to Claire Zion editor extraordinaire

for insights

friendship

and guidance

above and beyond

"I only meant. . . that it doesn't look like I expected a plantation to look. That it looks. . . haunted"

"Some folks say it is." He seemed nervous and drummed his fingers rapidly on the steering wheel. "So how come you wanted to come out here in the first place?"

"I like old houses." She could still feel his eyes in the mirror, and she avoided them. "Can't you please try to get through? I'd really like to get a better look."

Another hesitant glance toward the driveway. "Did you ask anyone else at the station about this place? Did you ask anyone else about driving you out here?"

Olivia regarded him in surprise. "No. Yours is the only cab I saw when I got off the bus, so I asked you. Why?"

"No reason. I'll just go in a little ways, then. It « private property, you know."

As he steered beneath a sweeping tunnel of arched oak trees, she looked out at the tall weeds scraping the sides of the car and thought how ironic it was that this godforsaken place could be the end of all her hopes.

She'd had a lot of time for thinking lately—too much time—standing for hours, just staring at Mama's grave. And then during all those long nights afterward, lying in bed, when peace of mind wouldn't come, when nightmares had hammered at her with memories and mistakes she'd rather have forgotten. Sad, wasted childhood days. Mama's frenzied ravings. An endless succession of leering stepfathers.

She could still remember the face of the one who'd tried to rape her—his sweaty hands fumbling up under her dress, his thick lips crushing back her screams—only he hadn't counted on her instinct to

survive. To keep intact the one thing that was still private and still hers.

She'd never regretted what she'd done to him.

And afterward . . . after Mama had hidden him where no one would know . . . Olivia had actually grown to love her own private solitude. The endless hours alone locked away in the tiny attic room. Where no one ever ranted or screamed or tried to hurt her. . . where people seldom remembered to come, except sometimes when Mama thought clearly enough to bring a tray or brought the men to look at her. It had been a comfort to Olivia then, just dreaming her long, wonderful dreams . . . and gazing down between the bars of her window—down, down into the cool, green yard below.

And she'd had other times to think, too. All those days and days on the bus ride here. Hating each stop on those country back roads. Making such big plans along those miles and miles of scorched highway. Imagining a better place, a brighter place, where someone would welcome her in and care for her, where she'd never have to worry about life, or need anything—ever again—

Life.

She almost laughed out loud, considering it now. It seemed to Olivia that she'd lived countless lifetimes in her eighteen years—and every one of them empty and aching and afraid. So when fate had stepped in unexpectedly, she'd just considered it her due. A welcome and generous gift from a grandmother she'd never even known.

She'd been so depressed that day, going through Mama's things, finding nothing of any real value or sentiment to even justify her mother's life. And when

the box had fallen from the closet, spilling papers over the floor, one had landed right at Olivia's feet, almost like an omen. And she'd seen the letter there, old and yellowed, scrawled and signed in a spidery hand— and the envelope with a place marked on it in the upper left-hand corner—and all those years of Mama's hating and blaming suddenly congealed into a person —someone who actually existed —a mysterious woman with a beautiful name—Rosalee Devereaux.

Grandmother.

"You better get out here, if you're getting out."

With a start, Olivia came back to the present and saw the cab driver watching her. He was probably not much older than she was, and as he rested his right arm along the top of the seat, she could see a tattoo of a snake crawling along his elbow.

"Excuse me?"

"You did want to get out, didn't you?" he said, turning away again. "To look around?"

She hesitated, and he glanced back over his shoulder.

"You sure you didn't come here to town to see somebody?" he asked suddenly. "You sure nobody's expecting you?"

They were much closer to the house now. It loomed up behind waves of overgrown vines and untrimmed hedges, beyond straggling clumps of azaleas and a twisted border of banana trees. Through a gray veil of dripping moss, she could see it framed there in a grove of ancient oaks—the sagging roof, the chimneys crumbling softly—even the ivy choking its eight front columns looked wilted and tired. Deep, stagnant shadows sweltered beneath the eaves of its galleries, and the air hung without moving, thick and sticky and

hot, heavy with magnolias and the stench of rotting damp.

"No. No one. Why do you ask?" She couldn't stop staring at the house, and a peculiar feeling of dread began to creep over her.

"Just seems kinda funny," he said. "Getting off a bus and wanting to come straight out here like you did."

"I. . . only heard about this place on the trip," Olivia lied. "Another passenger was talking about it. He said there was an old plantation outside of town, and since I liked old houses so much, I should try and see it while I was here. That's all." The driver was looking at her so intently that she almost panicked, thinking that in some bizarre way he'd seen right through her story. "So who lives here?" she asked innocently.

He shrugged, picking slowly at his dirty fingernails. "Folks say old Miss Devereaux still owns it, but you couldn't prove it by me. Hell, old man Hatcher has the store in town, he gets a letter from her four times a year and makes deliveries out here with supplies. Been doing it as long as anyone can remember. Always leaves the stuff by the front door, sometimes he hears her talking inside, sometimes not. Leaves the bill, then gets his money in the mail. Last trip out here was nearly two months ago. I expect she could be stone dead by now, and nobody would know a thing about it. Or care."

Olivia's heart leapt into her throat and fluttered there. The thought that her grandmother might actually be dead by now had never even occurred to her.

"Can you tell me anything about her?" she asked. Through the mist, the house gazed back with a vacant stare.

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"Who, Miss Devereaux? Nobody knows anything about her. She wants to be left alone, and that's what folks do—leave her alone. Well, just look at the place."

Olivia did so, her hands twisting in her lap. "I just assumed that anyone who owned a plantation must be very rich," she said again.

"Rich," he said sarcastically, "Yeah, you're looking at the height of luxury here. The old-timers in town— they'll tell you, all right. Generations of them Devereauxs—all crazy as—"

He broke off abruptly. She saw his eyes move to the mirror, flick to the windows on each side of the car, settle uneasily back on the windshield.

"What is it?" she asked, unconsciously moving closer to the middle of the seat.

"Nothing." His voice was almost surly. "Look, this is all just gossip. People say the Devereaux women never leave this house—since the War. Except for that last one. Miss Devereaux's daughter."

Olivia's heart quickened. An image of Mama's face . . . her wild, sad eyes.

"What about the last one?"

"Way I heard it, she ran off, and no one ever saw her again. But then," he shrugged, "how would I know about that? Folks say the old lady disowned her— hated her so much she put a curse on her, maybe. So she couldn't ever come back even if she'd wanted to. Hell, some folks say maybe the old lady's really a witch. But who believes stuff like that? It's all old wives' tales, anyhow."

"So no one's ever seen her? Miss Devereaux, I mean? Surely she couldn't live here all by herself. She must have help?"

There was a moment of silence. He gestured toward

the house, and his laugh sounded forced. "Now why would you ask that? You lookin' for work?"

Olivia tried to keep her tone casual. "Well ... I could use a job right now. I don't really have anywhere to go, and Fm almost out of money."

She noticed his shoulders stiffening ... his eyes darting back to her again in the rearview mirror.

"You got family?" he asked. "Friends around here?"

"No. I told you before. Fm not from around here, and I don't have any family. I'm just. . . passing through town."

"Where you headed?"

"Nowhere in particular. Do you know someplace I might be able to get a job?"

"I'm not sure I can help you with that one. Some folks say the old lady hires girls out here sometimes. If you want to go knock at the front door and ask, why don't you?"

Olivia hesitated. "Will you wait for me?"

"Sure." He reached around and shoved open her door. "I'll park back there on the road. But it's almost dark, and we're about as far away from town as we can get, so hurry up. And watch where you step. It's perfect hiding for snakes out there."

She saw his eyes sweep over the driveway, the house, the mist-shrouded grounds, then slide back to focus on her face. Uneasily she swung her feet out onto the ground.

"Thanks for the warning. I won't be long."

She stood and watched as he backed out of the drive, and a sudden feeling of panic caught in her chest. Just look at this horrible place . . . maybe I've wasted my time . . . maybe I should go back now . .. maybe I shouldn't even have come here at all . . .

Lifting her eyes to the ghostly scene before her, she wondered why, in the hundred-degree heat, she suddenly felt so cold.

The house was even more pathetic up close. As Olivia waded through the weeds, she could see the walls and columns of plastered brick, peeled away like open sores, old paint faded to a dying pink. A rickety wooden banister ran along an upper gallery, and above that level, a third, smaller story was lined with broken shutters. On either side of the front entrance, tall windows reached nearly to the crumbling brick of the veranda, and on the second level, a filthy row of glassed and transomed French doors lined the gallery like so many lifeless eyes.

And I've seen that look before, she thought with a shock— on Mama's face, in my own mind, I've seen that emptiness before —and as the shadows gathered and deepened across the windows, she turned and ran back down the drive, fighting her way through the tangled overgrowth back toward the road, overwhelmed with a terrible fear.

"I've changed my mind!" she called out, running toward the cab, where she'd seen him back up, where he'd promised to wait. "I've changed my mind—I want to leave—"

But the road was empty.

And as Olivia stood there in horrible realization, the house began to fade ... to disappear behind her in the falling darkness.

owned in the world. Not that it amounted to anything, she thought wryly. Mama'd never let her get a driver's license, and what money they'd managed to scrimp away had been buried under a rock in the backyard.

What am I going to do now?

She hadn't planned for it to be this way . .. hadn't planned it this way at all. She'd only wanted to get a look at the house first—just to convince herself that it really did exist. That Rosalee Devereaux was still alive and still lived there. What was it the cab driver had said. . . "hated her so much, she put a curse on her . . . she couldn't come back even if she'd wanted

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But I'm back, Grandmother, Olivia thought, and a surge went through her, half defiance, half fear. And Mama hated you more than you could ever have hated her . . . but I'm different . . . / don't think like Mama or even look like Mama — and I don 'tfeel like Mama either —/ belong here . . . it's my right.

But not like this. She'd wanted to work into it slowly . . . have time to think what to do. Get a cheap room in town. Ask discreet questions around. Not like this. It's too soon — I'm not ready —

She refused to cry. She squinted through the dark, looking for some sign of light in the distance. It was easy, standing here alone in the road, to tell herself that none of this was really happening. . . that the house she'd seen only moments before hadn't been real at all. ..

She was good at making up things like that.

It was one of the things she'd always done best.

Forcing herself to move at last, Olivia turned back to the driveway. As she passed beneath the first overhang of trees, a slow crawl of mist went over her face, and she gasped for breath. The air had grown

unbelievably thicker. As she tried to push forward, she could feel long, wet tentacles coiling around her body, pulling her determinedly into the fog. She put out her hands, afraid to reach too far ahead or to her sides ... afraid of what she might touch. The quiet was deep— unnatural —yet as she tried doggedly to keep on the path, Olivia suddenly heard something beneath the layers and layers of silence—something that sent a stab of ice into her veins.

It came from nowhere ... yet everywhere . . . like the roaring that came sometimes deep, deep in her mind. Only it wasn 't the roaring this time—this was outside her head, she was sure of it A faint rustling of grass ... a soft stirring of leaves ... a whisper of air along the ground.

As though something had passed very close to her.

Hiding itself in the fog . . .

Olivia froze, her ears straining through the stillness. And suddenly she could hear it—its unhurried breathing—the slow, steady beating of its heart—yet she couldn't be hearing it—it was impossible! — because the night was so quiet, so totally, frightening-ly quiet.

Something trailed across her face, and she struck out at it wildly. Moss? But the tunnel was wide and vaulted, and she knew the moss didn't hang down this far—

"It's perfect hiding for snakes ..."

She tried to run. She could feel the weeds catching at her skirt, scratching down her legs, and as she pushed recklessly ahead, she stumbled over a twisted knot of exposed tree roots and sprawled facedown. For a long moment she lay there, stunned. But then, as she rolled over onto her back . . . she felt her blood slowly chill.

Eyes,

She knew they were there—watching her warily from the shadows—and as she lay upon the ground, her body began to burn, to tremble uncontrollably, and she could feel them crawling over her, every inch of her, eyes used to darkness, taking their time. Like the sounds, they seemed to come at her from everywhere and nowhere at all—holding her with their intensity. But even more terrifying was the keen intelligence she felt from their hidden stare— something predatory yet human—a ruthless all-knowing that rendered her helpless.

"Who's there?" she cried out. "I know someone's there—who are you!"

The feeling slid away and was gone.

As if invisible chains had freed her, Olivia jumped up and plunged wildly on in the direction of the house. The driveway hadn't seemed so long before, and though she was certain she'd come farther this time than last, every few feet of ground she covered seemed to stretch themselves out again at the end of the tunnel, keeping the house just as impossibly far away.

At last the shadows seemed to lighten and lift, forming a hazy arc, and as she stepped through it, away from the canopy of oaks, she found herself facing the wide expanse of lawn, its details gray and fused now, shifting uneasily beneath the sprawling limbs of even more huge trees. Long black shadows crawled over the galleries, and the damp breeze fanned fingers of moss into her hair as she hurried toward the house. Raising her eyes to the windows above, Olivia thought she saw a movement on the third floor. There—just for a moment—it seemed as though a pair of shutters had moved—had closed —as

if some unseen hand had drawn them shut from within.

"Hello!" she cried. "Is anyone here?"

Her voice came back to her, mocking and faint, as if some other lost soul was out there stranded in the mist. . . calling to her for help.

"Hello?" she shouted again, but there was no answer, no further movement of any kind. As she reached the front veranda, she fell against the door and pounded on it with her fists. "Please! Is anyone home? I need your help!"

Her cries seemed to hang in the air . . . strange, ghostly sounds. And then, abruptly, they were gone, as if the house had swallowed them whole.

Olivia took hold of the latch. To her surprise it turned easily in her hand, and the door began to open.

"Hello?" she whispered. "Is anyone here?"

She took a cautious step forward, pausing just short of the threshold. The door creaked open several more feet, then came to rest against the wall with a final thud. For several seconds Olivia stood and stared and thought she must be imagining the pale glow that seemed to emanate from the air around her. But she wasn't imagining it—and as her eyes widened in disbelief, she saw the softly lit hallway stretching out before her, and the lamps flickering on low tables along the walls.

"My God . . . someone really does live here."

And now, as her eyes began to adjust, she could see the tall, wide doors, all of them closed, lining the long corridor, and how old and scarred the wooden floor was, and how the papered walls buckled with faded brown water stains.

"Hello?" she whispered again. "Anyone? Please answer me . . ."

13

She began to walk, glancing nervously toward the doors as she passed. The rooms were hidden from view, and yet she had distinct impressions of massive space and mustiness and heat clinging damply to high old ceilings. She didn't even realize she was walking on tiptoe until she heard the soft creak of floorboards underfoot. . . didn't realize she was holding her breath until a sudden wave of dizziness forced her to suck in some air. She'd never been in such a long hallway before—nor one that gave off such an unsettling aura, as though the lamps had been lit for a visitor who would never arrive. The feeling was so strong that she had to stop and get hold of herself, and that's when she sensed again that she was being watched.

Lifting her eyes slowly, Olivia let her gaze wander over the walls ... the tables ... the sputtering lamps . . .

She heard the front door groaning shut . . . closing her in . . .

With a gasp, she spun around, nearly screaming when she saw what was behind her.

Two eyes shone in the half light, huge and dark and unsettlingly calm.

They seemed to have no face.

As the first rush of terror went over her, Olivia felt her breath drain out in a long, weakening sigh.

It was only a portrait. Practically hidden in shadow, she could see it now as she went closer, the eyes gazing down at her serenely, yet somehow curious, as if wondering why she was there.

It was the face of a young man.

The most handsome face she had ever seen.

He had beautiful eyes. Even in the dimness Olivia could see their soft, expressive depths reflecting the

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shimmering lamplight. His face was slender, his features almost delicate, the pale tan of his complexion heightened by his dark mane of hair, his mustache and beard. And yet, as she looked more closely, she recognized something tragic in his stare—tragic and somehow resigned—that disturbed her. She couldn't take her eyes from his. She reached upward toward his face, then felt her hand freeze in midair.

Somewhere, people were talking.

Olivia listened for a moment, thinking she must have imagined it. The low murmur of voices seemed to be coming from farther down the hall, and as she debated whether or not to turn and flee, she realized she had no choice but to follow the sounds and try to find help. She moved as quietly as she could, glancing nervously at the surrounding shadows, half expecting other eyes to appear, fearful that they might be real this time. When she spotted a sliver of light between the double doors near the end of the passage, she put her ear to the crack and listened.

"Did you see her? She's dead, for God's sake," a voice said shakily. "The last thing I wanted was to have her frightened and upset. What on earth happened?"

It was the voice of an old woman, weary and sad. And yet, with the very first word it spoke, Olivia felt an uncanny sense of knowing that cut through her like a knife.

Grandmother.

She didn't know how she knew, but there wasn't the slightest doubt in her mind. Her heart raced wildly, and as she pressed closer to the tiny opening, she heard a chair scraping the floor, and someone else began to talk.

"I.. . I'm not sure. Helen found her in the yard

early this morning. She must have fallen from the third-floor gallery." A male voice this time, gentle and soft, but obviously in great distress.

"Fallen?" the old woman echoed. "Or jumped?"

"She had no reason to jump. She never realized what was happening to her."

"Hmmm ... I can't help but wonder about that."

"You know he's very good at what he does. He always has been. They hardly even feel it. They simply sleep. There's only a little weakness." His voice faltered, then trailed away.

"Are you all right? You seem so pale this evening."

"It's nothing. I'm just thinking about Antoinette. How sorry I am."

"Well, need I remind everyone around here how very difficult it is finding young women like her? All the precautions we must take . . . and to have it end like this—"

"I can't believe it happened either. If only I could have done something."

"Oh, my dear, you know you couldn't."

"If only I could have stopped it. . ." He sounded hopeless . . . empty. "Stopped everything. Somehow."

"You never can," the old woman said softly. "No matter how much you want to."

There was something about their voices—their grim conversation—that filled Olivia with a strange mixture of sadness and fear. She was so intent on listening that she didn't realize one of them had started toward her hiding place. Too late, she heard the footsteps approaching, and as she turned and fled back down the hall, the doors began to open.

The groan of old hinges echoed down and down the

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corridor . . . lamplight flickered wildly up the walls as a cold draft swept along the passage . . .

"She hated her so much she put a curse on her."

And a million terrors and uncertainties rushed through Olivia's mind as she ran for the door—things that shouldn't even matter now because she was already here and it was much too late for worrying—

No, no, I can't be caught like this, not like this, I've got to hide, but where —

She could sense that someone had stepped out into the hallway just behind her.

And as Olivia shook the front doorknob and found it locked, she keeled over in a make-believe faint and lay motionless upon the dirty floor.

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pulling back again, though she was fairly certain she was still being watched.

In a booming voice that seemed quite collected now, the woman called out, "Miss Rose! Some stranger's done fainted out here in the hall!"

Olivia lay there feigning unconsciousness, her heart racing in fear as she willed her face expressionless. She could hear other people approaching now from the opposite end of the corridor, but they came hesitantly, as though exercising great caution. Listening closely, she guessed there to be two of them, and wondered if they'd been the ones she'd eavesdropped on. From the dull, thudding sound that accompanied their footsteps, she decided that one of them was using a cane.

"Who is that? What in God's name is she doing here?" The old woman's voice hovered right over Olivia, and it was hoarse with alarm. "How did she get in?"

"My God ... is she dead?" It was the other voice Olivia had heard behind the doors—the man's voice with its soft, slow Southern accent—only now he sounded frightened.

"No, she ain't dead." The woman with the deep voice spoke up, jostling Olivia roughly in her arms. "Just passed out, that's all. The poor child's rail thin, Miss Rose, just look at her. But what I wants to know is, who let her inside the house when—"

"Don't mind that now," the old woman broke in anxiously. "Just get her out of here."

"To where? Where should I gets her out to?"

"I don't care—just do it. And for God's sake, don't let Skyler see her. Oh, how on earth could this have happened—"

"She's so beautiful," the man whispered, and as his hand trailed across her cheek, Olivia tried not to react. His touch was so gentle ... his skin startlingiy cool.

"Get away from her," the old woman said, though not unkindly. "You've got to go back now—if she woke up—what a fine mess—"

"But she is beautiful." He spoke again, his voice as gentle as his touch. "We can't just turn her out—you can see she needs to be taken care of—"

"You do what Miss Rose says now, you hear?" The loud voice spoke sharply, and Olivia felt the smooth, tender hand slide away. "I'll take care of her—just go on back now."

To her bewilderment, Olivia heard footsteps moving away again down the hall, followed by a long, uneasy silence. Not until the steps had completely faded did the old woman venture a whisper.

"This frightens me, Yoly. What is she doing here?"

"Don't you worry now, Miss Rose, just leave everything to me. You just go on back and finish your supper now."

Olivia was trying so hard to lie still. Without any warning, she felt herself being lifted into a pair of burly arms as if she were no more than a baby and, after a short walk, deposited again onto a lumpy surface that smelled of mildew. She knew she couldn't pretend any longer—slowly she opened her eyes and frowned, waiting for her surroundings to come into focus.

"'Bout time," the husky voice grumbled. The black woman was well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and raw-boned, her huge hands clasped together in the lap of her black dress and black apron. Nothing showed of her hair—instead, a black kerchief molded itself to the shape of her head and knotted back

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behind her thick neck. Her skin was so dark that her face seemed almost featureless, but as Olivia continued to stare at her, she noticed two faint pinpricks of light and realized with a start that the woman's black eyes were staring straight back at her.

"What you doin' here, child? You got lots of explainin' to do."

"I—" Olivia looked back at her helplessly.

"Speak up now. What you doin' here? What you doin' out here in the hall?"

"I'm ... not sure."

"You not sure? What kind of answer's that? Don't you know where you's supposed to be?"

"I . . . got lost." Olivia's mind was racing, and she put a shaky hand up to her forehead.

"You got lost?" The woman regarded her with an unblinking stare. "No one gets lost out this way. Where was you goin'?"

"He robbed me," Olivia mumbled. "I got out of the cab because I didn't feel well. . . and the driver went oflf and left me here."

"Cab!" A look of surprise crossed the woman's face. She seemed to consider Olivia's answer for several seconds, then asked, "What you doin' way out here in some cab? Did that cab driver bring you out here . . . for a reason?"

"Could I please have some water?" Olivia looked away, unable to meet the woman's piercing gaze. "I think I might be sick."

She could feel the woman's eyes boring into the side of her head. She closed her eyes again.

"You fainted, you know that? You remember what happened? You remember anything?"

Olivia shook her head, and the black woman sighed impatiently.

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

"I'll get you your water. And you can rest yourself for a while. But then you gots to leave."

"Thank you," Olivia managed to whisper. She waited to hear the door close, to hear the woman's heavy tread fade away again down the hall.

It hadn't actually been a lie, Olivia argued to herself; she really did feel as if she could faint. Her stomach was hardened into a cold knot of fear, and as her eyes swept over the spacious, dimly lit room, she sat up and rubbed her arms and tried to stop shaking.

If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought she was back in the nineteenth century—except that this furniture was tattered and threadbare, and the paper on the tea-colored walls hung in mildewed shreds. As she moved to the edge of the worn velvet sofa to get a better look, the room came together in puzzle pieces of faint light and deep shadow. She saw scratched antique tables, the chipped marble of the mantel, gouged wooden floors, and moth-eaten rugs. In one corner, a clock, covered with cobwebs, had stopped at a quarter past some long-ago midnight. She suspected that the tall doors where the black woman had gone out led back to the hallway, but on the opposite wall a line of tall French doors framed the night beyond, pale shafts of light trickling out through the streaked glass and onto a brick veranda. As her eyes continued their slow appraisal of the room, they came to rest again upon the fireplace mantel. There was a canvas hanging above it, and she got up slowly to take a better look.

It was the same young man whose portrait she'd seen in the hallway—the same handsome face, the same melancholy eyes. Here, in the somewhat better light, she could see that they were of the deepest, deepest blue, almost black, like fathomless seas, and were so filled with emotion that she felt strangely

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hypnotized. There was such peace within them . . . such kindness ... yet again such immense sorrow that her heart nearly ached to look at him.

"Your water."

Jumping back, Olivia collapsed against the fire screen, her hand pressed to her heart. She hadn't heard the black woman come back. . . hadn't even heard the sound of the door.

"You scared me," she gasped, taking the glass, trying to control the quaking of her hands. "I didn't know you were—"

"You better tell me, child. And you better tell me the truth. What you doin' here?"

Olivia looked reluctantly into the woman's eyes. Their points of light had sharpened onto her face, and she took a long, slow sip of water.

"I'm looking for work."

"Work!" The eyes narrowed into slits. "You full of stories, you know that? I'm old and I've heard 'em all. So don't you try to fool me now."

"I'm not fooling you," Olivia said calmly, surprising herself at her control. "I really was looking for work." She took another drink of water, her mind reeling, stalling for time. "They said in town you might need some help out here."

"Who said?"

"I don't know. Someone. At ... at the bus station." She floundered, but only for a second. "The cab driver told me." She was proud of how confident she sounded now. She met the woman's eyes bravely. "I've been asking whenever I stop in a new town. Someone on the bus told me about this place, and—"

"What? What'd they tell you?"

"Just that it was old. I like old houses, that's all. I just wanted to see what it looked like. So when I got to

the bus stop, I asked around about it, and that cab driver said maybe I could find work."

"What else he tell you about this place?"

"Nothing. He didn't tell me anything."

"Nothin' 'bout the Devereauxs? He never said nothin' 'bout the family?"

"I didn't know who lived here." And it was amazing how easily it was all coming to her now, slipping right off her tongue, as if she'd really planned it like this after all. She lowered her glass, but her eyes remained on the woman's face. "He didn't say anything except maybe I could get a job. So he brought me out here—just so I could see the place—and I didn't feel good, so I got out of the car. And then he drove off and left me."

"So where's your pocketbook?"

"I told you, he took it." Olivia shrugged. "My suitcase, too."

"So . . ." the woman said slowly, "you ain't got nothin' with you?"

"No. Nothing. I came up here to the house to get help. I knocked and knocked, but nobody came." Olivia stopped and took a deep breath. "When I pushed on the door, it just opened. I thought maybe someone might be inside. I didn't mean to walk into your house like that—really—I just thought someone here could help me."

The black woman was watching her intently, but Olivia didn't care anymore. She finished the last of her water and handed back the glass. The woman stared at her for a long, long time.

"Whoever told you was wrong," she said at last. "There ain't no work here."

And it shocked Olivia to hear the woman say so, for

her plan had been going so well. She felt her breath catch in her throat, and something roared deep, deep in her mind, as her whole world started to crumble down around her shoulders. Tell her, tell her who you are, tell her now —the roar got louder and louder, but no, Olivia argued silently, no, I can't, it's not the right time. Something was holding her back, making her put her hands to her head, making her smother that awful roar in her brain, certain that the woman must be able to hear it—

"You can't stay here." The woman's voice was flat. "You gots to go back."

But you don't understand. . . / have to stay here . . . I belong.

"If I could just rest, then." Olivia turned away, massaging her head, the roar practically gone now. "If I could just rest here for a little while, just until I feel better."

"You's runnin' away." The woman gave her a grim smile. "Ain't you."

"No. I don't have any family." Olivia stared at the fireplace, at the portrait above it, at the vase on the mantel, heavy, dull crystal.

"How long since you ate?" Olivia felt the woman's powerful hand close around her wrist and squeeze it roughly. "Don't lie to me now."

Pulling her arm free, Olivia eased herself down into a chair . . . lowered her head between her hands.

"Sometime . . . yesterday, I think."

"And nothin' since?"

"No. Some coffee. That's all." At least this was the truth. As Olivia sighed and sagged back against the cushion, the woman gave a grunt and turned away.

"Might as well forget about ever seein' your things

again. That stuffs long gone and spent by now, I reckon. Ain't got no phone to call—even if we did, no cab gonna come out here this time of night anyhow. Can't expect you to walk back. Can't send you away sick." She was grumbling, more to herself now than to Olivia, and she shot another look in the girl's direction. "You wait here. I'll be right back."

Olivia nodded, and then on a sudden impulse pointed to the painting. "Who is that?" she asked. "His face is so . . . real."

She saw the woman's eyes flash to the portrait, then dart away again. The sturdy black hand tightened on the edge of the door.

"Wait here. Don't go out the room."

She wasn't gone long this time. Olivia had scarcely settled into her chair when the woman was back again, motioning her to stand up.

"What's your name, girl?"

"She hated her so much she put a curse on her ..."

"Olivia."

"Olivia what?"

"Hated her so much . . . she couldn't ever come back..."

Her mind raced. "Crawford," she decided. It wasn't really a lie, she told herself. Mama would never say the name of her real father, and she'd taken on so many other last names in her lifetime, she couldn't take a chance that somehow, somewhere, her grandmother might have heard one of them and be able to recognize it now. "What's your name?" she added, hoping to stop the questions.

"Yoly," the woman answered. "Miss Rose says for you to stay the night. Have some food." She glanced again at the portrait, and her voice lowered. "She'll talk to you tomorrow."

Olivia's heart gave a leap, but she managed to keep her face only mildly curious. "Miss Rose?"

"The lady I works for. Miss Devereaux. The lady of this here house."

Olivia nodded. "That's very nice of her. I'd like to thank—"

"Come with me."

Yoly swung open the door and stood aside to let Olivia pass. The hall was still dim with lamplight, but Yoly moved swiftly through the shadows, leading the way to the very rear of the house.

"You can sleep upstairs. Second floor. There ain't no air-conditionin', so you just has to stand the heat. I'll bring up some food."

There were no stairs at the end of the corridor. Instead Yoly led the way outside onto the open veranda and made a sharp turn to the right. Wisps of fog curled between the tall supporting columns along the back of the house, slid across the bricks like soft gray worms. Olivia spotted a narrow staircase tucked back against the outside wall beneath the eaves, and Yoly looked back at her as they started to climb.

"Watch these steps. Some's fallin' apart. Some's missin'."

Olivia nodded, holding onto the rickety banister as she followed Yoly up. It was nearly pitch-dark by now, but Yoly moved ahead without a light, leaving Olivia to keep up as best she could. The fog was even worse up here, and as they came out onto the second-story gallery, Olivia caught only glimpses of long, darkened windows, some with broken fanlights and transoms, some half covered by sagging shutters. It was an eerie feeling—as if they were walking into nothingness— and Olivia wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shivering. She could hear warped floorboards

groaning underfoot, and as she peered off curiously to where she thought the balustrade must be, she sensed damp, open spaces and a sheer drop to the ground below.

"Here."

She nearly collided with Yoly as the woman stopped and began to fiddle with a latch on one set of tall French doors. As Olivia stood waiting uncertainly, the doors opened, and Yoly disappeared inside. Almost immediately a dim light came on, and after a brief hesitation, Olivia went in.

Her first impression was that she'd entered some sort of cave. The doorway was recessed deeply within the thick brick walls, and as she stepped out into the room, the ceiling loomed high above her, far out of reach of the light. The room itself was enormous, made even more so by the one candle flickering on a mantel before a huge mirror. Dust lay everywhere, and as she let her eyes wander over the torn wallpaper, she heard Yoly gathering up pillows and blankets, taking them outside to shake them. Olivia gazed around at the massive furniture, the stern, shadowy portraits, the full, loose swaths of mosquito netting that cascaded down on all sides of the four-poster bed. Like a casket, she thought, an open casket for viewing a body . . . Mama should have had a pretty one like this . . . She pushed the unwelcome image from her mind and turned around and stared at the windows.

Bars.

Bars on every one of them ... as tall as the windows were tall . . . from the wooden floor to the high, high ceiling. The room obviously lay at one corner of the house, for there were two adjacent walls with outside accesses onto the encircling gallery—and two

BLOOD RO O T S

French doors on each of them, all covered over with thick strips of black iron.

Olivia walked over to one of the windows. She ran her hands slowly along the bars, then lowered her head against them, closing her eyes. But he tried to hurt me, Mama, I had to do it . . . don't do that to me again, Mama — not again — I'll be good — I'll stay right here and be just as good as —

"There ain't no electricity up here either," Yoly said behind her. "There's candles in them drawers over there. Matches, too."

"Those other doors." Olivia opened her eyes and pointed to the two interior walls. "Where do they go?"

"That one—out to the hall, but it's locked. And that one—to the room next door, but it's locked, too. All the doors is locked. 'Cept the one we come in—you can leave that one open if you wants to. Might get a breeze in here."

"Why do the outside doors have bars on them?"

Yoly turned away, shaking her head. "It ain't nothin' to worry about. They's locked, I said. Nobody comes in those doors."

"I'm not worried about someone coming in—I just wondered—"

"I'll bring you somethin' to eat." Yoly moved toward the threshold. "There's a bathroom downstairs, where we come out the back. But be careful wanderin' around in the dark." She moved outside, but Olivia called after her.

"Can I thank her?" For suddenly she was thinking about her again, trying to conjure up the sound of that tired, old voice . . . Miss Rose . . . Grandmother . . . "The lady," Olivia clarified, seeing Yoly's puzzled look. "Can I thank her for letting me stay?"

"Miss Rose." Yoly's voice was flat, and she turned her back. "I told you. She'll see you tomorrow. Not till then."

Olivia watched as Yoly faded from the doorway and into the darkness beyond. She took a deep, shaky breath and curled her fingers around the bars of the window. She pressed her whole body into them and moved slowly, rhythmically, letting the hard strips of iron grind deep into her soft flesh. They felt cool and solid and safe . . . they felt hard and angry and punishing. . . I've felt this before . . . put my head right here, my hands right here in these same spots . . . I'm free of this now but it's happening again, trapped here . . . exposed here . . .

There were no curtains on any of the windows. As Olivia lifted her eyes to the black, black night, she could see flickering shadows reflected in the grimy glass, could see her face white and anxious and bewildered, I'll have to undress here without curtains . . . sleep in this room without curtains . . . but there's nobody here . . . we're miles and miles away from the whole wide world.

"Here's your supper."

She jumped as Yoly came up behind her. How much time had passed—minutes? An hour? She had no idea how long she'd been standing there daydreaming, crushing herself into the bars, and now the warm, heavy aroma of food was luring her back into the room. She watched as Yoly deposited a tray on a table. The black woman stood so close to the candle she could have touched it easily, and yet Olivia couldn't see any reflection of candlelight in Yoly's eyes. Fascinated, Olivia stared at her, then realized with a start that Yoly had been staring back the whole time.

"It's stew." Yoly straightened up, her big hands still outstretched toward the tray.

It smelled strange—strong and almost gamy, but whether from some sort of meat or an overabundance of spices, Olivia couldn't tell.

"I hope you didn't go to any trouble." She tried to sound polite.

"Leave the tray. I'll get it tomorrow."

"Yes. And thank you for—"

"Good night."

Up until that very moment Olivia thought she'd be relieved to have Yoly gone, to have the room all to herself and her thoughts. But now, as the silence caved in like an endless black sea, she had to restrain herself to keep from calling Yoly back.

But I'm here.

This is what I wanted.

Her head fairly swam with the miracle of it all. As she took another look around the bedroom, she left the tray where it was and carried the candle outside.

She'd never seen a night so dark.

If there were clouds or stars or a moon, they didn't seem to exist in this little corner of forgotten time. Holding her candle high, Olivia peered up through the fog at the overhang, which was also the floor of the third-level balcony above. Spiderwebs hung from sagging boards; in several places the flooring had decayed all the way through. She walked cautiously toward the balustrade, then stopped, afraid to get too close. Leaning over a little, she could make out the splintered wood of the railing and the rotting posts beneath. The gallery was surprisingly wide—at least twenty feet, she guessed—yet she pressed back against the wall once more as she moved on. Close to her

room a huge magnolia tree hugged the side of the house, pressing thick, gnarled limbs against the bricks, as if squeezing the very life from its walls. Long streamers of moss dripped from the eaves above; vines and leaves spilled over the railing and trailed across the floor. The air was so incredibly muggy it sucked the breath from her throat.

Deciding to continue her exploring by daylight, Olivia turned back toward her room. She was exhausted, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to finish her dinner and fall into bed. Remembering Yoly's directions and warning about the steps, she managed to find the bathroom without any trouble. The house seemed silent and strangely empty, as if nobody at all lived there, and she hurried back along the veranda, eager to get upstairs.

It was eerie the way sounds carried through the night.

When she heard the noises, she couldn't tell at first if they were below her on the walkway or ahead of her on one of the galleries above.

All she could really be sure of was that something— somewhere—was crying.

Soft, frightened little sobs . . .

Like a trapped animal.

Pausing, Olivia lifted her head, her ears straining through the darkness.

For just a moment, she thought she'd heard laughter . . . and then a scream for help.

But the scream cut off—abruptly—

As if it wasn't meant for anyone to hear.

For the second time Olivia flattened herself against the wall and held her breath.

She could hear them now . . . within several feet of her hiding place. She could hear them slowing . . . stopping. One part of her mind told her to step forward, to reveal herself, but some other, deeper instinct warned her to keep silent.

The night seemed to thicken around her, the very air throbbing with each frantic beat of her heart.

And then she heard them again ... the footsteps . . . slow and deliberate . . . moving away from her.

Seeing her chance, Olivia moved as quickly and quietly as she could, up the steps and along the gallery toward her room.

She heard the floorboards creaking, like screams in the night.

She heard the footsteps coming after her.

In her fear, she got disoriented somehow—as she tried to open her door the latch jiggled uselessly in her hand, and she realized she'd gone too far along the gallery, missing her own room completely. Spinning around, she started back again through the fog when she realized the footsteps were right behind her now, moving unhurriedly along the wall. She threw herself into one of the brick alcoves and flattened herself against the door.

The footsteps went past her . . .

And stopped.

As Olivia drew in her breath, the mist actually seemed to part for an instant, just long enough to reveal a tall, vague form within its swirling depths. Mesmerized, she saw the head slowly lift . . . pause ... as if sniffing the very air for her whereabouts . . . as if gathering silent, secret signals from the night. In the black, black dark it was impossible to make out a

BLOOD ROOTS

face—yet she could almost feel the slow, careful tensing of the body, the way the eyes swept over her hiding place, seeing through shadows. Without warning, the mist closed in again, and she began to quiver, fire and ice rushing through her veins. And then she knew she had met this presence before—just that evening—beneath the oak trees leading to the house.

Olivia closed her eyes and prayed that when she opened them again, she'd be alone.

An eternity seemed to pass.

Finally . . . slowly . . . she worked up the courage to look.

The gallery was deserted.

Leaning forward out of the niche, she listened. And waited.

There was no sound. No movement of any kind.

It was as if whatever had been there had simply been swallowed by the night.

Thoroughly shaken, Olivia inched her way back along the balcony. She found her door but hung back at first, afraid to go through. The room throbbed with emptiness, shadows pulsing up and down the high, high walls. In slow awareness, she saw the candles on the mantel—dozens of them now—a flickering altar lit with blue and yellow tongues of tiny flame.

"Yoly?" she whispered. "Are you in here?"

As Olivia came farther into the room, the shadows seemed to slide away from her, hovering expectantly in the corners. She paused in front of the mantel and frowned at the line of candles. The fireplace with the large mirror above it stood just to one side of the bed, and she could see practically the whole room behind her reflected there in the glass. Someone had turned down the blankets and sheets and left a nightgown spread out across the pillows.

It was a pretty nightgown . . . long and white and clean.

No, Mama, don't make me . . . don't make me take it off. . .

Olivia looked down at the stub of unlit candle in her hand. Slowly she held it out to one of the flames, staring as the wick sputtered and began to burn. She tilted it, letting the hot wax trickle down onto the mantel, and then she held it in the small, soft puddle of itself until it hardened again and stayed upright.

From the spotted depths of the mirror she saw her own reflection, dark eyes too large for her thin face, light brown hair hanging down past her shoulders, arched brows and high cheekbones and a mouth that had never done much smiling. She gazed at herself in the glass and saw the shadows stirring at her back, closing in on her again . . . gathering into vague, formless shapes.

She unbuttoned her blouse and slid it from her shoulders, dropped her skirt to the floor and stepped out of it. In the mirror her movements were graceful ... mysterious. She slipped out of her bra, and she was only in her panties now, her body like a dream . . . soft and white in the darkness. She let her hands glide over her breasts ... the round, soft fullness of them, gleaming in the mirror ... in the glass of the doors and windows . . . yes . . . yes . . . this is me . . . here and all around myself. . . here in this house, in this place where I belong.

She walked to the bed to get her nightgown. It slipped from her hands onto the floor, and she bent slowly to pick it up. She went back to the mirror and raised her arms above her head, feeling the soft flow of cotton against her bare skin as the nightgown enveloped her like a cloud.

Behind her reflection the shadows shifted once more . . . dissolved . . . then stirred restlessly, as if trying to rearrange themselves into some definite shape.

And it was a human shape, Olivia could see it now, forming in the mirror, forming right behind her, a human shape—a head—a human face —indistinct again . . . fading . . .

As she stared in disbelief, two unearthly glimmers of light peered back at her from the darkness ... a warm trail of breath slid down the back of her neck . . .

The candles flared wildly.

One by one, they went out.

Without warning something pulled her away from the mantel and flung her across the bed. Kicking and flailing at the darkness, she felt herself being pinned on her back, and something pierced the inside of her thigh, causing her to scream in pain. Terrified, she tried to roll away, but she couldn't move, couldn't see, and her thigh—burning—throbbing—warm blood running down between her legs—

"Oh, God, help me!"

But whatever had been holding her was gone, and the shadows settled, calm and empty, around the bed. Moaning softly, Olivia managed to drag herself to the edge and get up. As she stumbled across the floor, blood oozed down over her foot and she slipped, grabbing out frantically for the wall.

But it wasn't the wall she touched there in the darkness . . .

It was someone's face.

BLOOD ROOTS

"Go ahead." The laugh again, but then it faded, and when the voice came once more it was pensive. "Screams don't mean anything here. You'll see." It was another male voice, another Southern accent, but not the one she'd heard downstairs. "Scream your little heart out."

Olivia backed farther away, but she could feel his eyes on her, following her through the dark. She could feel their unhurried inspection and the way her skin began to prickle with a strange, consuming heat—and it was a heat she'd felt before and not so long ago. She stopped abruptly, and a fierce rage began to grow inside her.

"Whoever you are, if you don't go away right now, I'm going to call the police."

"The police!" This time it was a full-fledged laugh, and as Olivia stared toward the mocking sound, she saw the tiny spurt of a match flame. "Yes . . . yes . . . that's a good one. The police."

After flaring, the match went out, leaving a lighted candle in its place. As the wick sputtered, the room seemed to draw in upon itself, but then a portion of the darkness receded, leaving the tall outline of a young man with his flickering shadow on the wall behind him. Olivia's eyes swept the room, searching for a weapon.

"The police," he murmured, and again there was the scratch of a match, the hiss of a flame. Another candle sputtered to life, and more of the shadows slithered away. "I don't believe in rules," the voice said, and it was a deep voice, gravelly and slow. "But. . . just this once . . . I'll make it a little more even. Just for you."

A third match struck . . . another dim glow . . . and even as he was speaking he was moving around the

room like some dark ghost, lighting candles, so that at last Olivia was totally surrounded by dancing droplets of fire.

"And there you are," he said, stepping away from the final candle. He was behind the circle of flames, and she couldn't make out his features, yet she saw him lean back against the wall and fold his arms over his chest. "There you are," he whispered. "And here am I."

Her voice was surprisingly steady now, much steadier than her racing heart. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Kill you?" There was no laughter now, yet he sounded oddly amused. "Well ... at least not yet. If I killed you now, you'd be no fun to play with." He sighed and straightened up. "And anyway, what makes you think I'd try to kill you?"

Wincing, Olivia put one hand to the inside of her leg, pressing her nightgown against her throbbing wound. To her shock, it was high up on her thigh, very near her groin, and as blood seeped through her gown, she could feel torn flesh beneath the fabric. It took her a few seconds to even realize he was bending over her.

"Ahhh . . ." He drew his breath in slowly, and his voice lowered. "So now I see . . . you're hurt—"

"Of course I'm hurt—get away from me—"

"And ... / see." The voice grew thoughtful. "You think that/. . ."

Before she could grasp what was happening, he squatted on the floor in front of her, and she looked down into his upturned face.

A fox was the first thing she thought of—a sly, clever fox with a long thatch of brown hair over his high, wide forehead and a thin line of mouth and a narrow chin. In the flickering shadows his eyes looked deep and close set, cunningly narrowed, and there

were dark hollows beneath the high, sculpted bones of his cheeks. As he stared at her, one eyebrow began to raise, and his mouth moved in a secret sort of half smile.

Olivia felt herself looking back at him, helpless to turn away. Still holding her eyes with his own, he slid her nightgown up her leg and put one finger on her thigh. He ran his fingertip leisurely through the thickening blood. He lifted his finger to his mouth and slowly licked it with his tongue.

"Good," he whispered, and the eyebrow arched even higher, the eyes gleaming with a strange light. "Very . . . very . . . good."

Reacting at last, Olivia tried to shove him away, but she found herself instantly pinned to the floor, his body on hers, his face just inches from her own.

"I didn't try to kill you—which isn't to say that I wouldn't, if the mood struck me." His warning came out with a mocking smile, and as she fought to turn her head away, he forced it back to look at him. "So you want to work, do you? Work magic? Work miracles? What?"

"How do you know about that—"

"Oh, I know lots of things. Things you'd never ever want to know."

"Let me go! You're hurting me!"

"Wrong." He shook his head, still smiling. "I don't hurt."

Without warning he rolled off and jumped to his feet. Olivia saw his arm reach down, his fingers moving, coaxing her.

"Come on. Get up."

She tried to pull away, but he grabbed her arms and lifted her easily. Then he smiled and moved toward the open door.

"You should get that looked at," he said. "It's not safe to bleed around here."

To Olivia's amazement, the doorway was empty.

Limping across the room, she looked up and down the deserted gallery, then sank back against the wall, closing her eyes.

Someone tried to kill me . . . someone was hiding in my room . . . it must have been him —

If not him . . . then who?

"What you doin' to yourself up here, child?"

Olivia's hand flew to her throat, and she spun around. Yoly was framed in the doorway, her long black robe trailing around her feet, her head still swathed in a kerchief. She was holding a basket and a roll of bandages, and her eyes took a quick inventory of the room before they finally came to rest on Olivia's bloody nightgown.

"Lord have mercy—"

Olivia stared back stupidly. She looked down at her hands and was surprised to see how they were shaking.

"Someone was here in my room," she said. "Someone tried to—"

"Who was? Ain't nobody up here but you."

