Black Bayou (The Dark Legacy Series Book 1)

by Sara Clancy

  She had to back track and push against the flow to get to the right street. Scrambling into the alleyway, she got her first look at her new home. The smile slipped from her face as she inched closer. Brightly colored buildings cowered next to a goliath of off white. Paint peeling and plaster chipped, the narrow structure reared up three stories, with twin windows that indicated an additional attic. Its shutters were a faded black and dangled limply from the shrouded windows. Only the front door had survived the torments of time and shone like polished onyx. The mammoth structure cast an almost physical shadow that seemed to drench the entire alley. It devoured light and sound. Its windows stood deep and empty, like eye sockets within a brittle skull.

  With every step closer, the sounds of the tourist hub faded. Marigold glanced over her shoulder to the mouth of the alley and watched people flow by like a torrent stream. As she stepped up to the door, she was hit with the sudden urge to run back to Bourbon Street. A deep ache crossed her chest. For a moment, she stood staring at the heavily polished door. Her hands clutched at her bag straps, refusing to touch it. It glistened like a lacquered coffin. Huffing out her breath, she forced aside the foolish thought and knocked before she lost her nerve.

  Each rap echoed through the bowels of the house and rebounded back to her. No one came. Nothing stirred. Her stomach churned as she knocked again. Like hushed whispers, the sounds of Bourbon Street mixed with an arguing couple and the cries of a baby. Her brow furrowed. She knew that cry. The door flung open and she jumped back with a start.

  Chapter 3

  Delilah was a lot taller than what her photo had suggested, with sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, just like Marigold’s fathers. She had his eyes too, the exact same shade of chocolate brown, and Marigold could barely stand to look into them.

  “Yes?”

  “Aunt Delilah?” she asked, not knowing what to do with her hands. Were they supposed to hug? Shake? Wave? Shoving them into her pockets, she smiled. “I’m Maggie.”

  “So, you’re Phillip’s child.”

  Her wide mouth pulled into a tight line as she studied the girl. “I was told your name was Marigold.” Each word slipped out with the southern drawl that Marigold hadn’t managed to inherit from her father.

  “Maggie’s a nickname.”

  “And the other one. The one that died?”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “Jasmine.”

  One eyebrow cocked, “Typical. Phillip would ramble on about leaving the family legacy behind, but kept the most asinine of our traditions. We are a garden of loveliness, are we not?”

  Not knowing what else to do, she shrugged. Delilah sneered and spun on her heel, disappearing into the shadows of the house. Cautiously, Marigold followed.

  “Straighten your spine and thrust your chest out. You are a Madame La Roux. We do not bow, we do not cringe, and we do not break.”

  The house offered no refuge from the heat. Standing in the doorway, she could look straight down a hallway to the back door. A winding staircase rose up on the far side of the foyer and might have been impressive if it hadn’t been left to rot. Delilah turned to the left and entered a narrow, but elegantly decorated, sitting room. Each item was an antique, the colors of the fabric lost to time. One wall had a massive fireplace framed with black marble, the opposite had two huge windows. A crystal chandelier dangled from the high ceiling and was old enough to house real candles.

  Sinking into a sofa as if it were a throne, Delilah gestured to an empty love seat. Marigold picked at her nails as subtly as possible while perching on the very edge of the sofa. The silence in the house was intense enough to make her ears ring. Every last trace of sound that existed outside the house was smothered by its towering walls. Shadows made it impossible to tell the real color of the cracking wallpaper but the floors were made of a brilliant red wood. Marigold didn’t want to look at it.

  “A lady takes her hat off when inside.”

  Marigold swiftly pulled the cap off and ran her hand through her hair, attempting to smooth it into something presentable.

  “You don’t look much like a La Roux.”

  “No, um, I take after my mom.”

  She delicately waved her hand in Marigold’s direction. “So that red hair is natural?”

  “Just as much as the freckles.” she replied

  “Pity.”

  Delilah didn’t return Marigold’s weak smile, leaving it to awkwardly wither from her face. Searching for anything that might be able to start a proper conversation, Marigold looked over the dozens of portraits that hung on the walls.

  “Wow. Are they all family?”

  “How much did Phillip tell you about your kin?”

  She failed to think of a delicate way to answer, “Nothing.”

  Delilah shook her head, her face tightly concealing any pain and only allowing disdain to show through.

  “The blood in our veins has helped shape the world. We can trace our lineage back to seven different nobilities and three crowns,” she lifted her chin and cast her eyes over the portraits. “Yet my brother was always so fascinated with plebeians. No offence to your mother, of course. I’m sure she was a singular woman.”

  Marigold felt like she should say something. But what could she say? Everything she knew about her mother had been drawn into question.

  “When will your other possessions arrive?”

  “This is it.”

  Delilah tilted her head with a look of disinterest. “I have given you the attic room. Would you care to see it now?”

  “Sure.”

  She stood up, smoothed a hand over her dress, and gracefully headed towards the stairs. “I am Aunt Delilah or Madame, address me only as such.”

  Marigold hesitated, then scurried to keep up. “Yes, Aunt Delilah.”

