Bonfire: Hours of the Night, #1.5

Bonfire

Hours of the Night, Book 1.5

Irene Preston

Liv Rancourt

LivRancourt.com

IrenePreston.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Bonfire

© 2016 by Sharon Stoker Laurent and Amy Dunn Caldwell

Cover Art: Lou Harper

Editor: Linda Ingmanson

Proofreader: Michael Valsted

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-0-9968099-4-8

Dedication

To everyone who seeks light in darkness.

Chapter One

Thursday, December 8

For eighty years, I’d lived alone, dedicating myself to study and contemplation. My long undeath gave me the luxury of keeping my own peace. I had never felt the lack of others’ company until I gained an assistant who demanded I treat him as a partner, a demand that left me with misgivings. Sarasija’s arrival replaced peace with joy and meditation with laughter.

And the stillness of chant with…Lady Gaga.

Between the early sunset and the lack of artificial light, December on the bayou allowed me to wake earlier than in any other time or place. The stair treads were worn and familiar, and, following the sound of electronic music, I went barefoot out the big front door of my home on the Amite River.

The sky was overcast, the clouds swollen with enough moisture to make the Spanish moss glisten. I’d intended to circle the house, keeping under the shadow of the eaves until I found Sara, but I was distracted by laughter. Two young girls paddled up to my landing, a sturdy can light on the prow of their pirogue lighting the way.

Maddy, we shouldn’t be doing this.

Their presence transformed my peaceful mood to one of fear, and I had to agree with the hushed statement. With only a couple of exceptions, my neighbors did not visit me, and that they should be children…

It’s all right, Michaela. The leader, presumably Maddy, hopped out onto my dock carrying a small box. See? There’s somebody out on the front porch. I can just run up there and ask him.

Merde alors. Ask me what?

The girl’s blond curls were tied back from her face, and she wore a neon-green lifejacket. While I’d spent little time with children, I guessed her age to be ten or eleven years.

I strode down the lawn, intent on heading her off before she came much closer. I needed them to leave before anyone learned they’d been here. The electronic pulse of Sara’s music echoed the panicked beat of my heart, and I fought the urge to summon him with a thought.

Hey! She waved at me, full of life, absolutely lacking in suspicion. Are you Mr. Dupont or Mr. Mishra?

She knew our names? That gave me pause. Perhaps Dorothy had sent her. I am Dupont. What can I do for you?

I’m Madison Langlois, and my friend Michaela and I are selling Christmas ornaments to raise money for the women’s shelter. Are you interested?

No, thank you.

If my stern tone put a hitch in her step, it was brief. But you haven’t even seen them yet. She opened the box. Look. See? Our goal is five hundred dollars, so the women can get Christmas presents for their kids.

I did as she asked, awkwardly peering into the box, impressed by her enthusiasm. The ornaments were clear glass filled with glitter and shiny, colored trim. As much as I wanted to send her back to the boat, if Sara found out I’d altered the memory of a child, he’d never forgive me.

I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.

Her jaw firmed, putting me in mind of another young girl, also called Maddy. My youngest sister, Madeline, had a similar way of ordering the world to her liking. She’d met a man from Texas in about 1930 and lived in Austin until a car accident in 1972, all the while believing her oldest brother had died in mysterious circumstances.

Maybe I could just give you a donation? I could never refuse my Maddy either.

At that, she cheered up. Sure, Mr. Dupont. That’d be awesome.

Very good. Um… I had no idea what to do with a ten-year-old girl. Leave her here alone while I went into the house for my billfold? Who allowed a child to paddle around the swamp alone so late in the day? Before I could start to lecture her on safety, Sara jogged around the side of the house.

There you are. His smile was brighter than the light on the boat. I was messing around in the garden. What’s going on?

This is Miss Madeline—

Madison, she corrected.

"Pardon. Madison. She and her friend are selling ornaments to raise money for the women’s shelter."

Sara lifted one of the ornaments out of the box. These are cool. We’ll take a couple. How much are they?

Maddy blinked between the two of us, as if calculating who would give her the better deal.

I believe I can make a fifty-dollar donation. I took charge of the situation, because we did not need a houseful of baubles. Would that be sufficient?