"Someone was. I didn't imagine it." Olivia felt a shiver go through her, and she hugged herself tightly. I'm not the one who imagines things — it was Mama who did that — always her ... "I don't imagine things like that," Olivia said again. She pointed at Yoly's basket. "How did you know I was hurt?"

The woman paused a moment before answering. "Skyler told me."

"Who's Skyler?"

"Sit there." Yoly nodded toward the bed. "Let me take a look at you."

Olivia did as she was told, trying not to flinch as Yoly held a candle up close to the wound and pressed on it with her big, strong fingers.

"Someone came up behind me," Olivia said. She was suddenly so very, very tired, and her voice began to sink. "I saw them in the mirror."

"Who did? Who come up behind you?" Shaking her head in annoyance, Yoly rummaged through her basket.

"I didn't see his face. He pushed me down on the bed and—"

"You done it yourself," Yoly broke in, and Olivia stared at her.

"I didn't. I couldn't have."

"You done it. Yes, you did. Most likely when you fell," Yoly insisted. "Have a look."

To Olivia's dismay, Yoly took a candle from the nightstand and lowered it near the floor beside the bed. A hand mirror lay there, glass broken in its frame, silver shards scattered over the rug. As Olivia raised her eyes, Yoly gazed back at her.

"No," Olivia said. "That's not what happened."

"Seven years bad luck," Yoly grumbled under her breath. "As if we need any more of that around here."

"That's not what happened," Olivia said again, but Yoly didn't seem to hear. She reached for the curtains of mosquito netting and began swirling them out around the bed.

"You use this tonight, girl. We got mosquitoes that'll eat you alive."

"Someone came up behind me," Olivia broke in. Her voice dropped even lower now, her words almost mechanical. "They pushed me down on the bed. They cut open my leg. Then some horrible person came out of the dark—"

"Skyler," Yoly said calmly. "That was Skyler."

"But who is he?"

Yoly got very still. She was quiet for such a long time that Olivia began to wonder if she'd even heard the question. It seemed to require great effort when Yoly finally roused herself. She shifted the basket in her lap and looked at the wall.

"You be gone tomorrow," she said quietly. "That's all. You just be gone."

"What do you mean?" Olivia bit her lip as Yoly held a wet cloth to her wound. The pain was excruciating, and she gripped the edge of the bed, trying not to cry.

"Not too deep." Yoly seemed to be talking to herself. "Not too bad." '

Olivia shook her head. "No broken mirror could have cut like that." Another wave of pain rushed through her, and she eyed Yoly accusingly. "You know it couldn't."

"I knows you did it>" Yoly said firmly. "That's what I knows."

She clammed up. Only when the injury was finally cleaned and bandaged did Olivia venture to speak again.

"You still haven't told me about Skyler. You still haven't told me what he was doing in my room."

"You just forget about Skyler," Yoly said abruptly. "Your food's cold." She put everything back into place in her basket and stood up. "You ain't took a bite."

Olivia looked over at the tray. "I'll eat before I go to sleep."

Yoly shook her head and turned away. She was halfway out of the room when Olivia's voice stopped her.

"Yoly," she said quietly, "who else lives here besides you and Miss Rose?"

Yoly froze, her broad shoulders stiff and straight. As she slowly turned to look back, Olivia saw her mouth open, saw the flicker of hesitation on her face, saw her expression closing in again, unreadable.

"Better get that glass off the floor," she said, and was gone.

Olivia sat there for a moment, thinking. Then she eased herself off the bed and hobbled to the door, closing it tightly against the night.

She hadn't realized she was still trembling. She picked up the matches and went around the room, lighting more candles, making sure every single one was ablaze.

Light pulsed into each corner.

There was no way anyone could hide in here now.

Yet as she slid down between the sheets, Olivia felt every shadow watching her with hidden eyes.

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'Touch me. . ."

And that whisper came again—that strange, breathless whisper that wasn't in Olivia's dream, and as she tossed restlessly in her bed, painful memories swept over her once more and the nightmare picked up where it had left off—

You can look, but you can't touch, and Mama pushing her in front of the mirror and unbuttoning her little-girl dress, and look at yourself, Olivia, look at how pretty you are, I used to be pretty like you, I used to be just like you —

And don't Mama, Olivia begging, poor little girl child standing there so cold and crying, I didn't mean to do it, I won't do it again—don't, Mama, don't—

"Don't stop . . . don't stop—"

And the whisper was a moan now, and it got louder and louder, and it was fear and it was pain and it was ecstasy all at once, and as it sliced ruthlessly into Olivia's nightmare and shattered all the bad, bad memories, she cried out and bolted up in bed.

Long folds of netting enclosed her, rustling as though an unseen touch had disturbed them, as though something still hovered beyond. Olivia pushed them back and saw that the room was empty. It lay peacefully around her now, bathed in the pearl gray-ness of early morning and a vast, unbroken silence.

// must have been me. . . that whisper. . . some new detail of an old, old dream.

Bewildered, she got out of bed and stood for a moment, her hand pressed tightly to her bandaged leg. Well, at least this wasn't a dream, she thought grimly. She couldn't remember falling asleep the night before, only lying there, frightened, in the dark. But now, as she took a long, careful appraisal of her surroundings, she saw them in the new perspective of daybreak. It

didn't seem like a horrible place at all—just a shabby, old-fashioned room that had certainly seen better days.

She began to walk around it, touching each piece of furniture, deliberately pressing her fingers into the layers of dust. She smiled at the marks she left there— mine . . . mine . . . my chair . . . my washstand —and she wondered vaguely who had touched these things before her. Had Mama ever slept in here ... or dressed ... or sang? Or ever been any different from what Olivia had always known? She paused in front of the mirror and stared at her reflection. For one split second, Mama's face seemed to look back at her, and Olivia turned away.

There were no demons in here now, no bottomless shadows for them to hide behind. As a pale bloom of light crept across the walls, Olivia saw that the paper had once been very beautiful, patterned with tiny hearts entwined with violets and roses. Framed pictures hung beneath years of dust. Dead ferns mold-ered in pots. Olivia stood for a long moment in front of the armoire and then hesitantly opened its doors.

It was full of old clothes, folded and stacked on shelves, draped on pegs at the back, crumpled in heaps on the floor. A wave of mildew wafted out, and Olivia wrinkled her nose, letting her fingers slide down a cream-colored dress with a wide blue sash. It felt greasy and stiff, and she shook it out carefully, feeling a stir of excitement inside. Holding it up to herself, she went back to the mirror.

It pleased her, what she saw, her long pale hair, her wide brown eyes, the contours of the dress as though it had been made for her to wear. For just one second it was almost as if the light was playing tricks on her,

winking and sparkling across the faded, peeling wallpaper, making the flowers bright and vivid again, the room clean and new . . . the soft, warm breeze flutter-ing the draperies on the bed . . . the lace curtains at the windows . . . just like my beautiful new dress . . . and roses to go with it, just like the ones on the wall . . . pink and perfume-sweet, big bunches of them, streaming with ribbons and fine French lace.

"Oh!" Grabbing on to the edge of the mantel, Olivia looked down in dismay. There was something wet on the ledge, something that had dripped down into the dust, leaving soft tiny puddles and a dark smudge on the dress where she'd pressed too close.

Olivia lifted her eyes and stared at her face.

Tears coursed down her cheeks and trickled onto the shelf below.

She didn't know why she was crying.

She hadn't even realized she was . ..

Annoyed with herself, she shut the dress away in the armoire. The room was pathetic and old and depressing—how could she have ever thought otherwise? Crossing to the door, she stared out for a long time into a fine, gray mist, then let herself out onto the gallery.

There was no sun on this side of the house, yet the shadows had lightened considerably since the night before. Now they were the same dull color as the moss that hung down thickly between the columns along the balustrade. Parting some of it with her hands, Olivia could see huge old tree limbs entwined like snakes as well as patches of drizzly sky and thick tangles of leaves and half-dead vines. She understood now why there hadn't been a sky last night—the moss formed a veritable screen between the house and the

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

rest of the world. Determinedly she leaned out over the railing and pulled down several more clumps so she could see out.

She seemed to be overlooking the rear of the property. Fields and marshland, forests and barren stubble stretched on and on like mirages into the mist, halted at last by a twisting band of water bordered by thick woods. There were more buildings huddled below—smaller ones dwarfed by the main house and the encircling jungle of immense trees. The buildings staggered on for quite a distance, ghostly and abandoned in tall weeds. Olivia let the branches fall back into place and turned away with a frown.

She had no idea now how long she'd be able to stay here at the house—what would happen to her this morning when she went downstairs. There were so many things she wanted to know ... needed to find out. She paused for a moment and rested one hand against the crumbling bricks of the walls. She held her palm there until the wall grew warm, and then she molded her body as fiat as she could against the bricks. She wanted to hold the house to her ... to clutch it against her heart. She wanted it to know her.

Closing her eyes, Olivia began to hum. It was a strange song ... a haunting song . .. one that Mama had hummed and hummed when she was well and when she wasn't. Olivia knew the tune by heart, but she'd never heard the words and didn't even know if there were any. She only knew that Mama took the song with her, deep inside her, every time she slipped into the dark-fear places where no one else could go, humming and rocking, humming and crying, long, silent dry-eyed tears . . .

Olivia opened her eyes. She was confused now—

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she didn't know how many times she'd hummed the song to herself or to the house. She didn't know how much time had gone by . . .

The wall was warm and sturdy beneath her. Warm in the shape of Olivia . . . warm in the shape of me . . .

And it was strange, she thought vaguely, pushing herself away from the wall, standing straight again. It was almost as if she'd always been here—right here in the middle of this rotting old house. Like she'd always, always been here all these years.

A roach scuttled down the wall and disappeared between two broken bricks. Olivia watched it and felt sad.

/ don't want to go ... I shouldn't have to leave this place . . . not ever —

She stopped herself, wryly amused. After what had happened last night, any normal person would have been miles away from here by this time. Yet somehow, yesterday's terrors seemed almost like a bad dream now, spirited away by the slow, balmy breeze blowing along the gallery. Olivia fingered the bandage on her thigh and cried out sharply, surprised that it was still so painful.

But of course, it must have been the mirror . . . just like Yoly said. -

What else could it possibly have been?

She continued her leisurely inspection of the upstairs, but all the other rooms seemed to be locked. From time to time she wiped at a grimy windowpane, but the interiors were deep and murky with shadows, and she couldn't see well enough to make anything out. She had nearly completed her circuit of the gallery. There was only one room left she hadn't tried, and that was the one at the other rear corner of the

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house, directly across the center hallway from her own bedroom. It startled her, then, when she pushed on the door and found it open.

At first Olivia stood in the threshold, scarcely able to believe her eyes.

It was a child's room.

At first glance, it was as dark and musty as the rest of what she'd seen, but as Olivia moved cautiously into the middle of the floor, she felt her heart catch within her. There was something about this room that she hadn't felt in any of the others ... a curious sort of charm ... yet something else, too . .. something almost tragic.

She crossed to the small canopied bed and gently ran her hand down the sheer pink netting. A quilt lay crumpled upon the rosy coverlet as if it had been tossed there just that morning. There was a low wooden chest at the foot of the bed, and a bureau stood alongside, holding a basin and pitcher. Olivia picked the bowl up carefully, running one fingertip along the finely veined cracks in the porcelain. She saw a hairbrush lying there ... a comb . . . pale pink ribbons. She put the bowl down and let her eyes wander slowly over the toys scattered around the room. A doll with a painted china face reclined in a miniature cradle. A half-finished sampler lay on a tiny footstool. On the bedside table were several books with ragged bindings, and a bonnet hung from a peg on the wall. And in the far corner of the room stood a dollhouse—elaborately decorated and nearly four feet high—that looked amazingly like Devereaux House.

Totally captivated, Olivia went over to the wall where a group of framed and faded photographs was displayed. Smiling little girls gazed back at her with

fixed eyes, just their faces showing above necklets of flowers. The pictures were all in black and white, some in more faded condition than others, yet there was nothing to date them, not even a glimpse of the children's clothing. None of the little girls seemed to be over five years of age, and as Olivia studied each of them in turn, she found herself wondering who they all were and if they had all lived here. Mama? Could she ever have been this innocent and sweet? They looked amazingly identical with their cute, babyish expressions, yet there was something distinctly individual and different about each of them, too— something Olivia wouldn't have thought would show up until they were much older. She couldn't stop staring at their sweet, sweet faces, and as she bent to examine them one more time, her heart wrenched again with a curious ache.

Olivia straightened up and glanced around the room.

She had only dimly sensed this feeling when she'd first come in, but now it was too strong to ignore.

Something sad and regretful that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

As if something, somehow, were missing, yet she didn't know what it was or what it could possibly mean.

She rubbed a chill from her arms and turned back toward the door—passing the fireplace, stopping in surprise. Even in the overpowering mustiness, the scent of woodsmoke and ashes hung heavy, and as she approached the hearth, she could still see the telltale glow of dying embers among charred bits of wood. Strange . . . why would anyone need a fire in this heat?

There was a footstool pulled near the hearth and beside it, a low round table set neatly with a porcelain

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tea service. As Olivia stared in wonder, she saw that one china cup still held a residue of damp tea leaves in its bottom . . . that the lid was off the sugar bowl. .. that three drops of liquid had splashed across a hastily folded linen napkin. She put out a fingertip and touched the tea in the cup.

Still warm.

"I know you said something to him—I know you did!"

The voice burst out of nowhere, so unexpectedly that Olivia jumped back in alarm. In her haste, she knocked one of the cups off the table, and it hit the floor, breaking apart with a splintery crash.

"What was that?"

There were two voices—coming from outside on the gallery—and as Olivia heard the swift sound of approaching feet, she panicked and looked for a place to hide. There wasn't time to think. As a shadow fell across the doorway, she ran across the room and ducked down between the bed and the wall.

She scarcely made it in time. Flattening herself onto the floor, she held her breath and peered out beneath the bedspread. Bare brown feet padded in . . . slowed . . . stopped. Olivia saw a frayed red hemline swishing around slender ankles . . . saw the skirt flutter as the body made a sudden, graceful turn.

"It's only this. Probably a mouse knocked it over."

Delicate hands swept the broken cup aside. The fingers were long and slender, their pointed nails a bright blood red.

"See?" The voice spoke again—a woman's voice, with a thick, lilting French accent. "Jesse's been in here. Making crumbs for the rats to eat. Using the fire because he can't ever stay warm." The dainty feet

planted themselves firmly apart. "You must talk to him."

"No, I must talk to you. I want to know about that fucking cab driver."

Olivia recognized this second voice and instinctively stiffened. As she molded herself to the floorboards, she heard Skyler saunter across the room.

"I saw him leave her," he muttered. "Where'd he find this one?"

"At the bus station. And can you believe it—she asked to come out here."

"What do you mean, she asked?"

"It seems that someone on the bus told her to take a sight-seeing trip to our house. Do you think she'll enjoy ... the sights?" Mathilde gave a soft laugh, but Skyler broke in, incredulous.

"You mean someone on the bus knew she was coming here?"

"Oh, what does it matter," Mathilde said crossly. "Whoever they are, they're miles away by now, Why are you upset? We needed someone to work here, didn't we? Some nice young girl who's willing to work very, very hard?"

Skyler sounded annoyed. "I want you to take care of this. That cab driver's getting too careless—we'll have to find another source."

"And just what do you suggest I do?"

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be coming back here soon to be paid," Skyler said sarcastically.

"They always do."

"And what did you promise him this time?"

"What I always promise." Her voice was cold. "Who should know better than you?"

"You're a fool, Mathilde. Just do it. Before something happens."

"And what could happen?" she shot back. "I'd think you'd be grateful to me—for Jesse's sake— since Antoinette's unfortunate accident"

"We both know better than that."

"The point is," the woman went on angrily, "this new girl is here somewhere, and I can't find her. Now where do you think she's gone?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"You know. You always know. But / know what you're thinking —and you were in her room last night—I can always tell—"

"Only to comfort her," Skyler soothed, but there was a hint of laughter there, and the woman's voice rose sharply.

"Don't play these games with me. I'm the only one who—"

"Ssh ... the walls have ears . . ."

"I mean it, Skyler—"

"Look, Mathilde—you just do your job and let me do mine. I don't take orders from you."

The woman's bare feet moved toward him . . . stopped between his. "You'll do what I say . . ." she murmured, "if you want what I have ..."

"If I want what you have, I'll just take it."

A long moment of silence followed, broken only by one breathless moan. Olivia closed her eyes as something ached inside her, warm and deep and disturbing. When at last she opened them again, the room was empty, and she got unsteadily to her feet. Her leg was throbbing again from being pressed to the floor, and she was covered with dust and sweat. After listening to make sure it was safe, she hurried to her room but stopped abruptly in the doorway.

Someone had been here.

Last night's supper tray was on the floor—dishes

broken and scattered, the supper she'd left now in globs across the rug and sprayed upon the wall.

She saw a quick movement from the corner of her eye and was just in time to see a rat scurry behind the armoire.

Shuddering, Olivia started forward, then stopped again as she noticed her clothes. She'd left them hanging over the back of a chair, but now they were in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed.

Even from where she stood, Olivia could see blood on them.

"What—"

Her head jerked up as she heard a soft thud. It seemed to be very close by, and yet the room was deserted. As she looked wildly around for its source, the strange sound came again, and there was a deep, grating groan as one door of the armoire began to open.

Olivia stood frozen, her eyes rooted in fear upon the massive cabinet.

Slowly she went toward it, her hand outstretched and trembling.

The door stopped.

Olivia waited.

And it seemed like forever before she could move again, before she could make herself touch that slightly open door, before it swung out at her without warning, revealing the awful thing that lay just inside—

And as Olivia screamed and jumped away, the body tumbled out onto the floor like a pile of wet, bloody rags.

it, and for a brief instant, Olivia thought she looked angry. She slid her arms beneath it and lifted it effortlessly against her broad chest. A girl's head lolled down behind a wave of matted hair, but Olivia couldn't really see what she looked like.

"Is ... is she dead?" Olivia managed to whisper at last.

Yoly seemed to hesitate. "Sometimes dead's better off," she muttered. "She'll come around in a while, don't you worry about it. It happens like this—she won't remember a thing. Now hurry and come on down. I'll be back for that tray later on. Miss Rose wants to see you."

"Wait—" Olivia stepped back as Yoly marched to the door. "Wait a minute—what happened to her? Who is she?"

Yoly didn't answer. Olivia heard her heavy footsteps along the gallery, and then they faded down the stairs.

It took her a few minutes to collect herself. She fastened the door on the armoire and reluctantly picked up her clothes, wishing she had something else she could wear. She had no choice but to put the same things on again, and as she stole a glimpse at herself in the mirror, she ran her fingers slowly over the stains. Someone else's blood . . . someone else's life flowing away.

It made her think of things she didn't want to think about.

She hurried outside and went down to the first-floor veranda.

There was still no sign of the sun. Mist drizzled down from the trees overhead and formed a gray cocoon around the house. Olivia could see old paint

and plaster flaking off the columns, showing powdery bricks beneath. Dying shades of pink hung from the walls like big scabs. There were splintered frames around the dirty windows, and lopsided shutters on rusty hinges, and gaping holes in the veranda where weeds choked through. And she could smell mold and fog and stagnant water . . . dampness and mud and the cloying scent of flowers, rain-swollen skies and greasy meat and strange herbs and coffee so strong it made her choke.

She wasn't quite sure where she was supposed to go. She let herself into the long, wide hallway and recognized the doors where she'd eavesdropped the night before. They were closed now as they had been then, but when she heard voices beyond them, she reached down quietly and turned the knobs. The doors swung open with a loud groan, and as Olivia peeked in cautiously, she caught a glimpse of a huge table and dancing light and eyes looking back at her.

The dining room, like the world outside its windows, was bathed in gray, but a candelabra on the long, oval table cast a shimmering glow over the occupants of the chairs.

"Don't be afraid, child. Come closer."

After a moment's hesitation, Olivia took a step forward, her heart catching at the sound of the frail, elderly voice.

"I am Rosalee Devereaux." The voice spoke quietly. "And who might you be?"

And somehow Olivia managed to answer—but with a mind only aware of her, her voice, her face, her whole presence, scarcely even seeing anything else but the old woman sitting at that table.

And suddenly Olivia realized that she would have

known that face anywhere—without even a photograph or a description—for she had imagined Rosalee Devereaux her whole life, and somehow her fantasies had been true.

Grandmother . . .

She was beautiful. Beautiful and grand and regal like a queen—a calm, gracious matriarch holding court around the huge mahogany table—seated at the very head as she should have been, in a great oaken chair like a throne, with carved armrests and finials along the high rounded back. Her face was composed beneath wrinkled yet still flawless skin, her mouth a perfect rosebud, her eyes faded but kind. She had a delicate nose, and her snowy hair was swept up into a smooth, neat bun. Her neck was long, encircled with pearls, and her lavender dress was soft and girlish. As one frail hand gripped a cane by the side of her chair, the other motioned Olivia to come closer.

"So. Olivia."

Perhaps her name had even been spoken several times, for Olivia felt that she'd slipped beneath some sort of spell. She saw the old woman's eyes sweeping her thoroughly from head to foot, and she tried to concentrate.

"Look at me, child, don't be afraid. I understand you want to work for me."

Startled, Olivia forced herself to look into the wrinkled face. She heard herself say yes, and she saw her grandmother's lips move in a faint smile.

"So what can you do, Olivia? Turn around. Slowly."

"Around." The old woman made a graceful movement with her hand. "That's right. . . take your time."

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Olivia took a deep breath and began to move. She could still feel the faded eyes going over her, and she tried to think of something to say.

"I can do everything. I can cook—"

"I have a cook/' said Miss Rose pleasantly. "Keep going."

As Olivia turned toward the table, she noticed Yoly standing against the wall, watching her curiously. It was then that she realized someone else was sitting in a chair just in front of Yoly, tilted back beyond reach of the light, staring at her.

At that moment Skyler leaned out of the shadows with a slow, sly grin, and Olivia dropped her eyes in confusion.

"Stop," Miss Rose said.

Olivia froze, her eyes held carefully on the floorboards. Now she could feel all their stares upon her, and her face began to grow conspicuously hot. The seconds dragged into painful minutes. Sweat dampened her forehead. A fly buzzed against the window, hopelessly trapped.

"I'm hungry," Skyler said cheerfully. "When do we eat?"

"What else can you do?" Miss Rose spoke at last, and Olivia looked up gratefully. Skyler raised one eyebrow in amusement. Yoly's stare lingered on her a moment more, then flicked away.

"I can clean," Olivia kept her voice steady. "I can do housework. I can work outside. I'm strong. I'm used to odd jobs. I'll do anything—"

"Anything?" Skyler's lips slid into a smile, and his green eyes sparkled. In the daylight he was wickedly handsome, and Olivia tried not to look at him.

"Keep turning." Miss Rose smiled, and Olivia pivoted back to face her.

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/ have to be here — don't you understand? — I'm your granddaughter — only I don't know how you feel about me, and I couldn 't bear it if you threw me out and I'd have nowhere else to go, and that's why I can't tell you —

"Please let me stay," Olivia said calmly. She met the old woman's puzzled stare and tried not to falter beneath its intensity.

"Oh, let her stay." Skyler's smile widened, and he lounged back casually in his chair. "I'm sure we can find some use for her. Especially since she does . . . anything."

Miss Rose cast him an annoyed look. "Oh, do hush up, Skyler. I'm perfectly capable of making up my own mind."

"I won't be any trouble," Olivia added, and she bit her lip, trying to hold back her desperation. You've got to let me stay . . . I belong here — it's my right —

"Sit down, child, and get some food into you before you faint on us again." Miss Rose indicated a chair with another wave of her hand. "Yoly, since Helen seems to be . . . indisposed . . . this morning, would you please bring an extra plate?"

"Yes'm." Yoly gave a curt nod and stepped out, but not before one last backward glance at Olivia. Skyler stretched one long leg beneath the table and gave the rung of Olivia's chair a shove. She saw him grin but tried to ignore it.

"We respect privacy in this house." Miss Rose reached for a small pitcher, her thin fingers fumbling over the handle before getting a firm grip. The pitcher shook a little in her hand as she poured gravy over a sausage on her plate. "I'll ask you this now—strictly as a matter of propriety, you understand—and then, as far as I'm concerned, your business is entirely your

own. As ours is . . . and of no concern to anyone else outside this household." She held Olivia's eyes for a long moment to make sure her point was well taken, looking pleased when the girl nodded. "Where are you from? How old are you? Do you mind solitude? And Yoly tells me you have no family."

Olivia stared down at her hands, trying to organize her answers. "I'm from the Midwest." Lie. "Fm eighteen." Truth.

"Perfect," Skyler murmured. Miss Rose seemed not to hear him.

"And no, solitude doesn't bother me at all. As a matter of fact, I like being alone. Fm used to it." Another truth. So far so good. "And no, I don't have any family. I never knew my father, and my mother's dead."

"How sad for you, child," Miss Rose said gently. "And friends?"

"No friends."

"No one to wonder where you are?"

"No. No one at all."

There was a long silence. Skyler reached for a silver coffeepot and filled his cup. His eyes never left Olivia's face, yet he righted the pot again perfectly, just as the coffee reached the rim.

"Well." Miss Rose seemed to be thinking. She took a silver knife and cut her sausage into small, even bites. "As you can see, we're quite isolated out here, and that's the way I like it. I never go out, and people seldom come in—that's also the way I like it. Whoever told you I needed help out here was no doubt having a joke—at both our expenses. But I fear my hospitality was sadly lacking last night as far as you were concerned, and I do apologize for that."

"That's not true," Olivia said firmly. "I'm the one who intruded and—"

"And —" Miss Rose cut her off with a smile, "it would be a dishonor to the Devereaux name if I didn't try to rectify the situation somehow."

Olivia said nothing. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest.

"You fainted in my hallway," Miss Rose went on unhappily. "And injured yourself in one of my bedrooms."

"Nasty cut." Skyler shook his head solemnly. "How is it this morning, anyway?" The corners of his mouth curled in that infuriating half smile. "It was on your . . . left thigh. Wasn't it?"

Olivia felt her cheeks grow hot. For one split second she could actually recall the feel of his hand upon her leg, and she tried not to sound flustered.

"It's fine, thank you," she said stiffly. "And thank you for calling Yoly to help me."

"My pleasure."

"And now I hear you discovered a most unfortunate surprise in your armoire this morning." Miss Rose picked up the conversation as if the brief exchange between Skyler and Olivia had never happened.

"It's just that she was hurt," Olivia said, turning her attention back to the head of the table. "I thought she was dead. Who is—"

"Yes," Miss Rose sighed. "Poor Helen. She has these . . . spells, you see. More often than is convenient. She's a little . . . different from the rest of us." She glanced at Skyler with a frown, which he didn't seem to notice. "She requires delicacy. And great amounts of patience."

"I just hope she's all right," Olivia said sincerely. "If there's anything I can do—"

"Perhaps I'll accept your offer," Miss Rose broke in once more, her brow ftirrowed in thought. "An extra pair of hands would do us good. As you can see . . . our world is falling in here all around our heads."

Olivia leaned back as Yoly set a plate of food down in front of her. The china was chipped around the edges, the pattern faded, finely veined blue and white. Greasy sausages swam in puddles of thin brown gravy, giving off the same pungent smell as her stew last night. She tried not to make a face at the unpleasant odor and shifted her gaze back to Miss Rose.

"I love your house, Miss Devereaux. What I've seen of it."

"Oh, yes . . . and you'll grow to love it more, I'm sure," Miss Rose said without hesitation. "There is a certain spirit about the old place even yet and—"

"You do believe in spirits, don't you, Miss Crawford?" Skyler had lifted his cup to his lips, yet Olivia could still feel his smile lurking behind it.

"I'm forgetting my manners again," Miss Rose said matter-of-factly, glancing from one face to the other. "Olivia, this is Skyler. Though I take it you two have already met?"

In answer, Skyler raised his cup in a silent toast and downed the last of his coffee. Again, Olivia tried not to look at him, but when she caught his furtive wink, she knew she was blushing and hurried to change the subject.

"And what about your family?" Olivia said quickly. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She saw the startled look on her grandmother's face and would have given anything to take the question back again. As it was, she had no choice

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but to go on, feigning innocence. "What I mean is, I was just wondering how many people live here."

And it was strange, Olivia thought as she watched Miss Rose's expression, how a blank mask descended over the old woman's features . . . how the eyes sparked angry, then sad . . . how the voice grew faraway . . .

"I live here. And the ones who take care of me. I have no other family."

Skyler's eyes darted to the old woman's face, then slid away.

"Eat up, child," Miss Rose said softly. "You need some meat on your bones."

The awkward moment had passed. Miss Rose picked up a spoon and slowly stirred her coffee, her gaze still on Olivia, pensive.

"There are only two things I require, and we should get along splendidly."

"Yes," Olivia nodded, her hands out of sight, twisting in her lap. "Whatever you like, Miss Devereaux."

"As I said before, the goings-on of this household are private and sacred. All necessities are delivered, and all financial matters are handled by my lawyer through correspondence. I don't expect you'll see much of anyone else outside, but if and when you do, you are never to mention anything about this house or those who live in it."

"Yes. I understand."

"And secondly," Miss Rose said. She stared at Olivia for so long that the girl began to grow uneasy. "Secondly," she repeated almost in a whisper.

Olivia took the initiative. "And what would that be?"

Her grandmother's eyes fell on her, kind and gentle. "Why, to do what's expected of you, child, that's all.

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Just. . ." The faded eyes went over Olivia in one final appraisal, and a smile flitted across the thin lips. "Do what's expected of you."

Olivia could hardly swallow. She forced a deep breath into her lungs and tried to smile. "I'll do my best, Miss Devereaux."

"Yes." The old woman's smile widened. "I'm very sure that you will."

She stood up, but as Olivia started to rise, Miss Rose waved her back in her chair. "Please . . . finish your breakfast. When you're through, Yoly will show you what needs to be done, and I'll ask her to find you some different clothes. But in the meantime—"

"I'll be more than happy to keep her company," Skyler said easily. "After all, we wouldn't want her feeling neglected on her first day here."

"Aren't you the thoughtful one," Miss Rose said, casting him a sidelong glance. "And now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Thank you, Miss Devereaux." Olivia looked up as the woman started past her. "I really can't thank you enough."

"Why, there's no need to thank me, child."

Miss Rose paused beside Olivia's chair and rested one blue-veined hand lightly on the girl's head.

"Believe me," she said softly, "you'll definitely earn your keep."

For the second time Olivia watched as the old woman's eyes shifted to Skyler's.

Only this time she could swear that a secret smile passed between them.

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tried to get in. The world outside was a hazy mass of dripping moss and greenery—cedars and oaks, elephant ears, camellias, pines, and yucca plants. Olivia's gaze moved along the wall... to the sideboard . . . the glass-fronted cabinets full of old china and silver and candlesticks—across the table, where it stopped.

Just opposite the chair where Miss Rose had been sitting, a place had obviously been set and cleared away. The faint imprint of a plate was still evident on the cloth, along with a damp telltale circle where a glass had rested. As Olivia stared, she noticed the linen napkin folded on the tablecloth . . . folded in the same hasty way as the one upstairs by the empty hearth in the child's bedroom. 'Jesse's been in here . . . making crumbs . . . using the fire because he can't ever stay warm . . ." Glancing around quickly, Olivia brought her eyes back to Skyler.

"You don't trust me," he said, as if the probability didn't bother him in the least.

"I was just noticing . . . someone else must have already eaten before I came in."

Skyler followed the direction of her stare and answered without hesitation. "What can I say . . . we're always hungry around here."

"Then why weren't you having breakfast just now?"

"I have . . . peculiar eating habits." The eyebrow arched, and he crossed his arms comfortably over his chest. He had a way of looking secretly amused at everything, and Olivia had the feeling that he was laughing at her now, though his face was carefully composed.

"Then . . . do a lot of people work here?" she asked.

"Not a lot. Some."

"Do you work here?"

A pause. A nod. "Yes. You could say that."

"Doing what?"

He leaned toward her and rested his elbows on the table. "What do you think?"

She tried not to meet his eyes, but she couldn't help it. In the revealing light of day he looked only mildly sinister, as compared to the way he'd looked last night in the dark. If anything, he appeared younger, almost boyish now in his dirty jeans and torn T-shirt; she guessed him to be in his early twenties. From the way he was slouched in his chair she could also tell that he was taller than she'd remembered, and his fingers, slowly caressing his coffee cup, were long and slender and tan.

"You work outside," Olivia said quietly.

His lips slid into a closed smile. "What a clever girl you are. Tell me more."

"I don't know any more." She glanced reluctantly into his green eyes, into his narrow face. Even without the distortion of flickering shadows, she could still see the cunning there, the sharp watchfulness, though it was tempered now by an almost mischievous grin.

"Then I'll tell you. I take care of the grounds."

"Not very well, from what I've seen," she said before she thought, but he only chuckled.

"Miss Rose wants it that way. I do what I can do."

"And you've been here a long time?"

He reached into his shirt poqket and withdrew a crushed pack of cigarettes. "Sometimes it seems like forever."

Olivia nodded, redirecting her gaze out the windows. "It's strange, isn't it. It really does feel as though time has stopped here."

Skyler cast her a sidelong glance. "Smoke?"

"No. So it's you and Miss Devereaux and—"

"Miss Rose," he corrected. "We all call her Miss Rose."

"And Yoly and Helen," Olivia finished. Since she didn't want anyone to know she'd been eavesdropping on certain conversations around the house, she couldn't very well ask Skyler to identify the two other voices she'd heard. To her surprise, he told her about one anyway.

"And Mathilde," Skyler added. "She cooks and helps Yoly."

"With what?" Olivia looked around in dismay. From what she'd witnessed so far, it was inconceivable to think that someone actually tried to clean the house.

Skyler read her expression immediately, and his answer was curt. "Miss Rose likes it this way."

Olivia waited for him to go on, but instead he struck a match and held it to the cigarette dangling between his lips. He blew out a long, thin stream of smoke. There was something so calculated about his movements that she felt herself shiver.

"Cold?" Skyler asked, only he hadn't been looking at her, and she wondered how he knew. Quickly she busied herself with her food.

"No. Actually I'm getting rather hot." She bit her lip as a half smile flickered on his face, but he let the remark go by.

"Mathilde won't like you," he said casually. "Just a friendly warning."

"No?" Olivia thought a moment, still remembering that sultry French accent in the room upstairs. "Why not? She doesn't even know me."

"She doesn't like anybody, and she won't want to know you." Skyler took the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and inspected it with narrowed

eyes. After a drawn-out moment, his eyes slid to Olivia's face, and he cocked his head. "Maybe you won't have to work with her. Maybe you can work with me instead."

Olivia found that prospect disturbing and immediately got the subject back on track. "So there's no one else in the house? Just you five?"

His expression never changed. His eyes remained on her face. "Why?"

"I just wondered . . ." Her mind whirled. "Because of what happened last night in my room."

"Ah." Skyler nodded. "Yes. The attack."

"It was something," she insisted. "Someone—"

"But not me." Again that hidden amusement that made her feel angrily flustered and confused. "If it'd been me . . ." He took a long drag on his cigarette, then let his breath out . . . slowly . . . slowly ... "I wouldn't have stopped at your thigh."

Olivia looked quickly at her plate, refusing to give him the satisfaction of embarrassing her.

"And I thought I heard someone on the balcony last night," she said evenly. "Just outside my room."

The eyebrow raised in interest. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. "The house does have a past. A lot of tragedies can happen in a century or so."

"So what are you saying? That there are ghosts?"

He did smile then, a slow show of humor that moved his shoulders in a silent laugh. "Ghosts would be the least of your worries." With one quick movement he stubbed out his cigarette on the rim of his plate. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"Don't you want me to show you around?" With a grin, Skyler opened the French doors and slipped outside, leaving her no choice but to follow.

They stepped out onto the veranda, onto old, worn bricks sunk to ground level. Ferns and lichen had taken over the crevices, and climbing roses clung tenaciously to parts of the house, as if their vines and scarlet flowers were the only things holding the walls and columns in place. Weeds stood nearly knee high, and the lawns were an impossible snarl of unkempt trees and flowers and shrubbery. The air was warm and wet, and ponderous gray clouds hung in sheets around the house.

"It's so dark out here." Olivia huddled near the doorway, reluctant to leave the comforting light of the dining room.

"It's always dark," Skyler murmured. "Even when the sun's out. .. even on the brightest day. Look ..."

Uneasily she did so, at the trees clawing the walls, the honeysuckle and wisteria draping the rails and columns, the moss cascading from the huge serpentine limbs of the oaks.

"The place just. . . disappears." Skyler walked a few feet ahead, and his voice was an eerie echo in the mist. "Swallowed up. Whole and alive. Even at noon, it's dark at Devereaux House. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? If it's really here at all?"

Olivia pressed back against the wall, forcing calm into her voice. "Is this what you wanted me to see?"

He cast a quick look back over his shoulder. "No. This way."

She watched uncertainly as he headed off through the weeds. When it became obvious that he wasn't going to turn around or wait, she trailed him around the corner of the house. Drizzle clung to her like clammy skin. She tried to wipe it from her face with the back of her sleeve, but it stuck there. Skyler paused

in the backyard and swept one arm in the direction of the outbuildings she'd noticed earlier from the upstairs gallery.

"A lot of the original buildings are still standing. That's the kitchen there. And the smokehouse behind it. We still use it to preserve our meat. The other one was used for the overseer's office. Farther back are the slave cabins . . . and what's left of the stables and carriage house."

She nodded, gazing off toward the other side of the house. "What's over there? Behind all those trees?"

"The gardens. And past there's the bayou—it winds clear off around behind the plantation. Not a place you'd like to get. . . stuck in." A slow smile started across his face, but he turned and walked on.

"Where are we going now?" Olivia called after him.

"You'll see."

She hesitated, then unwillingly followed him again. They walked quite a long way this time, along a worn path that wound through weeds and woods, among scattered outbuildings, and then angled off sharply across a short, stubbled field. The ground began to feel wet and soggy underfoot, and within minutes Olivia spotted a wide band of sluggish brown water overhung by mossy trees and pocked with stagnant pools of green scum. Skyler clambered down the embankment and came out onto a narrow wooden pier. There were several boats tied there, and he held out his hand to her.

Olivia stopped, watching him uncertainly. His lips were pressed together in a smile, and he looked up at her calmly.

"Where are we going?" she demanded.

His smile never wavered. "It's a surprise."

As she gazed into his eyes and felt herself take a cautious step toward him, she somehow forced herself to stop.

"No," she said. "Not until you tell me what we're doing."

Something flickered in his face. Olivia never saw him move back up onto the embankment—suddenly he was just there, pressing her tightly back against a tree, and she could feel his strength, his warmth, along the whole front of her body.

"Come on." His voice was low, calm. "There's someone I want you to meet. That's all."

"What are you doing, Skyler?"

It was a woman who spoke angrily from the path behind them, and as Skyler whirled around, a pair of hands snatched Olivia before she could even move.

The woman was surprisingly, frighteningly strong.

As Olivia struggled, the woman's hold tightened, and her black, black eyes pierced Olivia with their coldness. Her full red skirt hung to her ankles, the torn fabric as dirty as her bare feet. A thin peasant blouse fell loosely off her shoulders, revealing most of her full, ripe breasts, and her black hair rippled to her tiny waist. She had skin the color of caramel, and a strange, exotic face, and Olivia knew at once that this was the woman she'd heard arguing with Skyler in the child's empty bedroom upstairs. As Olivia continued to stare back at her, something seemed to move around the woman's neck, buried deep, deep in the tangled mass of her thick hair.

"So . . ." the woman hissed. Her eyes flashed like daggers between Olivia and Skyler, who was now looking rather bored and standing off to one side.

But Olivia couldn't stop staring at the woman's neck, and suddenly, to her horror, she saw a huge

black snake uncoil itself and begin to slide down one of the woman's arms straight toward her. Frantically, Olivia tried to break loose. She felt the grip on her arms tighten painfully, and then without warning, Skyler's arms were around her, pulling her away. Olivia was shaking all over. For a brief moment, Skyler held her against his chest, but then abruptly released her again, his expression half amused, half annoyed.

"Looking for me?" He turned to the woman, his voice smooth. "Olivia, I don't think you've had the pleasure—the rare and wonderful pleasure—of meeting Mathilde."

He was standing just behind Olivia now. She felt him move slightly against her back, felt him rest one arm upon her shoulder, felt his fingers trailing slowly down her spine. She shivered, confused, not wanting him to touch her, not wanting him to let her go.

"Mathilde, this is Olivia," Skyler said. "She's going to be . . . working with us."

Again Olivia felt his hand move slowly up the length of her back, and in spite of herself, she took a quick intake of breath. He looked down at her with a lazy smile.

"It's about the girl," Mathilde snapped, ignoring the introductions. "That half-wit—"

"Helen," he corrected her patiently. "She has a name, you know. It's Helen—"

"Well, she's gone."

"Gone—" His voice went abruptly hard. "What do you mean—she can't be gone." His arms slid away, and he squeezed Olivia's shoulders once, briefly, as he started toward Mathilde. "She has to be around here somewhere. Yoly just took her to her room. She can't have gotten far—"

In one fluid movement Mathilde slid up against him, one leg rubbing slowly along his thigh. "I told you," she murmured, sounding smug and pleased, "I told you there'd be trouble once she found the dead one—"

"Shut up, Mathilde. You're much too talkative this morning."

Skyler pushed Mathilde away, and they hurried out of sight, leaving Olivia behind. A cold feeling of unease settled in her stomach, and she stood for a moment staring off across the bayou, staring down at the rickety little dock.

"I told you there'd be trouble once she found the dead one.. ."

Mathilde's words hung in the sticky air, and Olivia leaned back against the tree again, thinking. She recalled the conversation she'd overheard last night outside the dining room—the voices, urgent and upset. The gentle tone of the man she hadn't yet seen, discussing some kind of accident. "Helen found her . . . she must have fallen . . ." And then Miss Rose's reply: "Fallen . . . or jumped?"

And there were other things about that peculiar conversation . . . things that hadn't made any sense to her then, that were certainly none of her business— things that had faded from her memory during the strange course of the night. She closed her eyes and tried to conjure up the exact words, but they seemed to be just out of mind's reach. In frustration she concentrated instead on the stranger's voice ... his soft Southern drawl ... the way he'd sounded so concerned . . . and suddenly she heard him speaking again, like a soft, sad ghost— "She never realized what was happening to her."

The sound of the water brought her back sharply to

the present. Olivia glanced down at the pier and saw restless little waves lapping at the shoreline. Several trees overhanging the bayou began to rustle softly, as though something invisible had passed beneath them. She squinted her eyes, trying to see to the other side of the water, but the banks were so overgrown with brush and shadows almost anything could have been there without her knowing. She felt vulnerable standing there, surrounded by hundreds of hiding places. Rubbing goose bumps from her arms, Olivia went back to the house.

There didn't seem to be anyone around. Pausing in the yard, Olivia looked up at the galleries, searching the rows of windows, hearing nothing. She went into the house, but when no one answered any of her knocks on the closed doors, she decided to search the rooms for herself.

The main floor was laid out like the upstairs, three rooms on each side of a central corridor, only these hallway accesses were unlocked. Each set of three rooms also opened freely into one another and out onto the veranda that completely encircled the house. A shabby parlor lay at one front corner of the downstairs; directly behind that, between the parlor and the dining room, was a library in equally sorry shape, its shelved books warped from years of damp. Olivia slipped across the hall from the parlor and opened the double doors there, catching her breath at the sight that lay before her.

It was the most beautiful room she had ever seen.

A ballroom. Painted completely white.

It was a magnificent chamber, the doors that would normally have connected the two oversized rooms having been removed. And even though dust had settled thickly over every inch of surface, the faded

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whiteness of its walls and floor reflected softly in the gloom, giving the whole room a radiance that was almost ethereal.

Olivia stood entranced, unable to move.

Sheer white curtains hung at the windows . . . white Corinthian columns stretched from floorboards to ceiling. There were friezes and medallions, archways and hand-carved moldings, all of them white, and a white marble fireplace with a gilded mirror above, the room lying hushed and secretive deep within, frozen like time in the shining glass.

Olivia walked to the mirror and gazed long, long into its pristine stillness.

Behind her she heard the doors to the hall shut softly.

She heard footsteps coming toward her, slowly, across the floor . . .

The faint sound of music in the air . . .

Gasping, she turned around to an empty room . . . then back again, puzzled, to the mirror.

The footsteps paused in back of her.

The soft pressure of a hand rested lightly on her shoulder.

Olivia stared wide-eyed at her reflection.

But nobody else was there.

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ing, no one at all—but the voice was so soft, so polite, smiling in the air just beside her, and she knew she hadn't imagined it, couldn't have imagined it, but it was impossible—she was alone and the room was deserted.

Whirling back to the mirror, she gripped the mantel with both hands, leaning forward until her face practically touched the glass. And "May I have this dance?" he whispered again, and somehow she knew that no one else could hear him, that she was the only one, don't be frightened . . . don't be afraid . . . and his soft warm breath brushing her cheek, the touch of his hand shy and persuasive upon her shoulder . . . "May I have this dance . . . may I. . ."

And she could see the room reflected behind her, shimmering with a brilliant white light, caught for an eternity between his silent question and her answer . . .

And "yes," Olivia murmured, "yes ... I'd be so delighted . . ."

Music flowed through her then, sweet and full, whirling her out into the room, around and around, in a dizzying dream. She spun and she twirled, and there was girlish laughter and clinking crystal and the deep, deep echo of men sharing stories . . . gliding past windows, and lace curtains blowing, warm gentle air and magnolias flowing in from the soft, damp night . . . and oh, the joy as she floated past that mirror, the faces reflected there, the smiles, and the glorious future—and him, tall and gallant in his ruffled shirt and black coat, boots gleaming at his knees, dark hair glowing in candlelight— but his back's to the mirror, I can't see his face, the deep fierce love in his eyes . . . burning in my heart, pressed against me, promises — and "will you meet me . . ." his voice urgent and

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longing, "will you . . ." and "yes," she murmured, over and over again, "oh, yes. . . yes . . . tonight. . ."

"Tonight," Olivia whispered, and she opened her eyes.

Her hands were pressed against the mirror. As she pulled them back slowly, she saw the dusty imprints of her fingers left there upon the glass. She stared for a moment at her dirty palms, then wiped them on her skirt. She leaned forward once more and studied her pale reflection.

She'd been crying.