  The carpet of the stairs had worn through in places and parts of the banister were missing. It groaned with each step. Another elaborate chandelier hung from the towering ceiling, its crystals tinkering with their every move. Portraits ran the length of the stairs, each figure distant and posed, but there were no family photographs. Nothing personal. They followed the landing and began to ascend the next flight.

  “I use the entirety of the second floor as my private quarters and I value my privacy.”

  “Okay.”

  Delilah cast a sharp look over her shoulder.

  “Okay, Aunt Delilah,” she corrected quickly.

  Her aunt didn’t really smile as much as she expressed a slightly less disapproval.

  “The kitchen is on the first floor. You will have your own wash room, but keep in mind our hot water is limited and I enjoy my baths. Are you a gardener?”

  She didn’t wait for Marigold’s response and continued to say, “The courtyard has a few flower beds you can tinker with.”

  “Aunt Delilah? What’s on the first floor?”

  “The library, a few spare rooms, the sitting room, and a sun room.”

  “And the third?”

  “Some more rooms, the dining room, and a hall,” she said. “I have breakfast in the sun room at eight, and when I am home, I have supper in the dining room at nine. You are free to join me, but I will not wait on you.”

  The door to the attic was disguised as a section of the wall and didn’t have a handle. Delilah gave it a firm push and it swung open revealing a dark, narrow staircase. Her shoulders brushed the walls as she followed Delilah up. There were no windows or overhead lights, leaving the top of the staircase completely lost to shadows. It was a lot further than she had first thought and she blindly felt her way along. There were no handrails, only cracking walls that bristled with heat. Somewhere in front of her, Delilah opened a second door and Marigold winced at the sudden light.

  Large twin windows allowed light to spill into the spacious room. The walls were exposed brick and the red floorboards had been left raw and bare. Heat pooled under the roof and transformed the room into a sauna. A massive four post bed, the top of the mattress as tall as her hip, fil
led the space between the windows. An old wooden cupboard was pushed into a corner, and peeking out from behind an almost sheer dividing curtain was a claw foot tub.

  Her heart immediately threw itself against her ribs. Her skin turned cold. Even as she turned her back to the tub, she could still feel the porcelain against her fingertips. Each stitch on her neck felt like a point of fire. The sweat that clung to her throat suddenly felt thicker, warmer. She wiped her hand over her skin and looked at her trembling palm, relieved to find only sweat, not blood. Still, she swallowed to assure herself that her neck was still intact.

  “It’s very nice,” the words felt thick as they worked their way up her throat. “Thank you, Aunt Delilah.”

  “I have business to attend to.”

  Marigold whirled to the voice and found that Delilah was already descending the stairs.

  “Settle in and I shall see you shortly,” she added.

  The door creaked as it slowly swung closed and sealed Marigold within.

  Chapter 4

  A breeze slipped off the moonlit Mississippi and attempted to dull the blistering humidity, but it still felt like the air itself was going to combust. Louis loved the sensation, and not just because it gave him an excuse to leave his jacket behind. He kept his top hat and walking cane. Tourists loved it when their guides had a slight classic vampire feel to them, and a happy tourist was a tipping tourist.

  Twirling his cane, he led his group through the contained insanity that was Bourbon Street after sundown. The blazing store fronts chased off every trace of night and the scent of jambalaya hovered in the air until his stomach growled. It took away from the ambiance that the paranormal tour agency was attempting to create. However, it made it a lot easier to keep the group together, and gave him one last breath of sanity to sustain him for their last stop.

  The lights of Bourbon Street never penetrated the alley. It was as if the La Roux house smothered all but the faintest traces and left the street in a hushed, predatory stillness. Chills trickled down his spine as he retrieved a pouch from his pocket. He crouched, opened the bag, and laid out the contents, all while never taking his eyes off of the house. A restaurant at the corner of the alley had a ‘welcome’ sign that flashed blue and green, and the light played off of the coins and cellophane wrappers as he straightened.

  “Is that candy?” a woman from Phoenix asked.

  “Just something for Papa Legba,” Louis said.

  The woman looked to her husband who whispered with a sly smile, “It’s the voodoo version of the devil.”

  Louis had the strongest urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He twirled his cane to resist.

  “No,” he sighed. “In so many ways, no.”

  “But you can make deals with him, right? Like sell your soul for money and power?”

  He was rubbing his temple before he could stop himself and quickly dropped his hand.

  “He’s not huge on souls,” he said as he brought out his most charming smile. Then he added, “But if you’re interested, we do have a voodoo tour going out tomorrow. We’ll teach you all about Papa Legba.”

  The rest of the group had gathered around so Louis reluctantly took a step deeper into the alley. He took his usual spot underneath the last functioning street lamp, a place that ensured he never gave the building his back and swung his arms wide.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he didn’t wait to see if he had their attention. “This is our last stop on tonight’s tour and you may notice I’m talking quite a bit faster than usual. One reason for that is that I can smell freshly made pralines and I want some. Yes, I know we just stopped for lemon ice but I don’t care. More importantly, however, is that I don’t want to be anywhere near that!”

