Blackwater Read online

  Blackwater

  The Blackwater Witches

  A Novel

  A novel by Tara Brown

  Copyright 2012 Tara Brown

  This book is dedicated to my fans, thank you so much, the interest and support has been amazing. I also must thank my husband and children. You supported me even when I was in my writer’s frenzy.

  Cover Art by Once Upon a Time Covers.

  Edited by Andrea Burns

  Thank you Nick J

  A special thanks to The Nators. Thank you all. Best E-Friends an E-Girl could have!!!

  Other books by Tara Brown

  Cursed, Book One of the Devil’s Roses

  Bane, Book Two of the Devil’s Roses

  Hyde, Book Three of the Devil’s Roses

  Witch, Book Four of the Devil's Roses

  Death, Book Five of the Devil's Roses

  Born, Book One of The Born Trilogy

  The Light of the World, The Light Series

  Vengeance, The Blood Trail Chronicles

  The Lonely

  Chapter One

  Baton Rouge - June 1964

  I know fear.

  Fear that cripples you.

  Fear that takes everything from you.

  The loss of my dream in the middle of the night ain't the issue. The warmth of the heavy air don't bother me none. Being woken to the feeling of someone's whispered words on my lips wouldn’t be disturbing, if I knew whose words they was.

  But no.

  For the third night in a row at 2:47a.m, I'm startled awake by the feel of an icy whisper against my face. Formed words I know I comprehend and yet I can't hear clearly. It's always the same time. I can see the glint of the face of the clock on the wall. The numbers scare me. What do they mean?

  As soon as I open my eyes, the words and the person who dares to whisper them, are gone. It's always the same.

  That is the fear I know.

  I'm left alone in the dank blackness of my room with the horror of whatever, or whoever it is, still there. The only sound in the whole room is the drapes being dragged along the carpets, as if trying to crawl away in protest, as the night air toys with them - as does whoever is waking me with their whispers.

  Their whispers that still linger on my lips, like a gloss made of frost. I can feel the words hitting me with their icy-cold breath. I can feel their face next to mine. So close it's as if we are one. So familiar.

  If I concentrate and close my eyes, I can hear the mumbles. Every word is drawn out in an exhale that brushes against me softly.

  "Now."

  "Here."

  "They're coming, Lorelei."

  It's always the same words. It hasn’t happened since I was a kid. I remember the bad feelings I had then. I would lie frozen, wide-awake and surrounded by the cold.

  I stare at the stark white ceiling and wait for my heart to stop pounding. I'm terrified it will give away the fact I'm aware of them being there still. I don’t know where, I just know they are.

  I need the light of the lamp next to me to stop the pounding of my heart, but I can't reach my hand to turn it on. I have a fear that my outstretched hand will be met with cold fingers, which will match the temperature of the whispers that woke me. Whatever it is can't touch me in my bed. It's a juvenile thought and yet, I believe it. I always have.

  I sigh when the same thing happens that's happened every time the terror hits me - I have to go to the bathroom. However, instead of just reaching for the lamp beside me, I lie stiff as a board.

  My body is trembling, as if I can't get warm again, yet I am sweating like a pig at a picnic.

  I don’t move in the bed.

  I don’t move at all.

  I wait.

  I listen.

  Sometimes, if I'm not careful, it comes back just as I think I'm safe.

  I take a breath and listen. My hearing is so sharp that I can hear the creak of the flagpole across the courtyard through my window.

  I know I wet the bed as a child, enduring a moment exactly like this one.

  Like I said, I know fear.

  Fear that grips you and holds you tighter than any other emotion. Fear that takes away every ounce of sense you thought you had.

  Slowly, I creep my fingers across the sheets to the resting place of Bunny. My white, stuffed rabbit that has always been my lucky charm. I almost sigh with relief when I touch his furry leg and drag him back to me. I pull him across my throat, just as I always have done. Just as Ramón's grandmamma instructed me to, after she blessed him to keep away the cold whispers. She couldn’t sense them in the room but she said that don’t mean they ain't there.

