, the mere thought of executing her plan almost made up for the brutal assault he’d bestowed on her mouth.

Snatching a towel from the cabinet next to her, she wiped her mouth as she stood on legs still a bit wobbly from the extreme encounter. To say Moss was well endowed didn’t come close. He was huge and left her feeling like her jaws had come unhinged.

She made a quick mental note to use less pickerelweed in the next batch of lust-inducing brew.

• • •

Beth watched as Grace filled a teakettle and turned the antique porcelain knob to high. Her aunt had never aged. She couldn’t count how many times they’d been out together and men had hit on her. Her fair hair and light eyes drawing them like bees to honey. Yet never once had her aunt taken any seriously.

She’d smile, make polite chatter and then keep going to wherever she’d been heading. Beth always sensed an underlying sadness behind her aunt’s bright eyes and warm smile. As if a long ago, tragedy had left its scars on her soul. Healed, and though faint, the silvery threads were still there. Oddly, Beth had never heard mention of anything horrific happening to her.

“Well, let me see, where do you want me to start?” Beth asked settling in at the kitchen table.

“At the beginning?” Grace suggested with a wise gleam in her eye.

“Well, aren’t we ever the wise elder?”

Grace wasn’t really old or offended. Beth always teased her overly age-conscious aunt. Grace was classic. She had that old Hollywood natural beauty thing going on but with a most un-classical twist.

Grace had a special knack for reading people instantly. Which was unfortunate for most; if they didn’t wish to be read. The sheriff’s office even called her in as a consultant at times, though they did so reluctantly, afraid the local media would catch wind of it. Lord help them if the town thought the local boys couldn’t handle shit without the need to call in a psychic. It was a small town, where everyone knew everyone and local law enforcement officers came highly revered.

Beth settled into the well-worn wooden chair and accepted the hot, spiced tea Grace handed her before beginning her much-edited tale of becoming lost in the swamp. She purposely left out Moss, and instead concentrated her story on the trouble she had finding her way out. She wove in her theories on the Bog Man legends. Her aunt listened quietly to the entire story, appearing deep in thought.

Finishing her tale, Beth sat back, anxious of what her aunt thought. After several long, silent minutes, Grace shook her head, sighed, and began her own tale.

“A very long time ago your Great-Great Grandmother Mirabelle used to tell bedtime tales of the Bog Monster. According to her, a monster he was not; in fact, she claimed him to be angelic. She credited him with bringing back a group of young campers who had gotten turned around out in the swamp’s ever-winding paths.”

“He saved them?” Beth asked, awed but not the least bit surprised.

“According to her, indeed he did. And apparently he still does. Many people return from the swamps claiming to have lost their way, and many have claimed to have seen the swamp come alive to show them their way out.” Sipping her tea, she told of salvation to those who had been lost and frightened out in the harsh, dangerous swampland. She spoke of grateful parents dropping to their knees in sheer and utter happiness at their children being returned to their arms.

“Is there nothing of who he is or what happened to him?” Beth asked hopefully.

“Honey, you talk like he’s real, and you’ve met him. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

There was no point in lying. If anyone would believe her, understand her desperation, that person would be Grace. So she took another deep breath and filled in the gaps of her previous story, leaving nothing out.

Well, almost nothing.
She blushed.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“Yes. And I understand how unrealistic and rash it may sound, but … ”

“But what?” Wise eyes narrowed, awaiting her answer.

“But there is something about him that calls to me. Beckons me, like our souls are intertwined. Halves that found each other and can recognize it, even if we really don’t understand it yet ourselves. I sound crazy, right?” Beth rubbed her temples.

Aunt Grace smiled one of her famous, all-seeing, all-knowing smiles. “Very well, then, you deserve the whole story, don’t you?”

Beth sat upright. “Whole story?”

“Yes, the buried part. The part our family has kept mum about for a long time. Too long, in fact.” Grace chuckled and added in a hushed whisper. “Yes, the proverbial family skeleton falls out of the closet now.”

Beth wasn’t sure whether to be intrigued or scared.

“Oh, come now. No reason for such an alarmed expression. You already learned good and well about our certain … ah, shall we say gifts?”

Grace was right. Beth had always known they were all a bit different. Hell, most of the town seemed to shoot curious stares their way, but no one had ever elaborated on the stigma. Grace had a unique gift, which could only be described as insight
.
According
to whispers she’d heard as a child, Great-Great Grandma Mirabelle had been a self-proclaimed witch, and Beth’s mother always had a nifty way of stopping things. Beth had dropped a vase once, and miraculously her mother had rescued it before it hit the floor. Thing was, she’d been across the room. Even as a kid, Beth knew her mother couldn’t have made it in time — yet she had.