There were long, wet streaks down her cheeks, and her hair was wet where it lay against the side of her face.

Olivia whirled from the mantel, her heart racing.

The ballroom lay empty and white and still.

The doors were standing open, and she could see shadows in the hallway beyond.

"Yoly?" she whispered fearfully. "Skyler?"

She'd called to them before, she knew . . . but when?

How long have I been in here . . . I must have dozed off or fallen into some daydream . . . just like I used to do — days and nights gone by — losing track of time — of waking — of sleeping —/ don't remember, I don't quite remember . . .

Trembling, she hurried from the room and down the passageway, trying the parlor, the library, the dining room all over again.

"Miss Rose! Yoly! Somebody!"

Where was everyone? The house was silent as a tomb, everyone disappeared, everyone gone— or maybe they're all dead — maybe they died while I was sleeping, someone killed them, one by one by one, creeping from room to room, quiet as shadows, but they

didn't know about me, they didn't kill me, because I wasn't here, I was in some other place, not home like the others — nobody home, Olivia, nobody home — but I am home now, I am home and why can't I remember —

In panic, Olivia raced from the dining room and threw herself at the last door directly across the hall.

"Miss Rose! Mathilde! Helen!"

The door wouldn't move, and she banged on it with her fists. Then, without warning, it flew open, spilling her roughly inside.

She managed to catch herself before she fell.

And then she stood in surprise and forgot about being afraid.

Olivia hadn't expected to find a bedroom down here on the main floor, but as the gloomy interior came into focus, she saw that it was a grand place—much grander than any of the rooms above. The whole thing was done in shades of purple, from the satin comforter on the bed, to the draperies at the round-headed French doors, to the crushed velvet of the chairs and footstool and the bench tucked discreetly beneath the dressing table. Even the wallpaper was patterned with violets, the mosquito netting the same lacy lilac as the canopy, and there were lavender rugs, plum-colored slippers on the floor, and a dressing gown of pale orchid.

Olivia walked through the room in a daze, gliding her fingers over the coverlet on the bed, picking up a pearl-handled hairbrush from the dressing table, sorting through dainty handkerchiefs and hair ribbons and amethyst combs. She paused beside a table and glanced at the tiny silver frames so carefully arranged there, and that's when she saw the picture.

It had obviously been taken somewhere on the

grounds, for the chimneys and ornate entablature of Devereaux House were just visible in the background, looming up between mossy trees.

Olivia picked up the photograph and studied its faded black-and-white details.

Two women were looking at the camera—the older one regal and beautiful, the younger tense and unsmiling. As Olivia stared hard into their faces, a painful twinge of recognition cut through her, and she gripped the frame tightly.

Mama . . .

And yet it was Mama with a face Olivia had never known, had never seen—so young and so pretty—no years and years of hate and hardness carved into her face, into her eyes—Mama before the bitterness, before the demons had come—Mama before the torment, the torture, the anguish . . .

Olivia held the photograph closer, overcome with sadness. Mama's face was so innocent, and yet at the same time, there was already an unhappiness showing there, deep and hurting, as if something had just upset her whole world.

So the other one must be Grandmother.

Olivia frowned at the contrast. Grandmother looking so happy, and Mama looking so . . .

Desperate.

The word came to her so unexpectedly that she glanced around in surprise, as if some age-old spirit had whispered in her ear. Mama did look desperate— so much more than just unhappy—

Olivia ran one fingertip carefully along the dusty glass. The images in the picture were so faint she could hardly make them out, yet there seemed to be crosses showing in the air and at different heights along the ground just behind where the two women were stand-

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ing. A cemetery? And there—in one corner where the shadows gathered—it looked almost as if a single, taller shadow was easing away from the others.

A shadow . . . or a person?

Olivia shook her head uncertainly. It was impossible to tell ... the quality of the photograph was poor, and there were spots along its surface that had darkened and distorted with age. She turned it slowly in her hands, trying to study it from every angle, then jumped as the floor creaked behind her.

No one was there. As her eyes swept along the walls, she could see that she was still quite alone, and her breath came out in a rush. She hadn't meant to trespass and poke around in private belongings. She felt sure that this was Miss Rose's bedroom, and she felt guilty for having stayed so long. She put the picture back on the table and glanced toward the row of tall windows where the purple curtains had been drawn against the outside world. Then she went quickly back into the hallway and let herself out again at the rear of the house.

There still didn't seem to be anyone around, and the heavy silence was eerie and unnerving. As Olivia followed the veranda to the back staircase, she fought down a wave of panic and tried to reassure herself that she wasn't truly alone, that everyone was merely off attending to separate duties and that soon she'd hear the sound of voices again. She paused at the foot of the steps and took a long, slow look around If everyone really is dead, then I'm the mistress here now, I'm the only one alive at Devereaux House, this is my world and I can manage it however I please.

The thought appealed to her.

She stopped on the walkway, breathing in deeply of the air, thoughts flowing free, thick as mist.

BLOOD ROOTS

It was then that she caught a movement from the comer of her eye. It came from somewhere within the mass of shadows beneath the stairs.

Olivia leaned down, peering into the alcove. She could see weeds under there—dead plants and rotting wooden crates and stacks of flowerpots—yet as her gaze fixed on the cluttered darkness, she was sure there was something else . . . hidden . . . drawn far, far back behind a heap of old barrels.

She felt a prickle work its way up her spine. She felt her hand reach out for the railing as she moved slowly backward.

Something gave a soft, soft whimper.

Without warning the broken boards shifted and fell as something dislodged them.

And then Olivia saw the eyes . . . looking back at her . . . wide and full of terror.

slowly over her forehead, smoothing back her hair. The girl blushed and looked at the ground.

"I didn't know," Olivia said quickly, moving to the girl's side, hating the fear she saw there, the trapped look of helplessness. "I didn't know you were under the stairs—I didn't mean to scare you."

"She can't talk." Skyler glanced back over his shoulder. "She doesn't have a tongue."

"Oh, God ..." A cold shudder went through Olivia's veins, but she tried not to show it. "Is she hurt?"

To Olivia's annoyance, Skyler looked the girl thoroughly up and down, smiling as her blush deepened.

"My, my, Helen . . ." He ran one hand slowly down the front of her dress, as if to brush her off. "What a mess you are. But other than that"—his eyes turned back to Olivia—"she doesn't look hurt. She just gets . . . confused sometimes."

Spells, Miss Rose had called them. Half-wit, Mathilde had said. Again Olivia felt sorry for the girl. She saw Helen's half-frightened, half-shy glance at Skyler and was relieved when he finally let her go.

"Helen doesn't sleep well at night," Skyler murmured, stepping back from the girl. "She has dreams that scare her. Sometimes she can't tell if they're real or make-believe . . . not even in the daylight. Can you, Helen?"

As Olivia watched, Helen trembled slightly. Then she fingered her small, thin wrists where Skyler's hands had touched.

"I'm Olivia. I'm going to work here, too." Olivia moved forward, trying to get Helen's attention. "You were hurt in my room this morning. I hope you're feeling better."

"We have to watch out for her." Skyler's eyebrow

lifted. "We have to make sure she doesn't scare herself. When she imagines things." He turned his gaze back to Helen, his lips sliding into a smile. "Now wasn't that silly of you . . . trying to hide?"

Again the girl's eyes dropped . . . again her cheeks flushed with color. Skyler gently took her arm and steered her toward the yard.

"Go on. Yoly needs help with the wash."

Olivia watched as Helen went away ... as Skyler looked back with a thoughtful smile.

"Sweet," he nodded. "Very .. . sweet girl."

It had unsettled Olivia more than she cared to admit, seeing Helen's reactions, the blood on Helen's clothes, remembering how the poor girl had looked that morning hanging limp in Yoly's arms. It frightened her and confused her, and she tried to disguise her feelings with an apathetic reply.

"Compared to Mathilde, I couldn't agree with you more."

Skyler seemed to find that amusing. "And I was right about Mathilde, wasn't I? She hates you. Although it's nothing personal. She doesn't like Helen either."

"Is there anything she does like?"

He pondered a moment in exaggerated thought. "She has a strange affection for cold-blooded little pets."

In her mind Olivia could see the horrible black snake again, slithering down Mathilde's arm—and Mathilde, slithering up against Slater.

"Her snake?" she said coolly. "Or you?"

For a brief instant, Skyler's eyes sparked with some hidden emotion, but then his mouth relaxed into a slow grin, and he turned and walked past her, his chest deliberately brushing against her shoulder. Olivia's

heart pounded in a strange blend of excitement and dread. Instead of going upstairs as she had planned, she headed off in a new direction past the house, out into the overgrown yard at the side. Reaching an impasse of trees and shrubs, she paused and glanced back, just to make sure Skyler wasn't following. Then she took a deep breath and pushed her way through the moss.

She had no idea where she was going. This morning's incidents had left her tired and shaken, and she needed to think. She couldn't get the tragic picture of Helen out of her mind, nor the few remarks she'd heard about the girl's identity. Spells? No tongue? Maybe she was epileptic . . . suffered from seizures ... or maybe she'd met with some appalling accident in her early childhood that had left her scarred and feeble-minded.

Or maybe she had a mother like mine . . . or a father without a name, without a face, without a past . . . poor innocent Helen, you didn't ask to be born, you didn 't ask to be the way you are, maybe you 're just like your mother, cursed like your mother, or maybe like your father and you can't help it and you wish you could find out where you came from and who you really are, you wish you understood all the scary things pulling you deep deep inside yourself—you wish, you wish, you keep on wishing — poor Helen poor poor Olivia —

Throwing her arms around the broad trunk of an oak, Olivia rammed her forehead against it, letting the pain and dizziness wash over her in long, long waves, fighting back tears. Around her the fog curled and beckoned, and as she finally lifted her head again, she noticed a pathway worn into the soft ground at her feet, continuing on for another five yards or so, then

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

vanishing abruptly into the thick, lush greenery ahead. It seemed to be a rather well-traveled path, and after another look over her shoulder, she decided to see where it led. She pushed her way through the last barrier of moss and low-sweeping leaves and then stopped in wonder.

Nothing she'd seen so far at Devereaux House had prepared her for this.

There must be some mistake . . . / must be dream-ing.

Olivia pinched herself, but the vision remained. She stepped forward cautiously, half expecting it to vanish as she got closer.

She was in a clearing, large and cool and pleasantly green, but instead of waist-high weeds there was a manicured carpet of grass, and high trimmed hedges, and riotous bursts of color where flowers blossomed and grew. As she moved ahead she realized that she was entirely surrounded by trees—not only the ponderous oaks that guarded the house, but weeping willows and crepe myrtles, mimosas, elms, and cedars, beeches and poplars and dozens more she couldn't even begin to recognize. Rustling gently in the warm, soft breeze, they wove themselves together in intricate patterns of leaves and branches, forming a magical boundary between this unexpected paradise and the decay she'd left behind. Olivia had never seen such beauty.

As she followed the winding footpath, she noticed weatherworn figurines and oversized urns and crumbling statuary scattered among the plants. A broken stone cupid was poised atop a pedestal, his cherub head covered with ivy, his bow hung with spiderwebs. Pale, golden light filtered down from the leaves over-

head, speckling the folded wings of marble swans as they nestled along waterless, overgrown pools.

My God . . . he said he took care of the grounds . . . but I didn't believe him . . .

Looking up, Olivia saw a lustrous green dome against the sky, magnolias entwined with hickory and hemlock, and more tumbling green waterfalls of willows. She followed the pathway on and on beneath the trees, through openings in the overgrown hedges, each new discovery luring her on to the next, grove after grove, one wooded enclosure after another, like a maze of secret, enchanted rooms. There were elaborate beds of flowers and herbs, wrought-iron benches tucked back beneath stands of pecan trees, perfumed trails of crushed violets and rose petals. She saw stone ponds and silent fountains, the bright flash of fish darting beneath lily pads . . . she found sundials rotting quietly in nests of lacy ferns. The air was thick with the rich, wild sweetness of lilacs and magnolias, warm earth and honeysuckle, and as Olivia paused and lifted her face to the breeze, it occurred to her that she hadn't heard the sound of a single bird since she'd entered the gardens.

She had no idea how far she'd come, or even how long she'd been away from the house. Strangely enough, she felt no need to hurry here, for there was no concept at all of time or even of another world beyond this one. Totally and happily absorbed, she slipped through yet another break in the tall, tangled hedges, then stopped in dismay.

It was as if a gate had closed behind her, forbidding light—and life—to enter this place.

Olivia gazed in quiet horror upon the crumbling cemetery. She felt the serenity of the gardens fading

away from her . . . and the slow creeping chill that replaced it. She had never actually seen graves above-ground until now.

They spread out before her, rotting monuments to long-ago dead.

Trees pressed ominously here, as they did at the house, long gray tears of moss in perpetual mourning. The enclosure was small, yet in the very center rose an immense mausoleum of black marble, the name devereaux engraved above its entrance, letters barely visible beneath crawling patches of ivy. The door was barred by a locked iron gate. A dead wreath hung there, dripping spiderwebs. Weeds and ferns sprouted from the roof and along the foundation, and below the moldering Devereaux name, a carved stone serpent swallowed its tail in a symbol of eternity.

Olivia let her eyes wander slowly across the other graves. They were all normal-sized, crowded close together without pattern or design, staggered across the uneven ground and grown up with weeds. There were no flowers here ... no color. The tombs themselves—some oblong, some square—stood at varying heights, several of them flat, others with sloped, pedimented roofs—resembling miniature houses in a macabre city of the dead. As Olivia took a hesitant step forward, she could see that some of them were actually sunk into the earth, their inscriptions all but vanished. Once-whitewashed walls were now gray, mottled with lichen and black crusts of damp, and some had partially disintegrated, leaving nothing but soft piles of crushed bricks. Here and there a lopsided cross still adorned a final resting place, held together by straggling brown vines. Olivia heard something rustle in the tall weeds, and as she stepped back, a huge lizard slithered around one of the tombs and

wriggled itself into a hole at the back of the crumbling foundation.

A clammy breeze rattled the branches of a dead tree, bringing with it an underlying stench of decay.

With a gasp Olivia wheeled around, overwhelmed by the feeling that she was no longer alone.

"Skyler? Is that you?"

Overhead the trees moaned and bowed, plunging the cemetery deeper into shadow.

"Skyler?"

She glanced wildly at the tombs ... the scabrous walls . . . names of people once alive now faded from the gravestones and forgotten. She felt like she was suffocating. In the dangerous quiet, she heard her heart racing and at the same moment heard the sharp snap of a twig from the hedge just behind her.

And she was backing away now, away from where she'd come in, trying to hurry between the close-packed graves, pieces of the walls turning to dust beneath her groping hands. Terrified, she tried to go faster, but her shoes caught in the weeds and held her back. She felt a sharp tug as her sleeve snagged on a limb—she ripped it free and looked up and her breath froze in her throat.

He was standing very still. . . very silent . . . pressed back against the gate of the mausoleum.

Olivia's eyes widened ... yet as she stared, a wet, cold wind swept through the cemetery, shrouding the figure in fog and shadow.

"Skyler?" she whispered. "Answer me . . ."

The mist swirled slowly away.

The graveyard was deserted, and Olivia ran.

She thought she saw a glimmer of light and went toward it. Amazingly, there was a break in the trees, and as she came out of the forest at last, she saw a wide expanse of field sloping down to yet another dense thicket of oaks. The incline was steeper than it looked; as Olivia started down, she slipped several times and felt the bandage loosen on her leg. The wound was starting to bleed again, and she gritted her teeth as she went on.

To her surprise, she spotted the bayou ahead, yet she was almost certain this wasn't the same place she'd been with Skyler that morning. She remembered him telling her that the bayou wound off around the Devereaux property. This area was more thickly wooded, the banks more choked with reeds and cattails and thick marsh grasses than the other location had been. She went slowly along the shore, gazing down at half-submerged tree stumps and trailing puzzles of ivy. Maybe she could find the house again if she just followed the embankment.

Something rustled within the trees, and she stopped. She let her eyes go slowly over the woods behind her, probing the deep, deep shadows. She walked faster, trying to watch where she was going, trying to locate the house, but no matter how hard she strained, she couldn't see any sign of a roof or chimneys in the distance.

Behind the moss, something stirred again.

Puzzled, Olivia stopped and stared off toward the woods.

For one second she thought she saw the faintest flicker of movement, camouflaged there by the darkness. Instinctively, she ducked down into the weeds and waited.

She waited for a long, long time.

The bayou flowed, silent and sluggish, at her back. The woods were quiet as a grave.

At last, Olivia roused herself and began to slip quickly along the bank. The ground was like a wet suction beneath her feet. She forced herself not to think about snakes and kept going. Ahead of her a massive oak tree leaned out precariously over the water, its drooping lower limbs forming a natural archway above the ground. Lowering her head, Olivia prepared to go through.

She didn't see what hit her.

One moment she was on the shore, and the next she was gasping in the water, all the breath knocked out of her. She peered up and down along the bank, trying to figure out what had happened, but everything looked just as it had before.

Dazed, she managed to struggle to her feet and took several steps. There was a quick choking tug as mud oozed in over her shoes, and with a startled cry, she tried to pull one foot free.

It wouldn't budge.

Determinedly she tried again, but as the water drew her perilously off center, she felt her other foot slip, and mud closed over it like a steel trap.

This is ridiculous . . . I can get out of here if I just don't panic. Holding out her arms for balance, Olivia fought desperately to stay calm. She could see the oak tree, the spot where she'd just been standing, but though she twisted and strained, the branches stayed just out of reach. She could see the bank and the marsh grass and beyond that, the formidable stretch of forest, so close, so maddeningly close, and yet so far away . . .

She tried to fling the upper part of her body toward the tree, groaning as her lower half resisted. Slime sucked at her legs, and the mud was rising to her knees. As her eyes sought desperately along the embankment, she saw the tall weeds moving . . . bending ... as though something were gliding through them, swiftly, toward the water.

"Oh, God—"

She twisted and threw herself in a frenzy, painful images racing through her mind— alligators . . . water moccasins . . .

Quicksand . . .

The full horror of her situation burst upon her at last, and as she felt the water and muck clamp relentlessly around her knees, she began to scream.

"Help me! Somebody! Please!"

Surely someone would hear her— hadXo hear her— she couldn't die like this, not like this, so slowly, so close to her one chance at life—

"Screams don't mean anything here ..."

And she heard Skyler's voice again, his smooth, smug tone, the warning he'd given her— but it's only in my mind, isn't it? —her eyes sweeping along the murky bank, suddenly seeing the grasses part, the tall figure stepping out slowly to the very edge of the shore . . .

For a heart-stopping second his silhouette hung against the shadows, and then, as Olivia's distrusting eyes traveled upward, he leaned out over the water.

"Well, well." Skyler smiled. "What have we here?"

Olivia felt weak, giddy with fear and relief. "Oh, thank God ... I didn't think anyone would come."

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

"It seems you're in quite a predicament." His eyes traveled over her. "AH dressed up and no place to go."

"This is no time for making jokes! Can't you see I'm stuck out here!"

"Yes. I can see that." The smile flickered. "And whatever are you doing way out there anyway?"

"Please get me out."

"Exploring, I'd guess," he went on, answering his own question. "And I'd also guess that you probably came through the gardens on your way."

Olivia nodded, reaching out to him.

"And that you probably realized you'd underestimated my . . . talents." The green eyes flashed.

She was growing more panicky by the second. "Help me!"

"So did you enjoy them?" He folded his arms across his chest and gazed off into the woods. "The gardens, I mean?"

"Yes! Yes!" Her gaze went helplessly around the water, but there was nothing to grab on to. "What do you want me to say—they were beautiful!"

"Why, thank you." Skyler gave a sweeping bow, then eased himself down the slope of the embankment. Olivia could see him—only yards away—his movements sure and unhurried. "I have many other talents, you know," Skyler added. "You might even enjoy them more than my gardening."

Olivia stopped struggling. Something in his voice cut straight through her, and she stared at him, her pulse racing.

"Take off your blouse," Skyler said.

Olivia couldn't move. Her legs sank deeper, and in some remote part of her brain she watched herself being sucked into a bottomless hole.

BLOOD ROOTS

"Skyler. . ." she mumbled, but she couldn't tear her eyes from his eyes, from the look of cool detachment on his face.

"Do you want to die?" he asked patiently. "If you don't want to die, then do as I say. Take off your blouse. Slowly. Take it off and throw it up here on the bank."

Take off your dress, Olivia . . . nice and slow . . . like a good girl. . .

No, Mama, please don't make me . . .

Take off your dress, Olivia . . . so he can see . . . so he can see what a pretty, pretty girl you are . . .

No, Mama, Vm afraid —

/ won't let him touch you . . . I won't let him touch my special, pretty girl . . . he can look at you but he can never never touch —

"I won't," Olivia's voice was hollow, and it sounded like it came from some other faraway place. "Do you hear me? I won't."

"Yes, I hear you, but no one else can." Skyler sighed. "No one will come. And if I tell them you drowned out here, no one will probably care."

Take off your dress, Olivia . . . let him see . . . you know how to do this . . . you've done it before . . .

No, Mama, please, you're hurting me —

/ have to hurt you . . . I have to hurt you if you don't do what Mama says . . . take it off now, Olivia.

She felt her arms moving, someone else's arms, undoing the buttons down the front of her blouse. Her eyes looked deep into Skyler's. She slipped the blouse down over her shoulders and tossed it to where he was standing.

In one feline movement he stooped and picked it up. He pressed it to his face . . . held it there a long time, as if absorbing its scent, as if memorizing the

Richie Tankersley Cnsick

empty feel of it. Watching him, Olivia began to tremble.

"Now." Skyler's arm dropped to his side, the blouse trailing in the mud. "Keep going."

Don't let him look atme . . . don't let him, Mama — I'll be good — I'll do anything —

"I'll do anything you want," Olivia murmured, "if you just get me out of here—"

She could scarcely move at all now, the bayou was sucking her, swallowing her whole, and Skyler was watching and waiting with a slow, satisfied smile.

"The rest of it," he said. "Then I'll get you out. And then you'll still do anything I want."

And she felt so hot now, so horribly hot, yet her skin was wet and cold, like her soul felt cold—her mind going vague and unfocused, the way she'd taught it to do—shutting out the horror of what was happening, pretending to be someone else in some other place—

"Do it!" he hissed.

She reached for the tiny clasp between her breasts. The straps of her bra slid gently off her shoulders. She could feel her nipples hardening through the thin, see-through material, burning beneath Skyler's stare.

"Hurry," he said, leaning back against the tree. "You don't have much time."

See what a pretty girl she is? Take a good long look at my Olivia . . . take a good, long look . . .

The hook came open, shaking in Olivia's fingers, pulling slowly, slowly apart.

Her breasts spilled out, full and round and aching.

She threw her bra at Skyler's feet and tried in vain to shield herself from his eyes.

"Take your hands away,'* he ordered.

Obediently she lowered her arms, a roar of silent rage rushing through the darkness of her mind, only she couldn't seem to do it this time—to get outside herself—even though she was trying so hard, and it had been so easy before . . . And instead she was burning, burning beneath Skyler's eyes, her nipples taut, unbearable heat and ice swelling through her breasts—waves of shame and something else— something else —throbbing deep deep inside— helpless and hurting—and he wasn't saying a word, not doing anything to save her—

Help me, Mama . . . please . . . please . . .

"Give me your hand."

Olivia saw Skyler gliding down the embankment. He waded out toward her through the reeds and the rushes and the strange, exotic flowers.

"Bend forward," he said calmly. "Swim to me."

As if in a dream, she did as she was told. She saw his hands reaching out. . . she saw his feet anchoring themselves against the slippery bank. With a slow, final pull, she felt her body slide free of the water and into the wet heat of his arms.

His fingers moved slowly down her spine, and she gasped, arching her back, looking up into his clever green eyes. And "I'll kill you," she whispered, meeting his stare with a level one of her own—"I'll kill you, I swear—"

His lips crushed hers, and she felt herself falling, floating, spread upon the soft, soft ground, and all she could see was his shadow towering over her. .. invincible stone against the sky, the calm, steely strength of him—and then his slow deliberate movement as he bent forward ... as he lowered himself on top of her . . .

"No . . ." she whispered. "Don't. Don't touch me . . .

She felt his mouth upon her breast, warm and hungry . . . surprisingly gentle . . . and demanding.

/ will kill you . . . I will. . .

And as his hands began to explore her . . . taking their time . . . the trees and the sky and the thick, gray moss all ran together in a merciful blur ... all became one with the smothering fog in her mind.

to her, I could have stunned her first. I didn't have much of a choice."

"I'm . . . sorry. I've never been as good at it as you, we both know that. Not even after all this time ..."

"It doesn't matter anyway about last night. I'm the only one she really saw — not you — and Yoly got her calmed down."

"But Helen was in her room this morning. She's bound to wonder about that — "

"Why should she? Anyone who saw Helen would just assume she's crazy. Which she is."

"And we're not supposed to feel responsible about that either, I suppose?"

"Don't start that again. Are you hungry now or what?"

"Just look at the way she's lying there . . . just look at her."

"I am looking. She looks just as good now as she did last night in front of the mirror —"

"I was right, wasn't I? About how beautiful she is."

"Perfect for us, that's all that matters. Perfect. Alone. And sweet. And so, so ready."

"I want it done right, do you hear me? I don't want her to know what's happening."

"She won't know. They never know. Why are you so worried about this one? Why is this one any different from the others?"

"I have. . . a feeling about her. She is different. Somehow."

"Well, she's not as fragile as she looks. Her will is strong. She's hungry for life. And she's passionate. She doesn't even realize how passionate she is. But I do."

"Don't hurt her."

'Why would I hurt her? She has to last us a long . . . long . . . time."

Olivia was having the strangest dream.

She was lying in a vast gray emptiness, completely alone, and yet there were voices very near to her, masculine voices, speaking urgently in loud whispers. One of them seemed unhappy and profoundly upset about something. The other sounded impatient and apathetic. In her dream she tried to listen to what they were saying, but after a hurried exchange that she could barely hear and didn't understand, both voices faded away. Olivia groaned out loud and woke herself up.

She was lying in tall grass and was soaking wet. Her leg was throbbing with pain, and as she struggled to sit up, reality crashed down on her with a terrible clarity.

Oh my God. . . Skyler . . .

Dazed, she looked around—saw the bayou, thick and sluggish off to her left, the huge oak tree leaning to her right. As memory flooded back, she instinctively tried to cover herself, then stared down in dismay. Her blouse was lying damp and crumpled over her bare breasts. Her skirt was wet, hiked up around her hips, and her legs were covered with mud. She'd lost her shoes in the bayou. As she lay there, trying to make sense of it all, another stab of pain shot through her leg, and she propped herself on her elbows to take a look at it.

The bandage was soggy and loose—she was surprised to see it still hanging there. Purplish bruises showed around all four edges of the gauze, and fresh blood had oozed and dried again since she'd been out of the water. Placing her fingertips carefully on the swollen flesh, Olivia winced at the excruciating pain.

She carefully peeled the gauze away, then drew her breath in sharply.

The flesh actually looked chewed.

As if something had bitten—hard—and gnawed before letting go.

"Oh, God . . . what happened to me?"

Still dazed, Olivia slipped into her blouse, noting at once that all the buttons were gone. She tried to hold it closed across her breasts and straighten her skirt at the same time, then gave up and let the blouse hang open. She peered off at the bayou and tried to reconstruct what had happened before she lost consciousness. She remembered falling into the water and realizing she was trapped . . . she remembered her terror . . . and Skyler . . . and what he had done to her. And there had been sensations, too—strange sensations she'd never felt before . . . and dreams . . . and voices in a blur . . .

She shifted her weight cautiously, trying to block out the sharp, disturbing images in her mind. Skyler's smile . . . Skyler's voice . . . Skyler's body lowering . . . burning like fire . . . Surely if she'd been raped, she would have known it—would have felt something else besides the wound on her thigh— his eyes on me, his hands on me, his mouth . . .

Another wave of pain throbbed between her legs, and she bent toward the ground, quivering.

"You're all right. There's no need to cry."

Olivia hadn't heard anyone approaching. She jerked upright, fumbling the front of her blouse shut.

"Don't be afraid," the voice said. "I won't hurt you."

And even before Olivia lifted her head, she knew she'd heard that soft, kind voice before—only yesterday evening—behind the closed doors of the dining

room. He had been talking to Miss Rose, and after Olivia had pretended to faint, he had stood over her anxiously in the hall. Yet somehow she felt that she'd heard him again since then—some vague and cloudy recollection—and as she began to turn around, she tried to recall the voices in her strange dream just now, the solemn whispers that she hadn't been able to recognize.

He was standing at her back, towering high above her, his face an indistinct outline against the sky. After a moment of hesitation, he seemed to smile, and as he began to lean down toward her, a cry of surprise caught in her throat.

His face was the face in the portraits.

A likeness so precise it was almost frightening.

Olivia stared into his huge, dark eyes, recognizing at once the mixture of emotions she had seen in the paintings: suffering tempered by gentleness; deep, endless wells of melancholy; compassion that almost made her cry; patience . . . polite curiosity. And weaving through it all, that strange, calm look of resignation.

"You're shaking." He spoke for the third time. "Here. Put this on."

Before she could move, he was kneeling beside her in the grass, taking off his shirt, placing it carefully around her shoulders. Olivia couldn't help studying him as he bent close to her. His chest was smooth, his jeans low on his slender hips. He was as tall as Skyler and seemed to exude the same sort of watchful strength, though in a totally harmless and un-threatening way. There was a certain softness to his features that Skyler didn't have, and as he glanced into Olivia's eyes, she thought he looked almost shy. She felt his shirt against her skin, the sleeves long and

loose and soft, and she nodded at him gratefully, drawing its warmth around her.

"Thank you. I'm afraid I had ... an accident."

"Yes . . . but it's over now. And it's good that you slept."

"How did you know?"

"I've been close by."

Her eyes widened at his remark. She carefully searched his face.

"What do you mean? Who are you?"

"A friend. Don't worry, you're really all right. Nothing happened to you. Skyler was here—but now he's gone."

Olivia's glance quickly swept their surroundings. "You know Skyler?"

"I know him well."

"And how long have you been . . . close by?"

"Long enough." He smiled, avoiding her eyes. "I covered you up. I watched you sleep."

Olivia felt a slow blush creep over her cheeks. She wanted to be angry, to hate him for having seen her like this, but somehow she couldn't. She started to stand up but immediately felt his steady hand beneath her elbow, holding her back. Her leg still throbbed, yet curiously enough, the pain seemed almost detached from her now. She looked into his face and repeated her question.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Jesse."

And it sounded so beautiful, the way he said it. . . like summer and flowers and warm, safe places.

"Jesse," Olivia murmured. "Then . . . you live at Devereaux House."

"I work there, yes. With the others."

"And those are your pictures, aren't they? I've seen them hanging there on the walls."

He looked down, his fingers trailing slowly along the ground. The pressure of his hand was so light that the grass barely moved.

"Someone painted them," he said at last.

"Who? Miss Rose?"

Again he was silent a long moment. "No . . . someone who used to live here."

"Used to?" she echoed, and her voice was puzzled. "Then it must have been very recent. They look exactly like you."

He seemed uncomfortable at that remark. It was several seconds before he answered her. "I wish Miss Rose wouldn't hang them. I've asked her not to."

"Why? Don't you like seeing yourself?"

A faint smile flickered over his lips, disappearing again just as quickly.

"Does anyone like really seeing himself?"

Olivia fiddled with the blousy gray sleeves of his shirt, folding them up as best she could above her wrists. "We never had pictures or photographs in our house. When my mama was alive, she used to say it's unnerving to see your own face staring back at you day after day. That it reminds you too much of what you used to be . . . and that you're not that way anymore."

Jesse's voice was almost a whisper. "Your mama was right," he said.

The leaves stirred restlessly. Olivia glanced sharply toward the woods and saw Jesse's eyes following the direction of her own.

"It's the wind," he reassured her. "That's all it is."

"I don't like it here. It's so ... so quiet. So spooky."

"The bayou? Or the house?"

"What do you think of the house?" she said evasively, remembering the filthy, locked rooms upstairs. "You said you live there—"

"I said I work there. With the others."

"Doing what?" She watched his bowed head, the soft gleam of his hair as it fell forward around his cheeks.

He hesitated. Again he ran his fingers along the tips of the grass. He seemed to be momentarily fascinated by a pale violet pushing its way up determinedly through the weeds.

"Things that need doing, mostly. Maintenance. Repairs."

"Then I'd say you have more work than you can handle. The house—the buildings—all the rooms— everything's in a terrible state."

"I try," he said softly, and the sadness in his voice surprised her. "It just seems that... no matter what I do ... it doesn't help anymore."

She couldn't see his eyes. She stared down at the thick mane of his hair and resisted a disturbing urge to reach out and touch it.

"But I guess that when a house is this old," she offered matter-of-factly, "some things just can't be fixed."

"Yes." His eyes lifted and stared straight into hers with an expression that was almost wistful. "Yes, that's it exactly. Some things just can't ever be fixed."

Again she longed to reach out to him. Annoyed with herself, she turned her attention toward the bayou and changed the subject.

"But you still haven't told me where you live. If you don't stay at the house, do you come back and forth from town?"

"No. I live here at the plantation. I never leave."

"Surely you don't stay in one of those awful buildings out back."

"No, across the bayou. Not here. Where it winds off behind the house."

Olivia thought of the dock Skyler had showed her earlier. "And you live by yourself?"

He hesitated. "Most of the time. Yes."

Olivia chose not to press for details. "And you're not lonely?"

He didn't answer right away. He nodded off in some vague direction where Olivia thought the house might be. "As you said yourself, there's plenty for me to do here. And when Miss Rose is in the mood, I read to her sometimes. Or we dance. Or we just talk." Seeing her look of surprise, he added, half smiling, "Actually . . . /dance. Miss Rose just looks beautiful there in my arms."

Deeply touched, Olivia tried to imagine Jesse and Miss Rose whirling around the ballroom . . . tried to imagine floating in his arms.

"But you're very clever, aren't you?" Jesse broke into her thoughts, scolding her gently, "Keeping the conversation focused on me. When you're the newcomer here."

Startled, Olivia glanced up, not knowing what to say, but Jesse went on.

"I know your name's Olivia. I know you don't have a family. I know—"

"How do you know? How do you know anything about me?"

"I know lots of things about you. You're quite the topic of conversation."

"That certainly doesn't make me feel very good," Olivia's voice went defensive, but Jesse shook his head at her.

"Actually .. . some of it was quite complimentary."

He was teasing her now, she could tell, and as a telltale flush crept over her cheeks, she ducked her head and fought off a wave of confused emotions.

"You'll learn," Jesse said quietly.

"Learn what?"

"It's hard for outsiders to have secrets at Devereaux House."

She could feel him staring at her, his expression benign though curiously intense. Olivia felt a flutter of panic through her chest, and she clenched her fists into the grass.

"I've had a very boring, very uneventful life. With that kind of life, you don't have secrets."

Jesse watched her a moment longer, watched as the color heightened, then faded over her face. Then he dropped his eyes and held one fingertip lightly to one pale petal of the violet.

"Everyone has secrets," he murmured. "Everyone."

"The house seems like it would," Olivia said. "I wish I knew something about its secrets . .. and its past."

He glanced at her and seemed faintly troubled.

The stagnant smell of the bayou floated over them, ruffling the grass, worrying the long strands of moss overhead like so many nervous fingers. Jesse stood up and gave Olivia his hand.

"You should go back now. They'll be wondering what's happened to you."

BLOOD ROOTS

"I don't know how to get back."

"Did you come through the gardens?"

She nodded, frowning. "It was the graveyard. I thought I saw something there—or someone— standing beside the mausoleum. I got scared, and I started running. I know it seems silly now."

Jesse's expression was solemn. He shook his head at her. "Not silly at all. But you don't have to go back through the cemetery. I can show you another way and—"

He stopped abruptly, one hand going slowly to his chest. Olivia frowned and moved closer, her eyes sweeping over the front of him, seeing nothing apparently wrong.

"What is it?" she asked worriedly.

He seemed embarrassed. "Nothing. A pain . . . but . . . Nothing."

Without waiting for her to answer, he started walking, looking back from time to time to make sure she was behind him. He followed along the bayou for several hundred yards, then turned to the left, motioning her through a tract of dense woods that seemed to stretch several hundred more. He moved swiftly, without hesitation, as if he'd been this way many, many times before, and Olivia found herself hurrying to keep up.

"There are lots of ways to get back, but this will be the quickest." Jesse reached back, steadying her as she stumbled over a rotting log. "Otherwise, you'll have to circle around and come in at the rear of the house."

"It doesn't make any sense to me," Olivia paused, taking a helpless look at their surroundings. "I've always been pretty good at directions, but things seem all turned around here."

"They are." His glance was quick, and then he was moving again.

At last they came to a seemingly impenetrable barrier of trees where, to Olivia's surprise, Jesse swept back a tangle of low-drooping limbs and moss, revealing a tall hedge with a hole near the bottom just large enough to crawl through.

"There's an enclosure just on the other side," he explained to her. "One of the garden chambers . .. with the rose arbor and the statue of an angel."

"Yes, I remember it." Olivia ducked down to start through the opening but immediately straightened up when he didn't move. "Aren't you coming?"

He shook his head at her. "You won't get lost. And Skyler won't be hiding along the way. I promise."

Olivia stiffened, embarrassed that he seemed to have read her thoughts, angry at herself that he was right.

"I'm not afraid of Skyler."

"That's good." Jesse met her eyes almost reluctantly. "Because he can sense it if you are. He's very good at sensing fear."

Olivia felt a chill up her arms. She hugged his shirt around her briefly, then started to take it off.

"Thank you for this. It was very kind of—"

"It was nothing. Please keep it. I'll get it another time."

"Then I'll see you again?" She hadn't planned to ask it; she was startled when it came out. She averted her eyes quickly, hoping her voice sounded casual. "Next time you come to the house, I mean. I ... I'd love to see you dance."

He shook his head, his mouth moving in a bittersweet smile. "We don't dance much anymore. Not like we used to."

"I saw the ballroom." Again Olivia stopped, wondering if she'd said the right thing. Maybe she

BLOOD RO O TS

shouldn't have explored the downstairs. Maybe she shouldn't have gone into the ballroom at all. She watched Jesse's face, but when it didn't show any sort of negative reaction, she went on hesitantly. "I've never seen such a gorgeous place."

"It is beautiful." That wistful tone again. "I still love that room ..."

"And the music ..." She thought a moment, her brow furrowing in a slow frown.

"What?"

"The music ... so strange ... it was like I could almost hear it playing... only it wasn't really there . . ."

Olivia's voice trailed off as she remembered her unsettling experience in the ballroom that morning. The music . . . the people . . . the sensations ... Standing out here with Jesse, the whole experience seemed impossible, and she quickly tried to dismiss it.

"I was feeling nostalgic, I suppose. For the past." She shook her head firmly. "Old houses do that. You can't help wondering what it must have been like when—"

"What. . . about ... the music?" Jesse said slowly.

Olivia turned to him in surprise. He was looking away from her, staring at the opening in the hedge, and his body seemed to have frozen in place. She opened her mouth to answer, but he broke in again before she could speak.

"Tell me." His voice was tight, so low she could barely hear it. "Tell me . . . exactly . . . what you heard."

"I did tell you." Olivia watched him, but he didn't move. "I was standing by the mirror, and I guess I tried to imagine how music would have sounded in

there a long time ago. What it would have felt like to go to a ball. How perfect it all must have been back then. That's all. That's all it—"

"Nothing else?" Jesse murmured. "Nothing else happened?"

He danced me around the room . . . curtains blew in at the windows . . . he asked me to meet him and I said yes . . .

"I was . . . daydreaming," Olivia said cautiously. She was embarrassed to tell him about it, embarrassed by her own romantic nonsense. How schoolgirlish it all seemed now, how totally unbelievable and ridiculous. "It felt so real and so beautiful that I didn't want it to end. But I stopped daydreaming. And I left."

He stepped back then, stepped back from the opening, holding the limbs farther aside so that she could get through.

"Keep to the path on the right, and don't take any turns," Jesse mumbled, his voice oddly distracted. "That will get you back to the house. To the place where you first came into the gardens."

"But how do you know?" Olivia was already past him, already straightening up on the other side of the bushes. "How do you know where I came in?"

She turned around, but all she saw were the branches closing in again over the gap in the hedge.

heard the voices coming from her room. Immediately she ducked back around the corner and pressed herself into one of the recessed doorways, trying to listen. The voices went on talking, and she recognized them at once.

"Well, I hope she ain't gonna be like Antoinette," Yoly muttered. "Askin' all them questions all the time like Antoinette used to do—"

"UsedXo do," Skyler cut in. "Used to before we took care of that little problem."

"Yeah, and you sure took care of it, all right," Yoly went on grumpily. "You took care of it, and then that poor scared thing went right out of her mind."

"Well, I warned her, didn't I? I warned her not to keep asking questions. I told her if she did, she wouldn't be able to ask questions anymore—"

"And look what happened."

"An accident!"

"Hmmph."

"Well, is that my fault?" Skyler's voice rose defensively. "We've always done it that way. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. I just do what I can do."

"Antoinette never was like Helen—moonin' and pinin' over you the way Helen does." Yoly continued as if Skyler had never spoken. "You couldn't do just anything to Antoinette like you do Helen. She wasn't dim-witted like Helen. She knew what was happenin' to her . . . She knew at the end."

A silence stretched out, heavy and expectant. Olivia could almost see Skyler's green eyes staring into Yoly's black ones.

"I didn't do it," Skyler said at last, and he sounded uncomfortable. "I think . . . maybe Mathilde . . ."

"You ain't tellin' me nothin' I don't already know."

Yoly sighed. "It's too late for Antoinette. I just don't want nothin' bad happenin' this time. You hear me? Things is already worse as they can be. I don't want Miss Rose all upset again."

"It won't happen. I'll make sure."

"Olivia and all her fool questions this mornin'." There was a series of soft thuds as if Yoly were plumping the pillows, patting the bedclothes back into place. "Askin' Miss Rose about her family—of all things. It broke my heart to see the look on Miss Rose's face. Just plain broke my heart."

"I know." Skyler's voice dropped. "I saw it, too."

"Makin' Miss Rose think about what happened all over again," Yoly muttered. She paused, and when she spoke once more, there was a catch in her voice. "Makin' me think about it all over again."

Another silence, this one longer than before, and full of unspoken pain. Mama? . . . Is Yoly talking about Mama? Olivia felt her own heart ache within her, and she leaned forward slowly, holding her breath.

"Do you ... do you ever wonder about her?" Skyler asked, and for just the briefest instant, there was almost a wistfulness to his tone that reminded Olivia of Jesse.

"Oh, child . . ." Yoly sighed. "Oh, child . . . when does a day go by that I don't? That pretty face of hers . . . that smile . . . that laugh that went on and on through the house . . . fillin' the whole place with sunshine. She was different, that one was. Different from all the ones who come before her. She had a mind of her own."

"She was beautiful," Skyler murmured. "Wasn't she, Yoly?"

"And free! Why, child, she had that spirit!" To

Olivia's surprise, Yoly's voice broke into a deep laugh, but then almost at once it seemed to falter. "That spirit," she whispered. "Those dreams . . . even though she knew better. Even though she knew."

There were slow, ponderous footsteps across the floorboards. When Yoly spoke next, she was near the bedroom door.

"And all these bars," she mumbled. "Even these bars couldn't keep her in. So look at her now, wherever she is." Yoly's voice faded, became lifeless and hollow. "And God have mercy . .. look at us."

Olivia leaned her head against the peeling bricks. Mama's room . . . I'm in Mama's room. Tears ran down her face from some deep, deep sorrow she couldn't understand, and she bit her lip to keep from crying aloud.

"Yoly . . ." Skyler's tone was grim. "I found something today in the gardens. Some of the flowers." He hesitated, then said slowly, "I think they're dying."

There was an indrawn breath ... a whisper of words that Olivia couldn't quite make out. Olivia expected Yoly to answer, but Skyler rushed on again, sounding reckless.

"It's probably nothing—I don't know—some kind of soil that doesn't belong here—the crows could have brought it—or the wind—or—"

"You know better," Yoly broke in then. Her voice was so solemn, so resigned somehow, and as Olivia listened, a cold shiver replaced her tears. "You know what's happenin'. It's dyin' 'cause she's dyin'. 'Cause there ain't no one else. And when she goes, it all goes. And us. We go, too."

The silence was frightening now.

Skyler gave a laugh, but it sounded too loud and too forced.

"You're as crazy as Helen. Miss Rose should have got rid of you a long time ago."

"Won't help, you pretendin' like that," Yoly muttered. "I'm right, and you knows it. Just look here—I cleans and cleans, but it don't do no good." She gave another big sigh, as if sternly gathering herself together again. "It just don't do no good at all. All this mess around here—"

"She asked about that," Skyler said quickly.

"Who did?"

"Olivia. She wondered why the house was in such bad shape."

"Um-hmmm." Yoly sounded suspicious now. "And what'd you tell her?"

"The truth." A slow, sly smile crept through Skyler's voice. "That you're the absolute worst housekeeper on the face of this earth."

"You come here!" Yoly burst out, and Olivia could hear her trying to chase him, Yoly lumbering around the room and Skyler's swift, nimble steps. "You ain't so big, I can't still take you over my knee—"

"But you're too big to catch me—"

"You come over here now, you hear? I should give you a good hard paddlin' on your backside!" Yoly was fussing now, trying to catch her breath. "But I won't —you know why? 'Cause you'd probably like it!"

Skyler started laughing then, and after a second, Yoly's chuckle joined in. There was a brief scuffle and a distinct wallop, but as Yoly shrieked, Olivia realized it hadn't been Skyler who'd gotten cornered.

"Go on with you now. I gots work to do," Yoly ordered, her grumpy tone returning. "Miss Rose'll be wantin' her dinner, and where on earth is that new girl—"

"At the bayou, last time I looked."

Richie Tankersley Cnsick

"Bayou! What's she doin' down there?"

"I don't know . . . resting."

"Well, she ain't got time to rest with all the work that needs doin' around here," Yoly grumbled. "Go find her and tell her to come eat."

As footsteps approached along the gallery, Olivia ran quickly in the opposite direction and hid behind another corner until Yoly and Skyler had gone downstairs. Reaching her room at last, she closed the door softly, then collapsed across the bed.

