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“Who are these grandparents you mentioned?”

“You amuse me. Are you so afraid to say her name aloud in my presence? That it might confirm my suspicions? I’m talking about Céleste’s grandparents. The ones who’ve spent the last decade looking for her.”

“Are they involved in this cult? Are they followers?”

“Devout. They’re said to be descendants of the original seven who were burned at the stake centuries ago, during the slave revolt. For years, they ran a thriving boucherie business here on the island. Kept to themselves mostly. When their granddaughter disappeared, things started to fall apart for them. Their business collapsed. They lost everything. As I understand, they’re living in squalor somewhere in the bayou.”

Dread sinks to the pit of my gut as I dare to entertain the possibility of whom Céleste’s grandparents might be. “What is their family name?”

“Boudreaux. Joelle and Hal Boudreaux.”

46

Thierry

“Céleste!” Gripping the spilled coffee cup I found out on the dock, I storm through the boat. “Céleste!”

Without a sign of her anywhere, I grab one of my guns from the safe in my office and load it with a new mag.

The surrounding forest makes the day seem later, as the trees swallow up bits of sky above. Palms sweaty, pulse racing, I can feel the slow loss of control going on inside of me. Emotions and responses I’ve learned to tamp down just before a kill. Reactions brought on by the intense fear of stumbling upon something that might finally break me.

Most times, I can distance myself. Separate from my physical person in order to carry out what needs to be done. The deep, unsettling vibration beneath my skin is a warning, an ominous code from my senses telling me that I’m about to lose my grip.

The trees open up around the small farm, and as I pass one of the pens, I notice a black goat there. Watching me, as he stands surrounded by smaller, white goats. Stalking toward the door, I rest my finger on the gun’s trigger, ready to shoot the first thing that moves.

Barrel leading the way, I enter the ramshackle home, taking in the overwhelming scent of rot and decay. The kitchen and living room make up one open room, like that of a cabin. Torn curtains hang haphazardly from bent rods covering the windows. Dishes lay piled in the sink. Flies crawl over meat left out on a plate on the kitchen table. Animal skulls, bleached white, rest on the counter, some mounted to the walls.

Wood creaks with every step, as I search the space for Céleste. In a bedroom toward the back, more animal skulls and pieces of bone lay about the gritty floor. Black candles and inverted ‘A’s made from twined-together sticks have also been placed around the room.

Crossing the space brings me to a picture of a woman, dressed in white, who could easily be Céleste’s sister, given their similarities. She stands amid a small group, and is the only one not wearing a white goat skull. Another picture is of Jo and Hal wedged between a couple.

Looking at that second image, a disturbing thrum of shock pulses through my veins.

One face is familiar. Unsettling.

Jude Bijou, the investor for Daughters of Mercy, where my sister resides, and who I assume was her late husband beside her. The four of them stand before the entrance to a hospital.

Frannie. Fuck!

A tingling sensation hits the back of my neck, and at the first creak of wood from behind, I twist around in time to dodge the swing of an axe.

My attacker is slightly bigger than me, well over six feet tall, and huskier, wearing overalls and a goat skull to hide his face. On a growl, he lifts the weapon for another swing and charges toward me again.

Without hesitation, I pull the trigger and shoot his arm. The enormous figure curls into himself, dropping the axe, and lets out a squeal that reminds me of a pig. One I’ve heard before. Hand covering his wound, he backs away from me, but I lurch toward him, gun aimed for another shot. When he spins on his heel toward the door, I reach out and grab the cross of his overalls, yanking him down to the floor.

A struggle ensues when he kicks and squeals, swinging his fists. His size is no easy feat to wrangle, and I’m forced to set my gun aside to round up his flailing limbs. Once I’ve pinned him to the floor, I press down on his gunshot wound, and the guy squeals again.

“I’m looking for a girl,” I grit out, my voice affected by the struggle to keep him still. “Where is she?”

The annoying sound of squealing is the only response.

“Where is she!” A hard jerk of his arm intensifies the squeals, and at this point, I’m ready to put a bullet in his head. Instead, I awkwardly tear the skull away, one-handedly, to find the telling features of mental handicap: a lazy eye, low nasal bridge, jaw cocked slightly off center.

A hoarse moan escapes him, his eyes wide with fear. It’s when he opens his mouth to squeal again that I realize this interrogation is futile.

He can’t tell me anything.

His tongue has been removed.