  Bunny's protection gives me the strength to reach my hand out into the abyss and feel for the light switch. I clutch his leg with my right hand and slowly move my left hand across the bed.

  My eyes dart around the room. My skin becomes hypersensitive to the feeling of the air around me, checking for the cold breeze.

  When my hand reaches the end of the mattress, I stop and wait for my movements to be noticed. Nothing stirs. The icy cold in the air seems gone, but I don’t trust that. I don't make that mistake anymore.

  It's come back fast before. In a whoosh it has come back and nearly stopped my heart.

  I'm hyperventilating.

  In one fast and fluid motion, I reach across the bedside table without knocking over anything. But in the dark, I end up fumbling for the dang switch on the lamp. The lamp is turned and the knob is on the other side. Time stretches, as my panicked hand gropes in the darkness for the small switch. Just as I feel the air growing cold again and my throat filling with a scream, my fingers find it.

  I turn the switch making light flood the room. The cold is gone. The movement in the air has died down. It pretends to be part of the hot breeze coming in the windows. But I know better. Since I was a child I've known about the things that hide in the dark. I know it ran from the lights, it fled the window and won't come back until the lights are gone.

  In the light of the room, I feel silly with a stuffed white rabbit stretched across my throat and my heart poundin’ in an unnatural way.

  I jump up and run to my ensuite to pee. I turn every light switch along the way, filling the room with brightness. I will find a way to sleep with them all on. I always do.

  It won't be a great sleep, but I will live through the night without terror and whispers. I lie back in bed with my rabbit safely around my throat. When my head hits the pillow, I feel the heavy weights pulling at my eyelids. I yawn and snuggle back into the covers. I am safe in my bed. The lit room is warm, but I don’t care. I sleep. Somehow I sleep.

  I think it's the warmth that's there. I think it's Em. Sometimes she comes when I need her to. The warmth whispers too, it always says nice things.

  Things like, 'sleep, my sweet' and such. I like the warmth. I know I sleep better when it's there. Deep down, even in my sleep, I think I know it's not Em.

  At finishing school the next day, I yawn in class. I struggle to focus my attention. I haven’t been this tired in a long time. The icy whispers haven’t been back in a long time.

  Ms. Mitchell drones on and on. I feel my head getting heavy. I close my eyes tightly and open them again.

  Thankfully, she points to the green board and slaps the underlined words with her pointer stick. I am startled awake.

  "A lady should be innocent until marriage. She should always ensure her appearance is not only respectable, but also attractive. Having dinner scheduled with the help is obviously important. Freshening up before he arrives home from work is a must. If you ignore everything else, remember this, no man wants to come home from work to find his wife as he left her." Her steel grey eyes float past our faces with severity and judgment.

  The girl next to me leans
in and whispers, "Sweet Jesus, that woman is a wind bag."

  I stifle my giggle and watch as Ms. Mitchell pushes up her horn-rimmed glasses and watches us all like we are criminals. Her severe, bright-red lips are always drawn on, just as her black arched eyebrows are. Everything about her is perfect and cold. She and my momma would be great friends, if my momma could have female friends. They would be amazing friends with the way they talk all snooty, like they don't come from the South. Like they just came across on the Mayflower yesterday, as apposed to the bayou they live in. Just 'cause we filled in the swamp don't mean we ain't swamp folk. I have no illusions about my heritage, regardless of the image I try to portray. I can't talk like a Yankee, but I can act like one.

  She whacks the board again like a mistress would with a whip and drones on and on about the gentlemen we will marry.

  Angie, my best girlfriend, looks at me and makes a face, "I hope I don't end up with no gentleman. I want someone like James Dean or nothing."

  I snicker and yawn again.

  Ms. Mitchell crosses the room as if she were walking with books on her head, "Now tomorrow's lesson will be about hiring the help to ensure your home runs smoothly. We will actually have a woman in from an agency to discuss this with us. You may talk quietly amongst yourselves until the bell rings." She walks to her desk and sits with some papers.

