by Apryl Baker
The
Blackwater Legacy
Book 2 of the Bloodlines Legacy Series
By Apryl Baker
The Blackwater Legacy
Copyright © 2017 by Apryl Baker.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: June 2017
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-
ISBN-10:
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For Kay
You’re one of the strongest people I know.
Thanks for being my friend.
Table of Contents
Prelude
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
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Prelude
The smell wakes me.
The cloying stench catches in the back of my throat, and it’s all I can do to keep the bile down. I try to take small, shallow breaths, but it doesn’t help. The smell permeates the entire room.
I hear Alexandria, my best friend, mumble, and she kicks at something. I’d talked her into coming over to my parents’ this weekend. Mom needed help clearing out room for new flower beds. I also wanted her there to wake me before I scared my parents. I’ve been having really awful nightmares, something she can relate to. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, gagging. What in God’s name is that smell?
“Move, Boco.” Alex kicks out again.
Boco?
No.
Throwing the cover off, I stumble over to her bed.
Please, please don’t be what I think you are.
Switching on the bedside lamp, I clamp both hands over my mouth to keep the scream from emerging.
Empty brown eyes look up at me. His fur is matted with mud…and…oh, God! Places in his fur are rotting through. That’s where the stench is coming from. I can’t stop the bile from rising when I watch the maggots start to crawl out of his decomposing flesh.
No, Boco can’t be here.
He died last month when a car hit him. We buried him out back under his favorite tree. I’d been there, seen my dad throw the dirt over my dog. No way can he be here right now.
Well, that’s not exactly true. There is one reason he could be here, staring up at me out of dead, soulless eyes.
My hand shakes as I reach out and prod Alex.
“What?” she mumbles.
I shake her shoulder again.
Alex rolls over and opens her eyes.
Then she screams.
Part I: Saidie
Chapter One
I stare out the window and try to ignore my dead dog. Kinda hard to do with the smell of rot and decay invading the car. I’d gagged a few times, as had Alex’s uncle, Sabien Blackburne. He’d decided to personally drive me down to New Orleans and drop me off with a friend of his, a necromancer who agreed to help me learn how to deal with all this. Even with the reanimated corpse of Boco in the back seat, this all still feels surreal to me. How is it possible I’m a necromancer?
My grandmother told me all about my heritage when I was little, but I never believed her. She’d been proud of the necromancy that ran in our blood, but I’ve only ever seen it as tall tales told to entertain and frighten children. When Gran died, I forgot all about her stories, honestly. Then Alex came along, and wham, I realized all those stories might be true. Our friend Conner, who’s a Seer, believes Alex’s gifts woke all our own gifts. I’m forced to agree with him there.
I love Alex, I do, but right now, I hate her just the tiniest bit too. She’s my best friend, but I would give anything to have never met her. None of this would be happening if not for her. I feel horrible about blaming Alex for screwing up my life. It isn’t her fault. She didn’t ask to be a witch, she didn’t ask to be hunted down by other witch families who feared her and her brother’s gifts. She didn’t ask to cause her friends problems. Knowing all that still doesn’t stop me from playing the blame game.
The scenery blurs, moving from the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia to the flat, open lands of the Carolinas. Sabien turns on the radio, and we continue through Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi to the sounds of some weird classical music he enjoys, but which only grates on my nerves. I’m depressed, and that dark music makes it worse. It isn’t until we hit the Louisiana state line that I start to pay attention.
New Orleans has always been on my bucket list. I want to go during Mardi Gras when there are parties on every street, colorful beads being thrown from the floats in the parades, and those crazy costumes. My plan was to drag Alex and the rest of our group down on my twenty-first birthday in two weeks, and it just so happens to fall during Mardi Gras. Plan blown. Instead, I am being taken to some crazy zombie queen to teach me to control my own zombie raising abilities. God only knows how long that will take. Life pretty much sucks.
I expected to drive through the city, but Sabien turns off the interstate and takes the back roads instead. I shake my head at my own bad luck. I won’t even get to see Bourbon Street or the Garden District. Instead, I get to admire a bunch of dilapidated houses that appear to be abandoned. Hurricane Katrina’s handiwork. The city itself has been mostly rebuilt, but the outer areas surrounding it need a lot more TLC.
Madame, as Sabien calls her, probably lives in some run-down shack, filled with all sorts of voodoo mumbo jumbo. I have this inane image of a woman with ratty dreads and some kind of jungle look to her. That particular image is stuck in my head. Every time I think about her, the visions of dark, dangerous things that go bump in the night play over and over through my mind. I’m terrified, and I haven’t even arrived.