Morning had crawled into midday, and the fog that had misted the air before had now given over to bare, sweltering heat. Olivia stretched her aching "body and groaned. Her leg was hurting again, yet there were other more troubling matters on her mind. She shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a bearable position, and closed her eyes against the heavy damp. Mama's room . . . where Mama looked out through the bars on the windows . . . like I looked out through the bars on mine.

She could still hear Yoly and Skyler. Their strange words had touched her deeply, but she hadn't really understood. Yoly knew Mama—Olivia had heard her say it—Yoly had known a Mama that Olivia never had—pretty and laughing and smiling like sunshine —Yoly had known her and Yoly had missed her, and Yoly still wondered about her—

She's dead, Yoly, but she was dead years and years before that, you can walk around and still be dead, you can stare and scream and hurt people and yourself and still, still be dead.

She could still hear Yoly's laugh in her mind, and she could still hear Skyler's voice in her mind, and she could still feel the waters of the bayou sliding up over

her body, andSkyler's eyes, Skyler's hands sliding over my body —

Someone moaned softly, and with a shock, Olivia realized it was her. She stared at the wallpaper, and the faded green leaves looked like Skyler's green eyes, and the heat pressed down on her, making her burn, like he had pressed down on her, making her burn, making her dream ominous dreams of strangers and whispered conversations, making her wake to find Jesse . . .

Jesse.

And thinking of Jesse made her calm again, calm and clear-headed and very, very peaceful ... so peaceful that she began to plan just where and when and how she would kill Skyler, like she had promised him she would.

Once it was done, there might be nothing to look forward to for a long while.

She sighed and closed her eyes, long tongues of sticky heat licking over her body on the bed, making her toss restlessly and take off Jesse's shirt and open up her blouse again to get cooler.

Just like last time . . .

He hadn't played by the rules, that man of Mama's, hadn't listened to Mama's instructions— "you can look at her, but you can't touch" —and Olivia could remember it, could remember it so well, as if she were there again, as if it were happening all over again, those nightmare visions that never ended, never let her out of their cold-hot grasp—

No, Mama, please don't — please don't —

Now, Olivia, baby, you know that I know best . . . that Mama always knows best. Such a pretty girl, such a perfect, pretty girl — take off your dress, Olivia, let the man see how pretty you are . . .

No, Mama, I don't want to, please don't make me —

You know how, you've done it before — take off your dress, Olivia, take off your clothes, so he can see you . . . that's right, that's Mama's girl — and isn't she pretty — don't cover your breasts, Olivia, let him see — that skin, those thighs of hers — don't blush, Olivia, don't turn away, let the man look — let the man want you, desire you, that's right — take a look at her — take a good long look at her, but you can't touch — no one can ever touch my pretty girl, she's different — she's being saved for someone — for something very special — and I know you want her, you want her so bad, but you can't have her, you can't ever have her, you can't ever touch her or have her or hurt her or love her —

"No, Mama," Olivia whimpered, and tears rolled

Richie Tankersley Cusick

down her face, wetting the pillow beneath her cheek, and she caught her breath quickly, pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming—

He had waited till Mama was upstairs. He had waited till Mama was passed out and couldn't hear and wouldn't know and wouldn't come. Olivia had heard something behind her, just right behind her as she'd tried to make lunch, and that sudden hard shove as she'd fallen back across the table, dishes clattering around her bare feet, and his hand around her neck, covering up her mouth, her nose— "If you yell III hurt you bad — if you say one word to anybody, I'll sneak through the house at night and kill you and your mama while you sleep — " And he'd been so strong, much too strong for Olivia, his sweaty hands ripping open her dress, grabbing her breasts, working their way up under her skirt and into her private places, and she had been so scared she couldn't even scream, his body so huge and so heavy, pinning her, forcing her—

She'd grabbed the mixing bowl and broken it over his head and then she'd run as he'd fallen onto the floor—run and run through the woods behind the house, hiding and crying and sobbing till late, late in the night when Mama had finally come looking for her.

And then Olivia had started planning.

She'd started planning exactly what she was going to do to him, every detail, and each time she thought about it, a wild exhilaration raced through her, drowning out everything else—all the fear and pain and humiliation. She thought about it for a long, long time, and she knew he would try it again, she knew he would, but not for a while, not till he thought Olivia would forget and let her guard down. She thought about it every hour of every day, seeing it over and

over again in her mind so that when it finally did happen, it was like the ongoing saga of some wonderfully satisfying dream.

She was actually disappointed that it had been over with so quickly.

And afterward, she kept thinking how he wasn't even smart enough to be clever or quiet or even original, coming up behind her just like before, only this time she was cutting flowers, outside cutting flowers on an ordinary summer day. And she heard him long before he was close to her, the plodding of his footsteps, the harsh wheeze of his breathing, moving toward her through the tall grass, walking boldly up behind her . . .

There had been just that slight resistance when the shears had gone into his stomach.

Just that sudden quivering all through his body, and the way his muscles had clenched, and the way his skin had tightened around the blades of the garden shears, as though it wouldn't let her pull them out again.

He had made this strange gargling sound as he'd fallen on top of her.

He had looked at her in such a funny way that she had laughed out loud.

And then she had lain there for the longest time, pulling out the shears, plunging them in again . . . pulling out the shears . . . plunging them in again . . . his body jiggling limply with each new blow, until she was wet and greasy with warm, thick blood.

Olivia, Olivia, what have you done —

He touched me, Mama — you told him not to, but he touched me and I was afraid —

Oh, God, Olivia, oh God, what on earth have you done —

I thought you 'd be glad, Mama —/ thought you 'd be happy —

I'm alone now, Olivia — I'm all alone again — you 're bad y do you hear? — such a bad, wicked girl — you'll have to be punished — I'll have to hide him where no one will ever find him, and then you'll have to be punished for taking him away from me —

But there'll be others, Mama — there always are others —

The blood, Olivia — the blood! — take those things off—take them off now —

No, Mama, give me back my clothes — please — don't hurt me — don't hit me — I'll be good — where are we going, where are you taking me —

No one can hear you in the attic — no one can find you there — I'm the only one with a key, Olivia — now you stay in there till all that blood wears off your skin, till you think about what you did — bad wicked girl! — no clothes for you, Olivia, not even a rag to wipe off with — you just wait till that blood wears off you and I say you can leave —

"Mama," Olivia sobbed softly, "oh, Mama, I didn't mean to be bad . . ."

She'd sat there for days and nights, losing track of time, and during those long erratic intervals when food and water didn't come, she'd let herself float and fade blissfully in and out of consciousness. After a while she hadn't really minded being there at all, except when Mama stumbled up the stairs with some new spectator and shoved open the door and let him look at her. Then Olivia had to stand silently against the wall and pull her hair back so he could see, and Mama would taunt and tease and take him away again, Olivia's cheeks and body burning in shame. It

BLOOD ROOTS

was a hot, hot summer that year, she remembered, and sometimes she'd stretched out on the splintery floorboards in a gentle pool of sunlight, and she'd run her hands curiously along the curves and mounds of her body, trying to figure out what the men saw when they stared at her. And sometimes she'd just lie there, drifting and thinking, recalling the exact feel of the garden shears as they'd sunk into the flab of her stepfather's belly . . . how the flesh had ripped as she'd twisted them . . . how he'd writhed there on the ground trying to breathe . . .

Writhing . . . trying to breathe . . . Skyler's mouth . . . Skyler's hands . . . exploring me . . .

Olivia arched her back slowly, her mind in a whirl.

The front of her blouse hung open, and she put a hand to one bare breast. . .

It wasn 't like that — not the same at all — you liked it when Skyler touched you — you liked it — you didn 7 want him to stop—

"No!" Olivia sat up, a scream rising into her throat. "No! That's not true! I didn't like it and he shouldn't have touched me—he should never have touched me—"

"Say, what you hollerin' about?" Yoly's voice boomed out without warning from the doorway, and Olivia turned with a gasp, jerking her blouse together. "Where you been anyway? And what you doin' there in bed? It ain't nighttime! How come you ain't workin'?"

Olivia raised her hands slowly to her face and held them there for several seconds. She took a deep breath. When she lowered her hands again, Yoly was standing at the foot of the bed, fists on hips, looking annoyed.

"I'm sorry," Olivia said calmly. "I went into the gardens earlier, and I got lost. I just got back a little while ago."

Yoly shook her head. "Miss Rose wants to see you. You's late for dinner—and we don't wait meals on nobody."

"I'm sorry," Olivia mumbled again. She swung her feet to the floor and clutched her blouse over her chest. "I just didn't realize—"

"Mercy, child, what happened to you?" Yoly's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You look like you done fought with the devil himself."

Olivia ran a hand back through her hair. She hadn't taken a look in the mirror since she'd been back, and she could only guess how awful the effect must be. "I fell in the water," she said.

"In the bayou?" Yoly seemed to be thinking a minute, then she muttered, "Resting, huh? Um-hmmm . . . now I sees how it is. Well, get off the bed—you trackin' mud all over the place."

Olivia walked to the mantel and ruefully studied her reflection. Her hair was tangled, caked with dried slime and mud; her clothes were filthy and torn. There was mud on her face, and she wiped at it irritably.

"Some folks got no respect for other folks' belongin's." Yoly prodded her from behind. "Now hurry up. Miss Rose done already started to eat."

"I need something else to wear." Olivia sighed.

"Look at this, you's hangin' plumb out here—what happened to these buttons?" Yoly reached over and yanked on Olivia's blouse, nearly lifting the girl off the ground.

"I don't know what happened to them. All I have is this," Olivia took Jesse's shirt from the bed and held it

BLOOD ROOTS

up. Yoly stared at it, then folded her broad arms across her chest.

"And where'd you get that?"

"From a gentleman," Olivia said, refusing to meet Yoly's eyes.

"Then you must have met Jesse." Yoly turned toward the door. "I ain't found nothin' for you to wear yet, so put that thing on and come down the way you are."

And face everyone like this. And face Skyler like this . . . Olivia's cheeks burned, more from anger now than embarrassment, and she followed Yoly downstairs.

Miss Rose and Skyler were talking when Olivia walked into the dining room. They stopped their conversation midsentence and stared at her. Helen shot a sidelong glance through her stringy hair as she toyed with the uneaten food on her plate. Mathilde angled herself back against the sideboard and raked Olivia with a cold, haughty sneer.

"I'm sorry." Olivia tried to ignore the others and met Miss Rose's eyes instead. "I didn't know I was supposed to be here."

"We're all family, more or less. I like for all of us to eat together when we're able to and"—Miss Rose leaned forward in her chair, squinting to get a better view of Olivia. "Good heavens, child, no one comes to this table looking like that!" She pulled back again, flabbergasted, and Olivia hastened to explain.

"I don't have any other clothes with me. And then I had an accident this morning—"

"What kind of accident?" Miss Rose scrutinized her up and down in growing alarm.

"I fell in the bayou."

They all kept staring. Skyler lifted his wine and took a long sip, but his eyes never moved from Olivia's face. In spite of her determination to hold her own, she could feel her cheeks flaming. Skyler smiled behind the rim of his glass.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Miss Rose sighed. "Of course, I remember that you don't have any clothes— Yoly—"

"I'll try to find her somethin'," Yoly mumbled. "Don't know where I'll find somethin' . . . but I'll try and find somethin'."

"Well, there must be suitable clothing around here somewhere." Miss Rose looked distressed.

"Just until these are clean," Olivia broke in helpfully. "If I could just borrow—"

"I don't know what around here'll fit you," Yoly threw in.

"It doesn't have to be a fashion statement, just find the poor thing something to wear." Miss Rose sighed again. "She can't be walking around stark naked while her clothes get clean, can she?"

Olivia felt the blush deepening across her face even before Skyler grinned. Mathilde slammed some plates onto a tray, bringing a moan from Miss Rose.

"What's gotten into everyone today, I'd Kke to know? Would it be too much to ask for a little harmony? A little peace and quiet? And Skyler, what are you looking at—wipe that smirk off your face."

It amazed Olivia how normal Skyler could look when he had to. He leaned back in his chair and looked positively bland.

"Yes, you're very late," Miss Rose reminded Olivia now, gesturing her forward. "Dinner is always promptly at noon. But since you've already missed

dinner today, Mathilde can get you something else to eat in the kitchen."

"Please don't bother," Olivia said, avoiding Mathilde's lethal glare. "I'm really not that hungry. And I apologize again for being late."

"Sit down, child, before you fall down—there— yes, right across from Skyler. Goodness, you don't look at all well"

Miss Rose surveyed her closely, but Olivia kept her head lowered, away from Skyler's knowing eyes.

"I can't put you to work in the kitchen," Miss Rose said, tapping her water goblet with one frail finger. "Mathilde's much too temperamental, and I'm afraid it would only cause problems for you."

Olivia felt a surge of relief. She had no desire whatsoever to spend time in Mathilde's company, and though she considered herself quite a good cook, the thought of working in one of those miserable little outbuildings didn't appeal to her at all. That must mean she was going to help Yoly in the house. As she waited for Miss Rose's verification, Olivia felt her spirits picking up.

"We've all discussed the situation," Miss Rose went on pleasantly, "and we've all agreed that you should work where you're needed most."

Olivia nodded, glancing around at the shabby decor of the dining room. "I know everyone has their own way of doing things, Miss Rose, but I'll learn fast and

hi do—"

"Whatever Skyler says," Miss Rose broke in. "Whatever Skyler says, that's what you'll do."

Olivia felt her heart thud down into her stomach, then ricochet back up into her throat.

"What? What did you say?" And she knew she was

staring, she could feel the blank expression on her face, and from the corner of her eye she could see Skyler, his eyes narrowing, a sly smile easing across his lips.

"Skyler," Miss Rose said again, nodding in his direction. "Is there a problem?" As Olivia turned slowly toward him, Skyler leaned forward in his chair.

"No problems, Miss Rose," Skyler said smoothly. "There're never problems when I'm in charge. You know that."

Olivia could feel herself nodding now, like Miss Rose was nodding, could hear her own voice, strained and peculiarly faint. "The gardens?" she murmured. "Yes. The gardens. I can do that."

"Not the gardens, Olivia." Miss Rose shook her head, smiling gently at Olivia's confusion. "The gardens are quite beautiful, and it's time the rest of the place caught up."

She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and reached for the cane beside her chair.

"The graves," she said simply. "You and Skyler can clean up the cemetery."

Obediently Olivia began to undress, casting an anxious look toward the open door.

"Ain't nobody comin' up here," Yoly assured her, intercepting her glance. "They's all downstairs. And anyways, you'd hear 'em."

Olivia held out her blouse, then hesitated. "Even Skyler?"

It was Yoly who glanced at the door this time. "Well. . . only if he wanted you to."

The muddy skirt slid to the floor, and Yoly bent to pick it up, her voice matter-of-fact.

"You ain't never had a man before, have you, child?"

Startled, Olivia stared at her. Yoly straightened up again, casting her a knowing look.

"Innocent thing." Yoly spoke between clenched teeth and turned her head away. "That's just what I thought," she muttered. "But I has to be sure."

Olivia didn't know what to say. Confusion and indignation struggled across her face, but Yoly wasn't paying any attention.

"Why did you ask me that?" Olivia demanded.

"You just finish dressin'." Yoly's tone ended the matter, and Olivia turned back uneasily to her clothes.

She pulled Mathilde's blouse on over her head, then stared down at it in dismay. The cotton was so thin and flimsy it was almost transparent, and there was an opening in front that reached almost to her waist. As Olivia tried in vain to close it, Yoly made an impatient sound in her throat.

"Don't you know nothin'? That's what this here ribbon's for." She yanked the blouse together, and now Olivia could see the tiny holes on either side of the gap as Yoly wove them quickly together. The ribbon was frayed, starting to unravel at one end, and

BLOOD RO O T S

even after Yoly had tied it in a fragile bow, the low neckline barely covered Olivia's breasts. Determinedly, she tried to lift it higher, but Yoly only shook her head at her.

"Don't matter," she said solemnly. "It ain't gonna stay."

"Well, maybe if I could just pin it—"

"Child, nothings gonna help you, no matter what you do to that blouse." Yoly closed her eyes briefly, then shook her head again. "Why'd you ever come here, child? I'm only sayin' this for your own good—"

"I can take care of myself."

The words came out like a challenge, but as Olivia drew herself up and started to say more, the look on Yoly's face stopped her. For just the briefest moment she'd seen something there—something half sad . . . almost frightened—and her heart went cold, though she didn't know why.

"Well, you better," Yoly said under her breath. "You sure better."

Abruptly she headed back to the door. Olivia pulled the skirt on and started after her.

"Yoly—wait."

The black woman turned with a suspicious look. Olivia stopped a few feet away and stared at her helplessly.

"I didn't mean to sound like that. I'm tired and mixed up. You've been nice to me and I shouldn't have—"

"Don't trust nobody." Yoly's eyes went even darker, and once more a chill went through Olivia's heart.

"Not even you?"

For an endless moment Yoly's stare pulled her in . . . held her . . . then let her go. Without a word the black woman vanished, leaving Olivia alone.

She rubbed her arms briskly, urging the goose bumps away. The heat was stifling, but she was deathly cold. She closed her eyes and heard Yoly's voice nagging in her mind. "Nothin's gonna help you, no matter what you do to that blouse ..."

And what did you mean by that f Yoly? What did you mean about me being innocent? What were you trying to say?

"Don't trust nobody . . ."

She thought of Skyler. She thought of his face and his secretive smile and the way his brows arched above his green eyes when he said one thing and meant something wickedly different.

She wondered how Miss Rose could have done this—forcing them to be together—but of course Miss Rose didn't know, Miss Rose couldn't know what Skyler had done, how Skyler had seen her, how Skyler had touched her—or surely she wouldn't be so cruel as to make Olivia face him again.

But it will work out all right. It will work out, and everything will be fine. It will give me time to plan my strategy, time to watch and wait, time to feel nothing, nothing at all. . .

"But I don't feel anything," Olivia mumbled, and she was frowning, arguing with herself, going out onto the gallery, walking slowly along the wall in the direction of the stairway. "I don 7 feel anything, so why did I even think that?"

Her leg was throbbing—her head was throbbing— she pressed her hands to her temples and started down. She thought about the cemetery and all the work that needed to be done. She thought about the mausoleum and the figure she'd seen there that morning. She thought about Jesse and wondered where he was. And as her foot dropped down to the next step

BLOOD ROOTS

she was thinking about Skyler again when she realized there was nothing below her but air.

Screaming, Olivia pitched forward and grabbed wildly for the railing. Her hands scraped old wood and splinters, and she heard a crack as they came apart in her hands. For one split second she saw the wall—the roof—then a slow-motion somersault of moss and mist and empty air as she plunged over the side of the stairwell.

There wasn't time to scream again. From some remote awareness, she knew her body was preparing to hit the brick and stone spinning up to meet her, and her mind began to fade . . .

She never hit the veranda.

Instead of the hard ground, Olivia felt the hard strength of a body, and as arms closed around her, she looked up into a familiar face.

"You should be more careful." Skyler grinned. "One of these times you really will hurt yourself."

"Let me go!" Thoroughly shaken, Olivia squirmed in his grasp, but he only held her tighter.

"Now, is that any way to treat someone who saved your life— again?"

Her arms were wedged against his chest so that she couldn't pull away. "I mean it, Skyler." She was trembling violently, but her voice was deathly calm. "Put me down. I hate being held this way."

The green eyes sparkled. "That didn't feel like hate to me back there at the bayou. As a matter of fact, you were a lot more agreeable when you were feeling desperate. Why, who knows just how desperate you'll feel the next time you're in trouble."

"Put me down," Olivia whispered. "Now. Please."

A laugh sounded deep in his throat. She felt his chin against her cheek, but she couldn't turn her head.

"But I kind of like this arrangement/' he murmured. "And you remember what Miss Rose said? Whatever I say, that's what you do."

Without warning he swung her to the ground and released her. She struggled to catch her balance and he reached out to steady her, his eyes doing a quick, thorough sweep of her body.

"Very nice," he nodded approvingly. "But don't let Mathilde see you in those. She's liable to rip them right off you. Wouldn't that be a shame."

Olivia jerked free of his touch. She watched as he moved to the stairway, watched his fingers sliding lightly along the broken banister. Halfway up, he bent to examine one of the steps and gave a long, low whistle.

"Well . . . well. . . looks like something's missing."

"What did you think?" Olivia said stiffly. "That I fell on purpose?"

Skyler straightened up again. He brushed his hands off on one leg of his jeans.

"The step's been cut. Deliberately, if I had to make a guess." He folded his arms across his chest and a lazy smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "You've only been here one day. Do you always make enemies this fast?"

Olivia could feel her nerve faltering. She moved closer to the staircase but stayed on the ground, careful to keep distance between herself and Skyler.

"But that doesn't make sense," she reasoned. "Why would someone deliberately try to hurt me?"

Skyler's eyebrow rose. "Devereaux House is famous for unexplained accidents. Didn't Yoly tell you that?"

"She told me to watch the steps," Olivia said, meeting his eyes with forced calm. "She told me that

some of them were rotten, and that I should look where I was going."

"And are you?" Skyler's gaze slid over her again. "Are you looking where you're going?"

His eyes returned to her face. For an endless moment they watched her, and as she looked away, flustered, she saw their gleam of amusement.

"Well, I'll give you a little advice, then." He shook his head, eyes widening in mock seriousness. "Be careful what you walk into around here. Especially with your eyes . . . wide . . . open ..." Without warning he jumped to the ground beside her, landing lightly as a cat. "Come on. We have lots to do."

Olivia stood there, not moving. She heard the crunch of his footsteps heading off through the trees behind her. She heard him pause, and then she heard the sly smile in his voice as he called back to her.

"If I were you ... I'd watch my back."

She whirled around, but he was gone, and reluctantly she hurried to catch up.

The afternoon was passing, and though the fog had dissipated nearer the house, a trace of it still hovered lightly over the gardens. Olivia tried not to follow Skyler too closely—just enough to keep him in sight as he walked ahead through the maze of green enclosures. Neither of them spoke, and Skyler moved quickly, sure of himself and the way he was going. They could almost have been walking through a dream, Olivia thought idly, weaving in and out through leaves, through flowers, through mist—and without really meaning to, she allowed herself the luxury of imagining, her mind drifting as peacefully as the fog around her. She was the mistress of Devereaux House, strolling through her peaceful domain, and

had she but chosen to turn around and gaze behind her, the house would rise up in all its breathtaking, romantic beauty, welcoming and safe and full of lovely promises . . .

She stumbled over a broken statue, and Skyler's chuckle brought her back to reality.

"Hurry up." He shook his head with that patronizing smile. "Watch where you're going."

And as Olivia stood and watched Skyler move off ahead of her, she was suddenly angry that he should be living here—that she was the one who had to hide her identity— he should be working for me, doing everything I say, Vm the one who really belongs here, not him, not any of them, just Miss Rose and me . . .

She quickened her pace as she realized that Skyler had disappeared from view, but she found him again easily enough, standing just inside the cemetery, gazing around it with a critical eye. As he moved toward a low-hanging oak and brushed the moss aside, she noticed a variety of tools lying on the ground—shovels, pickaxes, hoes, clippers, even several pairs of garden shears. Letting her gaze linger on them only a moment, she turned her attention accusingly on Skyler.

"It was you here this morning, wasn't it? You must have been working here, and then you hid."

Skyler's eyes completed their circuit of the graveyard, then settled back on her, more apathetic than interested.

"This is going to be a nasty job," he said.

"It was you," Olivia insisted. "You were hiding here, spying on me. You wanted me to run, didn't you, so I'd go to the bayou, and then you could push me in. You wanted to scare me—"

"If I wanted to scare you," Skyler said slowly, "I wouldn't need a graveyard to do it." He bent over and examined one of the shovels. "What the hell are you talking about anyway?"

Olivia stopped, suddenly confused. Skyler squatted down and picked up the clippers, snapping the jaws together with a loud click.

"Someone was here," Olivia went on, watching his face closely. "Standing right over there. By the mausoleum."

Skyler's expression didn't change. "So you ran."

"Yes. Of course I ran."

His glance slid toward her, then away. His mouth tightened in a peculiar sort of smile. "As if it would do any good," he murmured.

"What do you mean by that?" Olivia stared at him, but he got up and walked away. He stopped again beside one of the tombs and rested one foot comfortably on top.

"And what makes you think it was me? Haunting the graveyard this morning?"

He took out a pack of cigarettes. He struck a match and held the flame up, cupping his hand around it. Smoke curled like an aura around his head. His elbows seemed permanently stained from rich, damp earth, and there were scratches running along the hard, wiry muscles of his arms. Olivia opened her mouth but then closed it again. Skyler watched beneath hooded eyes.

"Have you ever spent the night in a cemetery?" he asked unexpectedly. She struggled to hide her revulsion, but knew he had seen it register on her face. "Here." He hid a smile as he tossed her a trowel. "Start digging."

"Digging?"

"For weeds."

"You can't be serious. It'll take forever to get all these."

"What do I care about time?" Skyler shrugged. He squinted off across the crowded graves, his voice thoughtful. "What do they?"

Olivia followed his stare, the cemetery moldering around them like an ancient city of ruins. In spite of the heat she shivered.

"It's just. . .it's so..."

"Dead." His eyes were on her again now, gleaming, that maddening smile lurking just below the surface. "Don't tell me you're afraid . . ." His voice sank as he straightened and moved closer. "You and I both know that dead people can't hurt you."

Olivia took a step back. Skyler stopped and blew out a slow, thin stream of smoke, as if her reflex amused him.

"It's the spiders you have to watch out for. As big as your fist." He was watching her carefully, gauging her reactions though she was trying so hard to conceal them. "And the bats. Oh, yes, bats take over the tombs after a while. And snakes, of course. Big ones. Black .. . poisonous. Who can tell?" He waved his arms in an inclusive gesture. "All these weeds . . . and weeds .. . and weeds. They could be anywhere."

Olivia met his stare coldly, but he only chuckled and walked back over to the gardening tools. Gritting her teeth, she knelt down beside one of the tombs and dug tentatively through the grass with her trowel.

They worked in silence, each in separate corners, Skyler tackling dead stumps and tree roots, Olivia concentrating on impossible tangles of weeds. She

found herself wondering just how long the weeds had been growing there, for they seemed stubbornly determined to stay, sprouting from the crumbling plaster, crawling from crevices in the stone. Each time she had to give a hard pull, she held her breath, fearful that the whole tomb would give way without warning. After a while she held up her hands and winced, seeing the blisters forming, and then she rocked back on her heels to rest. The air pressed down like a wet, smelly blanket. It was insufferably hot.

"Did you bring gloves?" she called to Skyler. He paused and leaned on his shovel. At some time he'd taken his shirt off, and his lean, sun-bronzed body glistened with sweat.

"What's wrong?" he called back.

"Work gloves? I'm getting blisters."

He shook his head and resumed digging. Olivia swore under her breath and continued her way down the side of the tomb. Here more weeds clung determinedly to the fragile foundation, and she had to bend low to get a good hold. She was crouched on her knees behind the tomb when she heard Mathilde come into the cemetery.

There was something almost mesmerizing about Mathilde's voice—the lyrical, singsong sound of it as she called Skyler's name—yet something told Olivia to stay down out of sight. She eased flat onto her stomach and peeked around the corner of the tomb just in time to see Mathilde grab Skyler around the neck and cover him with kisses, molding her body sinuously against every curve of his. For a second Olivia wondered if Mathilde had surprised him, for Skyler didn't react right away, just stood there, hands on his shovel. But then the shovel dropped to the

ground and his arms went slowly around Mathilde, and Olivia pulled back, closing her eyes, trying to shut out the sound of Mathilde's muffled laughter.

"Why do you make me suffer so much?" Mathilde teased him. "Why do you make me beg?"

Skyler said something, but Mathilde's kisses smothered his words. Olivia stole one more cautious look around the foot of the grave and saw Mathilde sliding slowly down the front of Skyler's body . . . her outstretched fingers gliding down his sides .. . her face pressed into him as she moaned softly . . .

Olivia drew in a shaky breath. She willed herself to stand up and face them but could only lie there, trembling, in the grass. She wanted to call out, but then she heard Skyler's voice.

"No. Not here. This way."

The laughter faded, their whispers disappearing through the hedges and beyond the trees. A thousand emotions raced through Olivia, leaving her weak and confused. She pushed herself up again and leaned back against the side of the tomb, fanning her cheeks, lifting the hair from the back of her neck. Her body felt strangely liquid, at one with the slow, easy flow of the heat. She went back to the weeds with a vengeance, pulling them, twisting them with her bare, blistered hands. She didn't think about Skyler anymore, or Mathilde, or even how long they'd been gone. She was so focused on her task that she suddenly realized she'd worked her way around the whole tomb and back to where she'd started.

Surprised, she looked over to where Skyler had been digging. His shovel was still on the ground where he'd dropped it. Uneasily, Olivia let her eyes roam over the enclosure. It would be just like Skyler to have sneaked

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past her, to be hiding now, waiting for the perfect moment to give her a scare.

The cemetery was empty.

What bit of space she could see through the trees overhead had grown noticeably darker since she and Skyler had first arrived. And as Olivia cast another anxious look around, she was almost positive the fog had thickened.

Alarmed now, she jumped to her feet and started toward the hedge. She heard something rustling just behind her, moving swiftly and almost noiselessly through the grass. Choking back a scream, she whirled around, and suddenly all the grass seemed to be moving— everywhere —alive with horrible slithering sounds—invisible presences closing in—

Olivia looked frantically for an escape and saw the marble entrance to the mausoleum. In an instant she ran across the cemetery and climbed the steps, huddling uncertainly at the top of them.

And the grass was moving—she could see it now from her vantage point up here by the door—she could see it, only it was like a long sweeping wind, swirling the fog, bending the trees, flailing the moss, forcing her back against the locked gate of the tomb.

"Olivia..."

And she heard her name, as if the wind had called, as if the wind had sighed . . . mournful. . . lost. . . some empty whisper of age-old grief. ..

"Who's there?" Olivia screamed, shielding her face from the heat, the damp, pressing hard into the gate. "Skyler? Where are you?"

And the fog was closing in, like wispy shreds of a winding sheet, thick and gray and curiously cloudlike, so that she couldn't see anymore, couldn't hear, only

the sad sobbing sound, the mournful cry of her name ...

"Olivia. . ."

Desperately she whirled toward the gate.

She leaned into the iron bars . . . rested her forehead against them . . .

And felt the padlock come open in her hands.

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life's blood were one and the same—pounding— undulating—to the strange seductive rhythm in her head.

But where is it coming from?

As Olivia listened, entranced, she felt the gate swing slowly outward, and she stepped through, coming face to face with the door of the mausoleum.

The sounds were coming from inside.

No . . . that's impossible ...

Trembling, she lifted her hand to the thick cypress panels and put her palms flat against them.

Vibrations coursed through her fingertips and down her arms and into her bones like an electric shock. She jerked away and stood there, staring.

Quivering fog enclosed her. She could hear the thunder beating louder now—louder—mercilessly. Her breath came in short, quick gasps. Her head felt ready to explode. She fell on the doors and pulled frantically at the latch, but it wouldn't open.

And then she heard the voices.

They came softly at first. To Olivia they seemed just an echo of the rushing rain, some strangely distorted reverberation of the storm she couldn't see, their low, whispered intensity broken once—twice—by a deep moan ... by a muffled call. She was terrified and fascinated. She could almost feel the voices pulling her, yet at the same time she wanted to run.

She thought she heard someone crying.

In growing alarm, she beat on the door with her fists and pressed her ear against the thick wood.

"Hello! Is someone in there?"

Images of death and decay swirled through her mind. In an instant, it was as if she saw all the generations of Devereauxs crumbling quietly in their crypts, and she fiercely forced the visions away.

"Open the door!"

The shuddering thunder—the soft swell of voices —and then she heard it again—the crying—a woman's voice, only louder now, louder, rising as the woman screamed, 'Who's there — don't you see them — someone's there — stop — oh God — don't touch me—"

Olivia was frantic.

"Who's in there? Open the door!"

But the whispers were all around her now, moaning all the way through her— piercing all the way through her—like the thunder and the storm were piercing through her—and lips burning, body thrusting, fire between thighs and warmth flowing down — bare skin gleaming — sweat and rain — shadows tangled — locked together — writhing on the floor . . .

"No," Olivia whispered. 'Wo/"

She clamped her hands to her head to shut out the relentless sounds, and as she whirled away from the door, she stared in disbelief at the cemetery.

Everything lay quiet. Dusk seeped down, blackening the fog, and the wind was still.

Gasping for breath, Olivia pressed one hand to her throat and let her eyes travel slowly over the graves. There was no sound of thunder now, no voices, not even the slightest tremor in the air.

The silence was deep and unnerving.

"I've got to get back," she murmured. "I've got to get back right now—"

She started to run. She raced from the cemetery and headed back the way Skyler had brought her while a steady panic grew in her breast. She couldn't imagine anything worse than to be lost out here after dark, stranded in this maze of gardens with no light and no sense of direction. She was furious with Skyler for

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

going off and leaving her the way he had; she was furious with herself for letting the cemetery get the best of her. She had no idea what she'd heard back there, but whatever it was, there had to be a perfectly logical explanation. It was a mausoleum, after all, she argued with herself; there was nobody inside but dead people.

Without warning, she came to a thicket of trees where the pathway split to either side. Choosing the one on the right, she broke through an opening in the hedge and stumbled out into a small clearing. Almost immediately she felt the ground sloping off beneath her feet, and as she stopped in surprise, she saw that she was only several hundred yards away from the bayou again.

"Damn!"

Even in the thickening twilight, she could tell she'd never been here before—this embankment was steeper than the one where she'd fallen in, and a sparse border of trees straggled right down to the water's edge. She must have taken a wrong turn in the gardens somewhere and come out in the wrong place. Again she recalled Skyler telling her how the bayou wound back and forth along the property far beyond the actual house, and she started back toward the hedge when something glimmered at the corner of her eye.

It was hidden in the fog . . . something pale and ghostly . . .

She could see it in the distance, through the moss and mist, and it seemed to be floating there, swinging slowly from side to side ... as if beckoning.

Olivia moved quietly to the trees, then parted some of the lower branches to peer out. The bayou was a wide band of blackness, dark stains and shadows oozing across its silent surface. Bewildered, she stared

BLOOD ROOTS

at the light once more and strained her eyes through the gathering night. The hazy glow seemed to be on the other side of the water, suspended in midair, and all at once she realized it was a lantern, hanging from the branches of a tree.

As she stood there, a soft murmur of voices drifted out of the darkness, and she pulled herself deeper into the trees. For a moment she couldn't tell where the sounds were actually coming from, but then she noticed a small boat gliding among the shadows along the opposite shore. Olivia held her breath and waited.

There was soft laughter and the musical sound of a woman's voice.

Mathilde.

The boat coasted for several more feet, then a silhouette stood up in the bow, leaning in toward the bank, hesitating below the lantern. Mathilde's face hung eerily for just a second in the feeble light. She stepped out onto solid ground and turned back toward the boat again, extending her hand.

"Come." Her voice was soft and coy. "Come. See what I have for you."

"Wait. Where are we going?"

Olivia frowned. It was a man's voice, but not one she had heard around here before. Still. . . there was something naggingly familiar about it. . .

"It's a secret. You do want me, don't you?"

The man laughed, and Olivia cringed at the sound. She had heard that sort of laughter many times through the years, from Mama's bedroom, she had seen that sort of laughter in the eyes of all the men who had ever looked at her—

"This will be the night of your life," Mathilde promised, her voice teasing. "This is a night to die for."

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"It better be," the man sounded anxious, breathless. "I'd still like to know where we're going."

"But I told you. It's a secret place. A special place. Somewhere we can't be disturbed."

The man laughed again. Olivia saw him step out onto the bank, but she couldn't make out any of his features.

"This way." Mathilde purred softly. "Come, my big brave man. Mathilde has many surprises for you."

"But don't we need the lantern?"

"I know the way with my eyes closed. Trust me."

Their voices faded then, deep into the trees and the darkness. Olivia stood there another several seconds, not wanting to stay but strangely reluctant to leave. Something was going to happen—something terrible, she could feel it—and as she fought down a wave of inexplicable fear, she spotted something else on the other side of the bayou.

A movement near the boat.

A murky shape gliding stealthily beneath the trees along the water's edge.

And as Olivia watched, holding her breath, the figure seemed to stretch itself up over the embankment toward the sickly light.

The lantern swung sharply in the breeze, illuminating the face for the briefest instant, and Olivia felt her eyes widen.

She was sure it was Skyler. As the light tilted again, it cast a thin glow over the small shallow boat tied there, and Skyler's deep laugh shivered through the darkness.

And then . . . very slowly ... his head lifted into the air . . . hesitated . . . turned in the direction of her hiding place . . .

He was looking straight at her.

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She could feel his eyes, just as surely as she could feel her racing heart and the scream choking silently in her throat—

She turned to run but something solid was blocking her path—someone's hand clamping hard over her mouth—

"Hush up!" Yoly hissed. "Don't you say one word."

BLOOD ROOTS

Yoly gave her a push, and as Olivia stumbled into a net of branches, she realized they'd reached the outer boundaries of the gardens once more. She felt Yoly's hands on her back, forcing her through the hedge, and she pitched forward and nearly fell.

"Yoly—wait! I don't know how to get back!"

But Yoly wasn't there anymore. In the full fall of darkness, Olivia was alone again, surrounded by a foggy maze of twisting paths and shadows.

What do I do now? She was afraid to move. And as Yoly's voice echoed over and over in her mind— "don't stop for nothin \ don't stop for nobody" —Olivia realized why she felt so unnerved. It hadn't just been the shock of Yoly's unexpected appearance from the dark. It had been the fear she'd heard in Yoly's voice.

Did it have something to do with Mathilde and the stranger on the bayou? With Skyler? Did I see something back there that I wasn't supposed to see?

Olivia moved ahead, feeling her way tentatively through the labyrinth of enclosures. Walls of foliage slammed up against her, and the ground tilted unevenly beneath her feet, leading her into rosebushes and tangled traps of snaking vines. As her fear began to mount, she forced herself to keep going, to not cry out, to not call for help—

She didn't see the shadow lurking deep within the shrubbery. As she groped her way along, it blended so perfectly with all the other shadows that she almost touched it before she even realized it was there. She felt only a soft stirring of air, and as the fog began to separate, something materialized right in front of her, sending her back with a scream.

"I've been looking for you." Skyler shook his finger, slowly, in her face. "Bad . . . bad . . . girl. . ."

Olivia gaped at him, her mind whirling— but you

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were just back there at the water —/ saw you —/ heard you — there's no way you could have gotten here that fast—

She tried to go around him, but his arm snaked out and caught her.

"And where do you think you're going?"

"Back to the house." Her heart was fluttering, caught in her throat, just below the surface of her voice. "Let go of me."

"Wandering around alone at night." He shook his head and sighed. "Not a good idea."

"You're the one who left me. You're the one wh went off and never came back." She lifted her ch trying to ignore the insolent gleam in his eyes.

"Why, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous, Olivia." That amused laugh. "And there's no need for you to be jealous. I'll always come back for you." He moved closer, his body light against hers. "Just like I came back for you today. Only you were gone."

"I . . . got lost."

"Lost? And you've been wandering around in here all. . . that. . . time?"

His fingertips touched her cheek . . . trailed slowly down her neck . . . over the top of one breast. She tried to suppress a shiver, but she knew he'd felt it.

"Isn't that strange," he murmured. "I've been around and around in here just looking for you, and I never once heard you. Calling for help or anything. And believe me—I have damn good hearing."

His fingers played with the tie on her blouse. She felt the ribbon slowly pull open.

"I was just so scared!" she burst out. "I got all turned around. We must have just kept missing each other, that's all."

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"Of course. That's probably just what happened." His voice went softer still, and she felt his breath, warm and faint against her ear. "You know why it's not a good idea to play games with me, Olivia? 'Cause I always win."

Don't touch — you can look but you can 't touch — I'll kill you —/ will —

"You really shouldn't go wandering around after dark," Skyler went on smoothly. "Especially in the gardens. They're a lot like life—you never know what you might find. Or what might find you."

He chuckled softly, the vibration coursing straight through her. She could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed . . . could feel the lean and powerful strength of him . . . like Mathilde's snake, she thought. . . waiting . . . watchful . . . unpredictable . . .

He leaned into her, and she drew her breath in sharply. Her blouse eased off her shoulders, and his face began to lower. She tried to pull away, only something was wrong, terribly wrong— I can't move, I want to, but I can't, something's holding me — something —

"If something wanted you, Olivia," his lazy voice mumbled deep, deep against her throat—"it'd be so easy."

Without warning he released her. She staggered back a few steps, then managed to catch her balance.

"Who knows," Skyler said softly, "just what surprises the night will bring."

"Tell me how to get back!" Olivia demanded. "Tell me the way to the house!"

But Skyler had disappeared.

Deeply shaken, Olivia forced herself to go on, but

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the gardens had become even more terrifying than before. Every shadow was Skyler's hiding place . . . every obstacle crouching along the path was Skyler waiting to grab her. She thought she felt his eyes following her in the dark. She thought she felt his breath licking the side of her face. Yet still she kept going, determined not to cry or give up or give in to hysteria, determined to find the house if it took her all night. And when she finally stumbled out into the side yard of Devereaux House, she didn't stop running until she reached the veranda and collapsed at the bottom of the stairway.

Olivia buried her face in her hands.

She didn't want to think anymore. She didn't want to go over all the strange things that had happened to her, she didn't want to remember what she'd heard or seen or accidentally stumbled upon—all she wanted to do was lock herself up in her room and lock herself away in the dark, empty attic of her mind . . .

The footsteps were so faint that at first she scarcely heard them.

They came between the outbuildings behind the house and rustled softly through the weeds across the yard, approaching her slowly . . . almost cautiously . . .

There wasn't time to jump up and run. Olivia held her breath and drew back slowly into the shadows.

"Olivia?" the voice called softly.

She was afraid to answer. She kept silent and hoped the voice and the footsteps would go away.

"Olivia," the voice said again, gently. "Don't be afraid. I know you're there. I can see you on the steps."

"Jesse? Is that you?"

He was smiling. She could hear it in his voice.

"Only me. What are you doing out here? Why aren't you inside with the others?"

He came into view then, the warm sultry breeze ruffling his hair, the long white sleeves of his shirt.

"I just got home." She felt so tired all of a sudden. Tired and empty and very much alone.

"Home? This long after dark?"

"Yes. Thanks to Skyler."

"He left you." Jesse paused for a long moment. When he spoke again, there was sympathy in his voice. "I'm so sorry."

"Why?" Olivia straightened in surprise. "There's no need for you to apologize."

Jesse's laugh was as soft as his voice. "Apologizing for Skyler is an old habit of mine."

"Then you've known him a long time?"

"A very long time. May I sit with you?"

Olivia hesitated . . . then nodded. He moved close to the stairway and gazed down at her a moment, running one hand back through his soft, thick hair. Olivia scooted over to make room for him on the step.

"And what are you doing out here instead of being with the others?" she asked him. She felt the light pressure of his arm against her shoulder as he eased down beside her, and she stole a look at his face.

There was a long pause before he spoke. Then, "Walking,"

"Walking? After dark?"

The turnaround seemed to amuse him. "I often walk late. The dark doesn't frighten me." Out in the yard shadows blurred slightly, rippling into waves of black. "But you should be inside now. After dark it's not safe out here when you're not familiar with the way things are."

"It doesn't seem to be safe anytime." Olivia sighed, and Jesse glanced at her quickly.

"Why do you say that?"

"Every time I go into the gardens I only seem to get lost." She grimaced slightly, wrapping her arms around herself. "Lost or scared."

"What do you mean?"

Olivia didn't answer right away. She remembered Jesse's interest when she'd alluded to her experience in the ballroom . . . and how silly she'd felt afterward for having said anything at all.

But this was different somehow.

What had happened to her in the cemetery today had left her deeply unsettled. She hadn't been able to outrun it or forget about it since then.

Almost like a premonition of some kind ...

"It wasn't actually the gardens," she said hesitantly. "It was in the cemetery."

"And. . . something happened to you there?" Jesse's tone was guarded. He stared off into the night, and Olivia felt his shoulders tighten ever so slightly.

She felt foolish. She started to shake her head no, to deny everything, when Jesse spoke again, gently encouraging.

"It won't surprise me, you know, whatever it is you think you saw. Or heard. I've . . ."—his voice dropped—"experienced things myself in that place."

Olivia looked up at him in surprise. "Have you? But they couldn't have been as horrible as what I heard today. Or as incredible."

Jesse's eyes settled calmly upon her face. He waited for her to go on.

"At first it sounded like thunder . . . only it wasn't storming." Olivia took a deep breath and waited for him to laugh. Glancing at his expression, she saw that

it hadn't changed, so after another moment she went on.

"But I could hear it storming—thunder and rain and lightning—so—so—ruthlessly. And it all seemed to be inside of me. All the way through. And then ..." Her voice trailed away, the memories flooding back again, full force. "Then. . . voices whispering . . . moaning. Words I couldn't understand. Muffled and out of breath, but very intense. And then someone—someone frightened—crying. Pleading."

Olivia began to rock slowly back and forth, her arms still wrapped tightly around herself, her voice flat.

"It sounded like a woman. As if she knew I was outside the door. She screamed—'don't touch me'. I wanted to help her. But I couldn't."

Beside her Jesse sat very, very still.

He sat without moving for such a long time that Olivia began to wonder if he'd heard her at all.

And then, finally, he lowered his head to his chest.

"Oh, God," he murmured. "Oh, God . .."

Beside him, Olivia stared. Something soft and sorrowful stirred inside her, something she didn't understand, and she wanted to touch him, to comfort him because he seemed to be so upset. The feeling was new to her, and somehow frightening. She stopped herself from reaching out and spoke to him instead.

"Then you believe me?"

His head nodded slightly.

"And the sounds—you've heard them, too?"

"Yes," he whispered. "I'm afraid I have."

"Then what are they?" Olivia asked, leaning closer to him. "What do they mean?"

Jesse said nothing. Olivia hugged her knees up to her chest and rested her cheek against them.

"It's what my mama always said," she mumbled.

Jesse's head came up again, slowly. "What?"

"Mama." Olivia shut her eyes. "Never mind. It's nothing."

She could feel Jesse's eyes on her, and she wished she hadn't spoken. She didn't want to think about Mama right now. She didn't want to think about her life before Devereaux House. She could feel Jesse's body against her side, and it made her feel strangely protected.

"Is the cemetery haunted?" she asked him at last. "Did something tragic happen there?"

