mouth to call out again, and then she heard the moans.
They were long and deep and shuddering.
They were different voices mingled together, breathless and harsh and strained.
"Who's there?" Olivia called, but she couldn't hear her own voice, and she had the eerie feeling that she hadn't spoken at all.
Mathilde hadn't moved. She stood, strangely shimmering, beside the rectangular vaults, her eyes fixed on the floor beyond them where Olivia couldn't see. The whispers were growing sharper now, quicker, hoarse cries gasping, demanding, cutting through Olivia like knives. The thunder pounded harder, shaking the floor beneath her feet, arrows of lightning ripping across the walls.
Fearfully Olivia started forward, pausing again a short distance from Mathilde. She could see Mathilde's face more clearly now, its sharp lines and angles, skin stretched tight across cheekbones, eyes smoldering with rage. Olivia opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She tried to reach out for Mathilde's arm, but her hand seemed to flow right down through Mathilde's skin, and Olivia jumped back with a cry that echoed itself again and again from the other side of the vaults . . . but it's not me crying out — it's not me — it's someone else —
And the sounds were pulling her now, forcing her closer and closer to the huge stone vaults, and she was stopping at one end of them, gazing down into the narrow aisle between, into the deep shadowy space on the floor. And as she stared helplessly, the shadows shifted and took human form, writhing and flowing one into the other, bodies twisted and tangled together, faces hidden in the dark . . .
As Olivia watched in slow disbelief, one of them turned into the half light and looked straight at her, yet seemed not to see her at all. It was a woman, and in the clutching embraces of two companions, she groaned softly, her eyes half closed, lips parted, white skin gleaming like fine porcelain. Long pale hair fanned out beneath her upon the floor, and her bare breasts rose and fell in time to her passionate breathing. Olivia could see strong hands caressing her, taut naked bodies covering her, surrounding her, demanding and aroused, lean muscles, hardened, throbbing, yet she couldn't see their faces, and as the woman arched her back and cried out, Olivia saw her eyes suddenly widen and fix on something near the other end of the vaults.
"Who's there—don't you see—someone's there."
Olivia stepped back in alarm, horrified at being caught, wanting to run, only she couldn't move, she couldn't even speak, and the woman's voice rose up into a terrified scream—
"Stop—oh, God—don't touch me—"
The rush came without warning.
Olivia felt it like a striking wind, something flying past her, invisible and fatal, and the woman shrieking now—shrieking and trying to get away—trying to cover herself—and the other voices calling out, ghostly and bewildered, muffled sounds of surprise and shock as their bodies recoiled and slid away from her, leaving the woman vulnerable and alone upon the floor. Olivia stood there, unable to move, unable to believe, hearing the terror, feeling the terror, but seeing nothing— nothing —except the beautiful woman and the scuffling tangle of shadows beside her as an explosion of lightning shattered the darkness and danced across her naked body.
BLOOD ROOTS
"Oh, God, what's happening?" Olivia murmured, and she clamped her hands over her ears, but she could still hear them, the woman's frantic sobs, the confused shouts of the other two, stabbing and tearing straight into Olivia's heart.
