“What have you planned to do, Mama? I won’t be someone’s whore.”
“You won’t be just anyone’s whore. No.” Her mother smiled.
Unease grew in Rowan’s belly. That smile wasn’t encouraging. “I won’t be a whore at all.”
“Rosaline is sending her man today. You will live there with her so that I can die in peace knowing you are safe.”
Rowan’s breath caught in her throat. “Never. I won’t go. How could you do this? You want your only child to lay down for one man after another every night? You might have enjoyed that but I do not.”
“Rosaline will protect you. You’ll be very popular, and that means you get certain privileges. Your pretty hair and golden skin are a tempting combination, and rich men love rare things. Some men will pay very much for the honor of lying next to you simply because you are my daughter. You should feel grateful. I have given you a better life than I have had. You will live in a grand home with servants and your own room. You will have fancy new clothes and decent food so you won’t look like a beanpole no more. Rose won’t put you to work until she’s trained you, so you’ll know what you’re doing.”
“Oh well, that makes it okay then. I can spread my legs much easier now.”
“You’ll get used to it. You might even grow to like it. It’s amazing how much power a woman holds between her legs.”
Jolene stepped toward the little shack, her head high. Apparently, the discussion was over. She moved slowly, perhaps with a slight hunch to her usually straight back.
The sun was nearly full in the sky and the air had warmed. Rowan would not be around for Rosaline’s man; they would not force her to do this. She hurried to the porch and felt around beneath the weathered boards until she found her bag. Shaking off the moss and the dirt, she slung it over her shoulder. Whether Mama was dying or not, Rowan wouldn’t let them treat her like property. She could hide in the swamp, there were few who would dare to look for her out here.
Just don’t get tangling with a caiman and you’ll be fine.
As she steered the old pirogue down the narrow river, the murky water ahead rippled. As though they knew she spoke of them, the gators moved stealthily next to the little boat. If she were to bump it on anything and tip, she wouldn’t have time to ponder her death.
A shiver went through her at the idea. It would be a better fate than Rosaline’s house. At least with the gators, she’d only be someone’s meal once.
CHAPTER 3
Jolene stood at the sagging screen door as Rowan sneaked away. Shaking her head, she sighed and turned back into the shack. She’d spoiled the girl. It would be difficult to make her see that sometimes in life you had to take a few lumps; not everyone had the opportunity to live a life full of fine things. Nothing in this life was free. Some would pay more than Rowan had to. Far more. The pain in her chest distracted her for a moment. Taking short breaths until it passed, she lay down on the lumpy couch to rest.
By early afternoon, the heat would make it impossible to breathe and she would need her strength then. Rosaline’s man would arrive soon, and Jolene would have to drag her daughter back. Perhaps she should have arranged for him to take her immediately after Henri finished. No matter. Rowan could only have run to one place, and Jolene was not afraid to go after her, black magic or not.
Eyes closed, she wandered back in time. Where had she gone wrong? At what point did she lose control?
Rowan’s father, son of the great Pascal Dumas, had fooled her into letting him into her bed and her life. He made grand promises and she believed them all. She knew now she had been incredibly stupid, but back then she hadn’t given it a thought. What would a Dumas want with a whore? Yes, it was clear now that happy endings were not for Jolene Maynor.
Although married, he had promised to take care of her and she’d believed him. He gave her a nice house, with servants and pretty furniture. She had money whenever she needed it and people showed her respect even if they thought she was trash. She loved how those rich bitches would swallow their hatred and smile at her, although it pained them to do so. Then came the day Jolene found she was pregnant. He changed drastically after the news, becoming abusive and cruel. He would never claim some half-breed whore’s child as his own, and refused to believe it was his.
When Rowan arrived with her pale blue eyes and dark red hair, he washed his hands of Jolene and gave her an ultimatum: the baby or him. The Dumas family had no red-haired witches in it; she couldn’t possibly belong to him.
