Dark Sacrifice

by Angie Sandro

  My nails cut into my skin as I claw at the bulge in my neck. Light-headed from lack of air, I fall to my knees. The snake glides down my throat, coiling inside my gut. My stomach undulates. Pressure bulges the muscles. My internal organs shift to make room for the parasite.

  No! I’m dead. I don’t have organs.

  This isn’t real.

  The building internal pressure pulses outward. My nerves fill with fire. It’s a hundred times worse than the tingle from hitting my elbow. It rushes up my spine, then expands to fill my brain with an alien awareness.

  The creature opens its eyes and evaluates my worthiness to exist.

  I can’t fight this thing. It blasts my resistance to smithereens, crushing my will like an ant. If I want to survive, I’d better huddle in a terrified ball in the corner of my own mind and hope it forgets I’m here. It’s in control, and I’m nothing but a passenger along for the ride.

  White light flashes, like from a door opening.

  The creature shrinks from the brightness, squealing as if burned. It lifts my arms to cover my face. I use its distraction to leap from my hiding spot and wrest control of my soul from the creature. It’s only for a second. Too little, but also just enough.

  I fall into the light.

  And my sister, Lainey, catches me at the bottom.

  CHAPTER 4

  MALA

  Evil Pocahontas

  Don’t cry. Not here. Not now.

  If I do, I won’t stop. The pressure of holding in my emotions builds and makes my eyes leak anyway, and I brush an escaped tear from my cheek before it can be seen by any of the women gathered in the circle.

  “Guess this is my last group session." Hold it together, girl. I aim a smile in my psychiatrist’s direction. “Dr. Rhys has decreed that I’m no longer a danger to myself or others so I’m flying the coop tomorrow morning.”

  Dr. Rhys shifts in his metal chair like his butt’s sore. Poor guy doesn’t get much exercise. He’s spends the majority of his day sitting down, counseling crazy women. “We’ll miss you, Mala,” he says, smiling at the other women in encouragement. “You’ve become an integral part of our family.”

  I throw up a little in my mouth at the doc’s chipper attitude. God love him. I doubt “family” accurately describes the other mental patients. The cognizant ladies in our group therapy session nod and give a tiny round of applause. The others stare into space and drool.

  Well, everyone except for the coffee-eyed woman who gives me the shivers. She stares, not into space, but directly at me, with a gaze so sharply focused that it feels like she’s carving through layers of my skin and muscle to peer into my soul.

  I don’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her presence. Staring is plain rude, and I don’t care if she’s insane. Rudeness via insanity doesn’t hold much weight with me these days. If she has a problem, then she needs speak like a big girl and tell me what it is. That’s what group therapy is for—to work on our issues.

  Dr. Rhys taps his pen on his notepad, an unconscious broadcast that he has a touchy question to ask. The cringe-worthy kind is his specialty. Did Kevin tell the doc about Landry dying? He promised to keep my secret. It’s hard enough pretending everything’s okay—that my life hasn’t broken into tiny, sharp pieces that no amount of superglue can stick back together—without being called on it in front of everyone.

  My chest tightens.

  Stop thinking about him.

  I glare at the rude girl seated in the chair across the circle from me. Her eyes look like raisins mashed into the dark hollows of her sunken sockets. Flesh stretches over her high cheekbones and angular nose, while black hair tangles about her shoulders. She could act as a double for the Disney Pocahontas, if the cartoon girl smoked crack cocaine. I despise everything about her from her dirty, bare feet to her black, holey jeans and stained T-shirt.

  Sharp pain throbs in my eyes, like the girl poked an invisible needle into my tear ducts with the power of her glare. If I blink, she’ll win the staring contest. Or worse. The tears in my eyes will overflow, and the whole group will see the pain I’m doing my best to hide. They’ll ask questions. Make me relive Landry’s death. I won’t be able to hold it together.

  The woman next to me jabs an elbow into my side. “Are you okay, Mala?”