And she was gasping now, gasping for breath, because she knew something horrible was happening —something horrible and inescapable—she knew it—she felt it—as if she were the woman on the floor—as if she were the woman sprawled there— terrified and helpless—the storm and the screams and the wild, rushing wind—all of them the same—all of them pulling her in—deeper and deeper— stop — please make them stop — save me — somebody save me —
Looking around in dismay, Olivia saw that Mathilde wasn't behind her anymore. The floor of the mausoleum began to quiver violently beneath her feet. The walls ran with black oily fog, and as another burst of lightning cast a sickly yellow glow around the room, illuminating the struggling shadows at last, Mathilde sprawled across them, shrieking louder than the woman shrieked, cursing, raging, flailing out with her arms and her fists—
Olivia caught her breath in horror and stumbled back away from the vaults. She could see their faces now, just a glimpse as the light faded again, plunging them into half darkness—the faces of the woman's two companions—somehow familiar yet grotesquely inhuman, smeared with something, covered with something dark and slimy like hideous masks—
A terrible stench rose up, making Olivia gag. As another jagged spear of lightning ripped through the gloom, Olivia clutched at her throat and tried desperately to turn away, but her eyes were glued helplessly
to the macabre scene being revealed right in front of her—
The two faces were gleaming wet, red and runny with blood, and thick globs of gore dripped from their cheeks and the corners of their mouths. To Olivia it looked disgustingly like entrails, and she felt her stomach heave sharply as she fought once more to look away. She could hear the sound of vomiting and their choking struggles to breathe—
Oh, God, help me —/ can't breathe either —/ can't breathe —
Olivia fought frantically for air. Foul mist swirled into her lungs, clouding her mind with cold, gray panic. She could see everything all at once—the woman—the bloody faces—Mathilde—and herself —trapped together—and as she opened her mouth to scream, she realized that someone else had joined the struggling bodies on the floor, that someone else was shouting now—it was Yoly, but not Yoly, just a shadow of Yoly—a look of shock and horror twisting her broad black face, even as it jerked back again smeared and clotted with gore like the others—
"Don't you know what's happening!" Yoly shrieked. "Don't you realize what you've done!"
And they were fading, all of them fading, shape-shifting into formless things, melting and blurring and oozing far, far up the slimy walls . . .
And as Olivia screamed and screamed she saw the people turn into shadows and the shadows turn into blood, thick warm blood flowing toward her across the floor . . . seeping beneath the cold stone vaults . . . forming a dark red pool around her feet.
arm was around Olivia's shoulders, hauling her out onto the steps. "What ever possessed you to wander in here, child? Someone come along and lock the door, why, we'd never find you again."
"I didn't wander in," Olivia mumbled. "Someone did lock the door."
Skyler.
She looked up into Yoly's face, her heart going cold.
/ killed hint.
"Some ghost, I guess," Yoly said sarcastically, " 'cause when I come through just now, that door was standin' wide open. Skyler must be gettin' careless."
"Where is Skyler?" Olivia asked, glancing around at the graves, the trees, the shadows.
"How should I know?" Yoly grumbled. "I was goin' to ask you the same question. As if I got nothin' better to do around here than play nursemaid. Get on back to the house, child. You look like somethin' the cat drug in."
"But have you seen him?" Olivia persisted. Again her eyes swept among the slabs and crumbling headstones, searching for a body facedown in the weeds. "Have you seen him since we came out here?"
"No, I ain't seen him, and what you so anxious to see him for?" Yoly asked impatiently. "All you young girls gettin' so hot and bothered about Skyler—I ain't never seen the like. You'd stay away from him if you knew what's good for you."
Olivia stopped, clutching her stomach.
"You sick?" Yoly narrowed her eyes.
Olivia managed a nod. She stood there, staring down at the marble steps of the mausoleum, at the wide smears of blood there, dried now to a dark, dull reddish brown.
"You eat somethin' today?" Yoly asked accusingly.
Another nod.
"Have you seen Helen?" Olivia whispered.
"Not all day. Quit askin' m
e so many questions, and come on."
Olivia looked back at the mausoleum. Yoly swung the heavy door shut and snapped the lock back into place. She closed the gate and wiped her hands on her apron.
It's because of what happened — what Skyler did to me — what I did to Skyler — being locked in the tomb —just a nightmare — a horrible nightmare — that's all it was —
"Why are you here?" Olivia mumbled. "How did you find me?"
Yoly gave a long sigh of annoyance. She leaned over and picked up a basket beside the steps that Olivia hadn't noticed.
"I come in the gardens to get some herbs. Miss Rose asks me if I'll find Skyler while Fm out here. So I comes to the cemetery. I don't see Skyler, but I finds you bein' where you ain't supposed to be. Now. You satisfied?"