  Angie leans over and whispers, "Sweet god. If her back was any straighter, they'd be sending a dive team in her ass to get the stick out. That speech was exactly why I am never marrying. I don’t care what tortures they inflict upon my flesh, I will never be some man's slave. Hell no."

  I shake my head, "You know what your parents expect. It ain't no different than mine do."

  She tilts her head, giving me sass with her look, "Sayin ain't, ain't gonna find you no gentleman." She lifts her face and puckers her lips, "Say, is not." She adds an English accent to it, making it all proper.

  I laugh quietly, "You're a bad influence on me. Ramón was right about you."

  She looks around us, ignoring me completely, "We need to get away from all this nonsense. Tell Ramón to meet us out back with the bags packed and ready for California. We can bum on the beach and find us some surfers. We can eat hotdogs and drink sodas."

  I roll my eyes.

  She nods seriously, "I am serious. Why are we here? I was bribed and I'm telling you girl, the car they bought me wasn't worth this."

  I shake my head and fight the urge to stretch and snuggle down in the chair. The poor posture comments from the battle-ax aren't worth sleeping.

  Instead, I mutter, "Your bank account and mine won't last us a summer in California. That fancy car will be the last fine thing you own. If any of us could leave and be independently wealthy, we would. But to leave and be poor - no, hell no. I'm fixin to marry well."

  Her bright-green eyes snap shut, "I can live without money. I think I can. I probably can. What I can't live without is true love. Not debutant love, but real love. Improper lover. Hot, sweaty Mardi Gras love that my momma would kill me for." She says it keeel, instead of kill, the way we do when we're getting all riled up.

  I laugh at her. "Yes, well, love may feed the soul Angelina, but we sold our souls a long time ago. You got a Cadillac and I'll be married to the most eligible bachelor in all of Louisiana. Besides, being broke ain't something any of us is capable of. I'm not even gonna try to imagine my life without financial support. Can you imagine having a job, a real job?" I shudder.

  Her bright eyes light up, "I can imagine the clothes I would need for my job. Pencil skirts and blouses and maybe glasses. I could get them with just glass in them, to make me look all proper and sharper. I could be a journalist or a top secretary to a president of a company. Oh imagine. We could have a mad love affair. Check into hotels with fake names and pretend to be married, but at the end of the weekend I could go home and enjoy my freedom." She feigns a sigh and holds her hands to her chest.

  I put my hand over my mouth to muffle the giggles and another yawn. "You're wicked. I know I'm probably marrying next year. Daddy said I could draw out the engagement and do it the year after if I wanted. But Momma has been seeing to what she calls 'proper suitors' for some time now. She's fixin for me to marry this summer I think."

  She opens her eyes from her daydream and looks at me fiercely. Her dramatics are my favorite part of the boring school day. "Lorelei Huntington, you are gonna sell your soul to the devil and let your daddy trade you like cattle to some man? Your wicked momma is gonna pick the richest man she can find. Richest doesn’t always means best looking. In fact, it usually means the opposite. I can't believe you're gonna marry some man for money."

  I look at my manicure and grin. I know something she doesn't. I lower my voice and speak through my smirk. "It ain't just some man."

  She slaps my arm, "You don't. You don't know. Now you tell, ya hear. What do you know?"

  I bat my eyelashes at her, "I know your dark hair and green eyes would contrast better if you stopped letting the sun tan you like that. I know it's gonna age you."

  "Yeah well, you look exhausted again, so there. We're quite the pair. Now spill."

  The bell rings and she grabs my hand, dragging me through a group of girls who are giggling and chatting incessantly.

  "You have to tell, Lorelei."

  I bite my lip and look at her sideways. "You have to actually keep this secret. Not like the last time you swore and then told Mandy. Her momma told mine and I got grounded. Momma cut my calories so hard I couldn’t run for weeks."

  She crosses herself.

  I tilt my head skeptically, "You swore off God two weeks ago. I'm going to need a better guarantee than that."

  "Fine, I'll trade you a secret. I let Marcello slip his hands up under my blouse yesterday." She covers her mouth as she says it. "Oooouuu lordy. I almost found god all over again."