"There's always great tragedy in cemeteries," he said evasively. "Not everyone dies a peaceful death ... or lives a peaceful life."

"But I felt it," she insisted. "I felt it so strongly. And I believed it. And even though I know how crazy it sounds, I'm positive it happened." She stopped a moment, considering. "And you've felt it, too. Does everyone who comes here feel it?"

Jesse shook his head. Olivia could see his face now, and he looked noticeably disturbed.

"Not many people come to Devereaux House," he said softly.

"Then what do you think it is?" she persisted. "And why did it happen to me?"

"I'm not sure." For a moment he sounded uneasy. Then he drew in a deep breath and turned to her. "Have you told anyone else about what happened?"

"No," Olivia shook her head. "Only you—"

"Then don't," he said. "Please. It would only upset Miss Rose. And frighten Yoly. And Skyler would only use it against you."

"To scare me." Olivia nodded grimly. "Yes, I understand. I think he enjoys scaring me. In fact, I think he delights in it."

"Yes. I'm very sure of that."

Olivia thought a moment, gazing up at Jesse's profile. "You sound so tolerant."

"Do I?"

"Hasn't Skyler ever done anything to hurt you or scare you or make you angry?"

Jesse shook his head slowly and cast her a sidelong glance. "You mustn't think too harshly of Skyler .. . sometimes people can't help the things they do. Sometimes . .. they have reasons far beyond their own control."

Olivia was puzzled. "I don't understand."

"No." He smiled then, sadly, and leaned his head against the banister. "No one could, really."

Far in the distant sky, threads of clouds unraveled, showing a pallid moon. Jesse turned his head slightly so he could look at her. His hand went restlessly to the front of his shirt, and for a brief instant Olivia thought his eyes flickered with pain.

"So tell me... are you happy here?" he asked. He shifted and dropped his hand to his side. "In this house . . . with these people?"

My house, Olivia wanted to say— my grandmother, my house, I belong here, Skyler doesn't, no one else does but my grandmother and me . . .

She hesitated. "Sometimes I'm frightened," she said truthfully, surprising herself. "Not just because of Skyler."

"Because of what you felt in the cemetery?"

"It's more than that." Olivia heard herself talking, and she didn't want to tell him, didn't want to share her thoughts and her fears with him, but she couldn't

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seem to help herself, and the words just kept coming. "I can't get away from the feeling that something's going on here that I can't see. That something's hidden here—something I don't know about."

"Old houses have many secrets. And the family is . . . unusual."

Olivia almost laughed at that. "Miss Rose seems to be the only person everyone respects. Including Skyler."

"He adores her," Jesse said simply. "We all do."

"But the house ..." Olivia thought a long moment. "And this place . . ."

"It touches you, doesn't it?" Jesse murmured. "In ways you never expected."

His perception startled her. For one panicky instant she had the feeling he could see through her, could see straight into her soul and her motives, and she watched him closely, trying to read some sort of recognition in his calm, dark eyes.

"Sometimes," he said, gazing back at her peacefully, "it's like something's a part of you. As if it's always been a part of you. Even though maybe you've never —physically—been a part of it"

Olivia felt entranced. For an endless moment she seemed to be drowning in the depths of his eyes. Then she gave herself a firm mental shake.

"You understand," she said, puzzled. "How is it that you understand so well?"

Jesse was silent. It was several moments before he spoke.

"It's this house," he murmured finally. "This house

... the family ... the past ... the future . . .

everything strung together in an endless chain. It

connects you ... it makes you feel things that nothing

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else could ever make you feel. It wraps around you. And it never lets you go."

Olivia stared at him a long time.

She felt a slight pressure against her hand and looked down to see Jesse's hand alongside.

"I'm rambling." He sounded embarrassed.

"No, please," Olivia said, and she meant it. "I like to hear you talk. You have such a nice voice."

His glance was almost shy. "I'd rather hear you talk. I can hear myself anytime."

She smiled at that. It surprised her when it came so easily to her lips, that it wasn't forced or phony or painful.

It felt nice. Natural with him.

"What was your family like?" Jesse asked. And if he saw her smile fade, if he noticed the slight stiffening of her body, he gave no indication.

Olivia thought quickly. No need to lie, really, to make up something totally outrageous—Mama was dead now, anyway, and she'd been gone from Devereaux House such a long, long time.

But she couldn't help saying, "I thought you said you already knew a lot about me."

Jesse's smile was ambiguous. "Go on," he prompted.

"Well. .." Olivia began uncomfortably, "my mama was sick a lot."

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's all right. She had . . . problems."

"Taken out on you."

She looked up sharply. "How did you know?"

Again that vague smile. "I guessed."

"We didn't get along very well."

"You . . . hated her."

Olivia froze. A thousand emotions coursed through her—a thousand excuses—a thousand denials—

"Yes," she whispered.

She felt his hand again, gently against hers.

"Brothers or sisters?"

"No. Just me."

"That's very hard. Friends at school?"

"I wasn't happy there. All the kids thought Mama was crazy. They called me names and made fun of me. They never came to my house, and I was never asked to go to theirs."

"How lonely for you."

A long pause. Then, "Yes," she whispered again. Why am I telling him this — it's none of his business — why am I being so honest — why can 't I stop talking —

"Not even a make-believe friend or two?"

"No. Mama had plenty of friends. I liked being alone."

Jesse seemed to be thinking. After a while he said tentatively, "And these friends of your mother's—"

Olivia drew into herself. "I hated them, too."

"But. . ." Jesse was quiet a long time, his voice lowering even more. ". . . they didn't hate you?"

Olivia's heart raced frantically. "Why are you saying that to me?" she burst out, angry now. "What do you mean by that?"

"Olivia, wait, I—"

And suddenly—in that moment—she wanted to tell him—wanted so desperately to tell him everything—her past, her pain, her true identity and all her plans—because he seemed like he might be able to understand—understand and sympathize and forgive and love—

"I don't want to talk anymore." She stood up and the moment was gone. "I'm very tired."

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"I didn't mean to upset you. Please believe me—"

"Good night."

Olivia went quickly upstairs, trying to shut out the sound of his voice, the expression in his eyes. Hurt . . . he'd looked and sounded so hurt . . .

She stopped on the gallery and peered back down. She was horrified at what she'd done, the things she'd revealed about herself, the way she'd opened up to him, yet at the same time she wanted to go back, to tell him it was all right, that it wasn't his fault, that she was sorry . . .

He was waiting at the bottom, gazing up at her.

Behind him, near one of the columns along the gallery, a shadow slid out onto the veranda, separating itself from the night.

And even from where she stood, Olivia could see the narrow gleam of Skyler's eyes, watching her in the dark.

staring at her ghostly reflection, the changing lines and angles of her face, the deep troubled chasms of her eyes.

Even me.

She hugged herself tightly and tried not to think about the windows around her, exposing her to the vast, black night beyond. Is someone out there watching? She could still hear Skyler's voice, feel his hold on her—the panic she'd felt at his carefully controlled strength—the sure and sudden knowing that he could have done anything and she couldn't have stopped him.

<f If something wanted you . . . it'd be so easy ..."

She'd been mesmerized out there in the gardens with him . . . and she'd been terrified. As though in some strange way, she'd tempted the dark side of fate ... or had somehow escaped a close brush with something utterly deadly.

And then there was Jesse . . .

/ said too much, I stayed too long, why did I confide in him y why why why —

Olivia sank down on the side of the bed. She felt achy and sore from working in the cemetery, and her clothes were filthy. She searched the room to see if Yoly had brought her clean clothes, but found nothing. If only I could take a bath . . .

She knew there was a bathtub downstairs, but she hesitated to go down to use it. She didn't want to have to see Skyler again, or Jesse. She crossed to the washstand and emptied the pitcher into the large porcelain bowl. There wasn't much water, but it would have to do.

She blew out the candle and stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. She took off all her clothes and tossed them near the door. Afterward

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she would hang them over the railing outside, and maybe they would air out a little by morning. It was still hot and sticky. She leaned in over the bowl and splashed tepid water over her face.

She wished she had a rag, something to scrub with. The dirt and decay of the cemetery clung to her stubbornly, burrowing into the pores of her skin. She gathered her hair at the back of her neck and ran her fingers through it, trying to coax out the tangles. She cupped her hands into the water and held them to her throat, letting the warm flow dribble down between her breasts.

She didn't feel any cleaner, but she did feel cooler. Again she dipped water in her hands, rubbing it gently over her breasts, down her stomach, her hips and her legs. She bit her lip and pulled off the bandage on the inside of her thigh, and she wet it carefully, still feeling swollen flesh. She held out her arms to the shadows and spun slowly, round and round, until she reached the bed, and then she collapsed onto her back, legs wide apart, arms extended over her head, welcoming the brief respite from the sweltering heat.

She lay there a long time.

Mama's room . . . this was Mama's room . . . did she lie like this on this same bed . . . did she clean herself from the same washstand . .. did she hurt and hide and wonder what was waiting for her on the veranda downstairs . . . and who was here then when she was here — was there some other Jesse and some other Skyler who made her heart beat fast and her skin catch fire and something ache and yearn deep deep inside, deep enough to make her cry. . . .

Olivia arched her back slowly and rolled over on her side. From here she could see the door and all the

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windows, blank eyes on the endless night beyond. / could lock the door but it won't do any good. I could put a chair underneath the doorknob but there are windows all around and something slick and sly can slip right through the bars . . ,

She brought herself up sharply, her heart quickening in her breast. Was that a noise? Something on the gallery outside? It hadn't been a loud sound, exactly, or even a very definite one—yet Olivia had the uneasy feeling that she wasn't alone.

She listened for what seemed like forever.

Whatever the sound had been, it didn't repeat itself, and slowly her feeling faded away.

Olivia slipped into her nightgown and panties and then between the sheets, but it was too hot to stay covered. In the twilight of sleep, she thought she felt the covers sliding down and away from her . . . warm, wet air settling softly over her body. She slept fitfully, tossing and turning, in and out of nightmares. Several times she dreamed she heard voices, the voices she'd dreamed of before, whispering anxiously, close beside her. She tried to call out, to ask who was there, but one of the voices spoke to her, smooth like silk, telling her it was only a dream, so she grew quiet again and drifted deeper and deeper into sleep. From some faraway realm of subconsciousness, she imagined her nightgown floating up and around her . . . something soft gliding over her thigh . . . and then one tiny, quick sensation against her skin—not unpleasant, but wonderfully warm and soothing—so that she parted her legs and moaned and sank blissfully into the sheets.

Wonderful feelings enveloped her . . . feelings she'd never known before . . . fiery hot and freezing cold

. . . washing over her and through her in slow, full waves . . . rising up and caressing her . . . and in her dream, her body responded . . . melting and flowing . . . until she cried out and bolted upright in bed.

The room was pitch-dark. As Olivia fumbled at the covers, she could feel them tumbled around her ankles, as if she'd kicked them off.

Her nightgown was damp with sweat, and she was fiercely cold.

Teeth chattering, she twisted and tried to pull her nightgown back into place, feeling along the nightstand for some matches. There was a curious throbbing in her thigh, and as she remembered her dream, she lit a new candle and looked down apprehensively. / thought I took the bandage off when I washed myself. . . I'm almost positive I took it off. . .

The bandage was neatly in place just as it had been before.

Olivia put her fingers to it and pressed gently, wincing just a little. Strange ... it didn't seem nearly so painful now.

In fact, it felt rather nice.

Puzzled, she leaned back again into the pillows and pulled the covers to her chin. Her whole body seemed weak and shaky, and hazy dream images teased at her brain, just out of memory's reach. What a bizarre nightmare . . .

Groggily, she leaned toward the nightstand to blow out the candle, letting her eyes make one more quick sweep of the room. As her gaze went over the armoire, she stopped and looked again.

The cupboard stood partway open.

Olivia could see dense shadows gathered in front of it, pressed back against the heavy oaken doors . . .

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Almost as if someone were standing there.

A tall dark shape . . . veiled human eyes . . .

But even in the split second that she stared, the shadows shifted and lengthened and filled out once more across the floor . . .

And she knew they were empty.

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sure she recognized . . . something she had heard before, and not so long ago . . .

Haltingly it began to come back to her, bits and pieces of the discussion she'd overheard between Skyler and Mathilde yesterday in the nursery. But what had they been talking about? And why was she thinking about it in her sleep?

Olivia frowned again, frustrated that the answer seemed just beyond her grasp. In the few seconds before she'd woken up, it had seemed vitally important somehow, something necessary for her to think about...

And then she knew.

The cab driver.

They had been arguing about the cab driver, and Skyler had sounded upset.

And then, with a cold shock, Olivia sat straight up in bed.

The cab driver!

His was the voice she had heard last night by the bayou as Mathilde led him off through the darkness.

No . . . surely not . . .

Falling back against the pillows, Olivia tried to think. Now that she really tried to picture him clearly in her mind again, it seemed like it could have been him. And yet she'd been so preoccupied with finally seeing the house that first day and what she was going to do, she hadn't really been listening that closely to his voice. The man with Mathilde last night could have been anyone, anyone at all. It had been dark and foggy, with a bayou between—they had been talking quietly and quickly. It was easy for voices to be distorted under those conditions—why on earth had she ever thought about the stupid cab driver in the first place?

But you recognized Mathilde . . .

But anyone could have recognized Mathilde, Olivia argued with herself. She'd been around Mathilde enough by now to know that seductive voice when she heard it.

Annoyed with herself, Olivia dressed quickly and hurried downstairs. The dining room was open, and Miss Rose sat alone at the table. For one awful second, Olivia thought she was dead.

Miss Rose was in her customary spot at the head of the table, but her snowy-white head drooped onto her chest. Olivia froze in the doorway, then saw Yoly clearing dishes at the sideboard. The black woman put one finger to her lips and motioned Olivia inside. Olivia sneaked in as quietly as she could, but Miss Rose stirred in her chair and looked up.

There was pain in the faded blue eyes. As Miss Rose managed a feeble smile, something caught in Olivia's heart, and she moved closer to her grandmother's chair.

"Olivia . . ." Miss Rose mumbled. "There you are, child. Come in. Have you eaten?"

"She ain't eat hardly nothin," Yoly spoke up, sounding more annoyed than sympathetic. "Not even a bite of supper last night—"

"Someone brought a tray," Olivia said hastily. "I ate a little."

"And look at her," Yoly fussed. "Just a slip of a thing."

Olivia wasn't interested in food. "Miss Rose, are you all right?"

"She ain't all right," Yoly sniffed. "She's havin' one of her spells. She ain't all right, not at all."

"Oh"—Miss Rose waved one hand impatiently—

"if you'd spend as much time worrying about your work as you do me—"

"Well, if I don't worry, who's gonna worry, I wants to know?" Yoly picked up the dishes and stomped out the doors, slamming them behind her.

Miss Rose turned her head toward the windows. She fanned herself weakly, but there was no hint of warmth on her pale cheeks. Finally she turned back and looked at Olivia.

"I'm trying not to die," she said simply. "It's my time . . . but I'm trying not to."

Olivia didn't know what to say. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Oh, Grandmother . . .

"You can see it," Miss Rose murmured. One blue-veined hand made a vague gesture in the air, and the corners of her thin lips tightened. "I'm as bad as this old house—the walls ... the roof ... the floors . . . everything's going. How sad it all is. There's always been a mistress of Devereaux House. . . but now . . ."

Her voice dwindled, faded. Her gaze fixed on the flickering patterns of light on the tablecloth, and she picked up a spoon as if her own distorted reflection fascinated her.

"Miss Rose," Yoly said softly.

Olivia hadn't heard her come back. She was framed in the doorway, her face hard and flat.

"Come on now, Miss Rose, you should go rest yourself."

"Oh." The pale eyes seemed to cloud for a moment, then they slowly refocused on Olivia's face. "Are you still here, child? You must eat something. You must keep up your strength."

"Miss Rose," Yoly urged again, more firmly this time.

"I have to take care of them, you see," the old woman mumbled, struggling up from the chair, leaning heavily on the table. "I must. Who else could? Who else is there to do it?"

"Take care of who?" Olivia asked gently, but Yoly stepped between them, her huge arms around Miss Rose, holding her up, leading her tenderly from the room.

Olivia looked down and realized she was shaking. She sampled some stew from the leftovers on the sideboard but the familiar overspiced flavor didn't sit well, and she went back upstairs. It had alarmed her, seeing what she'd just seen—Miss Rose hadn't looked nearly that bad yesterday, and she'd seemed perfectly composed and coherent. But now ... to hear her admit that she was dying . . .

Olivia leaned on the gallery railing and parted the moss with her hands. How long had it been since Miss Rose had left this strange, secluded world of hers? How many people had come and gone—how much help had been hired and let go again? "I have to take care of them . . . who else is there to do it?" Miss Rose's words touched her deeply, but puzzled her as well. It must be that the current mistress of Devereaux House felt some awesome responsibility to her staff, some terrible guilt at leaving them unemployed when she died. And yet. . . this isn't the picture you painted of her, Mama . . . this can't be the witch, the devil you taught me to hate all those long, suffering years . . .

Olivia let the branches settle back into place, then went on to her room.

She paused by the bed and began to straighten the covers.

And when she glanced up, she saw the door of the armoire moving.

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Instantly she froze. Old hinges made a painful creaking sound as the door swung shut. Searching for a weapon of some kind, she picked up a candle holder from the table and moved toward the armoire.

Very slowly she reached for the edge of the door.

She raised the candle holder above her head. Her fingers gripped tightly, and her arm prepared for the impact.

As Olivia jerked the door open and swung, she saw a pair of frightened eyes and heard a whimper that stopped her cold.

"Helen! What are you doing in here!"

The girl was huddled on the floor, trying to shield her head with her arms, but her eyes were fixed on Olivia in silent pleading. Olivia's heart dropped into her stomach, and she tossed the candle holder to the floor.

"My God, Helen! Don't you realize I could have hurt you!"

Shaking, Olivia reached down and pulled Helen to her feet, forcing her out into the room. The poor girl seemed absolutely petrified. As she cowered beside the armoire, Olivia stepped back and took a deep, steadying breath.

"No . . . no . . . Helen," she said softly, taking Helen's arms, coaxing the girl to look at her. "I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to be upset. It's just that you scared me."

The big brown eyes filled with tears. Helen rubbed one arm across her face and moved away.

"I'm sorry," Olivia said again, and she sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. "You don't have to be afraid. Not of me. I'm your friend."

Helen's eyes cleared a little. They settled on Olivia's face, curious but still wide with fear.

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"Helen." Olivia tried again, motioning toward a chair, nodding at the girl to sit down. "You must have had a reason for being here in my room. You must have wanted to see me about something. Is that it?"

And she watched Helen's eyes—their quick nervous glance toward the gallery outside—the way they did a fast sweep of the room, as if fully expecting someone to be hiding there in the daytime shadows. Helen looked up, put a tentative hand to her lips, and shook her head.

"Yes, I know you can't talk." Olivia leaned forward. "Just try and get it out, and I'll try to understand you."

Helen looked back quizzically. Finally she gave a slow, uncertain nod.

"Good. Now tell me. Why were you looking for me?"

Again the quick inspection of the room. Helen huddled her shoulders, as if trying to draw into herself and hide. Olivia watched her closely, remembering Skyler's comments that night when he'd found Helen beneath the back stairs.

"You're afraid?" Olivia guessed. "You're afraid— something makes you afraid?"

Another nod, just as uncertain. Helen tried to pull even deeper into herself.

"The nightmares you have—they make you afraid?"

A nod.

"But they're only dreams, you know. They're not real, and they can't hurt you."

Helen shook her head. She stared at Olivia, unblinking.

"When you wake up," Olivia tried again, "all the

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nightmares go away. You don't have to be afraid of them, especially when you're awake."

But you're not convinced, are you, Olivia . . . you're not convinced at all . . . because when you wake up from the nightmares, there's something still here, and you feel it. . . something still hidden at Devereaux House . . .

Stop this! Olivia frowned, giving herself a stern mental shake. It had surprised her, those thoughts creeping in unbidden, and now she pulled herself up and met Helen's eyes, undaunted.

"You don't have to be afraid," she said once more determinedly.

Again Helen shook her head. Olivia could see her own stare reflected in the round saucers of Helen's eyes. Slowly Olivia knelt down in front of the girl and peered hard into her face.

"Something about the dreams, then, Helen?" she said solemnly. "Something about the dreams . . . that doesn't go away?"

Helen held Olivia's gaze for a long, long time. And then—finally—she began to push up one of her dirty sleeves. Olivia saw the scratches on Helen's arms, the streaks of grime, the bruises, all signs of hard, heavy work. Helen finished with her sleeve and stared at Olivia again.

"What?" Olivia asked, puzzled. "Are they . . . hurting you? Making you work too hard? What is it?"

Helen nodded at her arm, her expression more insistent. Olivia bent closer, and Helen pointed to the soft skin on the inside of her elbow.

And at first Olivia couldn't see anything at all— only the caked dirt from the creases of Helen's sleeve. But then, as she studied it closer, she noticed two

marks, side by side, right over the pale blue smudge of Helen's vein. They were tiny marks—if Olivia hadn't been searching so closely, she was sure she would never have seen them at all—and the skin around them was slightly discolored, as if pressure had been applied on the sensitive area.

Olivia straightened slowly and frowned. "These?" she murmured. "These marks—are what you wanted me to see?"

Helen nodded solemnly, but then, as footsteps sounded outside on the gallery, she yanked her sleeve down once more and jumped from the chair. She looked flustered and confused, and as Olivia reached out for her, Skyler appeared in the doorway.

"Why, ladies," he said in an exaggerated drawl. "Some special secrets being shared you don't think I should hear?"

Helen went pale and tried to look anywhere but at Skyler.

Olivia managed to collect herself and said quickly, "I was just trying to talk to Helen, that's all. I'd like to get to know her better."

"Would you?" Skyler came slowly into the room. Helen looked around frantically, still trying to avoid eye contact with him. He caught her chin between his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze, and her white cheeks flamed deep red. "You'd like her if you knew her. We all like Helen. She's very . . . special ... to us."

Olivia felt a stab go through her heart—half anger, half pain. It was so obvious that Helen feared Skyler, yet also adored him ... so obvious that Skyler found Helen merely amusing.

"Let her go," Olivia said, and Skyler's eyes flicked on her in an instant. "None of us are going to get any

work done," she went on casually, "if we just stand around here talking."

At that Skyler released the girl. After a swift backward glance of gratitude at Olivia, Helen hurried from the room. Olivia stood there a moment, still feeling Skyler's eyes on her. He was blocking her path to the door, so again she busied herself making up the bed.

"She can't talk to you," Skyler said, watching Olivia smooth the sheets, plump the pillows. "And even if she could talk, it wouldn't make any sense at all."

"It's just that she seems . . . upset about something," Olivia said carefully. "I feel sad for her."

"Her dreams. I told you." Skyler leaned on the mantel, one eyebrow lifting slowly. "And if you had .. . things haunting you . . . then wouldn't you be afraid?"

Olivia glanced at him quickly. He was smiling. He ran his fingers thoughtfully over his chin. He straightened up again.

"Shall we go?" he said with mock politeness. "Before things start haunting you, too?"

He stepped aside to let Olivia pass. She could swear she heard him laugh as he followed her downstairs.

They made their way to the cemetery, working in silence most of the day. To Olivia's surprise, Skyler didn't go off and leave her this time. Instead he seemed almost to be keeping a careful eye on her, working areas in close proximity. Bone tired, she was relieved when the workday was over. She and Skyler parted company at the back of the house, and Olivia chose to forfeit supper in favor of bed. To her delight, she found that someone had left a tray of food again in her room, and she guessed this time that it had been Helen.

Helen . . .

All day long she hadn't been able to get Helen out of her mind. She kept seeing the girl's wide, scared eyes—kept hearing that pitiful whimper—as if Helen had been begging her to understand. And she kept seeing those bruises, those strange marks on Helen's arm, and she wondered if someone had deliberately mistreated the girl, punished her for some minor infraction or another. Olivia wouldn't have put it past Skyler or Mathilde, but it seemed so totally out of character for Miss Rose.

"I'm dying. . . I'm trying not to . . . but I am ..."

And there were other thoughts that had troubled Olivia all day. Was Miss Rose really that ill—and really so determined to live? Yoly had looked so serious, and Miss Rose had seemed so terribly frail. . . Olivia longed to tell her who she really was, but now, more than ever, she was afraid to. What if Miss Rose thought Olivia was just some imposter— someone who'd heard about her failing health and wanted to move in and take advantage? Or maybe she'd be furious with Olivia for the charade—furious and vengeful—even more furious than she'd be with Olivia for being Mama's daughter. Even worse ... if Olivia confessed now and the shock was too much for Miss Rose . . .

No. No. I can't. It's still too soon to know what to do.

Olivia closed her eyes, trying to clear all the tormenting thoughts away, but she kept seeing Miss Rose's blue-veined hand, and then the blue vein on Helen's soft little arm . . .

Marks there . . . almost microscopic. Had something bitten the girl? A spider? Mathilde's snake? Was Helen trying to warn her? The thought unsettled Olivia, and she thrust it firmly away. Maybe Skyler

was right—if Helen really did suffer from delusions, it was possible that she might have made the marks on her arms herself.

Olivia was too tired to think anymore. She shed her clothes and stood for a moment in the stifling room, trying to find some tiny pocket of air to cool herself off. Someone had filled the pitcher with fresh water, and she took her time washing off, savoring the brief respite from the heat. Finally she put her nightgown on, but as she climbed into bed, a slow, weak rush went over her, and she slid her hand down to her thigh.

That dream . . .

She hadn't thought about it all day. But now, as all the sensations came back to her, she lay there and stared at the ceiling, remembering. She'd never had a dream like that before—so sensual, so real. . . and as she lightly fingered the bandage, she marveled again at the new suppleness of her skin, the pleasing response to her own touch.

She blew out the candle by the bed. The mosquito netting fell softly into place around her.

Drifting, Olivia dreamed she was back at the bayou again, hiding beside the water as featureless shapes moved below the trees, mumbling things she couldn't hear. She tossed restlessly and flung one arm over her eyes, as if she could fend off the troubling images. And then she was hiding in the hallway again on the first night of her arrival at Devereaux House, listening to muffled voices behind closed doors. Miss Rose and someone else—Jesse—she knew now that it was him . . . and she was lying on the floor in the hallway and he was touching her face— "she's so beautiful' — his voice, whispering, and his touch, gentle and reassuring beside her on the stairs . . . And then Skyler's

green eyes were glittering in the dark—bending over her—coming closer—closer—

She bolted upright, heart pounding, and in the first confused seconds she thought she'd gone numb somehow, that her legs had fallen asleep, so weighted down that she couldn't move—

Groping at the bedside table, she found a match and lit the candle, but she was twisting herself, and her legs felt so heavy—so terribly heavy—yet tingling, as if all the feeling was moving across them in slow, squeezing bands.

Groggily she lifted the covers and flung them back.

And at first it didn't register—the dark spreading stain oozing across the sheets, across her legs, so curiously painless as it flowed and filled the bottom half of the bed . . .

But then it began to flow upward—upward—and she felt her muscles contract. . . loosen . . . clench again—only it's not my muscles, it can't be my muscles, my legs aren 't moving —and the black thick stain getting longer— longer —

She screamed then—screamed and screamed again as the candlelight fell across one cold beady eye, and Mathilde's snake began to slide up toward her waist.

hardly hold the covers. "Please—just get it out of here—"

"I knew she hated you. But I underestimated how much—"

"Go away? Get that thing out of here!"

As quickly as he had attacked the snake, Skyler was leaning over her, holding her wrists as she gasped and tried to pull away.

"I'm keeping score," he said softly, "and you're going to be owing me quite a lot."

The sound of his laugh hung in the air even after he picked up the snake and shut the door behind him.

Olivia jumped out of bed, going frantically from candle to candle, lighting them as quickly as she could. The room throbbed around her, a living, breathing thing, and as she passed before one of the windows, she caught a glimpse of herself and froze. She looked like a ghost reflected there, swathed in white, hair flowing down her back. It gave her such a start that she was almost afraid to move, but at last she managed to press her palms against the glass, just to reassure herself that she was real.

She knew she wouldn't sleep the rest of the night. She huddled in her bed and watched the candles go out one by one as the gray pall of morning oozed in to replace them. At last she got dressed and went out to the gallery.

It was raining—a slow, steady downpour— promising a day even more dismal than the last. Olivia stood listening to its muffled roar beyond the moss, the distant growl of thunder, the sad, soft moan of the wind. She began to walk, past the locked, forgotten rooms, the filthy barred windows, on and on, until she realized she'd walked nearly the whole way around the house and didn't even remember

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doing it. She stopped in dismay and tried to get her bearings.

She saw the door just in front of her, heard the eerie creaking sound as it moved slowly, back and forth, in the wet breeze. This is the room I came in before . . . the nursery without children . . .

The door blew shut with a soft, final thud.

Olivia stood and stared.

And then the door began to open again . . . inch by inch . . . until it stood just wide enough for her to squeeze through.

She paused on the threshold. Shadows lay within, even deeper than before. A rumble of thunder shivered the walls, rattled the panes in the tall, dark windows.

But beneath it all, Olivia was sure she had heard something else.

Voices. Low and scared and whispering.

But not dreams now.

Very, very real.

"What's happening to you?"

"I don't know —/ can't get it to stop — "

"You need to eat — try to get some more of this down — "

"I can't. . .I'm sick. . ."

"Yoly?" she whispered, alarmed. "Helen ... is that you?"

She took another step, stopped again. The fog had found its way in through the door, through the cracks, swirling like fine smoke through the air, misting the furniture, dampening the floors. Olivia tried to wave it away with her hand, and the fog cleared a little, just enough for her to see the smoldering hearth, the empty cradle, the vacant chair beside the fire.

But she wasn't alone.

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

And as she started forward, she sensed, rather than saw, a movement in one comer near the bed, and the fog stirred, restlessly, like uncertain secrets.

"Who's there?" she called anxiously, and her voice echoed, mocking her from the shadows.

Something invisible fanned the bed curtains. They billowed out like gauzy clouds . . . settled quietly once more.

"Is anyone there?" Olivia's voice shook, and she put her hands out behind her, feeling for the door, afraid to turn her back on the room.

And then she heard it. . . swallowed in the gray nothingness . . . another muffled sound . . . like a soft cry.

"Helen?" A chill shot through her—a chill and an overpowering instinct to flee. "Helen? Is that you? Are you hurt?"

"Make her go . . . don't let her see this."

A plea ... so weak ... so faint. . . and yet she heard it, as if it had crept inside her mind and spoken aloud. And there was something else about the sound that cut straight through to her heart, something she recognized at once—its fear ... its pain . . .

"Who's there?" And she wanted desperately to move but she was frozen to the spot, frozen and terrified and held by that strange disembodied sound lurking near the bed, inside her thoughts. "Who's there!" she cried.

"Please leave . . . please ..."

Something moved, shifting along the floorboards. In the deep gray chasm of the room, it seemed to hesitate . . . waiting . . . Olivia turned and ran. As her foot came down on

something slippery, she caught herself against the wall, then stared down in horror.

It looked like blood—dark red smears of it, in greasy swashes across the dusty floor—and mixed with it, jagged bits of human skin . . .

Gagging, she made it outside, hurtling herself down the stairs, along the veranda, and into the house.

"Yoly!" she screamed. "Helen! Miss Rose!"

But as Olivia started into the dining room, it was Mathilde she came face to face with.

The snake was draped across Mathilde's shoulders. As Olivia stepped hastily back, a slow triumphant smile worked across Mathilde's red lips. She mumbled something under her breath. And suddenly Olivia felt hot, steely anger boiling through her veins.

"You're brave, aren't you, Mathilde—when you have that snake to hide behind."

Mathilde's eyes flared, then narrowed. Slowly, without a word, she removed the snake and laid it on the floor beside her.

"Poor thing. He got lost last night." She shrugged innocently. "How lucky for me that you found him."

Olivia's mouth tightened into a grim line. "If you ever try anything with me again, I'll kill that snake of yours."

Mathilde's cheeks began to tighten, pulling back along her cheekbones. She looked like a death's head.

"You threaten me?" she hissed.

But Olivia's eyes were just as cold. "I promise you."

Mathilde struck so fast that Olivia saw only a blur—felt just a sudden rush of air and swift sharp slices across her face. And then she was on her back on the floor and Mathilde's eyes were cold and flat above her—and as another searing pain slashed across

Olivia's throat, she heard the rushing of feet and saw Mathilde being jerked away.

"Stop this!" Miss Rose was framed in the doorway, two bright spots of color high on her pale cheeks. "Stop this at once! I will not have this behavior in my house, do you understand?"

Olivia was gasping, trying to sit up, her neck warm and wet, her cheeks burning and sticky. She could see Helen's terrified face hovering above her, and just behind Helen, Yoly tall and silent as a statue.

"Skyler, take her out of here and calm her down," Miss Rose ordered weakly, and Olivia saw Skyler releasing Mathilde's arms, casting a sidelong look between the two of them as Mathilde retrieved her precious snake and stormed down the hall. "And you"—Miss Rose indicated Olivia with a shake of her head—"Yoly, make sure Olivia waits for me in my room. There must never be a display like this again— there must never be."

"Look at that," Yoly grumbled, leaning down over Olivia, tugging the shaken girl to her feet. "You's bleedin' all over the floor—"

"But that's what I came to tell you—" Olivia tried to talk, even as Miss Rose interrupted with a weary wave of her cane.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Yoly, please do something about the mess."

Miss Rose turned back to the dining room and closed the door behind her. Yoly disappeared immediately down the hall. Skyler stood there watching Olivia, one eyebrow raised expectantly. Helen smoothed down Olivia's clothes, then held a napkin against her face as she leaned back weakly against the wall.

"There's something upstairs," Olivia mumbled, nudging Helen's hand away from her burning cheek. "I'm trying to tell you."

She looked right at Skyler, but his face was perfectly expressionless. She felt Helen take her elbow and press in against her, as though expecting her to fall down again at any second.

"Yoly said all the rooms were locked, but they're not. This one was open yesterday, too." Olivia took a deep breath and plunged on. "There's something up there. Something horrible—all over the floor."

This time Skyler's shoulders moved in a bemused shrug.

"Did you hear me?" Olivia's voice shook, and she bit her lip angrily. "Did you hear what I said? Something—or someone—I don't know—it was so—" She put one hand up to her cheek and gasped in disbelief. There were gashes across her skin from Mathilde's nails, and she could already feel bloody welts swelling beneath her fingertips.

"All the rooms are locked," Skyler said calmly, his eyes fixed now on her face. "Nothing could be—"

"Don't tell me what I saw!" Olivia jerked the napkin from Helen's hand and threw it at him. "I know what I saw! I wasn't dreaming! I wasn't imagining things! I heard someone talking, for God's sake—I think I know what I heard—"

Skyler's eyes narrowed. Was it her imagination or did his glance flick to the ceiling before it settled back on her again?

"Well then," he said in his most patronizing tone, "there's no need to get all hysterical about it, is there? I'll just go have a look. After I comfort poor Mathilde, that is." He reached out toward Olivia and he

straightened her blouse around her shoulders, his deft fingers sliding over her bare skin. "My, my," he added delightedly, "what a little troublemaker you are."

"Fm not the one who started everything," Olivia said coldly. "And if you're going up to that room, Fm going with you."

"But I don't think that's a good idea," Skyler said casually. "Miss Rose wants to see you, and you shouldn't keep her waiting. Don't worry, Fll be very thorough. After all, we certainly can't have you thinking you're crazy now, can we?"

Olivia held back a sarcastic reply. Instead she nodded toward the back door.

"What about work?"

"Oh, it's raining too hard to work outside today," Skyler said, smiling. Without warning, he leaned in close to her, lowering his head to inspect the damage on her throat. "Just a scratch," he murmured, and his lips brushed lightly over her skin. "Aren't you lucky."

He was so close that Olivia couldn't turn her head. She took a deep breath and deliberately shifted her eyes away.

"Fm not going to let Mathilde scare me. I have a right to be here."

And it sounded so natural, slipping out the way it did, even though Olivia hadn't really meant to say it—it seemed so natural and so right, the way Skyler simply accepted it and never suspected a thing at all. . .

"All the same," he said, casting a last look over his shoulder as he started down the hall, "remember what I told you about watching your back. Fll keep an eye on the rest."

"Olivia." The dining-room doors opened again,

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and Miss Rose stood there, a sadly aging portrait framed in old oak. "Let's have a talk, shall we? Helen, I believe you have work to do."

Helen cast Olivia a quick, unsettled look and then scurried away. Olivia followed Miss Rose across the hall and into the purple bedroom. As Miss Rose closed the door behind them, Olivia stepped to the middle of the rug, feeling the same quiet awe she'd felt when she'd been in here secretly before.

"Sit down, child," Miss Rose said kindly. "Hold this handkerchief against your face. It'll help stop the bleeding."

Olivia nodded her thanks as Miss Rose motioned her into a chair beside the fireplace. There was a small fire burning there, in spite of the heat, and Miss Rose sighed and sat down in the chair nearest the flames.

"It's always cold in here," she said grimly. "Even in this ungodly heat. But it's not just that. I know what it really is. And I'm always cold these days."

Olivia didn't know what to say, so she merely watched as Miss Rose drew a shawl tighter around her frail shoulders.

"You want to stay here, don't you, child."

It was a statement, not a question. Olivia stared down at the floor and tried to keep the panic out of her mind.

"You shouldn't keep too much company with Helen, you know," Miss Rose went on. "She's ignorant and superstitious—given to delusions and wild imaginings. She has some . . . mental deficiencies, shall we say. But she comes in very handy here. I like having her. And it's a place for her to stay. A home for her to have. Where she can be cared for."

/ understand about needing that . . . / understand

about wanting that. Olivia lifted her eyes calmly. She felt she had to say something in Helen's defense. "She's been very sweet to me."

"She's in love with Skyler, poor thing." Miss Rose stared off into space, looking sad. "Poor little thing.;."

"But I think he encourages her."

"I don't doubt that. Not for a minute." Again the look of sadness on her face, and with it a sort of half smile. "He can't help himself, you know." She grew quiet for a moment, then sighed. "He does seem to have a talent for arousing certain . . . emotions ... in a person."

She was watching Olivia closely now, and though Olivia was trying hard to keep her face expressionless, she had the uneasy feeling that Miss Rose had seen something there she wasn't even aware of showing.

"Ah, yes. Skyler." Miss Rose raised a knowing eyebrow in a gesture that reminded Olivia uncomfortably of him. "Well," she added, "if it's the work you object to—"

"I've never been afraid of hard work," Olivia replied evenly. "The work is fine."

"Skyler can be . . . irresistible." Miss Rose was still watching her. "Especially when his mind is made up about something. And especially when it's something he wants." Her eyes grew dim and faraway. "This is something I . . . know about."

Time stretched out, minutes upon minutes, as Miss Rose gazed silently into her own thoughts. After a while she roused herself again and focused back on Olivia.

"But I can't think about Skyler right now," she said almost briskly. "Some things are meant to be . . . and some are not." She reached out and gently touched

one of Olivia's cheeks. "So what shall we do about you and Mathilde? She's been with me a very long time. She's temperamental and possessive and even quite nasty at times, but she's been a very faithful servant. She's given . . . shall we say"—that strange half smile again—"a great deal of herself. What am I expected to do if the two of you can't get along?"

Olivia looked at her in surprise. "I just assumed— after what happened—that you'd send me away."

"Send you away?" Miss Rose opened her mouth slightly, as if that particular option had come as a great shock. "Oh ... my dear . . . and why ever would I want to do that?" The smile came back again, another misty, sad expression that made Olivia feel strangely like crying.

"Because of all the trouble I've seemed to cause."

"Trouble." The old woman's laugh was devoid of humor. "When you've lived as long as I have, child, trouble becomes just another part of the day. Because we Devereauxs—we are great survivors."

The smile vanished. She shifted her eyes back to the floor.

"Of course I don't want you to leave," Miss Rose said quietly. "You're young . . . strong . . . and very pretty. You're just the kind of new life we need here at Devereaux House. Everyone's taken to you—except Mathilde, that is—but I expect she'll come around in time. She'll have no choice, you see. Even Yoly thinks you should be here—no, don't look so surprised at that—though she'll never let on that she cares. No, of course I don't want you to leave. Leavings are . . . painful to me, do you understand? Leavings are . . . tragic to me."

The blue-veined hands tightened on the arm of the chair. She stared into the fire for so long that Olivia

feared she'd fallen into a doze. When at last she spoke again, her lips barely moved.

"No doubt you think me an eccentric old woman," she murmured. "But I love this house. It is my whole existence. I've never known anything else/'

Again Olivia said nothing. The urge to speak out, to reveal herself, hung silently in the air between them.

"For generations this house has stood, and stood strong. There has always been a mistress of Devereaux House. Someone to care for it . . . nurture it. . . protect it. Someone to give it. . . life." Miss Rose seemed to sink lower in her chair. "It breaks my heart," she whispered. "To see it like this. I don't understand. I just don't understand why it is happening now. Why suddenly— now —time seems to have finally caught up. Being mortal as I am, what choice do I have but to die? I don't want to leave . . ."

Olivia listened silently as Miss Rose rambled on and on, and she wondered to herself how much Miss Rose was really aware of saying, of thinking. It was as if she had slipped away, though her frail body still sagged in the chair by the fire. It was as if she had slipped far away and hovered now on some precarious boundary between reality and something else. Tears misted in Olivia's eyes, and deep within herself she felt a stab of pain and realized that it was Miss Rose's pain.

"But the gardens are still so beautiful," Olivia offered helpfully. "And you could hire someone to renovate the house—"

And it was a strange look that Miss Rose gave her, a strange look full of amusement and also pity. "Oh, my child, it's just not that simple." She let her breath out slowly, hands twisting together in her lap. "Repairs don't work here anymore. Rags and brushes and paint

and polish—none of it—none of it works here anymore."

"But there are people—professionals, I mean— who specialize in fixing up old places like this one—"

"Just look around you, my dear. Just look upon this last stronghold of a vanishing way of life. Life when it was beautiful and honorable and romantic. There's not a house in all the South so perfectly preserved as this one ... or a family name as old. This is our whole world here—our past as well as our future—our family and the house and the land and all their hopes—one perpetual bloodline."

Olivia's heart broke to hear Miss Rose talk. For an instant it was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around the old woman and admitting who she really was, but Miss Rose's voice stopped her.

"Her fault," Miss Rose mumbled. "All of this . . . her . . . fault."

Olivia caught her breath. She paused a moment, then went on cautiously as if she hadn't heard. "But the rest of your family? Wasn't there ever a husband . . . children . . . relatives . . . surely someone who could help you?"

The silence went on and on. Miss Rose's face looked like fine white parchment. Her fingers flexed . . . froze . . . slowly went limp. She was still for so long that Olivia began to be frightened.

"Miss Rose?" she whispered. "Miss Rose ... are you all right?"

"One child," Miss Rose said hollowly. Her eyes filled with tears, the firelight making them sparkle like dim jewels. "I had a daughter. Long ago I had her. She was beautiful . . . and she was good . . . and she was so full of love."

Olivia was almost afraid to breathe. She watched as

the snowy head sank back into the cushions. She heard the voice begin to tremble ... to fade again .. . like a dream.

"I loved her very much. But she left, you see. She turned her back on her family, and I never saw her again."

"Did you . . . ever find out what happened to her?" Olivia asked timidly.

"She's been dead to me," Miss Rose murmured. "Dead to me all these years. How could she come back to this place? Even if I wanted her to? After the outside world had contaminated her? After she turned her back on family duty? Never once bothering to consider what the consequences might be . . ."

"I'm afraid I don't understand—"

"No . . ." Miss Rose shook her head, almost mechanically. "No ... of course you don't. How could you? Being a Devereaux woman involves certain . . . sacrifices. Certain obligations. Obligations she wasn't willing to fulfill."

Olivia stared toward one of the windows, out into the soft gray rain beyond. But what about me, Grandmother — what about me — I'm back, I'm willing to stay here with you —

"Did she . . . ever marry?" Olivia was frightened to ask it, frightened to death, yet she had to know, she had to, after all the years of pain and wondering, never knowing who she really was, never having a past of her own—

"She betrayed us," Miss Rose said softly. "I hated her for that. I shall always hate her for that."

And yes, Olivia thought, fighting angry tears, and her mind went back and back, through the bitterness, the loathing that had always been synonymous with Devereaux House or any mention of her grandmother.

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And yes, she wept deep inside herself where Miss Rose couldn't see, couldn't hear— the hate, the hate is what Mama took away with her from this place . . .

"Olivia," Miss Rose broke in gently, "is something the matter, child?"

"Yes." With an effort Olivia shifted her attention back to the chair.

"It's this weather," Miss Rose sighed. "This rain . . . this heat. . . this house. It casts a strange spell." It was obvious from her tone that she was finished discussing her daughter, yet Olivia took one more chance.

"What happened to your husband, Miss Rose?"

She steeled herself for an angry response . . . indignation at the very least, for having been asked one too many personal questions.

Yet the anger never came.

And as Olivia watched Miss Rose's face, she could swear that it was transformed for a brief instant. . . grew softer . . . younger . . . with an expression of such perfect happiness that Olivia was helpless to look away.

Miss Rose closed her eyes. She put one hand to her heart.

"Miss Rose?" Olivia whispered worriedly.

"I'm all right."

Her voice was so faint now that Olivia could scarcely hear. She leaned in close to Miss Rose's chair and tentatively returned the old woman's smile.

"It must be hard for you to even imagine, looking at me now"—Miss Rose began—"that someone could have made me feel so beautiful. And filled my heart with so much joy."

Olivia shook her head gently. "Did he love you that much?"

Richie Tankersley Cnsick

"I believe so. As much as he was able to."

"And did you love him?"

A long pause. Then . . . finally ... "I still do."

Olivia looked at her, at the one tear squeezing from the corner of Miss Rose's eye. "Did he . . . die?" she asked carefully.

"No."

"Did he leave?"

Miss Rose shook her head, her eyes closing. Her lashes were wet, and tears slid over her wrinkled cheeks. "No, my dear. I'm afraid / did."

Olivia gazed at her a long, long while. "He must have been wonderful."

"Why, he certainly was. But . . . times change. And we have to accept that."

Olivia didn't even realize that she'd reached for Miss Rose's hand . . . didn't realize it until she felt the thin fingers squeezing back.

"When I fall in love," Olivia said, thinking aloud, "it will only be once."