Sabien takes another left and the bayou comes into view. I want to hate it. Just the word swamp makes me shudder, but when I look at its dark waters, I find it’s impossible to hate. Strangely enough, it calms me more than anything else has today. Sabien pulls into the gravel parking lot of an old, boarded-up building. It doesn’t look like anyone is home, but he gets out anyway and knocks on the door. After a third round of loud pounding, the door cracks open and Sabien disappears inside.
There are three boats tied to the rickety dock. We probably need a boat to get to Madame’s. Great, just great. I’m going to be living in the swamp for the next few weeks. As if my life can get any worse. I groan, and Boco whines in response. I turn and look at him. His eyes are glassy, milky. I can
’t tell if he’s in there somewhere or if it’s just an echo of him. Do animals have souls? I honestly don’t know. I hope I haven’t dragged him back from doggy heaven, only to be thrust into that disgusting body. My poor dog deserves better than this.
He’d been a good dog too. I remember coming home from school every day to see him waiting for me on the porch, or to have him knock me down when I got back from camp each summer when I was little. He’d lain on my bed when I was sick, and he’d curled up on my legs the time I cried my eyes out over Mark Stevens breaking up with me in ninth grade. He’s my dog, and no matter how much I miss him, I don’t want this for him.
“I’m so sorry, boy,” I tell him softly. “I didn’t mean to do this to you.”
His tail thumps, and a tear slips down my cheek. I reach back and put my fingers up to the front of the dog carrier. He licks them like he always did. He hates the carrier. I’d sit with him for as long as I could every time we went on trips. I refused to kennel him, and Dad never complained about him going with us after he saved my little sister from getting bitten by a copperhead.
“You were such a good dog. I wish…” I trail off, seeing Sabien coming out of the house, followed by a man with a beard that swallows his face. His head is covered in a red bandana, and his muddy brown hair trails down his shoulders in a stringy mess. The camouflaged pants and black t-shirt scream crazy redneck, but I try to keep a neutral face. Alex’s uncle wouldn’t trust someone who might potentially do us harm…would he? Sabien opens the back door and takes Boco’s carrier. I go to grab my suitcases out of the trunk, but the redneck already has them and is loading them onto the boat.
I follow them onto the boat and settle on the floor in front of the carrier. No need to scare my dog more than he already is. If he can see me, he won’t be as frightened. The redneck takes one look at Boco and makes the sign of the cross, but doesn’t demand we get off. Instead, he starts the boat and pulls out into the dark waters of the Louisiana bayou.
For the next two hours, we speed through the quiet of the swamp. The trees get thicker the farther in we go, and Sabien murmurs for me to be careful of snakes. We are going under the trees, and they apparently like to hang from the branches and fall on unsuspecting victims. The mosquitos are awful too. Giant bugs that can eat a small mammal, by the looks of the three I’ve killed. We even pass several alligators and a boat hauling one out of the water. I’ve seen the show on TV about the swamp people who hunt gators for a living. Not something I’ll do, especially after seeing it in person.
It’s almost dark when the boat begins to slow, and that’s when Boco starts to growl. He isn’t a little dog. Boco’s a border collie, smart as a tack and mean as a bull when it comes to protecting his family. His growl shakes the carrier he’s caged in. It startles us all, including the redneck.
Sabien glances at the dog, uneasy. “We’re here, Saidie. Bubba, thanks for bringing us out here.”
Bubba grunts and pulls into another rickety dock alongside four other boats. They are nicer than the one we’re on, so I assume someone takes care of their stuff, at least. He ties us up then helps Uncle Sabien move everything to the dock. Once we are all off the boat, he sits down to wait.
I grab my suitcases and trail behind Sabien as he starts up the path toward the house, Boco’s carrier in his arms. I can barely make it out through the trees. The closer we get, the more I slow. And not because of fear. No, I slow down to look at the beauty around me. We’re in some kind of flower garden. Everywhere I look, flowers bloom. I recognize a few night flowers Mom has in her own back yard. She would seriously kill for this garden. Sabien turns a corner, and I have to run to catch up to him. Hopefully, I’ll get the chance to come out and explore later.
The house itself is a three-story plantation home with four marble columns that support the veranda above the wide front porch. Green shutters adorn the windows, and red double doors mark the front entry. It is absolutely gorgeous. The white paint even looks fresh. I expected some creepy shack, not this old historic home.
The doors open and out steps not a Haitian voodoo queen, but a dainty woman with skin the color of warm caramel, rich mahogany hair, and eyes as blue as a cloudless sky. She’s wearing a simple white summer dress, but it’s elegant and screams money. Clothes, I know. Someday I hope to be a reporter who covers the fashion industry. This woman smiles down at me then turns to Sabien. Even her voice oozes culture and refinement. Has to be old money.
