Dark Paradise (18 page)

G
eorge focuses on navigating the road leading to my house. When we round the corner and start up the hill, I see a familiar truck parked in the driveway.

“Oh, thank God! Mama's home.” I open the door and jump out before the car comes to a complete stop. I stick my head back in through the open door and grab my purse. “Thanks for the ride, Georgie.”

I slam the door on his response and run for the house.

“Mama,” I yell, bursting through the front door. “You're not gonna believe how crazy my day's been.”

“Hold on to your britches,
cher
. It's about to get crazier,” Mama says, coming out of the kitchen followed by an old woman who sends chills racing down my spine.

I freeze, afraid to move farther into my own house. The air vibrates with a malignancy that sets off warning sirens in my brain. It takes all my strength not to run. I can't leave Mama alone, though even that isn't the truth. My legs won't listen. I've shut down—trapped in the hypnotic gaze of a predator.

The woman stares at me with pale brown eyes that have a golden cast. Her yellowed, parchment-thin skin stretches over high cheekbones dotted with liver spots that would've been considered freckles in her long-ago youth. Gray hair, long and wavy, has been pulled back into a braid that brushes the backs of her knees. She slams her silver-handled cane down on the hardwood floor with a loud
thud
, and I twitch.

“
Vin bay matant ou yon bo,
” the woman says, and smiles, showing a toothless mouth with blackened gums. She spoke in Creole, and my limited knowledge of French lets me interpret her words—“Come give your auntie a kiss”—but still, I hesitate.

Mama scowls. “Don't be rude. I taught you better.” She grabs my hand and drags me over to the woman. The closer I walk, the more my skin itches. The hairs rise on my arms, and my body hums, like that tickle you get from walking under power lines.

Magnolia's eyes narrow. “You feel that, don't you?”

“
Oui
, Grand-tante Magnolia,” I say, struggling to draw breath without hyperventilating.

She smiles. “I speak English.” She holds her hand out to me. When I touch her, the hair all over my body stands on end. My scalp prickles. I grit my teeth because it hurts. Not the kind of hurt that comes from stubbing a toe or getting slapped silly, but a bone-deep ache that feels unnatural.

“She's a strong girl, Jasmine,” Magnolia says, looking at Mama. “Strong in the power. More powerful than you, and you got your full gift. When you die, this girl's gonna be fearsome.”

I jerk my hand from hers and take a step back. “Mama's not dying anytime soon.”

“Sooner than you both think.” Magnolia lets out a low cackle. “Visions only come when the death is so violent that the passing shreds apart time.”

Shreds time? Is she talking about time travel? “I don't understand. Are you saying Mama's dreaming of her future death—now—in the past?”

Magnolia's lips lift in a knowing smile. “
Oui,
cher.
”

I shake my head in denial. “I'm not a genius so I'm not real familiar with the science behind time travel, but if what you're saying is true”—I look at Mama and frown—“then the…the what would you call it, psychic energy? Spirit?” I search Magnolia's face for some clue that I'm on the right track, 'cause the direction my thoughts are heading in chills me to the bone.

Magnolia cocks her head to the side. Her amber eyes brighten, but her face stays blank. Why? She knows the answer. Why doesn't she just tell me? Or is this a test? Doesn't exactly seem fair, using me as a chew bone, but I have to play along. For now.

I suck in a deep breath then spit out my answer so fast the words trip over my tongue. “So, this
death energy
is rippling into her past. Like a movie on a loop, replaying over and over, allowing her to see a vision of her future.” I feel my way along this line of thought to its horrifying conclusion. “She's already dead. Nothing I do now can change what will happen to her.”

“Not a damn thing,” Magnolia agrees.

Bullshit!
I refuse to believe that. I watched
Sliders
and
Fringe
; even
Stargate
had episodes about parallel universes. So what if the time stream gets messed up if I save Mama's life now? Future Mala's life probably sucks. She'd want me to figure out a way to save Mama. And I will.

I glare at Magnolia, disliking the smug tilt on her liver-lips. The woman ignores me. She clumps across the room and sits on the sofa. “My, Jasmine,” she says to Mama, “she's smart too. Not like you. I tried to explain this as we drove up here, but your brain's too full of holes from that moonshine you've been drinkin'.”