  How long has Dr. Rhys been waiting for me to answer his question? Did I zone out longer than socially appropriate? Did I drool? “I’m sorry, Doc. Did you ask me something?” I run the tips of my fingers across my lips. My hand trembles. Can he see it from where he’s sitting?

  Dr. Rhys waves his pen in my direction. “Do you want to share with the group what your plans are after your release?”

  I blink at him, then glance around the circle. “I’m staying with Bessie Caine. She’ll pick me up tomorrow morning.”

  “Is she okay with helping you get to your counseling appointments? I want to make sure you continue with your progress on an outpatient basis.”

  She’d drag me to them by my hair if I refused. “She’s very conscientious—”

  “Bitch!” Creepy Poca lunges forward. Her chair flies backward and crashes to the floor. I stiffen. She looms closer in my peripheral vision. Each step pounds with menace, as if she holds herself at a steady pace only through sheer willpower. Tension vibrates her body as she screams, “Don’t believe a word she says. She’s a lying bitch.”

  I glance at Dr. Rhys. He stares at me with a tiny frown, and I send a silent plea to him. Call one of the orderlies to escort this girl out! What’s his problem? Is he waiting to see whether I’ll beat her ass for disrespecting me?

  I inhale and exhale through my mouth. “Bessie will get me to my appointments.”

  The girl lunges forward and grips my shoulders with both hands, burning my skin despite the layer of clothing between us. Breath like rotting fish curls my nose, and my stomach clenches. I let out a high-pitch squeak and lean back in the chair, trying to put space between myself and what I now recognize as the spirit of a very pissed-off dead girl.

  Uncle Gaston, Mama, where are you? Help me.

  I grit my teeth so I won’t cry out. Poca the Poltergeist is deliberately trying to scare me. I won’t let her win.

  “I won’t be ignored, Mala. I’ll suffocate you while you sleep. I’ll haunt your every moment until you beg for mercy if you don’t acknowledge me,” she whispers, squeezing my shoulders.

  A crackle of energy makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. The spirit of Ms. Anne shoves forward, passing through my body from behind. She plants her hands on the girl’s chest and knocks her off me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, shivering from the residual chill. Their energy sucks at mine. My thoughts go foggy…

  Focus…ten, nine, eight…

  A warm hand touches my bare arm, and I open my eyes. Dr. Rhys squats down in front of me, and I meet his concerned gaze. “It will be okay, Mala. Hang in there. I promise it’ll get better.”

  I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. I nod, infusing fake confidence into the movement, but at the same time, my gaze darts around the room. Ms. Ann and Poca are gone.

  Why would the stupid poltergeist deliberately scare the snot out of me, then vanish without telling me what she wants? Unless Ms. Anne’s tougher than she looks and she scared her away. I shrug and swipe the tears from my cheeks. My heart and breathing slow. I wish I believed Dr. Rhys’ words. I keep waiting to get better. To be able to tell the difference between spirits and real live people, but even with medication, the ghosts keep popping into my life. This one is stronger than most of the recent spirits haunting me. Her strength to manipulate physical objects rivals Lainey’s. I sure as hell don’t want to go down that rabbit hole again. The last time I almost didn’t survive.

  My shoulders ache. If I show Dr. Rhys the burns on my skin, will he believe me? No. More likely he’ll think I injured myself. The only people who ever believed me about seeing ghosts are now ghosts themselves.

  I blink, my eyes focusi
ng on the creases around his downturned mouth. Poor guy. “Don’t worry. I’m okay, Doc. Just overcome with how thankful I am to everyone for getting me through this time of mourning. I really appreciate everyone’s love and support.”

  The Bullshit-O-Meter detects rising levels.

  Dr. Rhys pulls on an invisible pair of knee-high boots, obviously not up to wading through my newest crisis so close to going off shift for the night. He releases my hands and rises. “Okay, ladies, you’re dismissed.”

  With a heavy sigh, I refer to the checklist I keep in my head. My last scheduled requirement—group. Done—check.