"Yes . . ." Miss Rose whispered. "Yes. That's just the way it was with me."

Her fingers relaxed, hung there a moment in Olivia's hand. As Olivia stared down at the tired, sweet face, Miss Rose took a deep breath, as if summoning all her strength.

"It could have been so different," she murmured. "My daughter . . . she could have been happy here. If only she could have realized . . . that some sacrifices are honorable and meant to be made . . . that some things are meant to be as they are . . . as they always have been . . ."

Olivia was afraid to move . . . afraid that if she looked into Miss Rose's eyes just now, her own resolve

BLOOD ROOTS

would crumble. I'm here, she wanted to shout again, Vm your granddaughter, I belong with you —

"So . . ." Miss Rose's hand plucked at Olivia's sleeve, but her skin was like thin paper, and her voice was fading. "I'm very tired, my dear. Perhaps we can talk—you and I—another time."

"Fd like that," Olivia said, and longing ached in her voice, and maybe I can make you happy again, Grandmother, even if you don't know who I am — maybe I can make a difference somehow, maybe I can make it up to you —

"Unforgivable. . ." Miss Rose's eyes drooped closed, teary lashes dark against her pale, pale cheeks. "Cursed . . ."

"Fd like to stay," Olivia said, but her voice trembled and she was suddenly afraid.

"Of course," Miss Rose whispered. "Of course you'll stay, Olivia. You're part of our family now."

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found us—God, what a mess. What are we going to do?"

"Maybe you should tell Miss Rose—"

"No!" There was a lengthy silence, as if he was gathering himself under control again. "No," he said again, more quietly. "It'll only upset her. I don't want anything to upset her. She's sick enough as it is."

"Where is Jesse now?"

"His place maybe—I'm not sure."

"He must be somewhere! Where did he go after you left him?"

"I don't know!"

"Well, if you'd quit paying attention to that girl for a little while, maybe you would know—"

Mathilde gasped and made a choking sound, and Skyler's voice was low and dangerous.

"Don't give me any trouble, Mathilde—you've caused enough for a while. And since you seem to have forgotten—the whole idea is not to call attention to anything around here. Life's much more enjoyable that way."

"I don't care when you hurt me, Skyler," Mathilde flung back just as angrily, yet there was a definite smugness in her tone. "Because you can't get rid of me—remember? No matter what you do, you'll never ever be rid of me."

"Don't you tell me about my hell!" he hissed at her. "I'm living right in it—I know what it's like, goddamn you!"

Mathilde's breath was sobbing out now, painfully, as if he were shaking her, hurting her.

"Well, if this is mine, then this is yours!" Skyler spat at her again. "Yes, I'll always have you—but I'll always be wanting someone else—"

"You bastard—Skyler—I hate you—"

Richie Tankersley Cnsick

There was a sharp cry, and a thud as if something had slammed against the wall. And then Mathilde moaning softly—"yes . . . yes . . . take more . . . take it all. . ."

And Olivia realized that they must be in the same room she'd been in earlier, the nursery that should have been locked but wasn't—and she closed her eyes, not wanting to listen, yet too frightened not to listen, because something was so horribly wrong—

And then Olivia heard something sliding—and Skyler's voice, thick and unsteady. Some instinct prompted her to press back into one of the recessed doorways, and no sooner had she done so than Skyler rushed past her, along the gallery and down the stairs. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply for several moments, then slowly came out again and inched flat along the wall.

She saw the doorway off to her right. The door was standing open, and rain was blowing in.

It seemed forever that she stood there, a cold clutch of dread immobilizing her.

She lowered her eyes to the gallery floor and felt her stomach lurch.

Blood trickled from the doorway, splattered in big droplets across the floorboards, only now the rain had run it all together into thin red pools . . .

It dripped over the ledge beneath the railing and ran in little rivulets toward her feet. . .

"Oh, my God—"

A part of her wanted to scream, to race for help— while another part pulled her helplessly toward that room and forced her to follow the bloody trail through the open door.

"Mathilde?"

Olivia's whisper was little more than a breath, her

body freezing and trembling as she finally reached the threshold ... as she slowly leaned inside . . .

Fog still hung in the clammy air. Fine sprays of rain washed across the floor, making a stream of red puddles with footprints still smudged in the middle. Mathilde was sitting on the other side of the room, her legs splayed out, her back propped against the wall. Her blouse hung open, baring one breast, and there were smears of blood on her chest and neck and down her arms. Olivia's stomach churned at the powerful odor—blood and wet ashes and rotting dampness— and as Mathilde moved her head and looked up, Olivia could see the woman's eyes trying to focus.

Smothering a cry, Olivia ran to Mathilde's side and dropped beside her.

"Oh, God—oh, Mathilde—what happened—"

Mathilde struck out, such a powerful and unexpected blow that Olivia landed against a wooden chest, stunned.

"You think he cares," Mathilde hissed, and her eyes were fixed on Olivia now—burning eyes full of hate and venom. "But he only cares about one thing. Only bne."

Through a haze of confusion and pain, Olivia saw Mathilde stagger to her feet . . . saw her fumble with her blouse . . . saw the blood streaming down onto her skirt. . .

"You'll see," Mathilde hissed again. "You'll see I'm right!"

She yanked Olivia to her feet with surprising strength. Olivia felt herself spin out onto the gallery, then heard the door slam behind her. Somehow she managed to stumble back to her room and fall across her bed. Her arm ached where Mathilde had grabbed it—her head was throbbing where she'd hit the furni-

ture. Closing her eyes, Olivia tried to will the pain away, and wept until she sank into a deep, exhausted sleep.

The rain had stopped.

Olivia sat up slowly, looking around her room. Another tray of food had been left on the table, and the smell of old stew hung faintly in the air. Getting up, she sampled several spoonfuls, her stomach grinding, As she stared at her disheveled appearance in the mirror, the morning's events came back with a rush. She covered her face with her hands and sank down again at the foot of the bed.

Mathilde . . . Skyler . . . that room . . . None of it— none of it—made any sense, only the icy knowing inside her that something terrible was going on.

"She almost came in and found us . . ."

Me? Olivia thought. Was Skyler talking about me? Then that must mean Skyler had been hiding in the nursery when Olivia had gone in there that morning, when she'd seen the mess of blood and skin on the floor. But he hadn't been alone—she was sure she'd heard another voice whispering from the corner. And she was equally certain that it hadn't been Skyler's voice begging her to leave.

Jesse?

"Where is Jesse now?" Mathilde had asked him. "Where did he go after you left him?" And Skyler had said he didn't know . , .

Could all this really have something to do with Jesse?

Olivia got up again and walked to the doorway, staring out at the dripping moss. The fog looked almost thicker now, and the air felt even heavier with

still-unshed rain. She shivered and went back to the nursery, stopping at the door in surprise.

It was locked.

Through the smudged glass, she could see the fireplace, cold now, empty of coals and ashes as if it had never been used. The floor was clean and looked freshly swept. The floorboards of the gallery were clean, as Well.

What is going on around here? I've got to find out what's going on —

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall, images and sounds flashing relentlessly through her brain. Blood and pain and someone choking, Skyler's rage, Mathilde's triumphant sneer even as she'd lain there, bleeding over the floor.

"Jesse," Olivia murmured, and she opened her eyes, half expecting to see him materialize out of the fog around her.

Jesse would know. Jesse would be able to tell her something.

But how do I find him?

She had no desire to see Skyler or Mathilde again, and she was afraid if she searched for Yoly she might run into them somewhere downstairs. Thinking back, she tried to recall Jesse's answer when she'd asked him where he lived. On the other side of the bayou, he'd said—back behind the house.

And then she remembered the pier she and Skyler had gone to that morning, far beyond the outbuildings and the fields, when he'd tried to coax her into the boat that was tied up there—and "there's someone I want you to meet," he'd said, only she'd been afraid to go with him . . .

Had he been talking about Jesse?

After satisfying herself that no one was watching, Olivia took off through the backyard and past the outbuildings. She wasn't sure she could remember the way, but it was more open out here than in the gardens, and she easily found the path worn into the well-traveled earth. She recalled skirting the few patches of woods and having to cross the straggling field, and then suddenly there she was again, with the bayou straight ahead.

She glanced nervously up at the sky ... the swirling tatters of fog . . . the black bunching clouds. Surely it wasn't going to start raining again and get darker— foolishly, she'd gone off without protection of any kind, not even the small comfort of a candle.

She found the pier just beyond a thinning clump of weeds. A small wooden boat was tied there, practically invisible in its natural camouflage of water and mud and mist. As Olivia squinted off across the bayou, she felt a quick surge of apprehension. The fog was so thick she couldn't even see the opposite shore. What if there's nothing on the other side at all and I just keep floating and floating forever . . .

There wasn't a sound. Nothing moved. The bloated sky seemed to be holding its breath . . . waiting.

Olivia slipped the rope from its mooring and stepped down into the bow. There was a paddle in the bottom, and she aimed it downward over the sides, hearing a soft wet gulp as the water swallowed the blade.

She fought off a fresh wave of panic as she eased the boat straight into the fog. She felt like a part of some strange dream, gliding through a silent gray cloud. Surprisingly, it didn't take long to get to the other side. Without warning the boat hit, then shuddered,

and Olivia teetered precariously as she stood and searched the embankment. There didn't seem to be another dock where she'd landed, but there was a tree, and by stretching a little, she was able to grab a low branch and tie on.

To her surprise she stepped out onto a path—not a very good one, but good enough, narrow and muddy up the side of a steep slope. The fog was thinner here, and she could see ahead quite a distance, to where the footpath disappeared again into a thicket of trees. She threw one last glance behind her, gave the rope an extra tug for good measure, then followed the path to see where it led.

It was a lot more wooded on this side of the bayou—wooded and snarled with overgrown vines and dead trees. If it hadn't been for the pathway, Olivia would have given up and turned back, but as it was, she kept doggedly on, following its intricate twists and turns through a gloomy maze of tangled trunks and broken limbs. After another fifteen minutes, she slowed down and again reconsidered turning back. She tried to catch a glimpse of sky through the clotted branches overhead, tried to see just how dark the sky had really grown since she'd come into the forest. This time she made up her mind to leave, when suddenly the trees began to thin and a hazy clearing came into view.

Olivia paused, her eyes making a quick, thorough search of the enclosure, and then she stepped out into it, quietly amazed. Rising up out of the weeds was a Small whitewashed building with a steepled roof—its heavy wooden door sagging sideways in its arched entrance. Close behind it huge trees dripped their moss over the rooftop, and from one shuttered win-

dow, a patch of light glimmered through from the other side.

"A church," Olivia whispered, for standing there in the mist, the little building seemed only a continuation of her dream upon the bayou. As she went cautiously up to the door and put her hands against it, she half expected the whole scene to evaporate beneath her fingertips.

The wood was damp and very warped. She gave a tentative push but nothing happened. Gritting her teeth, she put her shoulder to the center and heard a slow, reluctant groan as it gave beneath her weight and began to swing inward.

The first thing she saw was a blaze of light—orange and yellow and blue fire throbbing at the end of a long black tunnel, filling the darkness with a wall of flame. As Olivia shielded her eyes against its glittering brightness, the darkness seemed to shift itself around her and change shape, and she realized she was looking down the center aisle of the church, facing an altar covered with candles. Glancing to either side, she saw lines of wooden pews, eerily vacant, though the flickering shadows made it seem as if ghostly faithful bowed their heads and stirred in silent prayer. Fascinated, she started forward, her eyes riveted on the candles, her heart quickening. There was a strange aroma in the air—sweet yet cloying—as if flowers and incense could not quite mask the odor of something dank and unpleasant. The peculiar smell filled the little church, and as Olivia reached the altar, her head swam with it, making her dizzy.

There is no God, Olivia — if there was, He would have saved me, but He didn t save me, He didn 't come and He didn't care and that's why I'm going to save

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you, to keep you perfect and pretty and oh so special . . . I'll save you from them, Olivia, just listen to Mama now, I'll save you my pretty girl . . .

"Mama?" Olivia whispered.

The sound of her own voice frightened her, brought her back sharply to the present. She stared hard at the candles and she remembered how once she had gone into a church, gone into a church when Mama didn't know, to try to find out who God was and why Mama hated Him so much, as much as she hated Grandmother . . . And she remembered the soft, pulsing echo of words she couldn't understand, and the cool stone bowls of holy water ... the crosses and sweet-smelling smoke . . . statues looking down benignly from their niches . . .

And there was a statue here, too, not a little ways from the altar, and as Olivia stared at its sharp silhouette, a trick of the light caused its shadow to move across the floor, across the boards, toward her feet.

A candle, she thought suddenly, I'll light a candle for that statue —for it seemed to her in that cold empty church that the statue must be some lonely, forgotten saint stuck far back there alone, away from the light and the translucent beauty. And as she bent forward to pick one up, there was the faintest stirring of air at her back, and the church door swung shut with a groan.

Gasping, Olivia swung around, her eyes scanning the vast cavernous emptiness.

Candlelight crept between the pews and down the side aisles, dancing upon black shuttered windows, teasing into corners too far away to be seen.

Unsettled, she turned back to the altar and reached

again for a candle. . . raising her eyes to the statue . . .

Seeing only an empty space . . .

"You shouldn't be here," the voice said behind her.

And as Olivia froze in terror, the statue pulled itself back into the shadows along the wall and melted into the darkness.

up into his shadowy face. Then his movements slowed •.. stopped. He stared at the floor, then his eyes settled softly upon hers.

"You still shouldn't have come here." He moved away and started back up the aisle. Olivia stood there feeling confused and foolish. After a moment, she turned toward the door, but Jesse's voice stopped her. j

"Don't go," he said quietly.

Olivia turned back in surprise. She couldn't see him anymore, but his voice seemed to be very near the I altar.

"I didn't mean to upset you." Olivia followed the sound, but it had faded into nothingness. "It's just that so much has happened at the house today. Terrible things—things I don't understand."

The silence stretched on and on. The shadows flickered uneasily, as if he had moved away again, back even farther beyond the candlelight.

"What kinds of things?" he mumbled at last, and it was almost a hollow sound, Olivia thought, an empty sound, and very tired.

"In the room upstairs," she began. "The nursery. It's supposed to be locked, only I've been in it before. And this morning there was—" She broke off, determined to control the shaking in her voice. She took a deep breath and proceeded calmly. "There was blood all over the floor. It almost looked like someone had been .. . killed in there."

She waited for Jesse to say something. When he didn't, she closed her eyes and went on with the memory.

"I had the feeling someone was hiding in that room—I'm almost positive I heard voices, but it was very dark. No one believed me when I tried to tell them about it." She sighed and pressed a hand to her

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forehead. "Later on when I went back again, I heard Skyler and Mathilde in the nursery. I couldn't hear everything, but it sounded like they were having a terrible argument. I didn't want to listen, but I couldn't help it. . ."

Olivia's voice trailed away. She was angry at herself, angry for being afraid, angry for having come here in the first place. Jesse wasn't saying a word, just letting her go on and on and make a fool of herself—he was probably upset with her, for eavesdropping, for having a wild imagination, for not minding her own business—

"Don't be afraid," Jesse said quietly. "Go on."

She ran one hand hastily over her eyes. She forced steadiness back into her voice.

"I hid. Skyler ran past me, and when I looked out again, there was blood all over the gallery. I found Mathilde in the nursery. She was . . ." Olivia stopped again, took another deep breath. "Covered with blood. She was almost laughing at me, saying things that didn't make any sense, and she wouldn't let me help her. I think she was really hurt."

Olivia stared into the shadows. Jesse said nothing, and this time she couldn't keep the quivering out of her voice.

"I think Skyler hurt her. I think Skyler did something horrible to her. And I think there's something horrible going on in that house."

She gazed at the floor, at the shadow patterns pulsing around her feet. For a split second it was as if all the candle flames paused together in midair, then flickered wildly together in the exact same rhythm, in the exact same rhythm as her own heartbeat. She pressed a hand to her chest and looked up again, searching the darkness, seeing nothing.

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

"Jesse?" she called fearfully.

"Yes. I'm here."

He was at her back, and Olivia hadn't known it. Now she swung around with a gasp, and he caught her hands in both of his. His face looked eerily pale in the distorted light, his eyes even larger, his body still bathed in the swimming shadows.

"Olivia ..." he began, and his voice was cautious, yet very firm. "Olivia, whatever happened between Skyler and Mathilde is no concern of yours. They're always hurting each other. It's one of the things they do best."

"But she was bleeding! I know what I saw—"

"You saw something, and I believe you. But maybe it was Skyler who was hurt—and then, when they fought—" Jesse broke off abruptly and slid his fingers beneath her chin. "What happened to your face?"

And Olivia remembered then, remembered how Mathilde had attacked her that morning, the woman's razor-sharp nails slicing across her cheeks.

She turned out of his reach and heard him sigh.

"Mathilde," he said flatly.

"It doesn't hurt," she mumbled. "I hardly feel it at all."

"The point is," Jesse began, but Olivia cut him off.

"The point is, that there was so much blood. I know what you're saying, Jesse, and maybe you're right. Maybe they fought and Mathilde attacked Skyler— but there was so much blood! And that still doesn't explain that horrible mess I saw there on the floor in the first place."

"It could have been anything," Jesse reasoned. "It could have been some kind of animal. Yoly or Helen could have killed a rat up there and hadn't cleaned it up yet."

"Killed it how?" Olivia asked, dismayed. "Jesse, it looked like skin to me. And flesh. And blood. Human, not rat—"

"It was nothing." Jesse's hands were on her shoulders now, forcing her gently back to look at him. "Olivia, listen to me. You . . . you can't go around suspecting everything you see. You can't go around talking about.. . about visions and feelings and suspicions ..."

He looked up toward the ceiling. His voice seemed different somehow, panicky just below the surface of soothing calm. As Olivia stared at him, he seemed to gather himself together, and his fingers tightened on her shoulders.

"I've told you before. This family is different. Eccentric and . . . and strange to outsiders. And fiercely protective of their privacy. Please don't go around inventing things to be afraid of—"

"But I'm not inventing them." Olivia searched his eyes pleadingly. "I didn't invent the things I saw—the things I heard. You said yourself that you'd heard something in the cemetery before—"

He gazed back at her, a sad smile flickering over his lips. "Yes."

"Then were you lying to me? Did you invent that just to make me feel better?"

"No. No, I wasn't lying. But I would never have told anyone else."

"But if it's true—"

"That's not the point." He hesitated, as if not quite sure how to explain. "Sometimes I hear things that others don't hear. .. feel things that others don't feel." Sadness touched his smile again and shone from his deep dark eyes. "I suppose it's a gift in some ways. But you see . . ." He leaned closer, his voice low and

urgent. "It can also be a curse. When you sense things that make you afraid. When you perceive things that make you unhappy." He sighed then, and his body seemed to sag. "I learned a long, long time ago . . . things don't have to be seen to be real."

Olivia gazed back at him, caught in the spell of his eyes. His body was close, and throbbing shadows enclosed them more tightly, wrapping them in deep silence. At last Jesse seemed to rouse himself, and his voice was so low that Olivia had to strain to hear.

"You seem to have this gift, too. But whether it's a blessing or a curse, it has no use for you here. If they feel they're being watched, they may . . . want to get rid of you."

Send me away! After I've come so far, after I've lived in the house, walked the grounds, touched my grandmother's hand . . .

"I won't say anything," Olivia murmured.

"Olivia," Jesse sighed, "why did you ever come here?"

She shook her head slowly. She glanced away and stared at one long wooden pew.

Because I'm a Devereaux . . . because I belong.

"Because I needed work," she said. "Because I don't have anywhere else to go."

"You should go." Jesse sounded dismayed. "The world is a very big place, I hear. Especially for someone as .. . beautiful as you are."

"I'm not beautiful," Olivia replied, almost defensively.

"On the contrary, I'm very good at recognizing beautiful things."

She could feel herself blushing in the darkness. She turned and lowered herself into one of the pews,

staying near the aisle. Jesse moved away from her and leaned back against the wall. She could see his restless, shadowy movements and the dim profile of his face.

"How long have you worked here?" she asked quietly.

"A long time."

Olivia peered hard into the darkness where he hid. She could sense him melting back deeper into the gloom.

"Did you ever live at the house?"

"I have lived there. At times."

"So where do you live now?"

"Here."

"In this place?"

He laughed softly. "Don't sound so surprised. It happens to be a very nice place to live."

"It is a church then." She nodded to herself. "But—"

"There's a room at the back," he broke in, anticipating her next question. "And yes, it is a church. Most plantations had their own churches. This one's not in such good shape anymore, but I still think it's beautiful. It makes me feel safe somehow." He hesitated. "It comforts me."

"And you're all alone back here," Olivia said.

There was a soft rustling. She could see his shadow shifting along the wall.

"One learns to live with solitude. It's not really so terrible as you might think."

"Oh, but I don't think it's terrible. Not at all." Hazy images drifted back to her . . . the attic . . . the long, blessed intervals of undisturbed peace . . .

"Then you've spent a lot of time alone," Jesse said.

"I've always been alone."

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She leaned forward and rested her head on the top of the pew in front of her. The wood was rough and dusty, but it felt cool and strong against her skin.

"Mama used to lock me in the attic. For one reason or another. But I didn't mind, really. Because of the way things were. I don't even know how long I was up there last... I lost all track of time ..."

She had been talking to herself more than to him, mumbling under her breath, getting it all straight in her mind, letting it all out in a rush of relief. As her last word trailed away, she heard the echo of her own voice in the quiet, and she stopped, confused at what she'd done.

"Olivia . . ." Jesse whispered, but she sat up again and started talking quickly before he could say anything more.

"And you're never afraid? Way back here in the woods? With a bayou between you and everyone else? You're never afraid being back here in the dark?"

She saw a slight movement in the shadows. She could imagine him shaking his head.

"What do I have to be afraid of?"

She thought he laughed. She couldn't be sure.

Thunder rumbled overhead, shaking the walls of the little church, shivering straight through to the ground. The candles sputtered wildly. Jesse's shadow slid along the wall and danced upon the altar.

"You'd better leave," he said softly. "Before it starts raining again. It's a long walk back to the house."

"I don't mind the rain. And I'm sorry I ran away last night."

She hadn't known she was going to say it. When the words came out, Olivia heard them as though they'd come from someone else, and her lips parted in surprise. She saw Jesse reach slowly for a candle . . .

hold it against the flame of another . . . place it carefully in an empty spot.

"I'm sorry, too." His voice was hushed. "I shouldn't have asked so many questions. I just wanted to . . . know you better."

Without warning tears misted Olivia's eyes. She brushed them quickly away.

"I've never liked people knowing me. I've never let people know me."

Stand up, Olivia, take off your dress now, let the nice man know you better . . .

"Because," Jesse said slowly, "then they'd know how to hurt you."

The tears swelled again. Shadows and candles and Jesse ran together in one shining blur. Jesse moved once more back into the darkness.

"I know about hurt, Olivia," he said quietly. "Being hurt by others . . . and hurting others you love . . . however unintentionally."

Olivia shook her head. "You don't seem like you could ever hurt anyone. You seem so . . . kind."

"Thank you for that." A smile touched his voice. "I try to be. Even in the . . . worst... of circumstances."

Another clap of thunder sounded. The building shook dangerously, as if it would collapse around them at any second.

"Really." Jesse moved again and started toward her down the aisle. "You should leave now before it starts to storm. I'll go back with you and take you across."

"No, that's not necessary. I can find my way."

She looked up, strangely reluctant to go. He stood at her side and offered his hand to help her up. It felt cold when she touched it, and his skin seemed peculiarly clammy.

"Jesse, are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes, of course. Come now. The thunder's getting worse."

He took her elbow and steered her toward the door, but his grip felt weak. Olivia peered into his face, but his eyes stayed straight ahead, and he wouldn't look back at her. She was almost certain she could feel him trembling, and as he reached for the door, she hesitated.

"Jesse, are you sure—"

"Please. We must hurry." He seemed agitated somehow, and she shook her head at him firmly.

"No, I can find my way back perfectly all right. You stay here and keep dry."

This time his eyes settled on her face. They were even bigger in the shadows, curiously devoid of light. He nodded and smiled at her, and Olivia reached up and laid her hand gently against his check.

"Thank you," she said.

Her fingertips trailed over his lips. She felt the slight, soft pressure of his mouth as he kissed her hand. He turned away and started back up the darkened aisle.

"Jesse," she began, and then, "Jesse—what's wrong!"

Alarmed, she saw him come to an abrupt halt, his body rigid, one hand groping at his chest.

"What is it? What's the matter?"

Olivia reached his side at once, but he motioned her away.

"It's nothing. Really."

Her eyes made a quick sweep of his body. Near the middle of his chest, a small red stain was oozing through his shirt.

"You're bleeding." Her voice dropped, and she

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started to touch him. He caught her hand gently in his and held her at arm's length.

"Just a scratch." His lips moved in a faint smile. "I was working, and I had an accident. That's all it is."

"Are you sure?" She looked again at the stain on his shirtfront, and as Jesse gazed back at her, his smile grew reassuring.

"Positive. I fell. It's just in an inconvenient spot, is all. It'll be much better by tomorrow."

Olivia nodded slowly, though she still felt troubled. She stared hard into his face. She couldn't tell if he was really pale or if it was just an uncertain trick of the light. Jesse seemed almost embarrassed by her scrutiny. He lowered his head and turned away.

A sudden gust of wind sighed, filling the church with an empty moan.

Olivia let herself out into the clearing, and the first warm raindrops trickled down on her face.

little while in the dining room, Olivia hurried quickly to the kitchen behind the house.

The one-room cabin was small and filthy. A huge fireplace took up most of one wall, complete with a crane and iron pots, and there was also a brick oven stained with years of smoke. Rotting wooden shelves were built in at one end, and the floor showed gaping holes between its mixture of wood and stone. A long wooden table took up the center of the room. Crude benches stood at either side, and the tabletop was littered with vegetable peelings, flour, piles of raw fat, moldy crumbs, and swarms of flies. The surface was stained dark in several places. A huge cleaver lay on its side, the blade clotted with dried blood. Bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling and also from pegs on another wall. And from one heavy cauldron on the fire, something bubbled and simmered itself into a thick gray scum, giving off an incredibly noxious smell.

Holding her breath, Olivia came farther inside, her eyes going apprehensively around the room. At some time through the years, a black wood stove had been brought in, its top covered now with tarnished copper pots and pans. A gigantic mortar and pestle stood near the hearth, filled with some kind of white powdery substance. As Olivia knelt down to examine it, a roach crawled out, and with a cry of disgust she turned away.

Behind her the cauldron began to bubble over. Spying a long-handled wooden spoon on one of the shelves, Olivia plunged it down into the foul liquid and felt the soft spongy resistance of something near the bottom of the pot.

She paused, the spoon poised in her hand.

Slimy gray scum oozed out onto the coals, giving off a malevolent hiss.

Olivia worked the spoon in under the liquid and began to lift it up.

"Get away from that!"

The vicious whisper came without warning from the doorway. Olivia spun around with a gasp, and the spoon clattered down onto the floor, greasy liquid spraying everywhere.

Mathilde's face was livid with fury. Just above her shoulder, Skyler's green eyes gleamed inquisitively.

"If you're so hungry"—Mathilde's voice was deep and slow and dangerous—"then by all means . . . you should eat."

She reached the cauldron in an instant and snatched the spoon from the floor. Before Olivia could even move, Mathilde had her tightly around the neck, scooping the spoon deep into the pot with her other hand, forcing it into Olivia's face.

"No, Mathilde! Stop it!"

Olivia could hear Skyler shouting and the smug sound of Mathilde's laughter. Fumes washed over her, making her gag, making her helplessly dizzy, and as she struck out at her captor, she felt scalding liquid dribble down the side of her neck and over her blouse, making her scream.

"Stop it!" Skyler shouted again.

The kitchen spun around her as Olivia struggled, as she felt the other two struggling against her. Her fingers tore uselessly at Mathilde's hands, and in desperation she flung out her arms toward the table, groping along the edge.

Thick fluid ran into her mouth. She spat it at Mathilde's face and felt her fingers close around the cleaver on the table.

Again the spoon came dangerously close; again it was all Olivia could do to keep from swooning.

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Mathilde was cursing furiously, and there was a resounding crash as Skyler finally yanked her away, falling with her into the shelves. Crockery and dishes scattered over the floor, and as Olivia slammed back against the table, gasping for breath, she saw Mathilde's snake inching its way sluggishly along the hearth.

"Damn you!" Mathilde screeched. "Let me go!"

Through a dim haze, Olivia could see Mathilde pinned to the floor with Skyler astride her chest. The two of them wrestled for only a second—then Skyler twisted the spoon from her hand and threw it across the room. Mathilde's eyes were wild and frenzied, and as she thrashed beneath him, Skyler looked up at Olivia with a slow grin.

"You owe me another one," he said.

Olivia's hand closed tightly around the meat cleaver. She moved purposefully across the room to the fireplace.

The snake began to coil, hissing warningly.

With all her strength, Olivia brought the blade of the cleaver down on its back, jumping away as it writhed and twisted in jagged loops across the floor.

From some remote corner of her brain she could hear Mathilde shrieking.

She saw the stunned disbelief on Skyler's face.

"I don't owe you anything," Olivia said.

She scarcely remembered getting back to her room. As she shut herself in and leaned against the door, her body began to shake uncontrollably, though she felt strangely calm. She closed her eyes and pictured the snake dying on the kitchen floor and Mathilde screaming under Skyler, and she realized that her lips were drawn into a tight, smile and that they had been fixed that way for quite some time.

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

As she opened her eyes again, she was just in time to see something step out from behind the bed. She tensed to run but then she recognized Helen, motioning to a tray on the table, nodding at Olivia to eat.

"Oh, Helen . . ." Olivia's breath came out in a rush. "Did I scare you as much as you just scared me?"

She made it to the bed and collapsed. Helen stood over her, watching. Then she took the cloth from the supper tray and gently began drying Olivia's wet hair.

"Thank you, Helen," Olivia murmured. "That's so nice . . ."

She glanced around at the long, uncurtained windows. She felt wooden and numb. The darkness flickered eerily as lightning spurted through the night and rain drummed upon the gallery beyond. Helen patted her hair gently, massaging her head and neck, and Olivia reached up and squeezed the girl's hand.

"You always bring something up for me, don't you? So I don't have to sit with the others."

Helen nodded, but her eyes seemed worried. She laid one hand upon Olivia's cheek.

"The scratches hardly hurt at all. I'm fine. Really." Olivia patted Helen's hand reassuringly. She started to tell her about Mathilde's snake, then decided against it. Helen would probably get upset and worry about Mathilde's retaliation.

Retaliation . . .

/ told you, Mathilde. I warned you.

Helen put down the cloth and motioned again toward the tray of food. Olivia nodded and began to eat, staring down at the same greasy stew she was beginning to expect every day. Tonight she didn't pick at her food. Tonight she ate every bite.

As she was standing up, she didn't notice Helen starting to reach over her, and she accidentally

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knocked the girl's arm against the table. Helen jumped away, wincing in pain.

"What's wrong?" Olivia asked worriedly. "Did I hurt you?"

It was the same arm Olivia had looked at once before, and as she took hold of Helen's wrist, the girl cringed again.

"Helen, what is it?"

Olivia watched the confusion flitting across Helen's face, and with it, something else— fear? pain? She began to unfasten the buttons of Helen's cuff, and she could feel the tiny birdlike arm stiffening in her grasp, as if the girl would pull away at any second.

"It's all right," Olivia soothed her. "I won't hurt you—I just want to see."

Helen's eyes were wide and worried, and as Olivia worked the sleeve up a little, she stared at the underside of Helen's arm.

Helen's wrist was swollen, the soft, pale flesh punctuated by tiny marks. Along the delicate ridge of vein that traced up her arm, the skin was flecked with purple and yellow bruises.

"My God, Helen," Olivia gasped. "What on earth has been biting you?"

The girl did pull away then, almost violently, jerking her sleeve back into place, ducking her head so that Olivia couldn't see her face. Without another look in Olivia's direction, Helen grabbed up the tray and hurried toward the door.

"Helen, wait! I didn't mean—" Olivia jumped up to stop her, but the door slammed, letting in a spray of wind and rain.

Olivia stood there, thoughts whirling. She could still see those horrible marks on Helen's skin . . . the strange look on Helen's face ... the painful bruises.

They were almost identical to the marks she'd noticed before on the inside of Helen's elbow, only these were more pronounced, more distinct. Troubled, Olivia sank down in a chair, one thought pushing out all the rest.

What is going on in this house?

She stretched out across the bed and cradled her head on her arms. In her mind she kept seeing the bayou again . . . and the boat. . . and the little church with the shimmering altar. And she could see Jesse's face again, the kindness in his eyes, the gentle movement of his body within the shadows, and she could hear Jesse's voice again, the soft, sweet sound of it, "Please don 9 t go around inventing things to be afraid of..."

She saw his eyes, strange and lifeless by the door, the dark red stain on his white shirt, and his lips were against her fingers, whispering, kissing her almost shyly . . .

She must have drifted then—for a time she floated, suspended in darkness, no troubles, no fears, but from some great distance she sensed something pulling her back again, insistently, into consciousness . ..

Olivia opened her eyes and saw the figure beside the bed. As she started to scream, a hand clamped over her mouth and she saw Helen leaning over her, her face distorted in candlelight.

"Helen—"

Olivia tried to speak, but Helen's hand pressed tighter and she shook her head, frowning. Olivia nodded to show that she understood, and then, as Helen pulled her hand away, Olivia struggled to sit up.

"What's wrong?" Olivia whispered. "Has something happened? Is there—"

Again Helen's hand pressed Olivia's mouth. After a

second she drew back and glanced nervously behind her, as though afraid someone might be watching. Olivia swung her feet over the side of the bed, her gaze sweeping the shadows. Helen moved to the doorway and motioned with her arm.

"What?" Olivia whispered. "You want me to come with you?"

Helen nodded and touched the latch. Olivia got out of bed and waited as Helen checked the gallery both ways, then slipped noiselessly outside.

They moved like ghosts through the downpour in the dark, trying to blend with the shadows. Helen led the way back behind the house and past the outbuildings until the old, abandoned slave quarters finally came into view. She slowed down and cast Olivia an anxious look over her shoulder. Olivia stared back, bewildered, then saw Helen pointing to one of the cabins. The door was closed, but a sliver of yellowish light crawled out beneath a cracked shutter. Helen tiptoed over and tried to work part of the rotten boards away from one corner of the window. As a small gap finally appeared, she moved quickly aside and motioned Olivia to look.

Olivia didn't want to. As her heart started racing, she was filled with a terrible sense of dread. She hung back and shook her head no. Helen nudged her firmly from behind. Olivia took a deep breath, then pressed her eyes to the narrow crack.

The tiny room was lit by oil lamps—on the floor, on a table, on overturned wooden crates. What was left of a mantel held three guttering stubs of candles, and there was an old iron bed in one corner, its covers filthy and torn. Something that looked like a metal trough stood in the center of the rotted floor. Macabre patterns danced in the air, slyly skirting deep corners,

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

skulking back and forth across the floorboards. As alternate tongues of light and shadow licked up the walls, Olivia could barely make out a series of small objects that hung there. She squinted her eyes and realized there were chains and manacles and metal rings like collars.

Bewildered, she stared back at Helen. Even in the darkness she could feel the desperation in Helen's eyes, could see the fearful glances Helen kept casting into the rainy darkness. Again Olivia squinted close to the crack, and she realized with a start that someone was inside the cabin.

There were three of them.

Three shadowy figures.

As one of them moved into the sickly light, Olivia realized it was Skyler. The second figure seemed liquid and ghostlike, slipping in and out of darkness along the far wall. The third lay so still, so deep in one black corner, that Olivia could scarcely detect any sort of movement at all. She pressed her head closer and tried to hear.

"I put her out," Skyler was saying. "She'll sleep for a while . . . but I'm afraid she's going to cause trouble—"

"I don't want any trouble," the second figure replied, and with a shock, Olivia recognized Jesse's voice. "We don't need any more trouble."

"I agree with you, but what can I do about it?"

"I don't doubt for a minute Mathilde got exactly what she deserved. I just want you to keep her away from Olivia."

"Do you think I'm a miracle worker?"

"I don't want Olivia hurt, do you hear me? She's frightened enough as it is."

238

BLOOD ROOTS

"Fear makes passion." Skyler chuckled. "You should know that by now."

Jesse turned and began to pace back and forth along the wall. "I don't want you hurting Olivia, and I don't want you touching Olivia."

Skyler shrugged. He turned his face into the lamp glow, and his eyes glittered with a wicked light.

"I can't do it," Jesse said quietly, and Skyler gave a low groan.

"What do you mean, you can't do it?"

"I ... I just can't. Knowing what I know. She's so . . . beautiful—"

"All the more reason to do it." Skyler stared at the manacles on the wall, ran his fingers slowly down one length of chain, glanced back at Jesse over his shoulder. "I've done it," he whispered. "And believe me . . . she's good—"

"Stop it." Jesse whirled on him, and Skyler straightened with a slow, taunting smile.

"Remember Antoinette. Sleep with her... eat with her."

"Stop it!"

Skyler blew out a long-suffering sigh. "Look, Jesse, that was the whole purpose for her being here, remember? Her job. It's the whole reason Miss Rose let her stay."

"I can't help it if I care. You should know that by now—"

"And I don't care?" Skyler sounded indignant. "I kept Mathilde from killing her, didn't I? More than once."

"But not because of Olivia. Because of you." Jesse's voice was angry but calm. "There's a difference."

A long silence fell. Skyler leaned back against the

wall and rubbed his hands over his face as if he were bone weary.

"What is it about this one?" he whispered. "What is it that makes this one so different?"

Jesse said nothing. His shadow stirred slightly, as though he might have shaken his head.

"You have to eat," Skyler murmured. "Look what's happening to you. You're starting to look just like you did before. I don't understand it. Maybe if you ate more—"

"Eating has nothing to do with it." Jesse sighed. He crossed the room and stood for a moment, looking straight into Skyler's eyes. "Don't you ever get tired of it? Tired of this? Don't you ever want it to finally— finally—end?"

Skyler didn't answer.

There was a low moan from the corner, where the third figure stirred restlessly and tried to sit up. Olivia watched apprehensively as the familiar face struggled to pull into the light. Mathilde looked dazed, as oblivious to her surroundings as to her present company.

"Skyler," she whimpered. "Skyler . . ."

He hesitated. Beside him, Jesse seemed to stiffen as he glanced in Mathilde's direction.

"Take care of her," Jesse mumbled.

Again Skyler hesitated . . . nodded.

"I'm coming," he said softly. "I'm here."

He started to move toward her, but without warning Jesse grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to listen.

"Don't you?" Jesse whispered.

Skyler stared back. When he spoke at last his voice was coldly, coldly amused.

"As if we had a choice. As if any of us did."

He pulled from Jesse's grasp and walked slowly to the corner. He lowered himself far beyond reach of the lamplight, where shadows lay deep and unmoving.

There was the soft squelching of something wet... a peculiar gurgling sound . . .

And then sucking . . .

Moans . . .

Fading into silence.

a long, agonizing wait, she finally convinced herself that it was safe to come out.

Helen . . .

Olivia could still see the look of trapped fear on the girl's face. Worried to death, she started back to the house, wondering where Helen had gone. Maybe she got away before they realized — she could have outrun them — and hid — so they never knew she was there listening . . .

She tried to save me.

Olivia stumbled up to her room, praying that Helen would be waiting for her there. When she realized the room was empty, a curious disbelief settled over her—that she could have seen what she did—heard what she did—that the whole bizarre incident had even happened at all.

She didn't know where to begin to look for Helen— she knew she couldn't wander around the house at this hour, not without risking an accidental encounter with Skyler or Mathilde in the dark. She didn't even know where Helen's room was, although she suspected it might be somewhere on the third floor.

Olivia was soaked through and shaking violently. She threw off her wet things and used them to clean the mud off, then she slipped into her gown and down between the covers, pulling the netting close in around her. She couldn't stop trembling, and as she lay in the dark she thought for one moment that she might start to scream.

Was that really Jesse in the cabin? I didn 't dream it, did I — it was Jesse and Skyler and, my God, Mathilde — and what were they talking about — what did it mean—

She burrowed deeper under the covers, burning hot

yet icy cold. She heard the sounds again . . . wet . . . sucking . . . moans . . . She couldn't tell if they were coming from the shadows in her room or only in her mind . . .

She clamped her hands over her ears to block the sounds out. Her head throbbed, and her body convulsed with chills. She saw the dawn come up. She saw the slate-gray morning creep in.

Oh, Helen, Helen, where are you — what happened last night —

She had hoped that when daylight came, she'd remember that it had all been a nightmare. She had hoped that when daylight came, she'd forget the conversation she'd heard last night.

But she didn't quite forget.

And she couldn't quite remember.

And now it played over and over in her brain, distorted by horror and exhaustion, running together, three voices in one, and she couldn't tell anymore who had said what, she couldn't recall every single exact word— Olivia — Antoinette — it's her job — I've done it, she's good —/ don't want her hurt — take care of her — take care of her — take care —pounding in her head, torturing her, until she couldn't stand it— couldn't bear it anymore—

Those sounds . . . those horrible sucking sounds . . .

In the name of God, what is going on?

There is no God, Olivia, if there was, He would have saved me, but He didn 't save me —

No, Helen saved me, Jesse saved me, Skyler saved me —

"Save me!" Olivia screamed, and she bolted up in bed, her heart exploding in her chest.

The room was empty and still.

Did I fall asleep? Did I finally fall asleep and I didn 't even know it?

She stood for a moment, swaying, by the bed, her hand automatically reaching for her thigh. For some reason it felt more sensitive this morning, and she moved her leg out cautiously. Dizzy. . . Vm so dizzy . . .

She reached for her clothes on the chair and then she froze, her hand in midair.

The clothes were dry. Dry and clean.

But that can 7 be —/ was wearing them last night —/ had them on when I went to the cabin — when I went with Helen —

She dressed hurriedly, examining each piece as she put it on. Same skirt. Same blouse. Same flimsy material. Someone must have come in while I slept. . . only I didn f t sleep . . . did I?

She leaned into the mirror and inspected her skin. Traces of dried mud . . .

That proved it, then. She had tried to wipe all the mud off last night with her wet clothes. That proved she had been to the cabin.

But there are always traces of dirt I manage to miss when I clean off at the washstand at night. . .

Deeply disturbed, Olivia went straight downstairs to look for Helen. She searched casually through all the rooms off the hallway, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. The dining room was empty when Olivia finally went in. She stared at the fat links of greasy sausage and put her plate back down, feeling nauseated.

"Now how do you expect to stay nice and healthy if you eat like that?"

She hadn't heard Skyler come in, and she jumped as

he slipped up behind her. He kicked out a chair with one foot, lightly dropped into it, then folded his hands together on the tablecloth and watched her complacently, his smile lurking just below the surface. That was you I saw last night in the cabin . . . wasn't it, Skyler?

"We have a lot of work ahead of us." He stretched himself, long and languorous. "And it's such a perfect day to do it, don't you agree?"

Olivia met his eyes steadily. "Have you seen Helen?"

Skyler looked politely blank. "Well, she's always lurking around somewhere, isn't she? Listening through keyholes? Peeking through cracks? Such a bad ... bad .. . habit."

Olivia's heart quickened, but she forced herself to seem unconcerned. "I just wanted to ask her—about washing my clothes."

She could feel his eyes going over her, as if there were no clothes at all between the two of them. The wet sounds . . . sucking sounds . . .

"You can give them to me," Skyler said. "I'll take care of it."

"That's not what I meant. I meant... to see if she had washed them. Already."

"Why, Olivia, I do believe you're blushing. Still so modest," he scolded gently, "and after all we've been through together."

"Shouldn't we just go?" She stood up, confusion, repulsion, fear all coursing through her at once— it was real wasn't it —/ was there, wasn't I — and you were there, too, Skyler — you andMathilde and Jesse — only I can't remember what you said anymore —/ don't understand what you meant —

She looked into Skyler's eyes. A curious weakness

spread through her. Her pulse raced at twice its normal speed, and he smiled as if he knew.

He stretched himself to his full height, opened the door, and made a sweeping bow.

"After you."

There wasn't time now to look for Helen. Distraught, Olivia followed Skyler through the gardens, her thoughts as gloomy as the weather. The air was swollen with dampness, thick with the suffocating scent of flowers, as if the humidity had squeezed out all their perfume, then tainted it with mold. The statues wept, the benches moldered away, and the sundials kept no time. She wrapped her arms around her chest and tried to steel herself for what was coming.

Even then she wasn't prepared. The sight of all those dripping graves sinking into the soggy earth depressed her even more. The air had a putrid stench to it. Skyler leaned down and dislodged something from the mud, and to Olivia's horror she saw him hold up a decomposed bone and pitch it into the weeds. I can't do this, she thought— I'll go mad, completely and totally mad, if I have to look at this another minute —

She saw one of the shovels propped against a tree, its blade wedged into the soft ground.

She saw Skyler leaning over a tomb, his back to her, his head down.

Olivia stared at the shovel. At the blade. It had a pointed edge. It looked sharp.

Slowly she swung her eyes back to Skyler.

He was looking right at her.

Smiling.

"Do it," he said. "I dare you."

Olivia turned away and leaned weakly against a

tree. It was steamy hot, and her clothes pulled and clung. Reluctantly she glanced back at Skyler. He was busy working again, bent close to the ground, and his arms were smeared with mud up to his elbows.

She watched his hands, his quick, strong fingers pulling stubborn weeds from the cracks, hands at home with the earth and the mud and the unpleasant things that had to be done . . . wet sounds . . . sucking sounds . . . "Take care of her". . . "I'm coming. . . I'm here. . ."

She walked casually over to the pile of tools beneath the tree. She glanced back at Skyler but he didn't look up. She picked up the garden shears and stuck them in her waistband. She pulled her blouse out over them.

Skyler paused. She could see his hands tangled in a clump of weeds. His muscles tensed, and the weeds yielded.

"What are you standing around for?" Skyler growled. "Find yourself something to do."

She felt a twinge of panic. She wondered if he'd seen her pick up the shears.

"Work on the mausoleum," he said. "It's the most important."

Olivia stared at it. She remembered the storm . . . the screams ... the cries for help . . .

Maybe I dreamed those, too . . .

But no — I'm not the one who imagines things . . . that's Mama ... she's the one who sees things that aren't ever there — the demons—the devils — the bad, bad things coming after her —

"Doesn't it bother you," Olivia mumbled, "working here? Working here with all these dead things?"

