behind Jackson’s eyes—ears pricked forward, intelligence and concern in her eyes (one blue, one brown), her muzzle lifted as though sniffing the air—and prodded him from the half-dreaming twilight he’d tumbled into, poked at his awareness until he was no longer dreaming.
Here, girl …
He woke up. Unable to breathe. Unable to see. Unable to move.
Panic writhed through Jackson, wriggling like worms underneath the skin, then memory flared like heat lightning across a summer-scorched sky, and he remembered the whole damned nightmare.
The desperate and brutal fight in the yard with three men he’s never seen before—two black, one white, all deadly—wondering who hired them even as he swings the baseball bat at their heads.
Being forced out of his own goddamned pickup, wrists bound, and marched in front of a freshly dug grave, a cold sweat bathing his body.
Falling to his knees as his feet are kicked out from under him. Pain ripples along his scalp as someone grabs a handful of hair, jerks his head back, and pours a potion down his throat—a dark liquid smelling of graveyards, oranges, and decay. Jackson gags, struggles to pull free. Fails.
Refusing to look at him, to meet his eyes, the white dude slices at Jackson with a pocketknife—arms, thighs, chest, belly, scalp. Blood pours, stinging, into his eyes. Slicks his skin. Soaks his shirt, his jeans. Warm and wet and sticky.
“Careful, asshole! He’s supposed to bleed out slow.”
A numbing cold curls through his veins, crackles across his thoughts, slows his heart. And even before they kick him into the grave, Jackson knows he is beyond fucked.
The earth weighed down on Jackson like a lead-lined blanket, pushing him further toward its dark, moist heart, slowly crushing from his aching lungs what little air he’d managed to keep. Dirt clogged his nostrils, clung to his lips, and coated his tongue despite the arms he’d managed to crisscross protectively over his face as the bastards had shoveled soil on top of him.
All business, those sons of bitches. No laughing. No teasing final words. Just the solid schunk of shovel blades into the ground, followed by the cascade of dirt on flesh and denim.
Hell, he could understand that—why waste breath on a tricked-up dead man? But who the fuck would go to so much trouble? None of the crews or dealers he liberated goods from dealt with hoodoo or voodoo—as far as he knew—they’d just plug two into the back of his skull, then dump his body into the bayou.
Another image of Cielo filled Jackson’s thoughts. He smelled sunshine warm in her fur.
Daddy. Digging.
A tendril of hope rooted itself in Jackson’s heart. Good girl, you.
Six feet above, he heard howling—a sudden blow-down, maybe, or Cielo singing as she worked. His body itched and burned and spasmed, his thoughts spinning like a steering wheel ripping a three-sixty turn.
Panting for air, Jackson slipped underneath the surface of dreams again and plummeted into a cold and endless twilight. And remembered another day, another savage storm.
“The wind is scaring me, Jacks!” Jeanette yells, locking her arms tight around Jackson’s neck as he carries her across the yard to the Dodge pickup. Her long dark pigtails, rain-soaked and thick, whip against his face.
“Moi aussi! But I’m glad I’ve got you to keep me safe, p’tite peu,” Jackson teases, despite the tension knotting his belly. “Do you think we could stop and change places? You carry me to the truck?”
“No, silly.” Jeanette tightens her stranglehold around his neck. For a split second he feels like he can’t breathe, but the sensation vanishes when his sister giggles into his ear. “And don’t call me ‘little bit’ no more. I’m turning seven tomorrow, so I’m big now.”
“Big enough to carry me?”
“Uh-huh. I just hafta shrink you with a backwards magnifying glass, then tuck you into my pocket.”
“Got that backwards magnifying glass with
Here, girl …
He woke up. Unable to breathe. Unable to see. Unable to move.
Panic writhed through Jackson, wriggling like worms underneath the skin, then memory flared like heat lightning across a summer-scorched sky, and he remembered the whole damned nightmare.
The desperate and brutal fight in the yard with three men he’s never seen before—two black, one white, all deadly—wondering who hired them even as he swings the baseball bat at their heads.
Being forced out of his own goddamned pickup, wrists bound, and marched in front of a freshly dug grave, a cold sweat bathing his body.
Falling to his knees as his feet are kicked out from under him. Pain ripples along his scalp as someone grabs a handful of hair, jerks his head back, and pours a potion down his throat—a dark liquid smelling of graveyards, oranges, and decay. Jackson gags, struggles to pull free. Fails.
Refusing to look at him, to meet his eyes, the white dude slices at Jackson with a pocketknife—arms, thighs, chest, belly, scalp. Blood pours, stinging, into his eyes. Slicks his skin. Soaks his shirt, his jeans. Warm and wet and sticky.
“Careful, asshole! He’s supposed to bleed out slow.”
A numbing cold curls through his veins, crackles across his thoughts, slows his heart. And even before they kick him into the grave, Jackson knows he is beyond fucked.
The earth weighed down on Jackson like a lead-lined blanket, pushing him further toward its dark, moist heart, slowly crushing from his aching lungs what little air he’d managed to keep. Dirt clogged his nostrils, clung to his lips, and coated his tongue despite the arms he’d managed to crisscross protectively over his face as the bastards had shoveled soil on top of him.
All business, those sons of bitches. No laughing. No teasing final words. Just the solid schunk of shovel blades into the ground, followed by the cascade of dirt on flesh and denim.
Hell, he could understand that—why waste breath on a tricked-up dead man? But who the fuck would go to so much trouble? None of the crews or dealers he liberated goods from dealt with hoodoo or voodoo—as far as he knew—they’d just plug two into the back of his skull, then dump his body into the bayou.
Another image of Cielo filled Jackson’s thoughts. He smelled sunshine warm in her fur.
Daddy. Digging.
A tendril of hope rooted itself in Jackson’s heart. Good girl, you.
Six feet above, he heard howling—a sudden blow-down, maybe, or Cielo singing as she worked. His body itched and burned and spasmed, his thoughts spinning like a steering wheel ripping a three-sixty turn.
Panting for air, Jackson slipped underneath the surface of dreams again and plummeted into a cold and endless twilight. And remembered another day, another savage storm.
“The wind is scaring me, Jacks!” Jeanette yells, locking her arms tight around Jackson’s neck as he carries her across the yard to the Dodge pickup. Her long dark pigtails, rain-soaked and thick, whip against his face.
“Moi aussi! But I’m glad I’ve got you to keep me safe, p’tite peu,” Jackson teases, despite the tension knotting his belly. “Do you think we could stop and change places? You carry me to the truck?”
“No, silly.” Jeanette tightens her stranglehold around his neck. For a split second he feels like he can’t breathe, but the sensation vanishes when his sister giggles into his ear. “And don’t call me ‘little bit’ no more. I’m turning seven tomorrow, so I’m big now.”
“Big enough to carry me?”
“Uh-huh. I just hafta shrink you with a backwards magnifying glass, then tuck you into my pocket.”
“Got that backwards magnifying glass with
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