  * * *

  I’m curled up on the plastic sofa in the dayroom watching the five o’clock news when Kevin, followed by George, walks through the door. A rush of déjà vu hits. George looks the same as the last time he visited. Right down to the LSU T-shirt and jeans. I shoot a glare in Kevin’s direction, and he shrugs. The traitor! Why did he let George in? I spilled my guts to the orderly last night. He knows I don’t want anything to do with George “Cheating Asshole” Dubois.

  I clench my lips together, damning them for the residual tingle stirred by the memory of George’s kiss. He’d totally blown away my defenses. A couple of days ago, I thought I’d give the relationship a chance. That my life would be better with someone who wouldn’t betray me like Landry did.

  Boy, am I the worst judge of character.

  The hurt and confusion makes my heart ache. Worse, I want to do him bodily harm. Which would get me locked up in here for another month since I was committed for beating him up in the first place.

  After the first glance, I don’t look back in George’s direction. Maybe he’ll get the hint and get out of my face. He hovers over me for a long moment then flops down next to me on the sofa. I scoot to the far end, jabbing the volume button on the remote as fast as I can to drown out his voice.

  A large, white-smocked body inserts itself between me and the television. Kevin holds out his hand, and I drop the remote onto his meaty palm. Within seconds, the sound has been lowered, and I have to listen to George breathing—may he choke on his own spit!

  “How long do you plan on pretending like I don’t exist?” George asks.

  “Until you take the hint and go poof.” I flick my fingers out in his direction as if shaking off a smooshed bug. “I don’t want to talk to you.” I uncross my legs and crawl off the sofa. He grabs my arm and pulls me down onto his lap. My arms instinctively wrap around his neck— to catch my balance and not for any other reason.

  I attempt to stand again. His grip around my waist tightens. He places his fingertips beneath my chin and lifts my head, but I refuse to make eye contact. No way will I lose myself in the shifting shades of his moss-green gaze. “Let go, George.”

  “You’re not storming off in a huff without listening to my side.”

  “Side? You’ve got a side? ’Cause last night it sounded like Izzy pretty much owned you.”

  He flinches. “There you go jumping to conclusions without hearing the truth.”

  “How is stating the truth jumping to conclusions? It was obvious you were in bed. What’s she doing at your place if not exactly what I think you were doing?”

  “Our apartment. Isabel and I live together.”

  I lunge forward. He follows.

  I push his hands from my arm. “Stop touching me or I’ll ask Kevin to kick you out.”

  He holds his hands in the air. “I swear we’re not together anymore.”

  “How long?” My nostrils flare.

  “We moved in together four months ago.” He runs his fingers through his red-gold hair until it stands up in spikes. It makes him look like a lost little boy.

  Don’t soften, Mala. He did wrong.

  I shake my arm free. “Months…” I whisper, staring at the ground. “You’ve had a live-in girlfriend for months? She’s the nurse from the hospital, isn’t she? Oh, God. I’m such an idiot. No wonder she got such a kick out of keeping me drugged out of my mind.”

  “Mala—”

  “Stop, no more lies.”

  “I’m telling you the truth. I’ve never lied to you.”

  “No, you just avoid telling the whole truth.”

  “What do you want me to say, Mala?” He stares at the ground. “I told Isabel I have feelings for you, and she broke up with me. We’re not together, but I can’t kick her out of her own apartment. I owe it to her to stick around until she finds a new roommate.”

  He didn’t break up with her. She dumped him. Huge difference. God, my head hurts. It’s too much. First, Landry dies right in front of me…now this. I can barely process it, but I have to. I have to make some sense of it all or I’ll go crazy.

  “Why didn’t you mention all of this before?” I meet his gaze and hold it. No avoidance. “I was fine with us just being friends, but you kissed me first. You’re the one who said you wanted to explore us having a relationship. God, George. I trusted you. When I asked for time to work out my feelings for you and Landry, you should’ve told me about Isabel. Instead, I find out like this.” I brush a tear from my eye.

  “Mala, please. Don’t cry.”

  Traitorous tear ducts. “Don’t mistake my tears for weakness. I’m not crying over you. I’m crying for me.” I shake my head. “I can’t do this right now. I’m too confused.”