Devastated at his rejection and desperate to protect the life she’d grown accustomed to, Jolene went to his father to beg for help.
“Monsieur Dumas, I apologize for dragging you into such a nasty affair,” Jolene began as she entered his office. The girl who let her in closed the door softly, leaving them alone, and Jolene continued. “Your son has turned us out on the street. He won’t believe that Rowan is his child, Monsieur; I was not unfaithful. She is his daughter and I cannot care for her without your help.”
Pascal stared at her for a long time. He sat behind his large oak desk toying with a ruby ring on his little finger. Dogs barked outside. Despite the grand home, the smell of rotting garbage and animals’ feces assaulted her senses. She couldn’t imagine being homeless and vulnerable to the filth in the streets. Jolene was certain he’d turn her out as his son had, but instead he smiled.
“Mademoiselle, I think you are confused. My son has a wife and a fine boy. He would not have kept your baby.”
“But she’s his child.”
“It matters not if he fathered her. C’est la mal pus. A very bad spot for you to be in, but I can be a generous man given the right incentive.”
Something in his voice made her look up.
He grinned.
There would be a price for his generosity.
“What do you want?”
“Mais bien sur, I do wish to help you and the child. I would hate to see anything bad come to you and your beautiful girl. After all, you have made my son very happy for some time. You deserve to be rewarded, non?” He paused.
Jolene eyed him warily. Like his son, Pascal Dumas was an attractive man. Although his hair had long ago lightened to a snow white, his eyes peered right into your soul, and when he smiled, a person felt as if the sun moved from behind the clouds. She could do far worse, and she had.
“I will find you a little house, out of the city of course.” He leaned on the desk, resting his chin on his hands.
She stared at his hands, manicured, with long fingers. Hands that had never seen a day of work.
“I will give you my protection. No one will bother you and I will see to it that you have all you require to survive. I will not let you go hungry.”
“What do you want in return?”
“Nothing more than you’ve given my son. You would share your, how do you say...charms? If I should have a friend now and then who needs company…” he looked at her meaningfully, a smile played on his lips. Anger bubbled in Jolene’s chest.
“Non, Monsieur. How is that better than what I’m doing now? I would be a whore once again. That is better?”
“First, you would have a roof over your head and your child, she would be safe. Second, you would still breathe. It sounds much better to my ears than your alternative.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Never, ma pitchouts. I am giving you the facts. You will not slander my son’s name by claiming that little witch as his child. I cannot allow such gossip to be bandied about.”
“I would say nothing.”
“Ah, I wish I could be certain. Either you accept the deal I have offered, or you shall find your days are numbered. C’est simple.”
Jolene chewed her lip, and glanced at the sleeping infant in her arms. What else could she do? She would have to earn money to support the baby. If it wasn’t Pascal it would have to be someone. The child was his granddaughter. He knew the truth about that. Red hair or brown, he knew who her father was. Jol
ene had no idea where the girl’s coloring had come from, she didn’t care, it was just damn inconvenient.
“All right, Monsieur, you have a deal,” she muttered.
“Tres bien!” He rose and stepped around the desk to take her by the shoulders.
Jolene had to look up as Pascal towered over her.
“Meet me in town at your house tonight. Pack only what you need and I will take you to your new home. I see good things for you and me, ma cherie.”
Jolene smiled and allowed him to place a dry kiss on her mouth. She left the Dumas estate with her head high. Anyone watching her leave would have thought she had gotten exactly what she wanted. Jolene would never allow them to believe otherwise.
***
As Pascal led her to an old pirogue at the edge of the bayou running behind the plantation, her heart plummeted. There would be no pretty house in the country. No rose garden with a fenced in yard. He was hiding her in the swamp, alone with the gators and the spirits.
“This is what you call a better life?” she fumed, holding the baby tighter as the small boat rocked. “I am sorry, Monsieur Dumas, but I don’t wish for my daughter to grow up a swamp rat.”