Sara’s surprised glance hinted that perhaps we would be taking at least one of the ornaments. Deciding he’d be the better one to deal with her, I excused myself to get my donation. On my way back to the lawn, someone shouted from across the water.

A skiff buzzed into sight, its shallow outboard kicking up the smooth water. Madison Langlois, what the hell are you doing? Again, my heart lurched. This could mean trouble. Real trouble.

Come on, Maddy, the child in the boat echoed. Chase sounds pissed.

Fine. She tossed her head with the practiced frustration of a much older woman. My brother is so overprotective.

I handed her the money and she snapped the box closed. Thank you very much, Mr. Dupont, and you too, Mr. Mishra.

Girl, you get down here right now. You were supposed to be home before dark. Her brother sounded angry and frightened, sentiments I could easily appreciate.

Sara volunteered to walk her down to the dock, but she declined. I had no desire to speak to the young man in the skiff, who eyed me warily from fifty feet away.

We watched the two young girls paddle double-time in the direction of the skiff, and didn’t turn for the house until they were out of sight.

Without the outboard motor, the gentle sounds of the river surrounded us, calming me. Only time would tell if we had dodged a bullet or if the gunman was still finding his aim.

Sara stood close enough for me to catch a whiff of his honey scent and to feel his body’s warmth. We have our first ornament. He lifted the thing so the last of the daylight shone on its glittering features.

An ornament. I shook my head and brushed a stray strand of hair from his brow. He was blessedly innocent of the possible trouble we just faced. I drew him to the porch, his fingers cool from the damp air.

Who lets a couple of young girls paddle around the swamp? he asked.

I opened the door and stepped aside, allowing him to enter. I suspect they weren’t supposed to come this far.

I bet their parents chew them right out.

"After the older brother is finished, oui."

He squeezed my hand. Must be time for Vespers. Go do your thing while I clean up and throw some dinner together.

He didn’t always want to cook for himself, so I encouraged him with enthusiasm and headed for the stairs. He got as far as the kitchen door before stopping. Oh yeah, Bren stopped by to drop off the stuff I ordered. She said her grandmother wants you to call.

Resting my hand on the wooden newel at the bottom of the stairs, I gave him a close look. Whatever he’d ordered had him grinning like an imp, though Dorothy’s message was my more pressing concern. I’ll do that now.

Sure. He disappeared into the kitchen. The old telephone sat on an end table, and I dialed the phone number from long memory.

Dorothy ran Pinky’s, a small sundries store with a restaurant in back, the only place to buy groceries within ten miles. In her day, she’d been widely acknowledged for her beauty, though I had always respected her for her intelligence and wit. If she recognized the similarities between me and the Mr. Dupont who’d lived in the River house when she was a girl, she’d never mentioned it. We had an accord, Dorothy and I, one I would be reluctant to break.

While the phone was ringing, I noticed two paper shopping bags in the corner of the room. The phone had just enough cord for me to reach the closest bag, but before I could open it, Dorothy answered.

This is Thaddeus Dupont.

I guess you got my message. Dorothy sounded annoyed, as if she’d rather I hadn’t called.

Yes. What can I do for you? I opened the bag and lifted out a glossy black box. Christmas lights. Surprised, I bit my lip against a sharp surge of irritation.

Well, she said, those lights are back.

Confused, I set aside the first box and lifted out another. Lights? More lights?

You know what I’m talking about. The swamp lights. Back in my grandmother’s day, she’d say Old Ivey was out looking for someone who got murdered. She paused, and he could almost hear her collecting her thoughts. "Some call ’em the feu follet, and people been following ’em to find the treasure but getting lost in the swamp instead."

I lifted a third and then a fourth box of Christmas lights out of the bag. And what has this to do with me? Fueled by exasperation, my tone was sharper than normal, but what was Sara thinking? A single ornament was one thing, but I never decorated for the holidays, especially with multicolored, LED, synchronized flashers.

Maybe nothing, Thaddeus, but after the troubles you all had last summer, I figured I better say something in case Old Ivey’s looking for someone you know.

I carefully set down the box of lights. "I can assure you, Miss Dorothy, I have not murdered anyone and stashed their body in