Olivia had felt so calm about it before. So justified, so satisfied. So fulfilled somehow.
Now she felt nervous and sick and afraid.
Miss Rose was looking for Skyler. That meant he hadn't been back to the house. Yoly had come to the cemetery. That meant he wasn't in the gardens, or she would have seen him.
She saw the handle of the shears protruding from Skyler's stomach.
She heard that strange sound he'd made as the slow awareness had come into his eyes.
Olivia stumbled and automatically glanced down, catching her breath in alarm.
There was dried blood on her bare feet, across her instep, up the sides of her ankles.
Blood in the mausoleum . . . running down their faces . . . flowing across the floor . . .
Blood from Skyler's wound. . . splattering across the steps . . .
"You goin' to take all day?" Yoly scolded, looking back impatiently. "Come on, girl, it's time for dinner. Get a move on."
But Olivia was the only one who sat with Miss Rose and Yoly in the dining room. Mathilde was nowhere to be seen. There wasn't a sign of Helen. Skyler never came. She tried to make conversation, but she sensed Miss Rose watching her curiously, and she excused herself with a headache and said she needed some air.
Olivia stood for several minutes behind the house, staring off across the yard, at the outbuildings, at the twisted jungle of trees and shrubbery. It was deathly silent. Not even a breeze stirred now. In places the ground had turned marshy from the rain, and the moss still drizzled water into the weeds.
She hurried in the direction she and Helen had gone last night, hoping she could remember which cabin it was. It didn't take her long to find it, and after listening at the door to make sure it was really deserted, she slipped cautiously inside.
Dust lay thick except where feet had stirred it into untidy little piles. She inspected the mantel and found drippings there from half-burned candles and smoky stains on the wall behind. Here is where Skyler stood . . . and here Jesse . . . and here is where each of them walked. . . here . . . and here . . .
She tried to reconstruct the scene piece by piece, tried to recall their movements—their tones of voice —every word they had said—but it was impossible to
remember everything, and she gave up in frustration. She crossed to the corner where Mathilde had been and saw dark stains on the floor. One, larger than the others, looked like it had drained out between the rotten floorboards.
Sickened, Olivia turned away. She didn't know what to think anymore—she didn't know what to believe. She wondered where Skyler had dragged himself away to and who would find him. She wondered what had happened to Helen.
She got back to the house and decided to try and find Helen's room.
She'd never been above the second floor. She'd never even asked what was up on the third level, had always just assumed that it was where the rest of the household slept. Now, as she continued on up the stairs at the back of the house and came out onto the third-story gallery, she was seized with trepidation. Maybe Helen had had some kind of accident that had nothing to do with their excursion last night. Maybe she'd gotten away and then something had happened to her later, and no one had known. Perhaps she'd been trying to call for help but couldn't. Perhaps she'd given up hope that anyone cared or would come—
The thought spurred Olivia to action. She looked both ways along the gallery, trying to decide which direction to go first. Choosing to go to her right, she knocked softly at the first door she came to.
There was no answer.
Olivia turned the latch, surprised when it gave so easily. She found herself in a storeroom with a low, steeply angled roof and odds and ends of junk strewn about. She picked her way slowly through old furniture, trunks of clothes, broken figurines and clocks, even a gilded birdcage. Dust covered everything, and
cobwebs swagged from comer to comer. As she reached up and tore one of them out of her way, she saw something that made her stop.
There were portraits leaning in a comer. The frames themselves were splintered and broken, but the likenesses they held still seemed quite vivid beneath their pall of grime. Past Devereauxs, she wondered? The legacy she'd never known . . . the family she'd never been a part of?
Intrigued, Olivia knelt down and began sorting through them, her original mission temporarily forgotten. There were cavalier gentlemen in Confederate uniforms; pale, delicate ladies in hoopskirts. .. laughing children on ponies . . . dancers whirling in a ballroom.
Olivia touched the canvas gently. The ballroom was pure white, gleaming and glistening from crystal chandeliers and hundreds of candles. A massive gold-edged mirror hung above a marble fireplace . . .