“Better a swamp rat than not to grow at all, is it not?”
Jolene held her tongue. The mosquitoes buzzed. Rowan fussed as they tormented her. Jolene covered her with the blanket despite the sickening heat.
They traveled deep into the bayou, navigating around the cypress stumps and clumps of hyacinth, coming to a part of the river so narrow the boat’s sides scraped against the banks. They came to a stop in front of a dilapidated shack set far back from the bank of the river.
Pascal smiled, offering her his hand. “Welcome to your new home, Mademoiselle Maynor. Let’s get your bags inside so you and I can get better acquainted.”
Jolene got out of the little boat and made her way up the steep bank. The house looked worse as she moved closer to it. The small porch was missing boards and the screen door hung on one hinge, full of holes.
Pascal opened it and ushered her inside, where she nearly cried. A small stove sat in the corner of the one-room shack, a bucket of coal next to it. A bed had been placed in the other. In the center of the front room sat a small table with two chairs, looking ready to crumble at any moment. The bed was the only item that seemed new. Of course, it would be all that Pascal was concerned with since it was all that he planned to use. His body couldn’t possibly touch anything soiled by another.
“It is nice, non?” he asked.
“Non, it is not nice. It is not even bad. It is disgusting and I hate it. I could go to any whore house and find a thousand times better than this.”
“Oui, you may do so but they do not welcome infants so much. Also I believe we made a deal. Look at this....” He stepped over to the bed and reached under to pull out a white basket covered in pink lace. It was new.
She felt a small relief knowing the baby would sleep somewhere other than that bed.
“See, I have provided everything. What more do you need?”
“A couch to sit on, a door that is not full of holes, and possibly some things to clean the place with. Oh, while you are doing all of that you might find me a house. This is a shack—for trash.”
He took the baby from her and set her in the basket.
Rowan’s eyes lit up as they settled on the pretty lace. She cooed happily.
“Mais oui, ma petite. In time, it will be better. You must have patience. First we must make sure I am getting a good deal, then I will reward you accordingly.”
He pulled Jolene against him.
She looked up, unblinking.
His dark eyes held a gleam that sent a shiver down her spine. Lowering his mouth, he brushed cool lips against hers.
Oh, he would get all that he deserved and more. He was a dirty old man who was lucky that she had fallen on hard times. Someone as desired as Jolene Maynor did not make deals. If it wasn’t for the power he held over the life of her child, she would never have agreed to this arrangement.
“Let us seal our deal. I have been told that you are worth much more than money.” He whispered against her ear. His breath seared her neck as his hands roamed her backside.
Jolene allowed him to kiss her but did not return his passion.
He pulled the thin dress over her head, growling as he ran his large hands over her body. “You will not stand there like the dead. That is not my deal.”
Jolene sighed. She would be a whore forever it seemed. How could she have allowed herself to believe otherwise? She loosened his pants and smiled her sweetest smile. “All right then, let me show you who got the better bargain here. Tomorrow I expect to see some new furniture and some repairs. Tonight, I will make you see I deserve much more than you have given.”
She knelt before him, drawing his pants down with her. His breath quickened as she nipped at his thigh. At least he wasn’t shriveled and puny as some old men were. It was far easier to pretend pleasure when they were equipped to give it. Taking him into her mouth Jolene sealed her end of their bargain.
CHAPTER 4
Rowan navigated the pirogue deeper into the bayou. The morning mist dampened her skin. She breathed deep the smell of the swamp: sweet, with a hint of decay; a smell she’d grown to love.
She kept an eye out for pursuers, not because she worried about being caught, but to keep her destination secret. Very few people knew about the little shack hidden in this remote part of the swamp. A passerby wouldn’t notice it at all. Covered in moss, it blended in behind the tall oaks and weeping cypress trees that surrounded it. Its owner liked privacy and the price of revealing its location was high.