“Why else would I be drinkin'?” Mama laughs. “Might as well enjoy what little time I got left.”

“Stupid woman,” Magnolia says with a shake of her head.

The way she talks to Mama makes me angry. Then I smell the liquor wafting off Mama's breath.

“
Oui
, Jasmine's been drinking since we got here. She forgets she's got to drive me home. I got a date with a corpse at midnight.” Magnolia cackles, slapping her knobby knee.

I shudder, imagining her in the graveyard performing some sort of ritual. I hope a zombie eats her brain. The nasty old bat. No wonder she and her twin, Grandmère Dahlia, fell out. How could two women be such complete opposites in temperament yet come from the same womb?

“I thought I had more time to relax.” Mama shoots me a disgusted look and falls hard into the armchair. A bottle sits on the end table next to her. “You're home early.”

“I didn't ride the bus home today.” I wish I could tell her why, but when she's in this condition, she doesn't care about anything but the drink. I give her up as a lost cause and address Auntie Magnolia. “Why are you here? Not that I'm not happy to meet you, but it's a long drive from New Orleans.”

“Despite what my sister thought about me, I value kin. Didn't have no kids of my own. It's why you're so powerful. You the last LaCroix girl, child. The power's split through our family lines, doled out from the mother upon her death throughout the generations. But it's all tied to you now. It's gonna blow your mind to bits.”

“Yay for me,” I drawl, but shiver.

Magnolia smiles. “Good, you got some spunk. Gonna help keep you strong, maybe even keep you sane. Jasmine said you've got a spirit haunting you?”

“Yes.” I glance at Mama, but she's slumped in the chair. Her eyes are closed, and the soft buzz of a snore comes from her. “I went to a medium today, Madame Rubine, to see if she could figure out what the ghost wanted.”

Mama snorts, eyes cracking open, and I cringe. “That fraud? Thought I told you to leave it be while I was gone.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I thought it would help, but Lainey got inside Ruby. She spoke through her, and I swear, Ruby's nose started bleeding. She looked bad, real bad.”

Magnolia nods. “Her mind wasn't strong enough. That spirit destroyed her.”

“What do you mean, destroyed?” I ask.

“Scoured her mind. Never mind her. She's dead by now.”

Shocked, I stumble back. “Dead? What?”

“Would've happened within a few hours of possession. Nothing to be done about it. Even if she went to the hospital, the bleeding in her brain would've still killed her.”

Oh my God, it can't be true! She looked like she'd been wrung out and put away wet when we left, but she said she'd be okay. And I believed her because I was too angry with Landry to care. I should've stayed…done something. Her poor little boy. “It's my fault. I killed her,” I mutter, barely able to speak over the lump in my throat. The awful revelations keep dropping faster than I can process them. First Mama, now Ruby. Is everyone I come into contact with cursed?

Magnolia's head tilts, and her beady eyes focus on me, like a crow eyeing roadkill. “You paid her, didn't you? She offered to open up her mind to the spirit. That's the only way it works. You got to be willing. It was her choice to make,
cher
. Not your fault she was stupid.”

“At least it wasn't you, Mala,” Mama says.

“No, I refused. The last time Lainey came for me, I didn't have any memory of her taking over. It scared me.”

“Scared me too,” Magnolia says with a gap-toothed smile. “That's why I cleared my afternoon appointments to come help you. You ain't supposed to be feeling the spirits so strongly, but you're getting a taste of the power you'll inherit after your mother dies. It's seeping into the past just like Jasmine's death vision. Tell me true, have you been feeling poorly lately?”

I rub my aching head. “I've had a bit of a cold.”

Magnolia shakes her head. “
Non, ma petite.
That's the spirit eating up your life force in order to manifest. It'll suck you dry—driving you crazy. Unless you learn to control it, you'll wither away in a mental hospital unable to tell real from vision. Or die.”

I pace in front of her, too jittery to be still. Power from three generations of LaCroix witches hums like a live wire stretched between us. I can't deny the connection because it zings through me, filling me up until I feel like I'll explode if I don't use it. My teeth chatter as I ask, “Are you saying this to frighten me?”