Something slid down the wall beside her, and she jumped back with a cry.
One of the pictures had simply become dislodged and fallen. She let out a sigh of relief and picked it up to put it back in place.
And then she stopped, her heart catching in excitement. She stopped and her hand tightened on the frame, and she stared down at the deep dark eyes that gazed back at her.
They were the same eyes as in the portraits downstairs— Jesse's eyes —with the same infinite kindness, the same resigned sadness.
But the painting looks so old.
Frowning, Olivia leaned forward, dusting the gentle face with the hem of her skirt. The light was no better in here than it was in the halls and rooms downstairs,
and yet she could see the portrait a little more clearly because she was able to hold it close to her face. She got up and carried it over to one of the tall French windows. She squinted at the darkish cast that colored Jesse's features and the tiny, fine crackles that spread throughout the paint. Like all the other pictures, it was covered with cobwebs and layers of dust, and she trailed her fingers thoughtfully over the contours of one of his cheeks.
Strange . . . the painting looks so old, but the face looks exactly like Jesse does now . . .
She put the portrait back where she found it, and after a last puzzled look, she turned and left.
She felt guilty now, having been sidetracked from her real purpose. She went quickly to the next room, forgetting to be cautious, and found more storage space . . . more Devereaux castoffs from another, more romantic time. It was so quiet up here— too quiet —and reluctantly she gave a soft call, thinking that if Helen heard, she might be able to manage some kind of sound to alert Olivia to her whereabouts.
The third room belonged to Skyler.
Olivia could tell it at once, and uneasily she paused in the doorway and let her eyes make a slow, careful sweep of the furnishings. A narrow bed in one corner. A bureau with a washbowl and pitcher. A straight-backed chair. Pegs on the wall that held jeans ... a work shirt... a T-shirt caked with dried mud. A pair of old boots was tossed beneath the bed. The covers were carelessly tumbled. Other than his clothes, there were no personal objects of any kind.
Olivia crossed to the bed.
She didn't like the way his boots lay there, casually, expectantly, as if waiting for him to come back and put them on.
She could still see the imprint of him in the sheets, the sprawled impression of his body as he'd slept.
Slowly she picked up h
is pillow. She held it to her face the same way he'd held her blouse to his face that day at the bayou.
The pillow still smelled of him.
Warm, rich earth. Warm, flowing rain. Trees and grass and a sun that never shone.
She stood a moment longer, then started to leave, when she became aware of a peculiar smell.
It wasn't exactly overpowering yet, but it had the potential to be so. As Olivia wrinkled her nose in distaste, she began moving warily toward the back of the room. The odor seemed stronger from that particular area, and as she paused and studied the walls, she noticed a spattering of drops on the floorboards, running along the base of one wall, then widening out into an indistinct smear that ended abruptly in the corner.
The room was hot and stuffy. The smell reminded Olivia of something in the early stages of spoiling. She could see marks on one lower section of the wall as though someone had made a careless swipe with a rag. Grimacing, she reached down and lightly touched the stains. Dry. Then maybe they're very old stains — paint maybe, or grease from some long-ago candle.
But where is that smell coming from?
She placed her hands on each side of the corner and leaned in slowly toward the walls.
The smell was definitely strongest in this spot.
But there's nothing here.
She ran her hands lightly over the boards, then felt a slight discrepancy in the wood. Her heart quickened in excitement, and as she went back over them, slowly, she discovered a slight knothole just wide
BLOOD ROOTS
enough to slip one finger into. Gently she pulled. The board stuck fast. Gritting her teeth, she pulled again, then heard the board give with a slow, steady groan.
A panel in the wall was coming out. As Olivia watched in amazement, a narrow space came into view, nestled back beneath the boards, scarcely large enough for a person to fit. For a long moment she stared at it, then nervously she inched her head inside, trying to see if there was more to it, hidden farther into the wall.
Bloodroots Page 20