  He thrust his cane out to indicate the bone white building lurking in the darkness. Since he had already told them what was coming, the crowd’s hum was quick and easy to talk over.

  “I give you, the La Roux home. Basically, it is the Chernobyl of the spiritual world.”

  A bubbly blonde from Brazil who insisted on treating the tour like a school excursion shot up her hand. “Will we be getting any closer?”

  “I won’t,” he said flatly. “Evil is like radiation. It sticks to a place. Too much of it in one area and people get sick. People die. No living thing should go anywhere near that house.”

  Every hair on his body rose at once and he tried to ignore it, falling into the usual routine of his speech. It had been years since he had first learnt the words and he no longer needed to pay attention as he spoke. It was better that way. He didn’t want to think about what lurked here, what this place had seen, and it allowed him to keep a better eye on the property. Nervous energy strummed through him as the last words trickled out and he began to slip around the crowd, subtly trying to lure them back onto Bourbon Street. He wasn’t quick enough to get them out before the questions started.

  “Does anyone live there now?”

  “There is one last Madame La Roux living in the residence,” Louis told the banker from Texas. “She’s not home.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Madame La Roux is a traditional lady. Like segregation traditional. We’ve had conversations in the past and now she tends to depart before the tour arrives.”

  “Does she do tours?”

  It was strange to see the man’s face. It had been hidden behind his camera all night.

  “I don’t believe so,” Louis replied.

  “So we can sneak a peek through the window?”

  He couldn’t catch sight of who had spoken before another chirped, “No one’s home.”

  As if to defy the words, every window in the house sparked to life in a single instant. Louis flinched back but couldn’t escape the glow that washed over them. The group chuckled, the jokers among them taking advantage of the material, and Louis locked his knees to keep from bolting. The La Roux house had twenty-three rooms, three levels, and a renovated slave quarters. How could they have all come on at once?

  The light clawed over his skin like a living thing. This was not good. He took a few steps back and attempted to regain everyone’s attention. Chills ran down his spine like fingernails and he was suddenly aware that he was being watched. Slowly, he closed a hand around the leather satchel that hung from his neck. The solid weight of the gris-gris calmed him enough to lift his eyes. A figure loomed in one of the attic windows. Light surrounded it but never touched its inky black form. It looked less like a shadow and more like the light had been gouged open. If it had eyes, he couldn’t see them, but he knew that it was watching him. Staring.

  His head screamed for him to get everyone out of here, but his body wouldn’t budge. He watched as the thing in the attic turned its head with purpose, tilting it down and to the side. Louis followed its gaze and saw a shadow shifting across the windows of the bottom floor. Soft and dull. A person. They crossed the array of windows lining the bottom floor, one after another, drawing nearer and nearer to the stairs. A cold lump settled in the pit of his stomach. They didn’t know what was waiting upstairs. His eyes snapped back up to the attic window. Every light in the house died as one.

  Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he barrelled towards the house. Over his shoulders, he yelled out commands for the group to get back to the street, and to wait for him there. Each step towards the house made his heart pound harder but he couldn’t turn back. Trembling, he threw himself the last few feet and pounded his fist against the door.

  It didn’t open. He couldn’t see where the figure was. Where the human was. Members of his group called out to him but he ignored them. He beat the door with both hands, hard enough that each blow sent a spike of pain along his forearms. The door rattled under his assault. The second it opened, he shuffled back until his heels toyed with the gutter.

  A woman peeked out through the small gap that the chain lock allowed. It wasn’t Madame La Roux, but a much younger woman. Even swallowed by shadows, her hair was the color of fire and she would hav
e been deathly pale if it wasn’t for the reddish freckles that covered her like constellations. The combination made the bruise around her eye, and the bright blue irises themselves, look darker by comparison. There was a spark of fear in those eyes and it propelled him back into action.

  “Are you home alone?”

  “I’m not telling you that.”

  That was a yes and it made his stomach drop. “Don’t go in the attic.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s waiting for you. Don’t go up there.”

  “What’s waiting for me?”

  “Just don’t go up there,” he insisted. Each time he didn’t pay attention, his feet would inch further away. He could feel the creature from the attic watching him, its attention like a boulder crushing his chest. “Get out of the house. It’s up there. It will hurt you.”

  “Who are you?” she snapped.

  It was getting impossible to stay put. Every primal instinct screamed at him to run. It shattered his thoughts and tugged at his limbs. With the last of his restraint, he ripped the gris-gris from around his neck and tossed it to her. She caught it on reflex but instantly looked like she wanted to drop it.

  “You need to get out of that house.”

  “You need to leave,” she replied as her fingers gripped the door. “I’m calling the police.”

  She began to close the door when he suddenly lurched forward, slammed his fist against the wood, and managed to keep it open a fraction. Just enough so he could see her eyes and the fear that swam through them. It took everything he had to keep his voice level, calm.

  “There is nothing in this house but darkness and death.”

  Her eyes didn’t harden, but steel weaved its way through the fear. “Don’t come back here again.”