“Is it working,
cher
? Don't want you blaming me later, saying I never told you what you were up against. We got to put a wall up to keep this spirit bound.”

“Will it get rid of Lainey?”

“No, she'll be hovering on the other side, waiting for an opening. Long as you keep the wall up, she won't be able to get to you. Mind you, this is temporary. Jasmine agreed you need to come to New Orleans for a few weeks. You'll be my apprentice. Learn how to build shields against this kind of psychic invasion. Don't want you ending up roaming around crazy like your mother or locked up in a funny farm. That's what happens to those with the Sight that don't get any training.”

“But I don't want—”
to learn hoodoo
.

“Malaise Jean LaCroix, don't disrespect your auntie,” Mama snaps. “She's gracious enough to help. This is all she asks in return.”

I backtrack fast. “I was going to say, I don't want to be a burden.” Which is a piece of the truth, just not all, and I hold onto the rest of my protest since it won't do any good. I have to learn how to control this magic even if it means being apprenticed to a conjure woman. I don't want to die or go crazy. 'Sides, I don't have to be wicked and learn how to raise the dead and twist dark curses. I can choose to be a good witch like Great-grandmère Dahlia.

Magnolia watches me with narrowed eyes and a smirk that makes me think she listened in and believes my justifications are naive. When I meet her gaze, she says, “Good, let's finish this up. I want to get on the road 'fore it gets too late. Rush-hour traffic's gonna be fearsome if we hit Baton Rouge at the wrong time.” She reaches into the pocket of her lacy black jacket, pulls out a tin of chewing tobacco, and stuffs a glob into her mouth. She gums the mix, and a bit of brown drool slides down her pointed chin. She catches my stare and the shudder I can't hold back and points toward the door. “Close your mouth 'fore you catch flies and grab my bag.”

I follow her finger to a black leather satchel almost hidden between the umbrella stand and the front door. “Saints, it's heavy. How do you carry this?”

“That's what your mama's for.”

I frown in surprise when I glance at Mama's toothpick arms. Though from experience, I know she packs a wallop and is stronger than she looks. “What's in here?” I carry it over and drop it at Magnolia's feet, careful to miss her toes. She leans over and paws through it, too busy working her chaw to speak.

The hand that carried the bag feels dirty, like I ran it through a layer of rotting scum. I wipe my palm on my jeans, wishing for some hand sanitizer.

Magnolia glances at me knowingly. “Get me a spit can unless you want to be scrubbing these floors tonight, though, by the looks of them, they could stand a good cleansing.”

I tense up at the insult. The floor sparkles, clean enough to eat off of. I know that for a fact since I mopped the night before.
The old bat!
I tremble with suppressed anger and stalk toward the kitchen. At the doorway, I pause to look at Mama. She normally doesn't take criticism well, and I'm surprised she didn't chime in. But she's curled up in the chair and passed out, clutching her bottle of moonshine to her breast. A small smile lifts the corners of her lips—at least one of us is happy. She did her job by getting Magnolia here without getting her liver eaten. The duty of being a good hostess falls on me.

“Would you like me to pour you a glass of tea while I'm in the kitchen?” I ask Magnolia, in a voice as sweet as the mint tea I'll serve. “I can also microwave up a bowl of turtle soup?”

“No, that's fine,
cher
. Had Jasmine run through the drive-through at Popeyes—got some leftover red beans and rice and a bucketful of chicken sitting in the truck going bad in this heat. Best get a move on so I can be on my way.”

“Okay.” I run into the kitchen and bring her a metal coffee can.

“Sit it here by my feet,” Magnolia orders and, without looking up, hawks a wad of tobacco juice into the can with spooky accuracy. I jerk my hand back with a squeal of disgust, but the juice doesn't even come close to splattering me. Practice makes perfect, I guess.

Magnolia thrusts a piece of paper into my hand. “Here, follow these directions.”

I hold the paper up close to my face then invert the page that I'm trying to read upside down. The tiny, spidery handwriting makes my eyes cross. “It's written in French,” I complain.