There was a long silence. Skyler kept his back to her.

"Why should it?" he said at last.

"Because it's so horrible. Can't you feel it? The smell that only death can have. The way it looks— only death can look like this."

He made a sound deep in his throat. "What about the taste that only death can taste like?"

"I wouldn't know," Olivia said coldly.

She didn't actually see him move. It was more that she sensed his shoulders stiffening . . . locking. There was a pause, and then his short, harsh laugh.

"Then you don't know too much about death at all, do you?"

"Maybe you'd be surprised," Olivia said.

"I seriously doubt it."

He jammed his trowel hard into the ground, then turned around slowly. He held up his hands, each one dangling half of a fat, writhing slug.

"Oops," he said softly, that smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "How could I have been so careless?"

Whirling away from him, Olivia went to the far side of the cemetery and began ripping out weeds with a vengeance. She could hear Skyler at the opposite end, repairing some of the damaged tombs, but she didn't look at him. The graveyard grew hotter and steamier. Bending over a particularly stubborn vine, she gritted her teeth and pulled, and as it gave without warning, she tumbled onto her back, only to look up into Skyler's face as he towered over her.

He was staring at her intently, green eyes narrowed.

Wet . . . sucking. . . moans . . . they were real. . . they were real —

Her breath caught in her throat. Her hair had come loose, and her hands trembled as she brushed it back from her forehead. For a moment she thought he was

Richie Tankersley Cnsick

going to say something, but he stepped over her and moved away. She saw him head off several feet between a row of tombs, and she picked herself up, brushing the mud off as best she could. She was covered with insect stings and mosquito bites, sweating and prickly and hot.

Skyler pulled off his shirt. He wiped it across his face . . . down his arms. He tossed it into the grass.

"Why are you staying here?" he asked.

Olivia straightened her clothes.

"Why not?" she shrugged. "It's as good a place as any to work. Why do you stay here?"

His eyes narrowed again, yet his face was carefully composed.

"I have to," he said simply.

He took a step toward her. He stopped.

"It's where I belong, you see." His voice sank, a deep, hoarse whisper in his throat. "Have you ever felt that way, Olivia? That you belong to something? That you can never get away from it—no matter how hard you run—or where you run—because it's meant to be just. . . that. . . way?"

She couldn't tear free of his eyes. The cemetery was closing in on her in great pulsing waves of unbearable heat.

"Take care of her" — moans . . . wet . . .

"You know why you really stay. Don't you, Olivia?"

And he was closer now, walking so slowly that he didn't seem to be moving at all, pinning her with his calm, knowing stare. She felt her heart begin to race—furiously, violently—and she couldn't move, couldn't back away from him—

"Because one of these times . . . you're mine^

Skyler stopped in front of her. His eyes went slowly, deliberately from her head to her feet, and a muscle

clenched tightly in his jaw. Sweat trickled down his bare chest.

"Haven't you ever wondered"—his voice was low and dangerous—"just why there aren't any rats in this cemetery?"

His green eyes glittered. He leaned in close to her throat.

"Because I eat them," he whispered.

And in his cold calculating eyes, Olivia saw what he was going to do.

"No!" she screamed.

He shoved her to the ground, pinning her body with his own, and though she fought and kicked, he held her as easily as a trapped bird. She could feel her skirt around her waist, his lean body on her bare legs, and as she tried to cover herself, his lips traced a path of fire down her neck and over her breasts, and his mouth began to open . . .

Writhing beneath him, Olivia tried desperately to reach the shears she had hidden, but Skyler caught her hands again and twisted them behind her. Her back arched helplessly, her breath coming in quick, short gasps. His strength was terrifying and effortless, and as she tried to scream again, his mouth drank in her cries, her very breath, his hands exploring her, sliding between her thighs, beneath her hips, lifting her up, hard, hard into himself—

"No . . . no . . ." Olivia moaned, screams turned to whispers, ground wet beneath her back, grass wet between her legs, his lips, his tongue, the dripping wet heat. "No . . . Skyler . . ."

"Skyler, let her go!" The voice shouted, and through a pounding haze Olivia saw the figure standing at the edge of the cemetery, saw Jesse standing there, his gaze sad and furious all at once.

Skyler swore violently and rolled off, and as he stood there trembling, Olivia's hands fumbled weakly at her skirt.

"Get out of here!" Skyler warned. "This doesn't have anything to do with you!"

"Leave her alone," Jesse said calmly. "I mean it."

And her fingers closed around the garden shears, even as Skyler's hands closed around her arms, jerking her to her feet, dragging her toward the mausoleum. Her eyes swept the enclosure but Jesse wasn't there anymore, not anywhere, just the graves and the trees and the moss fanning restlessly, the warm sultry breeze blowing all the dreams far, far away . . .

And she seemed to have no strength, no will at all, stumbling along between the rotting slabs and falling up the marble steps, no no, not the mausoleum, what are you doing, what are you doing to me —

"I'm not finished with you," Skyler growled, and the gate was open, the sound of a key in a lock, and Olivia's hand gripping, lifting, thrusting—

She heard him cry out.

She saw him stagger backward, his hand groping absently for the handle protruding from his stomach.

She saw the gush of blood down his front, pouring down, down between his legs . . .

And he looked so surprised, Olivia thought, so surprised and rather amused that she'd actually done it, that she'd actually done what she'd said she would.

And then Skyler began to laugh.

To Olivia's horror he threw back his head and laughed and laughed, the deep hoarse sound rattling in his throat, echoing on and on through the rotting graves where no one else could hear.

His breath caught abruptly.

It sounded like a sob.

Without warning the door of the tomb crashed open.

Olivia felt the rush of dank air as Skyler flung her inside.

"Skyler!" she shrieked.

But there was only the door groaning shut as the last sliver of daylight disappeared.

more. The air was stagnant with decay, and she wondered how long it had been since something living had disturbed it. She was afraid to put out her hands, afraid of what might be next to her in the dark. She crouched there and drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them and rocked back and forth . . . back and forth . . .

/ killed him. I said I would, and I did.

Again she saw Skyler's eyes . . . their quick flash of agony, their stunned disbelief.

She heard Skyler's laugh, hanging faintly in the still, still air . . . staying behind to keep her company.

She could hear it as if he were holding her again, as if he were pinning her there in the blackness . . . the husky sound of it, shivering through her veins and down her spine and into the cold, damp floor.

And it was beneath her now, and around her, vibrating the air, slithering into her mind . . .

Only it wasn't Skyler's laugh anymore, it wasn't Skyler's laugh getting louder and louder, quivering in the dark, restlessly stirring the long-sleeping dead.

It was the rumble of thunder.

It was the murmur of voices.

"Who's there!" Olivia cried, and as her frightened eyes peered off into the blackness, she could actually see it beginning to swirl and dissolve, fading to a soft, sheer gray. The mausoleum seemed to rouse itself, shift itself, coming into hazy focus . . . walls of sealed openings with the faded names of the dead . . . huge stone vaults crumbling upon the floor . . .

Someone was in here with her.

She knew it as certainly as her heart bursting in her chest, as the scream exploding in her brain— let me out let me out let me out —

The grayness began to lighten even more. She could

see long, wavy shadows along the far walls, rippling in time to the thunder, exploding in pale bursts of lightning, and then she realized they were human shadows—reaching from the narrow space of floor between the vaults, weaving and swaying and pulsing, whispering in urgent tones . . .

Olivia stared, entranced, scarcely even noticing as a vague shape pulled out of the darkness beside her. Sensing a movement at her shoulder, she turned her head to see someone materializing from the swirling grayness of the locked doorway, and as her lips parted in a soundless cry, she saw the figure hesitate and draw the immediate shadows around itself like a cloak.

"Mathilde," she breathed. "Mathilde . . . what are you doing . . ."

But Mathilde didn't seem to hear.

She moved swiftly past Olivia into the room, and then she stopped, lifting her arms and sweeping more of the darkness away.

Olivia could see her, could see her clearly, Mathilde's long, flowing skirt, Mathilde's low-hanging blouse, she could see Mathilde's light brown skin and her exotic eyes gleaming and her black, black hair rippling in waves down her back. And yet, as Olivia continued to watch, Mathilde seemed strangely diaphanous, her lithe body blending with the softly flowing air, and Olivia could see the wall behind her and also through her, the mist swirling within her, everything separate, yet touching and whole.

Olivia felt powerless to look away, and she wondered why Mathilde wasn't answering, why she didn't even seem to be aware of Olivia's presence there by the door. But the door's still closed . . . the door's still locked . . . how did she get in . . . Olivia opened her

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' me 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 his 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

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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.

The smell hit her like a wave.

As Olivia gasped and jerked back, she also saw that the space dropped off without warning, into a yawning hole below. She stood back for several minutes, catching her breath. She leaned forward again, squinting through the close, fetid darkness.

Stairs.

It was a secret staircase hidden inside the wall.

But what could be in there that smells like that?

A vivid image flashed back to her— the blood in the nursery, the bits of flesh and skin — maybe it was a rat t Jesse had said, maybe it was some animal —

It was possible, Olivia supposed, that a rat could have crept down here, even nested down here, had died and was now in the process of rotting away . . .

Her skin crawled, and she quickly pressed the panel back into place. The room had a feeling about it that unnerved her, and she didn't want to be in here one more second. She went back outside and continued along the gallery, and when she saw Helen's dress hanging over the railing just outside the next door, she knew she had found the girl's room at last.

It took several minutes for her eyes to adjust. All the shutters had been closed, and the room lay sweltering in heavy darkness. Olivia took a cautious step, then

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paused on the threshold. Furniture made formless shapes, crouching against the walls.

"Helen," she whispered, "are you in here?"

She caught herself, feeling foolish. Of course Helen couldn't answer . . . especially if the girl was sick or hurt. . . she'd have to go inside and see on her own.

She could barely make out a bed in one corner of the room. The shadows seemed to gather there and hover, as if they were used to hiding Helen, used to protecting her. Olivia ventured in several more feet and stopped again. She could see the slight contour of the covers, the quiet shape of someone sleeping beneath them, and she let out a sigh of relief. If Helen was sleeping, she wouldn't frighten her. She'd just tiptoe over and satisfy herself that Helen was really all right.

She moved noiselessly to the side of the bed. The covers were drawn up over Helen's head, and Olivia wondered how the girl could stand the unbearable heat. She must really be sick . . . that's why I haven't seen her today . . . it had nothing to do with last night after all . . .

She leaned down close to the girl and stared at the covers, waiting to see the rise and fall of Helen's breathing, listening for the soft flow of Helen's breath.

The covers didn't move.

The room was deathly still.

Alarmed now, Olivia bent even nearer, resting her cheek lightly against the covers, against Helen's back. She couldn't feel anything at all, and as she shook the girl gently, she moved her face even tighter against her, waiting for some show of surprise, some sign of life.

"Helen—wake up! It's Olivia!"

Heat pressed down on her mercilessly, yet Olivia

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felt cold. She grabbed Helen's shoulders and shook her again, and when the girl still failed to respond, she pulled on her, slowly working her over onto her back.

She saw the limp shifting of Helen's body as it rolled beneath the blankets into her arms . . .

She saw the covers start to slide away from Helen's face . . .

And as the eyes stared up at her and Olivia began to scream, she felt the fingers curl slowly around her hand.

"Surprise." Skyler smiled.

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raced back the way she had come and flung herself through the first door she came to.

She hadn't realized it was Skyler's room.

And now she could hear them—both of them— talking in low voices, walking together outside, getting closer and closer. Oh God — Helen — Helen, where are you —/ killed him —/ know I killed him — the shears — the blood — the gash in his stomach —

In a haze of fear and confusion she crouched down behind the chair, knowing it was useless to try and hide. She knew Skyler knew where she was—she knew he would take his time and then he would find her.

The voices paused outside on the gallery, just beyond the open door. Olivia looked desperately around the room.

Without even stopping to think she ran for the corner and pried the panel off the wall.

The space was low and cramped. As Olivia pressed the board back into place, darkness swallowed her whole, and she cowered there, afraid to move. Stale, rancid air washed over her in a wave. She couldn't see a thing. She moved one foot, feeling hesitantly in front of her, then almost fell as the floor disappeared. For one heart-stopping second her foot dangled over nothingness, and then she lowered it slowly and felt a shallow step.

Sweat ran over her face as she eased herself down— down—between the crumbling walls of Devereaux House. She could hear her own heartbeat, loud and rapid in the stagnant air, and it felt like the house's heartbeat—the heartbeat of the walls as they breathed and squeezed and closed in around her. She wondered where the staircase would lead her, and if

Skyler would be waiting for her when she got there— and she thought of Helen and she tried not to cry, because every instinct told her now that something horrible had happened to the girl. . .

She shifted positions, trying to find just a brief respite from the fetid air. The smell was getting worse the farther down she went, and she dreaded getting closer to the source. How far have I come — how far do I still have to go? She slowed down . . . stopped. The odor was close now . . . sickeningly close . . . she could feel it as well as smell it.

She put out her hands, steadying herself against the wall. She couldn't go back up and return to Skyler's room. She had no choice but to keep going and try to get away.

"Surprise . . . you'll just have to try harder next time

And you're punishing me again, aren't you, Mama, for being bad, only this time I wasn't so bad, I didn't hurt him at all, he touched me and I told him not to and now he's going to touch me again, and I know it, I know it —

You let him look at you, Olivia, you let him look at you and see how pretty you are and see what he can't ever have —

No, don't touch me — don't touch me —

"One of these times you're mine. And you know it—"

"Stop," Olivia moaned. "Skyler . . ."

Ground hard beneath — Skyler hard above — lips — touch burning — blood pouring — cry of pain pleasure passion hating yearning —

Olivia felt her foot come down on something in the dark.

It was lying on the step, hidden there, and when her

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bare skin touched it, it moved a little, awkward and slow and sluggish . . .

She recoiled in terror, flattening herself against the wall, her hands clenched together at her throat.

It's a rat —/ knew it — trapped down here in the bowels of the house — trapped down here to die and to rot for all eternity —

She tried to step around it, but it was still there.

She tried to step over it, but it blocked her way.

And it was so still, lying there on the steps in the dark, stretching on and on and on across the steps in the dark, and as Olivia slid slowly down the wall and held out her hand to move it, she felt the sticky skin and the matted hair and the nose and the mouth with no breath coming out, and the wide-open eyes and the slick, gluey mess around the neck—

Her scream filled the stairway.

It shattered the silence and echoed through the dark.

And then it shuddered deep into the veins of the old, old house, rousing secrets and sadness and shame.

bone, and the sound the blood had made spurting out and how it had tasted squirting into her mouth and how it had felt running down her cold, naked body. And still she thought she'd been dreaming—only dreaming—until the sun came up and Mama was sprawled on her back with only a deep wide gash where her neck should have been, red blood curdled there between her chest and her staring eyes—staring like Skyler had stared—staring and not believing what Olivia had done . . . why'd you do it Olivia, why'd you do it my pretty pretty girl now I can't save you now I can't ever keep anyone from touching you ever ever again —

Olivia lifted her head into the black, foul air, and she thought.

Maybe I killed Helen.

Maybe I only dreamed I killed Skyler and I killed Helen instead . . .

But of course that was ridiculous, she told herself, Helen was my friend, I loved Helen in a way . . .

Sadness and fear and horror welled up inside her, and she felt like she was going to be sick.

She had to get out of here.

She had to get out of here, away from the darkness and the house and from Helen's body sprawled in the staircase, and as Olivia finally managed to clamber over it, she forgot to be careful, and she slipped and slid the rest of the way down.

It seemed to take forever.

At long last her foot touched something solid and level, and she ran hard into a wall. Frantically she ran her hands up and down the barricade in front of her—along each side of her. // has to be here somewhere — it has to be here — it can't be another

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

cruel joke — a stairway that doesn 't lead anywhere and I'll have to go back the way I came,, back to Helen and back to Skyler and back to God knows what —

She didn't care now who heard her.

She started beating on the wall with her fists, pounding and searching, and without warning one of the boards moved beneath her hands, and a glimmer of light showed through.

Olivia pushed, and then she pulled, and finally she worked her fingers in beneath the crack and heard the wall give a reluctant groan as it slid sideways.

She fell out, sobbing.

She seemed to be in another small space, another sort of hidden closet, and this time she shoved with all her strength and watched in amazement as doors swung open into a quiet, shadowy room.

Her room . . .

She was in her armoire.

In one split second memories flooded back to her— the shadowy movements in her room, Helen in her closet, the feeling of being watched, the wound on her thigh —

She hadn't imagined it, then.

Someone had been here. It had been real.

Skyler . . .

Olivia stood and stared at her doorway, at the fading light of late afternoon. She half expected to see Skyler standing there, the garden shears hanging from his stomach, a sly grin on his face. It's impossible — it's impossible —/ know I killed him —/ know it —

She knew he was hiding from her somewhere, waiting for her somewhere, playing with her, enjoying every lazy minute of his game—

She hurried to the door and hung back in the niche,

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her heart hammering frantically, her breath rasping in her throat. Mathilde would be with him, Mathilde who had even more reason to hate her now, and they would watch her and they would follow her and they would silently surround her when she least expected it—

Helen — oh my God, Helen — what happened — who did this to you —

Olivia closed her eyes and turned her head, resting one cheek against the scabrous wall. Helen had pushed her underneath the cabin last night, Helen had tried to hide her last night, and now Helen was dead. Olivia fought to keep her thoughts in check, to think rationally. What should she do? Try to get back to town—get help? But how? She had no transportation, she didn't even know the way. She had no belongings, no personal identification of any kind. And even if she could get to town, even if she could find someone who would listen to her, what could she tell them?

I found a dead girl in a hidden stairwell . . .

But Helen would be gone by then. She knew as sure as anything that somehow Helen would be gone if she tried to bring someone back here.

Skyler tried to rape me and I killed him but he's still alive —

Skyler would take off his shirt and shrug his shoulders and smile in slow amusement.

I'll sound crazy, I'll sound insane . . .

She had no evidence. She had nothing concrete to go on—only visions and dreams, images and feelings, fears and unanswered questions. She could only imagine how she would look to someone in town, with her bare feet and her ragged clothes and her cuts and her bruises— and people stay away from here, people are

afraid of this place, the cab driver said so, why would anyone listen to me and come back here with me to investigate?

The cab driver . . .

Olivia wasn't sure that she had really heard him that night along the bayou.

Olivia wasn't sure of anything anymore.

She crept fearfully along the gallery and down the sxairs. She pressed back against the wall of the veranda and strained her ears through the seeping twilight. Just because nothing's moving, just because I can't hear a single sound doesn 't mean he isn Y out there — doesn 't mean Skyler isn 9 t out there somewhere waiting to crawl out and catch me as I try to go by . . .

She ran as quickly and as noiselessly as she could, beyond the outbuildings, through the woods and fields, until she reached the bayou. She found one of the boats at the dock, but the other was missing, and she stood there for several minutes, trying to decide what to do. Suppose Skyler or Mathilde had already taken the other boat, had already gone over to the other side, suppose they were waiting for her there . . .

And she wondered what she could possibly be thinking of, going back to the church, going back to Jesse, after seeing him with Skyler in the cabin last night, after hearing him with Skyler in the cabin last night. . .

But he was trying to protect me ... / remember that . . . he told Skyler not to hurt me . . . not to let Mathilde hurt me . . . and it was Jesse who saved me from Skyler today in the cemetery, it was Jesse . . .

As she rowed across the water, she felt eyes watching behind every cloud of moss. She could see the other boat now, wedged against the opposite shore, so she floated farther downstream and tied up in a thick

patch of marsh grass. She hurried along the path through the dead, dead trees, ready to hide at the slightest sound or movement. When she finally entered the church, it seemed to be deserted.

The altar shimmered as beautifully as before, only now many of the candles had melted away, leaving only pools of colored wax. The church was damp and cool, quiet creaks of old wood settling, wind whispering between the cracks. Olivia stood silently in the center aisle and let her eyes wander slowly over the corners, along the sides, into the alcoves and niches and shadows, searching for Jesse.

The only presence she felt was her own.

She ventured in farther and hesitated beside the candles. It was so peaceful here. In a strange way she felt protected and safe, despite the fears she had brought with her from the house. It seemed almost irreverent to call out to him and disturb the stillness. She remembered him mentioning that his room was in the back, so she looked until she found a passage that led off behind the altar, and she followed it.

She found the room with no trouble at all—just a tiny space for sleeping, nothing more. Beyond that a short hallway led to a rear door that was standing partly open, and she crept up to it, suddenly aware of voices.

Standing behind the door, she peered cautiously around its edge and into a small, moss-drenched clearing. To her surprise she could see Jesse sitting on a tree stump and Yoly bending over him, buttoning his shirt in place. He seemed weak, as if he couldn't quite hold himself up, and his face was ashen. Yoly put something into a basket and knelt down in front of him, her voice measured and clear.

"You know what's happenin', don't you. You know what this means."

"I. . ." Jesse drew a deep breath, shuddering, as if the effort were painful for him. "I suspect what it means."

"She's dyin', Jesse. It could happen today or tomorrow or a month from now, but there ain't no way around it—Miss Rose is dyin' sure. And the house .. . it's goin' with her."

"I've thought it for a long time. When I couldn't make the walls hold together anymore ... when I couldn't put the bricks back into place anymore . .."

"And when I couldn't keep the dust away." Yoly shook her head. "We gots to face facts, child. None of us knew— ever knew—what it would mean, that awful night. It was somethin' we found out gradually . .. through all the years and years since. And now we's findin' out somethin' else."

She reached out and took hold of his shoulders.

"We's findin' out how it ends."

A breeze sighed, fluttering long gray ribbons of moss.

Jesse's hair ruffled around his face, and Yoly gently brushed it back with her fingers.

"Does it hurt much?" she asked worriedly.

His head moved just a little. "It comes and goes. It's . . . bearable." He looked up then and managed a faint smile. "I'm glad, you know," he mumbled. "Finally. I'm . . . tired."

Yoly gazed into his eyes. She shook her head and stood back up. She stood over him a long while, then she picked up her basket and turned toward the church when Jesse's voice stopped her.

"Don't tell Skyler," he said softly. "He'll be so scared."

Yoly glanced back at him. He held her eyes with a stare that was almost pleading. Yoly nodded and walked away.

Olivia just had time to hide before Yoly came in the door. She ducked into the tiny room and pressed back into one corner, but Yoly continued on through the church and out the other door without stopping. Olivia waited several more minutes before finally stepping out into the open.

Jesse's head lifted at once. He watched as she moved toward him, and he seemed to draw himself up with a supreme effort.

"Olivia," he said haltingly, "you. . . you shouldn't—"

"Be here. Yes, I remember." She crossed the last few feet and looked down at him, trying to keep her voice under control. "But I needed to see you. I needed to talk to you. Something's—"

She broke off abruptly, biting her lip. Her hands clenched at her sides, and she slid them behind her back so he wouldn't see. She began again, carefully, carefully, because there were things she shouldn't have overheard, things she shouldn't have seen, because he had been in that cabin last night—

"Something's happened to Helen," she finished.

His glance was quick, almost sharp, and in one split instant she saw a glimmer there, as if somehow he knew what had happened and at the same time didn't want to know.

"What?" he murmured. "What are you talking about?"

"When I couldn't find her today I got worried," Olivia said slowly. "So I went upstairs to look in her room." Careful . . . careful ... "I didn't see her, but there was . . . this smell."

His eyes dropped immediately. He didn't move, just stared at the ground and the trampled weeds and the raw brown places where the grass wouldn't grow.

"There's a stairway hidden in the walls," she went on, and she was surprised at how calm she sounded now, almost mechanical, almost matter-of-fact. "It goes from the armoire in my room to the third floor where Skyler sleeps. And Helen was in there, and she was dead."

The silence dragged on and on.

"My God," Jesse murmured, and his voice was so low she could hardly hear him. "My God—"

Olivia sank to her knees in front of him and peered earnestly up into his face.

"Jesse," she begged, "what is going on? What is happening in that house?"

He kept his eyes away from her. She could see the muscles moving along his cheeks, and his face seemed to drain even more.

"I didn't know." He shut his eyes, pain furrowing along his brow. "Are you sure?"

And in her mind Olivia was back again, back in the foul dark place with the body sprawled at her feet and the house holding its breath all around her.

"It was dark ... I was scared—"

"Did you try to help her? Maybe she just fell—"

"Are you listening to me!" Olivia's voice rose, and she leaned closer, trying to make him understand. "Did you hear what I said? Someone killed Helen— there was blood all over her throat! All I wanted to do was get away from there—"

"Why were you even there in the first place?" He was looking at her now, and he sounded almost angry,

his face like a white, white mask with wide dark holes for his eyes. Olivia stared at him in dismay, then stood up, stiff and shaking.

"I told you, because I was scared! Because Skyler was coming after me—"

"Coming after you? What do you mean, coming after you?"

"Have you forgotten what happened at the cemetery this morning!" And she was shouting, she could hear herself from a long way off as if she were someone else, some total stranger desperate to be believed. "Don't you remember what he tried to do to me!"

"I'm sorry," Jesse mumbled, and he looked shocked, watching her, shocked and bewildered and frightened watching her now.

Olivia saw his expression, and she was glad she was frightening him, glad someone else was frightened besides herself, and she rushed on breathlessly, unable to stop.

"Well, there's more to the story you don't know about! There's a whole lot more to the story!" And tears were rolling down her cheeks, blurring Jesse's face, but still she couldn't stop, words tumbling out recklessly—

"I killed him! Do you hear me? / killed Skyler! I stabbed him right there in the cemetery, and I knew he was dying, even while he was locking me up inside the mausoleum! And I was terrified—it was dark and I was so terrified! And there were people in there with me— real people —Mathilde and Yoly and two men I couldn't see, and some poor woman on the floor who was screaming and begging for them to stop, to stop touching her! I saw them—I heard them! Something

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

horrible was happening, and I wanted it to stop, but it wouldn't! And I couldn't get away—I couldn't get out!"

She was sobbing now, huge racking sobs going all the way through her, and Jesse's face was only a shadow beyond her streaming tears. She saw him stand up and come toward her, and she pulled violently out of his reach.

"Yoly said the door was open! Yoly came by and found me and said the door was open all the time! And then I saw Skyler upstairs in the house, and he was alive! There wasn't a mark on him, Jesse, not a single mark on himl"

She could feel Jesse close to her; she could see his face coming into focus as she wiped furiously at her tears. His eyes swam with pain.

"Now," Olivia cried, "aren't you going to tell me it's impossible? Aren't you going to tell me I'm imagining things?"

Jesse said nothing. His arms went around her and held her tightly, even as she twisted and raged at him, even as she beat at him with her small, angry fists.

"Let's go inside," he whispered. "Olivia . . . please ... let's go inside."

She couldn't fight anymore.

She felt him lift her in his arms and take her into the church, into the tiny room at the back. He lowered her gently onto the bed, and he sat beside her, smoothing her hair from her tear-stained face, whispering softly as he held her.

"You're going to be all right," he promised. "It's going to be all right. . ."

Her sobs eased into deep, deep sighs, and she rest-

ed her head against him, trembling, empty and numb.

"You don't believe me," she said, but he shushed her and rocked her gently.

"Yes. Yes, I do believe you."

"How can it happen? How can it be real?"

"Sleep now," he whispered. "Sleep .. ."

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"I don't intend to scare her. I intend to be perfectly charming."

"I know. That's what I mean

Olivia roused from the depths of sleep, her mind thick and sluggish. She wanted to wake up, but voices pulled her back again . . . down . . . down . . . into a strange wilderness of dreams . . .

"I told you to stay away from her/' Jesse's voice, tight and angry. "I know how you are, Skyler, and I don't want her getting hurt."

"And I know it's not just the lady's honor you have at heart. I know you've been meeting her yourself. At night in the cemetery."

"So you've been following us? I would have thought that kind of childish behavior would be beneath even you—"

"Oh, I have more important things to do than spend my nights spying on you. Let's just say I had a . . . rendezvous there. I just happened to be. . . involved . . . in something when you two showed up, and I couldn't very well reveal myself and still be a gentle-man."

"Mathilde again? Or have you managed by now to service all the females in the slave quarters?"

"Mathilde isn 7 a challenge anymore. But this lady of yours ..."

"I told you to stay away from her."

"Then maybe I should tell Father about your . . . secrets."

"She and I haven't done anything wrong."

"And neither have she and I. Yet. But I have a feeling the lady's resolve is weakening — and you know how persuasive / can be . . ."

A soft moan enveloped her like a cloud.

Olivia stirred and squinted into the darkness, trying to see the tall windows along the walls of her room.

Dusk had slipped into nightfall, and the air was

thick with shadows. A single candle had nearly burned

itself out beside the bed. The sound came to her

again ... the moan . . . like the softest, softest breath

. . . and with a start, she turned over on her pillow.

Jesse was beside her, his eyes closed in sleep. He lay upon the covers, not beneath them like Olivia, and his hands were groping restlessly, as if trying to reach something that wasn't there.

Catching her breath, Olivia threw back the covers and started to get up. She didn't remember falling asleep, or Jesse lying down beside her, and she had no idea how long they'd been here together, side by side.

But then, as Jesse moaned yet another time, she studied his face and frowned. His features were distorted in quiet agony, and his pale, pale face was damp with sweat. Alarmed, she reached over and caught his hand, which was plucking at his shirt, and as she gently pulled it away, she felt something wet beneath his fingers.

Even in the faintly flickering darkness, she could see the large stain there against the white.

Could see the stain spreading even wider as she watched.

"Jesse," she mumbled. "Jesse, wake up."

She tried to shake him, but he seemed trapped in the throes of a nightmare that wouldn't let him go. She laid one palm against his shirt and felt the oozing warmth, and with a cry, she jerked open his shirt and stared.

290

There had been a bandage on his chest, but sometime during the course of sleep it had somehow worked itself off. The wound was large and gaping, bits of flesh ripped and torn, blood flowing, skin shredded. Olivia put a hand to her mouth and willed herself not to faint.

"Jesse—" She grabbed his shoulders and shook him again, roughly. His head lolled back on the pillow, and his face convulsed in pain.

My God . . . is he dying?

Olivia didn't know what to do. She knew she should go for help, but she wasn't sure she could find her way back in the dark to where she'd hidden the boat. By the looks of Jesse's face, she was afraid to go off and leave him alone for any length of time, and frantically she looked around the bare room for something she could use to stop the bleeding.

Jesse roused for a split second, opened his eyes, looked right at her. She had the eerie feeling that he saw straight through her, yet saw nothing at all.

"Jesse," she tried again. "Jesse, you've got to wake up . . ."

She wadded up part of the sheet and held it to his chest, trying to staunch the flow of blood. My God, Jesse, what kind of accident did you have? He tossed fitfully, and she laid her head against him.

Time drifted. Olivia stayed at his side and held him, and Jesse slept.

But still he moaned in the depths of a dream, and as Olivia's eyes closed, exhausted, she dreamed, too.

Guns,

Guns and smoke and fire and fog — men shouting — men screaming — vague figures running through the mist — tattered flag falling — young men crying —

Richie Tankeisley Cusick

Death . . .

"Have you seen him?" And Skyler stumbling through the boiling, churning air, his face black and runny with blood, "Have you seen him? Have you seen my brother?"

Moans and shrieks of pain and whispered prayers, don't let him die, Lord, don't let me die, Lord . . .

"Have you seen him?" Skyler shouting, running, desperate and alone — "My brother — have you seen him!"

And the limp form on the muddy ground, the earth sodden and stained with the blood of gentlemen, one familiar form sprawled there, impaled there, forgotten there in the name of the Noble Cause . . .

"Jesse!" Skyler's scream of sorrow, of pain, lifting him, holding him, cradling him in his arms. "Jesse, no! Jesse, don't die, you can't die!"

Bayonet hole where his chest should be. . . eyes huge and dark and sorrowful . . . light fading . . . life flowing . . .

"Jesse!"

Olivia's own scream awakened her. As she bolted upright in bed, she reached for the figure beside her, and her heart raced in terror.

Beside her Jesse lay calm, his face like that of a sleeping child.

Olivia sighed in relief. Easing back down, she rested her cheek against him once more and felt the icy coldness of his skin . . . the hot sting of her tears. She cried softly without knowing why, and her tears were as salty as his blood, as the sweat of his frantic nightmare.

And what was your dream just now, Jesse — was it as horrible as mine?

BLOOD ROO T S

"It's not a dream," Jesse mumbled, and Olivia started, propping herself up on her elbow, peering anxiously into his face.

His eyes were still closed.

His breathing was deep and even.

Yet she knew she had heard him speak.

And she wondered when she would ever wake up . . .

It was a dirty, squalid cabin.

There were holes in the roof and in the floor and even in the chimney, and a cluster of half-naked dirty black children crawled over the porch and over the wet, muddy ground.

The lady hesitated a moment, standing out on the pathway, looking anxiously toward the cabin door. Sweltering shadows hung deep inside the one smelly room, and when the beautiful black girl swirled out of them, the lady stepped back in fear and surprise.

"Are you Mathilde?" she asked timidly.

'Who wants to know?"

"I hear ..." The lady cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. "I hear you have . . . powers."

The girl watched her . . . studied her. A feline smile lifted the corners of her full, sensuous lips.

"Come in. " She shrugged and led the way inside.

The lady lifted her pure white skirts and stepped reluctantly over the threshold. There was a pot simmer-ing on the coals of the fireplace, and the noxious smell made her dizzy and lightheaded.

Mathilde leaned lazily against the wall and looked the lady up and down. The lady dropped her eyes and fumbled with the sash of her dress.

'T need a favor," she began, and Mathilde gave a short, harsh laugh.

"What kind of favor?"

"It involves Jesse," the woman went on, "and Skyler—"

"Ah, yes. The master's brave sons." She had a lilting voice and a heavy French accent. She shrugged her narrow shoulders and her dirty blouse drooped low over her breasts. "Yes, I know Jesse. And Skyler." The girl chuckled. "Every female on and off the plantation knows Skyler." Her look was direct "But that shouldn f t surprise you."

The lady blushed. She looked away for a moment, as if gathering nerve to continue.

"Then you probably know they arrived back this afternoon. That Jesse's badly wounded, and Skyler got special leave to bring him home."

"I know."

"I... I don't really believe in magic/' the lady began, but before Mathilde could interrupt, she added quickly, "it's only for Jesse's sake. And Skyler's."

"Of course," Mathilde purred, her eyes widening with a strange glow.

"The other slaves say you have a gift. That you can weave spells . . . change destinies. That you can influence matters of life and death."

"That depends." Mathilde smiled languidly. "On the price."

"Anything. I'll pay you anything you ask. Just save Jesse. Just keep both him and Skyler safe for me."

"Keep them safe for you!" Mathilde's head fell forward, and her mocking laugh echoed through the cabin. "Keep them safe for you! Both of them, because you can't make up your mind!"

The lady's face went pale. Her lip quivered, and her hands clenched tightly around the purse she was carrying.

"Jesse doesn't know me — he doesn't know anyone, or where he is or even that he's wounded. I don't want him to die/' she pleaded. "I don't want either of them to die. When they have to go back to the war again, I don't want anything to ever happen to them — ever!"

"Immortality." Mathilde considered, shaking her head slowly. "It's a dangerous thing. You must be sure of what you're asking. Once the magic is made ..." She reached toward her waist, and for the first time the lady noticed the small leather drawstring pouch that hung there. ". . . it cannot be undone." Mathilde patted the little bag, then lifted her chin, almost defiantly. "Not even by me."

"Anything," the lady repeated again, more firmly this time. "I'll pay you anything you ask. Just name your price."

"A position in the house would be very, very nice," Mathilde cooed, "with a fine white mistress to take care of. . ." She chuckled softly as the lady looked back at her, horrified.

"I. . . do you promise, then?" the lady stammered. "That you'll use your magic?"

Mathilde's hand struck out quickly, sending the lady's purse flying against the wall. Coins rolled across the floor, and bills fluttered up into the sticky air.

"Keep your blood money. I'll think about what you've asked. I'll think about it, and you'll have my answer tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" The lady's voice rose, panicky. "Why do I have to wait until tomorrow?"

Mathilde's eyes narrowed. She leaned forward and her voice was like the hiss of a snake. "Tomorrow. In my time, in my way! Now, go!"

The lady fled sobbing from the cabin and up the muddy path into the woods.

"Don't do it," Jesse whispered, and Olivia lifted her head at once, gazing down into his troubled face.

She was having the strangest dreams. She was awake, but somehow she could still see them, as if they were playing on and on in some separate, uncontrolled part of her mind. She shifted gently beside Jesse, trying to shake the dreams away.

"Ssh," she soothed him. "Everything's all right. The bleeding's stopped."

He stared at her, frowning slightly, his eyes dark mirrors of pain.

"Don't you understand?" he whispered to her again, and he tried to raise himself up, falling back with a quick intake of breath.

"Don't move," Olivia said. "Don't do anything but lie there. Just sleep. Just sleep."

"But don't you understand . . ." Jesse murmured, his eyes closing, his lips barely moving. "Don't you understand what's happening ..."

How very strange . . .

Hovj very unreal. . . yet all too real. . .

/ see Skyler bolting upright in bed. . . black room sputtering softly with light. . . rough cabin walls trembling with thunder.

Beyond the half open door, a violent storm . . . beside him a woman sleeping, her face turned toward the wall She doesn 't hear as he gets up and pulls on his clothes, as he stands silhouetted in the doorway for only a moment, as he goes outside and walks long, long in the rain . . .

I see the house ahead, illuminated by flares of

lightning, and Skyler squinting off into the churning darkness, spying something — a shadow — running fast across the yard. He calls out, but the storm drowns the sound of his voice, and he starts to run, following the figure deep into the gardens where I can't see him anymore . . .

And yet I can see the bed he's just left, the woman rousing slowly from her sleep, I see now it's Mathilde turning to the yellow glow of storm light, bewildered to find her lover gone . . .

She dresses quickly and runs through the storm to the house, up the back stairs in the darkness, calling softly — Skyler, Skyler, where are you — looking lost and afraid on the rain-swept gallery . . .

And something has happened, she is thinking, and I can hear her thoughts through the raging wind, as she bursts into the empty bedroom, as Yoly comes up behind her now, both of them crying out in fear and surprise — something has happened, everyone has gone —

And the vacant bed, covers thrown back, overturned chair and something lying beside it — a letter, I see — crumpled and fallen from someone's pocket, and Mathilde is lifting it up to the flickering candlelight, hands shaking violently, words on paper quivering in and out of focus —

"She is a fine cook . . . but she has a jealous nature . . . fighting over a man . . . it will be trouble for everyone here . . . arranging for position with you there in Paris . . . soon as I can book passage . . . sure Jesse and Skyler will agree ..."

And Mathilde's lips moving, tears sliding down, face cold and hard as stone —

And what is it, Yoly is shaking her, trying to see, what is it —

Heart breaking, murmuring, no . . . no . . .

What is that, Yoly screaming now, screaming after her as Mathilde runs back along the gallery, back into the dangerous night, where are you going —

Hands twisting the pouch at her waist, twisting and tearing and digging deep, deep inside . . .

You wanted magic, Mathilde sobbing. . . sobbing . . . yes, I will give you magic . . .

"The storm," Jesse groaned, and Olivia had to fight her way up this time, up, up from the cavernous chambers of sleep, and she didn't want to wake up, she was getting tired of these fuzzy, unfulfilled snatches of sleep that made no sense yet seemed so familiar and so real. As she tried to open her eyes, the fleeting thought came to her that she had dreamed them all before, many times in her life, and had only just forgotten that she had—that they were so much more than twisted nightmares—that they were holding on to her and pulling her inside of them as if she somehow belonged there . . .

"The storm," Jesse said again, and he groped at his chest, but Olivia managed to catch his hand in time and hold it tightly in hers. "It happened that night. The night of the storm."

"Ssh . . . Jesse . . . you're only dreaming, that's all it is. Only a bad, bad, dream . . ."

"I didn't know where I was," he whispered. "I ran and ran in the dark, and she found me and took me inside, and then he came—"

"Jesse, stop." Olivia was fully awake now, and she sat up beside him, clutching his restless hands. "Wake up. Wake up now."

"The storm was so loud, and the thunder, and we didn't know anyone else was there, that we were being

BLOOD ROOTS

watched. Oh, God, I didn't mean to—we didn't mean to—"

"Jesse!"

"I didn't know—how could I have known—"

"Jesse, you're going to hurt yourself. It's only a dream—wake up!"

Thoroughly alarmed, Olivia leaned over him, saw his eyes flutter open, saw his look of shock and confusion as he stared into her face.

"Olivia . . ."

"Yes. It's me."

"What—"

"You're hurt, Jesse, hurt bad. You started bleeding, and I stayed with you ..." She gave him a tentative smile. She knew she was fully awake now, and yet his face, her own voice, were curiously hazy. "... like you stayed with me."

His dark eyes seemed bewildered. They swept slowly over the walls of the room, to the barely flickering candle, to Olivia's hair spilling over his chest.

"Jesse, what happened to you?" Olivia asked worriedly. "What did you do to yourself? You need to see a doctor—"

"No," he sighed. "It wouldn't do any good."

"You don't know that. If you're not strong enough to go, I could go for you. You could tell me how to get to town, and I could bring someone back here. No one would have to know if you don't want them to."

He sighed, then caught his breath in pain. Olivia thought she heard a peculiar rattle deep in his throat.

"What can I do?" She pressed close to him, trying to warm him, to comfort him.

"Close your eyes," he whispered.

"What?"

"Close your eyes."

She looked at him quizzically, then did as he asked. She could hear his labored breathing. .. easing slower . . . calmer . . . into sleep. She lowered her head onto his shoulder. She felt the pulse in his throat.

"You know what's happening," he murmured, but his voice was barely a sigh, and she was slipping away from him again, against her will, fighting to stay awake, but slipping into the ebb and flow of this strange and irresistible sleep . . .

Only this time she heard the thunder... the voices . ..

She saw the fog and Mathilde and the narrow space on the cool, damp floor between the vaults . . .

She saw the woman there and the men taking her ... the flicker of shadows over naked skin and tangled bodies . ..

And "don't you know what's happening," Yoly crying again and again and again—"don't you realize what you've done—"

Olivia heard the moans ... the screams . . .

Ecstasy . . . terror. . .

"Jesse," she breathed, and she was asleep and awake, hovering somewhere in a vague, misty netherworld. She could feel Jesse's body stretched out against her, the warmth of him where they touched, and as she rose up, she watched him sleeping, his arms peaceful at his sides, his shirt open and spread apart.

Slowly she pulled the sheet away from his chest.

The sight of his wound made her want to cry.

She bent her head low.

He stirred only slightly as she pressed her lips against him.

His blood was salty, metallic on her tongue, and as she tenderly kissed his chest, she ran her fingertips over him, the width and the length of him, his

shoulders, his stomach, his ribs and his hips. In wonder, she felt his first slow stirrings of passion, passion rousing beneath her touch, and as she moved her lips over him, her hands over him, he moaned softly, his body stretching in innocent sleep. She kissed his neck, his cheeks, his lips, oh Jesse, Jesse, and suddenly she wanted to see him, all of him, to look at him and know him and memorize every curve and angle of his body. Slowly and carefully she worked, so he wouldn't wake up, and when she finally had his clothes off, she gazed down at him with a slow intake of breath, his beautiful body, soft and strong and hard, lying there just for her, her eyes, her hands, her lips, for her and her alone . . .

Jesse . . . let me look — let me touch —

He moved beneath her, a flicker of pleasure, of pain, of confused helplessness, just an instant upon his face, and she could feel his gentleness and his strength, throbbing together as she held him, and his yearning and his hesitance and his surrender.

She stretched herself tightly against him.

She could still feel him trembling.

She kissed his lips, and they moved softly, smiling, saying her name.

in spite of his obvious dismay, she thought he might have blushed a little.

Olivia didn't answer right away. She straightened her skirt and blouse and ran one hand back through her hair. She felt wrinkled and damp and grubby, and the heat hung in the air like a sponge.

"You took them off yourself," she said quietly. "I woke up, and you'd taken them off."

He looked puzzled, not wholly convinced.

"You were a gentleman," she added. "Nothing happened, if that's what you're worried about."

"But something happened last night," Jesse said, and Olivia glanced up in surprise, as if she had slipped back into a dream. Strange . . . she remembered the whole long night as an endless succession of eerie settings and scenes, yet now that it was morning, everything had run together in a muddy blur.

"I. . . I'm not sure what you mean," she said truthfully.

Jesse hesitated. His white shirt was stained with blood, and it hung open a little, but she couldn't really see his chest wound.

He stared straight at her, his eyes solemn. "The dreams you were having. . . don't you remember them?"

And then, in a jumbled rush, bits and pieces came back to her, like stills from a macabre movie, characters, dialogue, colors, sensations, all of them swirling together through her head, exploding together in her brain.

"I remember something," she said carefully, "mostly nightmares."

"Yes." His lips barely moved. "Always the nightmares."

"But ..." She thought about it for a long moment. "They had something to do with this place, I think . . . with Devereaux House. People were in it that I knew." She stared up at him, frowning. "How do you know about my dreams? Did I talk in my sleep? Did I wake you up?"

"Devereaux House . . . has a way with dreams."

"I believe you were in it," Olivia said haltingly, her brow furrowed in deep thought. Something . . . something . . . just beyond the reach of memory. "I believe Skyler might have been in it, too . . . Yoly maybe ... or Mathilde ..."

"Were you in it?" he asked, and she looked at him in surprise.

"I don't think so. Should I have been?"

He held her eyes for several seconds. Uncomfortably, she looked away and ran her hands over the tumbled covers of the bed.

"You told me once that you wished you knew the past of Devereaux House," Jesse said. "That you wished you knew some of its secrets."

Reluctantly she raised her eyes, her expression faintly troubled. Her mind felt peculiarly empty, as if it had firmly shut the doorway to all recollections.

"But you did know it last night," Jesse went on. "Secrets and history both. Think, Olivia. Think hard."

She glanced at him uneasily and then away. She lifted her hair off her shoulders and fanned herself with her hand.

"It's hot in here," she said. "I feel like I can't breathe."

He walked over and stood looking down at her small, anxious face, and he slid his fingers beneath her

chin and forced her gently to look at him. "Olivia . . . the dreams ..."

"You were dreaming, too," she said, almost defensively, and she turned her head out of his grasp. "And you were restless—in a lot of pain." She frowned at him. "It wouldn't surprise me at all if you were running a fever last night. And if you had a fever, you were probably delirious, but that didn't have anything to do with me."

