the ceremony. The passage of boy to man, girl to woman.
One was always taken.
Adrianna’s face remained etched in his mind as the young girls dressed in virginal white stepped before the altar. Their mothers shivered with fear, knowing that any one of their daughters might be the chosen one.
Only the girls knew nothing.
But Adrianna had known. The devil must have whispered in her ear. And she had chosen him.
Then the clan had cast him aside as if he was a leper.
He fisted his hands at his sides. He had to destroy all those wicked women who defied their religion. The cheap whores. Satan’s messengers. Then the curse would be removed from him and he could once again walk among his people.
Fury twisted his insides as time spun backward.
He was back in Black Bayou on that fatal day.
Blood soaked his hands, his face, his clothing where he leaned over his daddy’s body. Shouts and screams of terror and shock rocked through the clan. Suddenly someone yelled for them to hunt Adrianna.
Torches were lit, tempers fired and men dispersed. He had gone with them. Hours had dragged as they’d relentlessly fought through the bayou. Crocodiles had threatened. Attacked. Another brother had fallen prey to the swamp, his limbs ripped away one by one by a gator’s sharp teeth.
Then one had shot out of the water toward him. His stomach rolled as he recalled the gator’s teeth ruthlessly sinking into his arm, his torso, his ear. Fear had nearly crippled him.
But Satan had decided to let him live that night. Death would have been too easy.
Finally at daybreak they’d returned to the camp. Exhausted. He was half-dead.
They hadn’t found Adrianna.
Then his next realm of punishments had begun. He’d bowed his head before the snake pit, the blinding pain swirling him into a vortex of eternal darkness. The clan chanted and prayed for the demons to be exorcised from his body. They’d thought him weak. A traitor. That he had warned Adrianna….
In their eyes, he was a failure. An outcast. He had not survived the trial by ordeal without looking guilty.
Then they had banned him from their presence forever.
Thunder clapped above, drawing him back to the present. He stood on the edge of another clan now, the work of the great Ezra Cortain in progress. The pounding drums echoed around him and the chants began, praising Sobek. Although forced to remain on the periphery, he clasped his hands and silently joined their prayer.
Adrianna might be able to run, but she couldn’t hide.
And she had changed her name, but he knew it, as well as her real one. The Christian one her mother had given her.
The one he would call her when he finally offered her to the spirits.
CHAPTER FIVE
JEAN-PAUL SILENTLY CURSED his decision to bring Britta Berger to his family’s restaurant. He should have called it a night. Left her at her apartment. Gone back to the precinct.
But once he’d ignored his family’s welfare for his job and his wife had died. He’d never forgive himself. Lucinda’s family hadn’t forgiven him, either.
He had to warn his sisters and mother now that there was a killer preying on women.
A low jazz tune wailed in the background of the diner, wrapping tendrils of nostalgia around him—and a longing for what he’d lost. The comfort of a companion. The feel of a woman’s touch.
Only Lucinda had never been a comfort about his job. She’d hated it and begged him to leave police work.
God, why was he thinking about her tonight?
Because another woman had died and you couldn’t stop it.
“This is the rest of our family!” His maman gestured toward the wall of family photographs above the table, forcing Jean-Paul back to the present as she rattled on. “Jean-Paul is the oldest and of course, always the responsible one, taking care of everyone.”
“Mother—” he growled.
“It’s true.” His mother batted her hand at him, then continued, oblivious to the fact that she was embarrassing him. “See all the pictures of him after the hurricane? He worked day and night, saved women and children. My boy is a local hero.”
Jean-Paul gritted his teeth as she waved past the photo of him and Lucinda. Britta narrowed her eyes, obviously curious about the woman, but she didn’t ask and he didn’t offer the information.
How many times had he questioned his decision? Some men had lost their jobs because they’d left their posts to save their families. He’d saved strangers, kept his job, but lost his wife.
“And here’s Damon, my next-to-the-oldest son,” his mother continued. “Damon works for the FBI. Always the serious one, tough like Jean-Paul, but reserved, a methodical thinker.” Her face beamed with pride. “And this is Antwaun, my youngest boy. He’s hot-headed, temperamental like his papa, unpredictable.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “He’s too quick to jump into things sometimes, but ahh, a good boy at heart, he is.”
“You have a beautiful family,” Britta said quietly.
Her tone sounded so sad that Jean-Paul squeezed her hand beneath the table. A gesture of silent thanks for being so tolerant? The realization that he was sorry for whoever had hurt her?
“Now please, Britta, try some of my famous white-bread pudding.” His mother pushed a dish toward Britta and she accepted it graciously.
“It’s delicious.” Britta sipped her latte. “In fact, everything looks wonderful. And the smells…I’m sure customers are drawn in from the streets because of the tantalizing aromas.”
“Oh, thank you,” his mother gushed. “You must come by for lunch. I work so hard to get the freshest ingredients and Catherine here, Jean-Paul’s youngest sister, she helps me create the desserts.”
“My daughter, Chrissy, likes to bake, too,” Catherine said with a grin. “I think she might grow up to be a pastry chef herself.”
“Yeah, but she usually wears more flour than goes into the dough.” Jean-Paul ruffled his five-year-old niece’s hair and smiled as she popped part of an éclair into her mouth and the cream oozed down her chin.
“So how long have you known my big brother?” Catherine asked.
Britta squirmed in her seat. “Actually we just met.”
Stephanie, his dark-haired sister and the bookkeeper for the café, raised a brow. “Papa said you’re helping Jean-Paul with a case?”
Britta nodded, but refrained from elaborating.
“What is it you do?” Catherine asked. “Are you a detective?”
“Or