Yeah, her family didn’t quite fit the typical
Leave it to Beaver
stereotype. But who was she to complain? They were a laidback, honest, open-minded, colorful bunch of folks. She’d met her share of the so-called “typical” families, who for the most part couldn’t stand being in the same room with one another. She’d never have been able to tolerate that sort of family. She loved her quirky but close-knit family and would accept them over the typical family, any day of the week.

“I suppose, yes, I’ve always suspected we were uh, unique?”

Grace choked on her tea so hard, drizzles of it ran down her nose. “Oh, I love that. Unique. Yes, I suppose that’s an appropriate description.”

“Okay, back to the story. Do you know who he is?” A strange, panicky feeling nagged Beth, as if Moss’s life depended on her solving the mystery. Like some internal clock ticked away, and the alarm was set to go off any minute.

“I’m not one hundred percent certain, mind you, but yes, I’m fairly confident I know who he is, and what happened to him,” Grace offered with a sly smile.

“And?” Beth nearly screamed in frustration. “Who do you think he is?”

“Well, sweetie, many years ago a legend began. One told faithfully around these parts from as far back as I can remember, but word of mouth dates the story clear back to the eighteen hundreds. My grandfather told the tale, as did many other grandfathers in these parts, I suspect. It was said to be based on true accounts. You’ll have to make up your own mind about that.”

Slamming back her hot tea, Beth had a feeling she’d lose the tea and head straight for the “spice” by the time Grace finished telling of Moss’s possible tragedy.

“A group of young settlers arrived late one foggy evening to settle down in these parts. Their leader found the safest spot he could, considering it was late and visibility was next to nothing once our famous swamp fogs rolled in. Many were quite unnerved with the chosen spot; however, nightfall decreed they must stop. Word said several protested, nearly violently, urging their young leader to move on, even if just a few more feet. But others had already settled the horses and had begun to bed down in their wagons. The leader, a young husband and father whose name has never been mentioned, had taken charge of the small group upon the untimely death of the original leader. Seems he allowed a few of the older boys to venture out for an evening’s constitutional. After asserting they were not to wander far and come swiftly back, he’d settled back and indulged in some much-relished Jameson Irish whiskey.”

“What happened?” Beth hurried her, sensing the “but” coming. Something bad must have happened. Behind every great legend was always a greater tale of tragedy
.

“Well, as I said, the man was young and unaccustomed to liquor and ended up drinking a tad too much. The story goes that when the boys didn’t return, his fellow settlers tried to rouse him. They were successful; however, he became ill and indisposed. Irate at his irresponsible behavior, several went searching for the boys themselves. The leader’s young wife, feeling somewhat responsible, led the search party out into the dark, unknown swamp, as her husband attempted quick sobriety. She refused to return with the others several hours later after exhaustive attempts turned up none of the missing children.

“When they returned, they angrily blamed their leader for the event. Having finally purged himself of the liquor, he faced the mob, and the frantic cries of the childless mothers sobered him into action. He promised the return of the children and took off in search of the lost boys and his young bride.”

“He never found them, did he?”

“Patience,” Grace tsk’d. “Hear the story out.”

Beth rolled her eyes and barely managed to restrain an exasperated sigh. Yes, she needed to hear the whole story, but at a much quicker pace. The way Grace retold the story left Beth feeling as if she should be sitting around a campfire while some counselor tried to scare the heebie-jeebies out of her.

“The remaining settlers claimed strange, frightening noises erupted through the deafening darkness. Many swore the swamp itself came alive in search of souls to claim. All hopes for the safe return of their lost children waned in those dark, bleak moments. Come morning, however, the young bride of their leader appeared with the rising of the sun. They say she appeared as an angel would, caressed in the rays of a new dawn, and with her were the missing children, all of them. None of the children had any memories of their night lost in the swamp, nor how they came to be back at the camp.”

“What happened to the young man? Their leader?”

“He was never to be seen alive again. Many years later, his heartbroken young bride had him declared dead and, according to records, she died a short time thereafter. Her heart, they said, never recovered from the tragedy.”

“How heartbreaking. No rumors of what became of him? A gator or bear attack? Someone went looking for him, didn’t they?”

“Nope, at least nothing on record. Strangely enough, the settlers claimed no memory of when the children came back. However, locals swore the swamp witch who was rumored to inhabit the area had caused the tragedy. Testimony from locals mentioned the disappearance of young, virile men out hunting in the swamps was a common occurrence. Legend tells that after a bad storm, if you listen close enough to the toads croaking, you can make out the pleas of those lost men begging to come home.”

“Uh, toads? You are joking, right? Isn’t that a little cliché?”

Grace shrugged, uncertain. “Maybe after she’s had her way with them and they start to bore her, she returns them to the swamp? Just not in the way they’d hoped.”