"You have to leave here," Jesse said solemnly. "You have to leave this place today. As quickly as you can."

"Why? What are you talking about—"

"You were scared when you came here yesterday, don't you remember that? You were scared and upset because you didn't understand things that were happening at Devereaux House." He stopped . . . took a deep breath. "I told you once, things don't have to be seen to be real. Well, believe me," he said, and this time his eyes looked fully and ominously into her face. "Believe me. They are very real."

Olivia was standing up now, moving away from him toward the wall. "You're not making any sense—"

"It doesn't make any sense." Jesse's voice rose. "It doesn't make any sense at all, but you've got to trust me. You've got to leave here. You're in danger if you stay."

My house . . . my home . . . Grandmother . . .

"Leave here?" Olivia said shakily.

Yesterday she would have . . . she might have .. . she'd been so shaken, so shocked . . . but now, in the morning, here with Jesse, his shy, beautiful body, the innocent bed they had shared, here in the church, here where yesterday seemed very far away, she was almost sure now that trying to kill Skyler hadn't been real,

that finding Helen hadn't been real, that yesterday itself had only been like one of last night's dreams that she could scarcely remember.

"Leave here and never come back?" / belong here but you don't . . . you should leave . . . Yoly and Skyler and Mathilde should leave, I'm the one who should stay at Devereaux House . . . just Grandmother and me . . .

"You dreamed my dreams, Olivia. Don't you see?" Jesse's voice tightened. "Everything that went through my head last night went into yours. We shared everything. Every thought. . . every feeling."

Olivia stared back at him. "I don't understand .. ."

"Please." Jesse gazed earnestly into her face, and Olivia felt a cold chill work its way up her spine.

"Jesse . .. what are you trying to say to me?"

He didn't answer. Instead he moved across the room and stopped in front of her. He pulled his shirt open. She gazed in horror at his chest.

The wound was gone. His chest was smooth and tan, with no sign of torn flesh anywhere.

Olivia backed away from him, felt the wall hard against her, blocking her escape.

"Jesse, what is going on!" she cried.

"You kissed me last night, didn't you?" he said softly, one hand lingering at the opening of his shirt. "You kissed me right here, and you fell asleep, with your head on my chest—"

"I don't know—I don't know! What does that have to do with anything!"

"You kissed me and you shared my dreams, Olivia. There's only one way you could ever have done that."

"I don't know what you're talking about. You're confusing me, and you're scaring me! I thought you were different—"

"I can't be different." His voice rose. "I don't have a choice, Olivia—"

"I thought you were different, but you're as crazy as all the others! What are you doing—"

Without warning Jesse grabbed her, pinning her shoulders to the wall. His body pressed tight against hers. She could feel his heart racing, his body trembling, and the look he gave her was frightening.

"You think it will be a welcome homecoming," Jesse said between clenched teeth, and as she looked into his eyes, her heart began to freeze within her. "Well, I promise you. It. . . will. . . not. "

"Let go of me, Jesse, let go!"

"When you face them, then you'll know," he said, leaning down closer, his eyes pleading into hers. "The dreams, Olivia—think of the dreams—"

"No!" Olivia screamed. "/ can't remember!"

She ran past him out of the church and through the dripping woods. She could hear him calling after her, running after her, and she frantically tried to remember where she'd left the boat. She deliberately veered off the path and ducked beneath a low overhang of tangled brush, and she heard him curse as he ran right into it. It slowed him down just long enough for her to get away. She looked back as she rowed to the opposite shore, and she could see him standing on the bank in the rain, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, gazing after her with a look of pure anguish.

The dreams . . . think of the dreams . . .

She ran back to the house, knowing in her heart that she was running from something, yet not knowing what. Knowing somehow that Jesse was right, yet not knowing how he was right.

The dreams . . .

But they had been just ordinary dreams, hadn't

they? Woven from fragments of deep subconscious things, things that made no sense, bits and pieces of fears and memories and suspicions, people whose faces she might have recognized or might not. Devereaux House. All the dreams had something to do with Devereaux House.

But that's because I'm here now. Because I've always wanted to be here.

And Skyler had been in the dreams and Jesse had been there and Mathilde and Yoly . . .

And some woman . . . some beautiful woman screaming and begging beside her lovers on the floor.

Strong magic . . .

Olivia remembered something about magic, and she pushed it impatiently from her mind. There was no such thing as magic, she told herself bitterly, no such thing as love, as happiness, as family . ..

I'm family. I'm Devereaux. I belong. They don't I'll make them all leave.

She saw the house rising up ahead of her through the downpour like a bad omen. She thought of Skyler and Mathilde and Helen, of Jesse's warning, and she thought, very calmly, I will take a torch and I will burn Helen's body in the stairwell, I will give her a death with dignity, and I will burn this whole place down and everyone who is in it, and then there will be no more dreams and no one to scare me away . ..

She stopped on the back veranda. She would go to the kitchen at once and take a smoldering log from the fire, but she would be careful to save Miss Rose first, because Miss Rose was old and feeble anyway and not likely to be any trouble.

She lifted her head into the rain, a strange sensation rippling just under her skin. She could feel something—a sense of urgency in the air—something pal-

palpable and tragic and transitory. And as she stood there uncertainly, waiting for the feeling to identify itself to her, Yoly came out the back door.

"What's happened?" Olivia's voice was dull, and her eyes squinted through warm wet streams that gushed from the eaves above. She saw Yoly's split-second appraisal of her, and she heard the tightness of Yoly's voice.

"It's Miss Rose. She's havin' one of her spells."

"Spells? What does that mean? Is she dying?" Olivia grabbed Yoly's arm, but the woman only gave her a sad stare and hurried off. "Is she dying?" Olivia said again to the house, to the rain, should I tell her now . . .

Her mind did a jolting flashback. She saw her stepfather sprawled in the garden, legs kicking weakly, blood gushing out. . . and Mama staring at her from the attic floor, lying there in her own sticky mess .. .

Dying . . .

She saw the cemetery, tombs rotted away and forgotten . . . she smelled the foul stagnant air—she saw Skyler ripping brown vines from broken crosses on nameless graves .. .

Dying . . .

She saw the inside of her mind, the cold dark places, the hidden stairwell, the mausoleum, the attic cluttered with long-ago memories . .. Devereaux House . . .

Dying . . .

Olivia went into the downstairs hall and looked around to make sure she was alone.

She turned the latch on Miss Rose's door and slipped inside.

Olivia felt her heart stop. A strange trembling crawled through her soul.

Miss Rose moaned again. "Olivia . . ."

Olivia stood there, unable to move. She saw Miss Rose try to lift one arm . .. saw it drop back uselessly upon the covers . ..

And then Miss Rose wept.

A hopeless, empty sound.

"No . . . don't cry," Olivia murmured, and she started toward her, but there were footsteps out in the hallway, and she froze beside the bed.

Miss Rose's hand plucked restlessly at the covers. The footsteps paused just outside the bedroom, and the doorknob began to turn. Olivia spun around, looking for a place to hide. She saw the large trunk sitting against the opposite wall and just had time to climb in and lower the lid before Skyler came into the room.

There was a latch on the upper part of the trunk. As it came down and caught against the bottom ledge, it left a sliver of space, about half an inch high, for Olivia to see through.

Skyler went straight to Miss Rose's bedside and stood for a long while, looking down at her, saying nothing. His hair hung down over his eyes, and his cheeks were smudged with dirt. Very slowly he slid one arm along the covers and lifted her hand in his.

"How are you?" he said softly. "Should I get Jesse?"

There was no response. She lay so still... so white ...

Skyler closed his eyes for another long moment. He pressed her hand against his heart and held it there.

"What can we do?" he whispered. "There must be something . . . just tell me."

"Olivia . .."

"What?" he murmured. He leaned in closer and put his ear close to her lips. "Who do you want?"

"My daughter . . . Olivia . . ."

Skyler smiled sadly, shaking his head. "Catherine," he corrected her. "Catherine . . . not Olivia."

Catherine . . . Mama's name . . .

This time the eyelids fluttered open. Miss Rose stared at Skyler as if trying to bring him into focus.

"My daughter . . ,"

"Catherine," he corrected again gently. "Olivia's the new girl. The one who just came."

"Oh ... of course." Miss Rose managed a feeble smile, as if distantly amused at her own mistake. "I knew that, of course. I feel so . . . confused this morning."

"The new girl." Skyler nodded, one eyebrow lifting. "The one who keeps snooping and asking questions. So what do you think I should do, Miss Rose?" he asked with forced humor. "Cut out her tongue so she can't tell on the Devereauxs? Or just eat her all at once and have it over with?"

Through the crack in the trunk, the room seemed to sway wildly. Olivia felt a numbness ... a cold, vague numbness throbbing through her, and as she tried noiselessly to shift positions, she realized the strange feeling was coming from the inside of her thigh.

She worked her hand down . . . fingered the bruised flesh . . .

Her skin felt cold ... as her soul felt suddenly cold . . .

Skyler's comments hung in her mind, meanings too horrible, too impossible even to consider.

"Jesse's being a gentleman, as usual," he went on casually. "But as you know, I've never had that kind of. . . patience."

Miss Rose shook her head at him scoldingly. Skyler gave a nasty grin, but it was unconvincing, tempered with deep worry.

"Bad child," she whispered. A faint laugh flittered through her throat, and Skyler clutched her hand tighter. "Are you going to behave yourself when I'm gone? No." She shook her head, smiling weakly. "Probably not."

Skyler's smile was strained. His eyes glistened, but there was no amusement in them now.

"We won't talk about that. We won't talk about you being gone ..."

"But we have to talk about it. I'm dying, Skyler. There's nothing I can do to stop it."

His shoulders jerked ... his jaw clenched, almost angrily. A muscle tightened slowly along one cheek.

"I know you don't understand," Miss Rose murmured. "How could you? It's something you've never had to go through in your whole long lifetime."

"Ssh . . . don't talk about it—"

"I have to talk about it. Because I don't want to leave you. Because I don't know what's going to happen once I'm gone."

Skyler stared at her.

And then he began to cry.

He was trying not to, trying to hold it in, but his shoulders shook with quiet sobs, and he wiped one elbow clumsily over his eyes.

"Skyler . . ." Miss Rose sighed. "Skyler ... my love . . ."

He bowed his head and knelt beside her bed.

"I'd do anything for you, you know I would ..."

"Oh, dear one, of course I do. Of course I know that."

In his trembling hand, Miss Rose's fingers moved,

ever so slightly, and a thin gasp of air came from her bluish lips.

Skyler lowered his head, resting it carefully upon her breast. Her feeble fingers groped to smooth his hair.

"I don't like it when you're afraid like you are now," she said gently. "I feel so responsible . . ."

"It's not your fault. You've been good and kind and sweet, all these years."

"Skyler ... to me it's been such an honor."

He turned his face, burying it in the covers. She gently patted one of his cheeks.

"Our honor." Skyler's voice was muffled. "And I'm not scared . . . not really."

"You can't fool me, Skyler, though you still like to try."

"Well. . ." He coughed, trying to steady his voice, trying to smile. "I'm still pretty good at it."

"Hmmm . . . you like to think so."

They stayed that way for a long while, his head resting against her, her hand settled lightly against his face.

"Sometimes . . . when I close my eyes . . ." Miss Rose mumbled, "I can almost believe it's still the way it was back then . . . that time hasn't gone like it has. I never thought it would, you know." A faint laugh stirred the corners of her mouth. "I knew it had to . . . but somehow ... I thought things would always stay the same."

Skyler smiled at that, his head moving slightly in a nod. "I don't count the days anymore. I don't think about time going past."

"And why should you?" she whispered. "I let myself believe what every Devereaux woman has

always allowed herself to believe. That maybe this time— I'dbt the one—to be different."

Skyler closed his eyes. His face looked strained, as though the tears might come again at any moment, but he was fiercely determined that they wouldn't.

"How vain all we women are." Miss Rose sounded wistful. "In this place—with you and Jesse—how can we help but hold on to our dreams . . . believe that things can always be beautiful ..."

Skyler's eyes opened. Slowly he stood up, then leaned down over the bed.

"You are beautiful," he whispered. "You'll always be beautiful ..."

Olivia saw him as he reached for her nightgown . . . as he slowly unfastened the tiny buttons down the front... as he carefully eased his hand inside the opening.

He did it smoothly, as he did everything else, without the slightest mistake or hesitation.

He worked his other arm beneath Miss Rose's thin shoulders, and he lifted her gently against him.

And then he kissed her, long and sweetly, as his hand caressed the softness of her breast.

through her head, dragging her under, into dark, dark oblivion—/ didn't just see what I thought I saw —/ couldn't have —

She pressed her hand to her mouth, choked back a cry, clamped her arms around her shivery, fiery body— this can't be happening, it's one of those dreams —

And of course that was it, Olivia thought, her body curled as tightly as she could force it in the tiny cramped space, it's just one of those dreams Jesse was talking about, one of those strange, horrible night-mares.

She forced herself to take a deep breath.

She told herself that when she opened her eyes again, she would be back in the tiny room at the back of the church, with Jesse beside her in the shadows.

She forced herself to look.

She saw Skyler lower Miss Rose gently back down into the pillows, then hastily rearrange her gown back over her chest as the door opened from the hallway. He backed away from the bed, and Olivia caught a glimpse of Mathilde and Yoly, moving up behind him with worried expressions.

"How is she?" Mathilde murmured, and almost indifferently Skyler shrugged his shoulders, his voice now gruff.

"I want her to rest, but you know how she is—she won't shut up."

Mathilde smiled, placed one hand upon Miss Rose's cheek.

"It will be easy." She nodded. "I promise."

"I always suspected it would be." Miss Rose smiled. "I always did suspect ..."

She closed her eyes and drew a sharp breath, and Skyler looked up worriedly.

"Miss Rose—"

"You must take care of Jesse," she mumbled. "You must watch out for him. He's not like you. His is a . . . different . . . kind of strength."

The three around the bed exchanged anxious glances. Yoly turned abruptly away.

"I will," Skyler said. "I promise."

"There, honey, you rest yourself now," Yoly said, turning back to the bed and fussing, mothering Miss Rose, arranging the pillows and the blankets around her.

"Yoly, how you do spoil me." Miss Rose seemed to be smiling at some far-off memory. "Bringing me into the world . . . and taking me out again ..."

Yoly shook her head sadly. She wrapped her big arms around herself and began to hum ... a slow, haunting tune . . . and as Olivia's heart leapt into her throat, she recognized the tune that had carried her through childhood . . . through all the bad times . . . Mama's wordless tune . . . the tune in the dark of Olivia's mind . . .

Miss Rose stirred restlessly.

"I'm ... so weak ... so very . . ."

"It'll pass," Yoly assured her. "Just stay quiet now."

Miss Rose's body seemed to sink a little more, seemed to draw deeper into itself with a thin, ragged breath.

Yoly closed her eyes. Skyler and Mathilde exchanged looks of alarm. As Skyler leaned down once more over the bed, Olivia saw Mathilde reach for his hand and squeeze it.

"Is she asleep?" Mathilde asked worriedly, and as Skyler nodded, Yoly motioned them toward the door.

"Let's leave her be. She needs to rest."

"But what are we going to do with the girl?"

Mathilde went on, a little irritably now. "She knows about Helen—she found the staircase."

"Damn it, Mathilde, let go." As Skyler pulled away from her, he held up his wrist to examine the marks she'd left there with her fingernails. Olivia could see several spots of blood, and Skyler frowned, giving them a lick with his tongue.

"Don't defend her," Mathilde warned him. "I want something done."

Skyler shrugged and glanced sideways.

And then Olivia felt her skin crawl.

She saw Skyler's eyes narrowing, studying, as they focused on a damp spot on the rug. Olivia knew she'd been standing there watching Miss Rose when she'd first come into the room. She'd come in from the rain, and she'd probably dripped water straight across the carpet. . .

Skyler's eyes slid slowly along the rug . . . crawled up the side of the trunk.

They seemed to sear right through the tiny crack.

Olivia pulled back and held her breath.

Skyler's body was still in the same position, wrist lifted to his mouth. In those few heart-stopping seconds, nothing had moved but his eyes. And now, as Mathilde complained again, the eyes went back across the carpet just as swiftly and smoothly as before.

"We can't just let her go on around here, can we?" Mathilde finished triumphantly.

Skyler looked back at her calmly over the top of his hand. "Well, what do you suggest?"

"What do you think? Let's kill her."

The green eyes narrowed. "I'd rather play with her awhile."

"Or just eat her all at once and have it over with ..."

"If you go and kill her, then you's gonna have to

find another girl again," Yoly grunted. "And God only knows how hard that's gonna be."

'7 don't like her/' Mathilde hissed, and Skyler wiped his arm casually on one leg of his jeans.

"Well, I do."

"Give her to Jesse. Let him take care of her."

"I'd rather give you to Jesse, and I'll take care of her."

"You two . . . hush up now."

The door closed behind them as they all three left.

Olivia swallowed hard, fear and disgust choking in her throat.

Miss Rose lay quietly upon the pillows, sleeping and peaceful. The room was still.

Olivia waited for an eternity.

Cautiously she crawled out from the trunk. Miss Rose didn't move as Olivia crept stealthily across the room . . . listened at the door . . . put one hand on the latch. She tried to turn it without making any noise, but the door seemed to be stuck.

For a split second she wondered if Skyler or Mathilde was waiting for her on the other side, just waiting for her to come out.

She gripped the handle and tried again, more forcefully this time.

The latch gave. The door creaked open.

Her heart was choking her—she peeked out and saw the empty hallway ... the outside door . . .

She took a step forward and froze.

From somewhere in the house a door closed and footsteps faded.

Are they looking for me?

Dark, shadowy fates swirled through her mind, possibilities too horrible to even imagine. She could

still see Skyler's face as he'd opened Miss Rose's nightgown . . . Skyler's face as he'd watched Olivia at the bayou, as he'd wrestled her to the ground in the cemetery . . .

"If something wanted you . . ."

Skyler's warnings . . . Skyler's promises . . .

"Cut out her tongue . . . I'd rather play with her a while..."

She saw Mathilde covered with blood, and she heard the wet sucking sounds in the cabin that night and she felt the bite on her thigh and she felt the mass of congealed blood across Helen's throat. . .

This isn't happening. . . it's not real. . . this can't be happening to me . . .

Olivia's dreams came crashing down around her, smothering her in terror.

She had to get away from this place.

She had to get away now.

Why didn't I listen to Jesse when I had the chance . . . why didn't I listen!

She let herself outside, then crushed back against the wall as quick footsteps approached her along the veranda.

"She's got to be somewhere—did you look in her room?" Skyler's voice, annoyed, and then Mathilde answering.

"She's not in the house—I've been on all the floors."

"Maybe she's with Jesse."

"I want to know what you plan to do with her! Isn't anyone else in this house worried about what will happen but me? If she tries to get away and tell someone—"

"For Christ's sake, Mathilde, who the hell is she

going to tell? What sane person would ever believe her?" Skyler sounded impatient, and they both stopped to continue the argument. "And I wouldn't advise any convenient accidents like Antoinette's, either. Jesse thinks way too much of this one."

"I want to hurt her!" Mathilde ranted. "Do you understand? I want to make her suffer for what she did to me!"

"You deserved it."

"I want her tortured."

A slow smile crept into his voice. "Ah. One of my specialties."

"Skyler, you really are such a bastard."

There was a muffled slap, as if it had been intercepted before reaching its mark.

"Only it won't be that kind of torture," Skyler went on thoughtfully. "It'll be the kind she won't want me to stop."

Olivia realized she'd been holding her breath, terrified they would spot her in just a few more seconds. She was relieved when they suddenly turned back the other way. She listened until their angry voices faded from earshot, and then she ran through the yard toward the outbuildings.

To her horror, she heard someone running after her, and she panicked. How could I be so stupid — they were probably waiting at the other end of the veranda! She raced like mad to the closest shack and threw herself beneath it. The footsteps passed by and ran on.

She wondered what kind of game Skyler was playing with her now. Wriggling out again, she looked down at her muddy clothes and pushed her wet hair out of her eyes. The rain was falling more softly now, but steadily, and the area behind the house looked like a swamp. She heard someone shout, and instinctively

BLOOD ROO T S

she ran up the steps of the cabin and fell inside, closing the kitchen door after her.

The room was dark except for the glow of the fireplace, and there was that peculiar, offensive smell again hanging in the air. Once more Olivia thought she heard someone outside, and she ducked into a corner behind a large wooden barrel. Only when these footsteps had faded in the same direction as the last ones did she finally venture out.

The smell was almost unbearable.

She stood beside the fireplace and stared down at the cauldron, at the simmering bubbles frothing out beneath its lid, trickling and hissing down into the ashes. She reached for some old rags on the table and pulled off the top of the pot.

The liquid swelled angrily as she lifted the lid.

It rolled for a while, and then it seemed to sink into itself again, the greasy film melting away, revealing the grisly contents inside . . .

It took Olivia several seconds to realize she had seen him before.

And that she'd thought she'd heard him one night on the bayou.

The cab driver stared up at her . ..

Only most of his head was boiled away.

'Wo/"

She whirled around and to her horror saw Mathilde framed there, smiling, in the doorway.

"Well, what are you complaining for?" she purred. "At least your meals here are always fresh."

Olivia shoved Mathilde out of her way, still hearing the woman's piercing laughter as she ran all the way to the bayou. She got into the boat and nearly turned it over in her panic, rowing frantically, trying to get away. When she finally tried to tie up, her rope fell

short of the tree, and she plunged into the water and waded the rest of the way to shore. It was steamily hot, yet she was cold and numb and aching, and as she ran blindly on through the dead, dead woods, the sky opened up again, spilling buckets of rain. She stumbled on a crawling tree root, and as she fell and skidded through the mud, her mind exploded with memories so vivid and so real and so painfully impossible that she cried out in fear and lay there on the marshy ground, her hands shielding her head, her mind stunned and confused.

"Jesse!" she screamed.

She was up again and running into the clearing, calling his name, the rain crying down all around her, and when she found him at last in the church, he was sitting on the floor beside the altar, his knees drawn up to his chest, his head lowered upon folded arms.

"Who is she, Jesse?"

Olivia stopped, her breath coming in long, painful waves, and as she looked down at his bent head she heard her own frightened voice echoing back and back through the empty shadows.

"The woman in the dream," she persisted. "The woman who was lying there, pleading on the floor."

Silence hung like death.

The candles flickered softly, and their flames were the only sound.

Jesse didn't look at her.

"My sister," he said.

Olivia stared, a thousand dark emotions coursing through her. She couldn't speak, she could only watch the slow, slow shake of his head.

"We didn't know. She was Father's child by a mistress, and when her mother died, Father brought her here as his ward. That's why Skyler and I were

BLOOD RO OT S

forbidden to take an interest in her. Only we didn't know. Only Yoly. Only Yoly knew."

"How?" Olivia's voice was trembling. "How did she know?"

"Because she helped deliver Suzanne the night she was born. Just like she helped deliver us. Suzanne's mother lived in town, so Father took Yoly to her in secret. He was always very discreet about his affairs. He sent the woman and her child off to France, and Suzanne attended all the best schools."

"But ... you fell in love with her?"

A slight stirring of his shoulders. She thought he might have sighed.

"I thought she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. I was totally enchanted. Unknown to me, she was also encouraging Skyler—which, as you must realize by now, doesn't require much effort. We met secretly so no one would know. I always had the lady's virtue at heart, but I found out later that her relationship with Skyler was very different."

Olivia stared down at him, shaking her head. A slow numbness was crawling all through her.

"But you loved her?"

A nod. "Yes. Very much."

"And she must have loved you, too. She went to Mathilde and asked that yours and Skyler's lives be spared during the War."

"Mathilde's magic was strong and dangerous. None of the other slaves ever crossed her—they were all too afraid of her. When Suzanne went to Mathilde for help, she didn't know what she was getting into."

"She hated Suzanne, didn't she?"

Another nod. "Because of Skyler. She was insanely jealous of him. And there didn't seem to be a woman, black or white, who could ever resist his charms."

Olivia felt a faint flush of color across her cheeks. As if someone else had blushed. Some other woman she might have known at some other time.

"But the bargain was never actually made?"

"Mathilde wanted to work in the house. To be Suzanne's personal maid and have special privileges none of the other slaves had except for Yoly. And she wanted Skyler, of course."

"But Suzanne never agreed?"

"I believe she would have promised Mathilde anything to save our lives. But there was never time to formalize the agreement. And in the meantime Suzanne had made other plans for Mathilde."

Olivia nodded slowly. "She was going to send her away. To a family she knew in France. So Mathilde wouldn't be any trouble to her anymore."

"We didn't know anything about it." Jesse pressed one hand wearily to his eyes. "If we had, we'd never have allowed it. Skyler would never have agreed."

"And Mathilde found out. . ."

"Yes. By accident that very night. The same night that everything happened." Jesse paused, an edge of sadness, of bitterness in his voice. He cleared his throat and went on slowly. "Skyler and I had arrived at the house just that afternoon. I'd been hurt—a bayonet wound in the chest—and they'd sent me home to recuperate. I was still in shock—I didn't know anything, I didn't remember anything. Skyler got special permission to bring me here, and then he was due back at camp as soon as he'd rested."

"He went to Mathilde that night, didn't he?"

Jesse nodded. "He always went to Mathilde. I believe his plan was to sleep there part of the night and then to come back to Suzanne after Yoly relieved

her at midnight. Of course Suzanne didn't know—she and Yoly were taking turns sitting by my bed, and she thought Skyler had gone into town to be with friends."

Jesse ran one hand slowly over the back of his neck, as if the weight of all the memories was too heavy a burden.

"The storm was so fierce that night. I remember shouting, sitting up in bed, and the sky exploding and the roar of the wind. I was delirious—I thought I was in battle again, the cannons and the guns and the screams of dying men—I thought I heard Skyler, only I couldn't find him, and I ran . . ."

"So that's why you were in the cemetery. Because you ran away, and Suzanne went after you."

He lifted his head and nodded slowly. Olivia stared full into his deep, sad eyes.

"I didn't know where I was going . . . what I was doing ... I just ran and ran ... It was so dark, and it was already flooding, and I kept falling down in the water. The next thing I knew I was on the ground, and someone was trying to lift me. I thought it was Skyler, but I couldn't see his face."

"Suzanne was trying to get you out of the rain. Trying to get you into the mausoleum."

"I was fighting her, and she was trying to drag me inside. I could hear someone crying, and then someone was wiping my face . . . kissing my face .. ."

Olivia turned her head away. For a long moment Jesse said nothing.

"She was drying me off," he whispered. "Holding me. Trying to get me warm. She was . . . taking off my wet clothes . . ."

Silence fell again. It was Olivia who gently broke it.

"Skyler saw her, didn't he? On his way back to the

house. He saw Suzanne running, and he followed her to the cemetery."

Jesse's voice was tight. "He chased after her through the gardens . . . but by the time he found her . . ."

"You and Suzanne were making love," Olivia whispered.

For a long, long moment Jesse stared at the floor. When he finally met Olivia's eyes again, his own were full of pain.

"He was standing there ... he was so hurt. . . just staring at us . . . just staring . . ."

Olivia could feel her head shaking slowly . . . denying what was happening . . . denying what she was hearing, but Jesse kept on.

"And I saw the way he looked at me ... as if I'd betrayed him ... as if we both had. And then I realized Suzanne was looking at me, right into my eyes, and I was nodding, yes, just ever so slightly, yes, and then she was holding out her arms to him. She held out her arms to Skyler, and he came to us . . ."

Jesse's voice trailed off. He stared long and hard into his memories, as if he'd forgotten Olivia was even there.

"We never heard Mathilde," he murmured. "We didn't know she was there. We didn't know she'd gone to the house before that looking for Skyler. We didn't know about Suzanne's letter or that it had fallen out of her dressing gown, or that Mathilde had found it on the bedroom floor."

Olivia closed her eyes. She pressed her hands to her temples, and her own voice sounded faraway. "And when Yoly came in to relieve Suzanne, all she found was Mathilde. She got scared that something had

happened to Jesse, and when Mathilde ran out of the house, Yoly followed, too."

Jesse gave a humorless laugh, and it echoed eerily through the church.

"A comedy of errors. The scene was set."

And Olivia could see the scene as clearly as if she were there in the mausoleum again—the shadows writhing on the floor—the tangle of bodies—the panicky woman . . . She reached out and touched the wall beside her, knowing that if she didn't hang on to something, she would swoon and fall.

"We were on the floor between the vaults." Jesse hesitated . . . swallowed hard. "I heard Suzanne cry out, she said someone was there, someone was watching—but I thought it was just the shadows—I didn't believe her—it didn't seem real—"

"Don't," Olivia murmured. "I don't want to hear—"

"Suzanne screamed at us not to touch her, to let her go, but we didn't realize —neither of us saw Mathilde until she threw herself on top of Skyler and me—"

/ am not hearing this . . . this is not happening . . .

"We wrestled with her on the floor, and she was screaming and cursing at us, hitting us and smearing something on our faces, in our mouths, and Suzanne kept crying, and we couldn't see, it was so dark, everything was confused, we couldn't do anything—"

He leaned forward now . . . put his hands up to his head. His brow furrowed in pain.

"Mathilde was screaming and screaming, and I could taste blood, I could smell blood, and there was raw meat in my mouth, down my throat—we were trying to get away from her, trying to keep her away from Suzanne—" His hands crushed against his

temples, against his past. "Ill never forget her words. The three things she said. I still hear them now, and Fll hear them forever."

"No," Olivia begged him, "no, please don't. .."

" 'We will feed off each other/ " Jesse's eyes clouded and dimmed. " 'You will love her only to lose her, always.'" He caught his breath slowly, and then his voice trembled. " 'It will always be ... as it is now.'"

Olivia lowered her head. Aching tears welled up in her eyes, in her throat, and it was several moments before she could face him. Jesse sat very still. When he spoke again, he sounded strangely empty.

"I remember Yoly screaming, too. What have you done, she kept saying, what have you done—she's your sister . . ."

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut once more. She felt cold and drained, and it was an effort just to speak.

"Yoly got caught in the magic," she mumbled.

"Yes. When she tried to pull Mathilde off of us, Mathilde attacked her, too."

Olivia stared at the candles, at the altar, at the pale, dazed glimmer in Jesse's eyes.

"The wind," Jesse whispered. "I remember the wind ... icy cold in the hot, hot night. .. whirling through the mausoleum at the very moment Mathilde made her magic. And I remember thinking this can't be happening, this can't be happening to me . . . and how everything began to fade . . . faces and voices and feelings and sounds . . . and then a long, long nothingness ..."

"Were you unconscious?" Olivia whispered. "Did you sleep?"

Jesse shook his head in a kind of wonder. "I don't know. None of us knows. I only remember being

awake, yet not awake, aware yet frighteningly paralyzed. And that afterward the whole thing seemed like a dream ... all of it some horrible nightmare. I suddenly saw Skyler and Mathilde beside me and Yoly standing in the open door. I couldn't find Suzanne, so I ran outside. There was a strange, thick fog, and it seemed to take forever to get back to the house. But when we finally got there, Suzanne was dancing in the ballroom . . . dancing around and around . . . and everyone else was dead."

"Dead!" Olivia's eyes widened, shocked.

"Father . . . the slaves . . . everyone. In the cabins

... in the house ... in the fields. And this terrible

stillness . . . the deep, deep fog. Like . . . something

that could never really exist. . ." His voice trailed

away. He shook his head hopelessly.

Olivia stared at him in horror as he went on.

"It didn't happen right away . . . the knowing. It was gradual . . . over a long, long period of time. We buried our dead, and we never again saw anyone we knew. After what we'd done that night, how could we ever face anybody? Skyler and I stayed and waited for the army to come after us, to arrest us for desertion, but they never did. No one came. Not neighbors. Not friends. As if our world here had become invisible . . . unreachable. Completely forgotten. Suzanne went totally mad. We stayed and we cared for her, and Yoly delivered her baby, and we loved Suzanne until she died. And then . . . only then through those years . . . did we finally realize just what Mathilde's magic had meant."

An ironic smile curled the corners of his mouth. It frightened Olivia to see it there on his face.

"We watched Suzanne grow old . . . but we never

grew old with her. We watched her wither . . . and we watched her die . . . and Skyler and I, Mathilde and Yoly, we all stayed behind."

His voice dropped, his hands opening as though he longed to grasp something he could never have.

"Do you know what it feels like, to hurt yourself and bleed, except within minutes it's as if nothing had ever happened? Wounds perfectly healed. Broken bones mended. Or to try and leave this one place you've lived your whole, long life, or to try and eat food that normal people eat, and get so violently sick in both cases that you pray to die . . . only you can't. . r

He gazed off into the darkness, his face softly troubled.

"We can never leave the plantation again. We can't live without human flesh . . . but we can't die."

Olivia felt her stomach lurch . . . the head in the cauldron . . . the flavor in her food that she could never identify. . . the marks on her thigh and on Helen's arms . . .

"But Skyler will always have Mathilde. And the Devereaux line will always be ensured through its female offspring . . . again and again and again. And Yoly will always be here to deliver the Devereaux daughters . . . and raise them into gentlewomen . . . and bury them when they're finally old . . ."

His voice trailed off. He stared long into the past, and then he roused himself with an effort and gave Olivia a slow, sidelong glance.

"You dreamed my dreams," he said to her, but his voice was strangely empty, strangely void of emotion or caring or any of the other things she had believed about him. "You healed my wounds .. . you had the visions ..."

Olivia was backing away from him, backing into the throbbing shadows, shaking her head slowly, fearfully, from side to side.

"Only one person would be capable of that," Jesse said, and he was standing up now, staring at her, coming toward her through the flickering, distorted darkness. "Only the bloodroot. Only the new mistress of Devereaux House."

"No!" she screamed at him. "No, I don't believe you! You can't be here—not after all this time—you can't be real—"

"There's no name for what we are," Jesse said quietly, sadly, and he was still coming, so calm and resigned, just like the pictures in Devereaux House, the portraits over a hundred years old . . .

"Only a dream!" Olivia screamed again, and the shadows were around her now, thick and confusing, and she couldn't see anymore, couldn't see his face, or which way to go, or where she was— "Only a dream! Only in my mind—dear God, what is this!"

And she felt the arms go around her from behind, the lips blazing a trail of ice-cold fire down her neck, the tongue slowly tasting her shoulder, and she felt her own mortality shudder through her veins, the panic and pain and despair of her whole life swell up around her in hopeless waves and shatter at the sound of Skyler's deep laugh . . .

"This is real," he said. "Welcome to the family."

BLOOD ROO TS

shaking her head, remembering. "Your mama wasn't strong like you."

"Passionate like you." Skyler smiled.

"Jesse!" she sobbed. "Please! They're going to kill me! They're going to—"

"Love you."

Miss Rose took Olivia's face tenderly between her thin hands, her faded blue eyes so kind, so knowing.

"Kill you? Why, no, child, no ... we need your life."

"No," Olivia whispered, and she tried to twist free, but Skyler only held her tighter, effortlessly, to his body. And she could feel him wanting her, the slow tightening of his muscles, and she moved against him, helplessly, in her fear, in her desperation.

"My time is over," Miss Rose murmured. "At last I can die in peace knowing you will take my place as mistress of Devereaux House. You will have nothing to fear . . . you will be protected and revered as I have been ... as is due your station . . ."

The room was spinning, faces spinning, distorting all about her. She felt her shoulders drawn back against Skyler's chest, she felt his chin resting lightly on her bare shoulder. With one hand he reached around her and slowly untied the ribbon on her blouse. She could smell warm, rich blood. . . exciting . . . enticing . . .

"You will perpetuate our bloodline," Miss Rose was saying, but her voice sounded faint and faraway. "You will save us from extinction."

And Olivia could see Mathilde now, strange, exotic eyes reflecting the candlelight, mouth drawn into a satisfied smile. And they were all watching her—all of them watching, all of them waiting, and Skyler's deft

fingers at the front of her blouse, working it open, Jesse's half-reluctant nod—

"No!" Olivia screamed, "What are you doing to me!"

All of them watching, Skyler's lips at the pulse of her throat, blouse pulling away from her breasts, Skyler's hand slipping inside, Jesse's eyes with a strange, soft fire—

"Not here," Miss Rose said. "It must be done right. Take her to the cemetery."

"No!" Olivia shrieked. "OK God, help me!"

There is no God, no one to help me, no one to ever help me, this is why I'm special, what I'm being saved for, this fate, this destiny —

Through a blur of terror she felt hands grabbing her, holding her, carrying her through the woods and the rain and the dark foggy morning. She kicked and fought, vaguely aware of water flowing, and sky flowing, and her own hot blood flowing, flowing, and suddenly she saw the mausoleum standing open before her.

Candles flickered within, softly illuminating the fog that swirled through the doorway, that oozed restlessly into deep, dank corners.

She could see the crumbling vaults lying along the floor now ... the rows of sealed crypts faded into the walls, their dead shut away forever .. .

And as Olivia stared groggily through the shadows, she could also see the narrow space ahead of her upon the floor . . . the narrow aisle wedged there among the slithering shadows, waiting there between the huge stone sepulchres . . .

"Help me—Jesse—don't let them do this to me—"

And she could hear the huge door groaning shut

behind her as hands pushed her forward—as the world grew small and distant and unreachable and unreal. ..

"Don't let them do this to me!Don't let them touch me!"

Olivia clawed at the walls, trying to hang on, but her hands were torn free, and she pitched forward, screaming, as someone shoved her down onto the floor. I'm being buried alive — buried alive —and it was like a grave, like being underground, small and dark and close, and the damp, foul smell of the dead, the long silent sound of the dead . ..

But then she realized she wasn't alone, that someone was there with her—not one of them, but two now—two of them, one on either side of her, holding her down on her back as she struggled, holding her there as she cried—

"Today you join your ancestors," Skyler said above her. "Today you become part of the legacy."

"Let me go!" Olivia sobbed, and she could see the glitter of excitement in his eyes as they narrowed on her.

"Fm not a Devereaux!" she screamed, and she could see Jesse there, too, his face tensing as he pinned her more tightly between them. "Fm not a true Devereaux, don't you understand! Mama had lots of men—I never knew my real father—"

"You're the one who doesn't understand." Skyler laughed softly, as if he found the whole situation intensely amusing. "Catherine was already pregnant with you when she left here. She never told you about your real father—"

"Skyler," Jesse warned, but his breathing quickened. He put his hand to Olivia's forehead and

smoothed her hair back from her face as she tried to twist away from him. "Hush now/' he soothed. "It has to be this way . . ."

"She never told you about your real father," Skyler went on. "She never told you about us."

Olivia stared at him. She saw him exchange looks with his brother, and she heard his laugh echo off the slimy walls.

'We're your father, Olivia. Jesse and me. And we're Catherine's father . . . and Miss Rose's father ... the father of all the Devereauxs. The father of the daughter you'll bring into our world—"

Olivia sobbed in terror. A trickle of blood ran from her throat between her breasts. Skyler leaned down and gently sucked it away. Her head tilted back, and a long deep shiver went through her.

"That's right, Olivia, don't be afraid." Skyler licked his lips and smiled. "I'm very good at what I do. In fact. . . both of us are. We've been doing it for years."

"Nor

In a frenzy of panic, Olivia twisted and tried to kick, but her body was clamped tightly between both of theirs, her arms pinned helplessly beneath them. With one quick jerk, her blouse was torn open, breasts spilling out, hands fondling them . . . squeezing .. . caressing . . . Soft, knowing laughter floated above her in the dark, shadowy faces leaning down, kissing her breasts, sucking her nipples, tongues teasing lightly, and her breasts heaving, straining beneath soft, warm lips. And the shame, the helplessness as she felt herself arch into their kisses, trying in vain to free herself, only feeling hands burning, burning until she thought she'd go mad.

"No!"

BLOOD ROOTS

"You've wanted this," a voice said thickly. "You've wanted this for a long, long time . . ."

And tongues blazing trails of cold fire between her breasts, down over her ribs, and hands sliding up beneath her skirt, tugging . . . wrenching it away. From some remote corner of her frantic brain, she knew that a knee was wedged hard between her thighs, that swift, skillful fingers were working her panties slowly down over her ankles . ..

"Stop! Oh, stop—"

Heavy dampness rushing over her, trying to hide herself from eyes that could see in the dark, but no use, no use—hands gliding slowly over her stomach, over her thighs, between her legs, lightly, taking their time . ..

And lips on hers, bruising, demanding, hands memorizing her with slow, purposeful curiosity, fingers on the downy swell between her legs . . . stroking . . . lower . . . and lower . . .

Dying — I'm dying —shame and desire—terror and desire—worst nightmares, waking nightmare, pressing, gentle, moaning, body arching again with a throbbing will of its own . . . melting against the strong curves of erect and supple bodies . . .

"Yes, Olivia . . . that's right. . ." Murmuring, kisses, sighs. "That's right. . ."

Head lowering . . . down . . . down . .. tongue between thighs, screaming for mercy, yet straining against it, horrified at the helpless yearning, the desperate, aching need . . . licking . . . tasting . . . hot liquid waves of desire—unbearable . . .

Don't touch me — don't — touch me — touch me touch me touch me —

Gasping, can't breathe, my breath his breath his

breath our breath, writhing beneath hard, warm softness, wet warm tongue . . . crying, hands sliding beneath hips, urging higher, tighter against hungry mouth . . . don't don't. . . oh God . . . Skyler . . . Jesse —sucking . . . coaxing . . . exploring every crevice, every curve, with slow, practiced perfection . . .

And quickly then—smoothly—bodies lean and hot, stretched on top, above, below, bare skin, damp hair and salty sweat and sultry, steamy sighs— moving— yes, yes —locked together, legs opening, thrusting deep inside—impatient—demanding— hearts racing, bodies on fire, out of control—deep, deep—throbbing together to a fevered pitch, thrusting again and again—exploding—hot, shuddering waves, weakening—drowning—

"You're ours now." Whispers sucking the blood away, kisses licking the tears away, devouring her, body and soul. "Ours now. Right where you belong."

And "Yes," she murmured, "Yes ... yes . . ."

Around them, beneath them, lay the dust of the Devereauxs, bones crumbling softly amid years and years of honor and sacrifice.

Olivia reached up to touch the faces in the dark. She could feel their smiles. Their love. She thought she heard music and the long-ago laughter of children.

She smelled roses and river breezes, warm and rich . . . and the sweet, heavy flowing of time.

Epilogue

Sometimes Olivia sat outside on the gallery and tried to recall how it was before.

It was getting harder and harder to remember.

It seemed there had never been another place but this one, where the gardens bloomed all year round and the ivy clambered over the stately walls and the soft, sweet sunshine crept reverently along the quiet, airy hallways.

And it came to her one morning, as she stood upon the gallery and gazed out through clouds of soft gray moss, that she had never known any place but this, had never known any faces but these.

She so loved being here.

In the slow, peaceful passing of days ... in the graceful company of those she loved so much.

"Miss Olivia?"

Olivia turned with a start to see Yoly standing behind her, hands on broad hips, expression annoyed.

"What is it, Yoly?"

"That new girl's here. The new help."

Olivia nodded slowly. "Well ..."

Her eyes swept over the serene landscape below . . . over the flowering shrubs and magnolias and the lush, twisted maze of the beautiful gardens. She could hear shouting and giggling, and voices floated up from beneath the trees.

"You can't catch me, Skyler! You can't!"

"Just watch me!"

And as Olivia stared, a little girl ran right across the yard, squealing delightedly, even as Skyler caught her and swung her high into the air.

"How do you do that, Skyler?" The little girl giggled again. "How do you run so fast?"

And Olivia could see his smile, the sly narrowing of his green eyes.

And he looks just like he did the first time I saw him, she thought with a curious ache in her heart. . . just like the very first time . . .

"Miss Sarah sure looks like you, Miss Olivia," Yoly chuckled. "That wild little thing—she sure does."

But Olivia was still watching the game down below and didn't hear.

She saw Jesse mending a brick wall and Sarah running up behind him, one chubby hand over her mouth as she gleefully motioned Skyler to join her surprise.

She saw Jesse's quick intake of breath as he pretended to be frightened, and the way Sarah jumped on him, pulling Skyler down with her, the laughing, tumbling tangle of them down below on the cool green grass.

"Miss Olivia?" Yoly said gently.

And Olivia looked back at her, frowning slightly, as

some thin wisp of memory beckoned to her, then disappeared.

"Yes, Yoly." She leaned forward onto the sturdy white railing and breathed deeply of the perfumed air, and then she turned to Yoly with a gracious nod.

"Show her her room—you know which one."

"Yes'm."

"And make sure she meets . . . Jesse and Skyler."

She lifted one hand to brush back her hair, catching several strands gently between her fingers. Surely that wasn't a touch of gray so soon . . . surely it was only faded from long, happy walks in the sun . . .

"Oh ... and Yoly—"

"Yes, Miss Olivia?"

"Make sure Mathilde makes something . . . special ... for dinner."

"Yes'm."

Olivia leaned into the balmy breeze.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember a life without Devereaux House.

But there was nothing inside her mind.

Nothing at all.

RICHIE TANKERSLEY CUSICK

Author of LIFEGUARD and

BLOODROOTS

in

FEAR THE DAY. '

BEWARE THE NIGHT.

EXPECT NO MERCY...

The victim of a car accident in the Ozark hills, Pamela

Westbrook awoke to find herself in the care of the

Whittakers, a quaint, hard-working family whose farm was

miles from the nearest neighbor. Temporarily stranded,

haunted still by a tragic loss, she found a measure of peace in

the quiet golden hills and the Whittakers' gentle customs.

Soon she will be trapped in a nightmare of mysterious

deaths, an all-consuming horror from which there is no

escape...not even in madness....

POCKET

BOOKS

Available from Pocket Books A.nd Look For Her Next Horror Novel

NIGHT STAIR

COMING IN 1994

Richie Tankersley Cusick was born in New Orleans and grew up with a ghost in her house. The author of eleven books, both adult and young adult, she does all her work at an antique rolltop desk which belonged to a funeral director in the 1800s and which she claims is haunted. She now lives outside Kansas City with her husband Rick and their cocker spaniel Hannah, where she is currently at work on her new novel. Ms. Cusick is a bestselling young adult author whose

titles included Vampire, Fatal Secrets, The Mall, and the

novelization of Buffy the Vampire Slayer She has written one

previous adult horror novel, Scarecrow, which is also

available from Pocket Books.

This book made available by the Internet Archive.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Pages

Back Cover