Rowan searched the green mass of trees and leaves for the marker. The morning sky reflected pink and orange off the murky water, bright enough to make out the edge of the bank but casting everything beyond into golden shadows. A bullfrog croaked somewhere, soon drowned by the sounds of birds awakening, squawking and rustling the trees, searching for breakfast.
Had she mistaken the distance? Rowan considered turning around, but then she saw it. Poking out of a mass of black-eyed Susans, dead eyes and a wide grin stared back at her. Angling the boat toward the bank, Rowan moved quickly, eager to get the craft hidden before anyone spotted it.
“Good morning, Charles,” she greeted the gator’s head fastened to a cypress stump among the yellow blooms. “Does Mama Gator know that you’ve been decorated? You are far too ugly to be hiding in these pretty flowers. You stand out like a sore thumb my dear friend.”
Rowan stepped out of the little boat. Sticky, cool mud seeped over her bare feet to cover her ankles. She heaved the boat up the bank, slipping several times. As she labored to pull the boat through the mud, sweat trickled down her face. Finally, when she reached a patch of leaves it slid easier over the ground.
Rowan stopped to catch her breath. “This is why I don’t come see you more often, Charles. Most people have a dock, or a stump to tie the boat to, but Mama Gator can’t have none of that.”
Rowan scanned the river. In its center a large gator watched, only his eyes and the top of his head visible. Tiny ripples, barely discernable, fanned around him as he edged closer. She stood and patted Charles’s head. “I don’t think I’ll stay for breakfast. I’m sure you understand.”
She dragged the boat into the trees behind Charles’ stump and then turned it over. While the mildewed bottom blended into the leaf-covered ground, it wouldn’t be enough. She covered the boat with leaves and dirt. Once satisfied that anyone crazy enough to travel this far down the river wouldn’t see it from the water, she stood and stared at the opposite bank. Rowan recalled the first time she’d found this place and Mama Gator. Tears blurred her vision as she recalled that day when she foolishly believed she might escape her birthright.
***
Rowan had found Mama Gator when she was just twelve years old. She’d spent the day searching for plants and other ingredients for her mother’s potions and had load
ed her bag into her boat and then poled it into the deep water, but something made her pause. Worried she forgot something, Rowan had set the pole along the side of the boat so she could search through her bag. If she forgot a single item on the list, Mama would be furious.
A quick search confirmed she had every item on Mama’s list. Still, Rowan felt as though she was missing something. Ignoring a sudden instinct to pole the boat away from her home, Rowan set the bag on the bottom of the boat and stood. Her foot hit the side and she’d stumbled, but managed to regain her balance. She took a calming breath and turned to pick up the pole, but it was gone. Rowan realized she’d kicked the pole when she stumbled, and it now floated too far to reach it. The gators watched her from the banks, as though waiting for her to jump in or fall, and provide them with a snack.
Cursing herself, she sat down and cried while her boat drifted further down the bayou, away from home. She must have made an awful racket for Mama Gator to have heard her. The old woman claimed that the spirits had sent Rowan to that part of the swamp for a reason, and carried her cries through the trees to Mama Gator’s ears. Knowing all that she knew now, there could be some truth to that. Mama Gator always seemed to know when Rowan needed help.
Mama Gator’s real name was Celestine. She had no last name; if she did, she dropped it long ago. The little shack she called home had belonged to her grandmother and then her mother. She never spoke of a father, or any man for that matter, and Rowan didn’t dare ask.
When she appeared on the bank that day, Rowan thought she was a ghost and fear gripped her heart.
“What you cryin bout chile?” Mama Gator yelled from the bank.
Rowan stared back at the tiny old woman. Her skin as black as the mud that lined the riverbanks and her white hair stood out in stark contrast, hanging in dreads to her little waist.
“You keep squawkin like dat, dem gators is gonna eat you jus to shut you up, girl!”
Rowan stopped crying. She looked at the gators that seemed to grin at the old woman’s words. She wondered why they didn’t bother the old lady sitting on the bank so close to them.
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