“Hello, Sabien.” She steps back and holds the door open for us to enter. He puts Boco’s carrier down in the front entryway. My jaw drops at the huge staircase that dominates the entry and the chandelier directly above us. Never, ever had I expected this. This is not the nightmare place I’d imagined. It’s…well, it’s the kind of place I dream of owning one day. We lived in Georgia for about six years, and I fell in love with the plantations. I vowed to own one eventually. Now I’ll get to live in one up close and personal for a little while.
“Madame, this is Saidie Blackwater Walker.” Sabien gestures to me. “As I said on the phone, she just came into her gifts early this morning.”
“Blackwater?” Madame’s soft voice carries surprise. “I have not heard that name in a very long time.”
Neither have I. No one’s used it in our family for at least sixty years. It was my grandmother’s maiden name. Her brother died in his early twenties, so there are no male heirs to carry on the name.
Madame bends down to stare at the dog. Boco snaps and snarls at her the same way he would a snake. “How long had this animal been in the ground?”
“Six weeks,” I whisper.
Madame gives me an appraising look. “That is indeed a feat, child. Most initiates cannot raise a corpse older than a day or two dead during the beginning.”
Her accent, slight as it is, rolls off her tongue, and it makes me shudder in disgust. There is something in her eyes that triggers an alarm, but I can’t say what. She’s been nothing but nice to me since I stepped through her doors. Maybe it’s just Boco’s reaction to her. I don’t know, but she makes me uneasy.
“Well, now, first things first. We need to get this poor beast back into the ground. Do you wish to bury him here, child, or do you want to send him home with Sabien?”
I glance at Sabien, the longing plain on my face. I don’t want Boco here. He needs to be back under his favorite tree. Sabien grimaces, but nods. I can tell he doesn’t want to drive all the way home with a dead dog in the back seat, but he will for me.
Two men appear and take my bags from me. “Sabien, if you can bring the dog, we’ll get this sorted as quickly as we can. It might take a few tries, but hopefully she’ll get it done by dawn.”
By dawn? Wait…she isn’t going to do it? She expects me to do it?
Madame laughs, amused by my shock. “It was your magic, chere, that reanimated this poor beast. I could do it, but it might frighten him more than he already is. He knows you. Besides, you must learn to clean up your…messes.”
Oh, damn.
Chapter Two
We walk through another garden on the east side of the house. The path winds down toward the bayou and the woods, but we make a sharp turn to the right. Fifteen minutes later, we stop in a small clearing. There’s a stone table covered with all sorts of jars and bowls. The moon is bright enough to provide ample light to the small space.
Boco whines softly when Sabien sets his carrier down. I go over and let him out. The dog immediately rushes out and licks my face. I pet his head, trying my best not to grimace and shy away from the stench. He should be back at rest soon. The least I can do is try to comfort him.
“Come, child. Let’s get started.”
I glance up to see the same man who’d taken my bags earlier bringing a chicken to Madame. I stand and walk slowly to her, Boco on my heels, growling. I have an idea of why she wants that chicken, and my mind balks. This cannot be happening to me.
“When we raise the dead, we offer up the blood of the living, a
death for a death,” she explains. “It is the way it has always been and the way it will always be. We do this to keep balance, to appease the spirits for waking those they put to rest.”
She hands me a wicked-looking blade.
“Typically, we will have done this before we pull death from the earth and breathe life back into it. When an initiate first comes into their gifts, their power is at its strongest. You did not need blood to pull this creature from the earth for that reason. Your strength is unimaginable right now, child. The spirits are restless, angry that there was no offering when this beast was taken from the earth. We must offer blood to the spirits to soothe their anger so that when we ask them to return him to death, they will grant us the ability to do so.”
She thrusts the chicken into my hands, and it’s all I can do to hold onto it. Madame picks up a jar of glowing ointment and smears my face with it, as well as her own. “This is a mixture to help the spirits focus only on us as we practice our necromancy. Most who deal in raising the dead make their own concoctions, as will you, but for tonight you may use mine.”
I grimace at the smell. It’s awful, worse than Boco, even.
Madame smiles at my response. “Now, I will need you to close your eyes and focus on that inside of you which calls the dead. Look deep, child. Find it, embrace it, and then open your eyes.”
Eyes closed, I try to do as she instructed. I find nothing and sigh in frustration. Maybe it’s because I refuse to admit I can do it. I don’t know. The only thing I do feel is the dampness in the air around me. Boco licks my fingers, and my hand automatically strokes his fur. Touching him gives me a peace I hadn’t had before, and it allows my mind to focus. The sounds of the night are clearer, sharper. The damp, musty scent surrounding us turns pungent, even pleasant. Before, it had been sour and dank, but as I let myself go, the bitter scent smells like fresh honey.