  “I told you the truth. Why can’t you just believe in me?”

  I stare at George’s open face as every thought and emotion flickers in his rapidly changing expression. I’ve known him forever. I can read each crease, frown, and grimace without him having to speak. His sincerity is so potent that I actually feel guilty for doubting him. He’s always been there for me—my very own superhero. But what if he’s lying to himself about how deep his feelings are for me? What if he only feels protective because he found me after I got shot? Seeing me half-dead from blood loss might’ve messed with his head.

  I’m a stinking hypocrite—worse than he is. What right do I have to chastise him when, even though I should hate Landry, I can’t? I try…and try. I remember Mama’s screams as she burned. How he wouldn’t let me go to her. But I hurt so much knowing he’s dead, and I feel like an idiot because I’m waiting for him to come back to me.

  I’m waiting for a ghost.

  Still, the thought of kissing George again feels like a betrayal of Landry’s memory.

  Ugh. This is so confusing. I need to make some rules!

  Rule one: No kissing…’cause that just scrambles my brain to mush.

  Tension drains out of my shoulders with my decision. I blow out a heavy sigh. “I believe you, Georgie.”

  His smile makes my breath catch. He pulls me into his arms and leans in. I turn my face away at the last minute so he kisses my cheek. He pulls back with a low groan. “Now what?”

  “I believe you, but I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m not ready to be in a relationship—even one with no offer of exclusivity and only PG-13 benefits.” The words are like a punch in my gut. Landry said almost the very same thing to me. No. Stop thinking about him. He’s dead, and George is alive. My feelings for Landry shouldn’t factor into my future happiness. Except how do I ignore a Landry-size hole in my heart that won’t ever be filled? Not by George or anyone else.

  Hating Landry was so much easier when he was alive.

  George studies my face with a frown. Does he read my confusion? “So what does that mean for us?”

  “I’m not sure. We’ll take it slow. Friends first, right?”

  He studies my face for a long moment. Maybe it shows my grief. They say eyes reflect the soul, and every piece of me aches. Rather than argue, he pulls me down onto the sofa. I resist, trying not to touch him at first, but soon I curl up into the warmth of his side, glad I’m not alone. Jeopardy! distracts us. By the time we’re halfway into the show, it feels like old times.

  I solve the final question and get a tight squeeze as a reward from George right as Marcheline Dubois sweeps into the room with her
typical flare for dramatic entrances. Her silver hair is worn upswept into a high bun and emphasizes her narrow features. Dark brown eyes boil with emotions too hot to contain within her small frame. “Mala, darling, I’m here,” she cries, throwing her arms open wide.

  She sees George hugging me, and her arms drop. “George Jr.?”

  “Aunt March, what are you doing here?” George asks as he bounds to his feet.

  Her penciled-in eyebrows arch, and she taps her lips with the tips of her fingers. “Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question?”

  I resettle on the sofa in a more prim and genteel position. She’s his aunt and my boss. I don’t want her to think poorly of me for hanging on him like a floozy. Course, I’d feel better about the situation if George didn’t look as shocked as his aunt.

  Hmm, I'm feeling like a dirty little secret. Again.

  CHAPTER 5

  MALA

  Dirty Secret

  My stomach curdles at the pitying expression that crosses Kevin’s face when he looks from Ms. March to me, and I slap my hand across my mouth to cover the sour, nervous hiccup. Hopefully Georgie won’t smell the chili I ate for lunch, but he’s focused on his aunt.

  Kevin avoids my questioning gaze, moving to a corner of the room. This whole situation seems odd. He should be cracking up over this confrontation. His sense of humor is as warped as mine. Then there’s the fact that Ms. March is here at all. We’re not allowed to have visitors other than family. George counts as law enforcement—he apparently gets a special pass—but not Ms. March.

  The crow’s feet around her dark eyes deepen, and the skin flap beneath her narrow chin vibrates as she squares her shoulders. “I’m waiting for an explanation, George Jr.”