  My eyes widen, but I maintain my composure, "Harlot."

  She nods, "It was fabulous. His hands are all rough from doing barn work and training the horses. It felt remarkable. Spill."

  I can't, I'm stuck in the image of her and Marcello. She has amazing breasts and Marcello is the most beautiful horse trainer in all of Louisiana. I imagine for a second, his hands in my blouse. I blush.

  She shoves me lightly, "Stop thinking about it. I never shoulda told you."

  My breathing increases as I fan myself and speak blankly, "The Ryan family from New Hampshire. Martin Ryan. Mr. Ryan was at the house yesterday. He and Daddy were in his study for hours. When they came out finally, they shook hands and Mr. Ryan complimented my dress. He told me Martin would be fond of it and I should ensure I wear it this weekend to the Hampton's with them. He talks all fancy and Northern. I had to make sure I said everything the right way, ya know?"

  She stops and grips my arms, "The Ryan’s, Martin Ryan?" She looks stunned.

  I nod, excitedly.

  She shakes me. "No. Not him. Anyone but him."

  I knit my brow, "What on earth is wrong with the Ryan family? They're wealthy, related to the Kennedys and he is by far the most attractive bachelor in all of Louisiana."

  Her face is covered with disgust and fear, "Firstly, they're Yankees. That means he don't count as eligible in the South, Sweets. Secondly, Martin has already, well you know. He has experiences you don’t. He dated Margery Banks. I heard they did a few things you and I haven’t learned how to do yet. Clearly, our home economics and hers differ."

  Her words hurt but I don't want her to see it. I shake my head, "You really are wicked."

  "Mandy's momma told my momma that Margery's momma made a comment about tying Margery's legs together until she was married. Ouuuie. My momma woulda tied my legs shut alright. I wouldn’t have seen the light of day for a decade if she caught me doing that. Apparently, she caught them in the act and Margery was on her knees, and girl she wasn't prayin."

  I swallow hard and shake my head, "You know what they're like. It might not be true. They're hateful."

/>   She shrugs and pulls her dark hair back, fanning her face. "Maybe. Do you really want to chance it? Be with a man Margery Banks has already entertained, on her knees?"

  I shake my head. I feel sick. "It can't be true."

  Her eyes glass over for a second, "Promise me you'll get to know him and think about it before you just agree because he's rich? It's your whole life, Lorelei."

  I nod, but I can't get past the image she has created and the anger that came with it.

  She continues fanning herself, "There ain't a breeze in the whole county. I need a swim. Let's go to my house."

  My pride is wounded. Margery Banks. It must be lies. The South is known for its nasty gossip. I hope it ain't true. If it is, Angie coulda kept it to herself. I assume she's jealous and twirl my long dark-blonde hair around my fingers. Even if it was true, I think the deal is done. I don’t know if I have the luxury of calling off the deal with our daddies. I shake it off and smile peacefully, "I think Martin and the Ryan family are just perfect. I can't wait for the Hamptons. We fly up on daddy's plane tomorrow. You should come. You can see what a wonderful couple we will be, first hand."

  She opens the door to her locker, "He won't like me coming none. But obviously, I can't very well let you go on up there alone. Not now that we all know where he likes to put his penis."

  I choke, "You're vile, Angelina Palatino." My stomach sinks.

  Evil crosses her lips with a grin that almost always means trouble. Scratch that, it always means trouble. "I have an idea…"

  I shake my head and put my books in her locker, cutting her off, "No." I walk away. "I'll be over for tea after my nap."

  "You never like my ideas."

  I wave backwards.

  "Think about California. I still think we got something there, girl. Say hi to Ramón for me."

  I shoot her a scowl and notice the way her face is saying something I can't understand. I roll my eyes at her, "No. Ramón ain't your type."

  She laughs. She ain't putting her hands on my best friend in the whole world.

  Ramón is sitting in the car waiting. He looks positively drenched in sweat.

  He jumps out and opens the door for me.

  "Good afternoon, Goddess."