A Woman of the Swamp

6. Back in the Sun

Marie stepped through the gate of the women’s prison and into the sweltering summer sun. The heat was particularly unpleasant in her dark robes. Untouched for years, they still smelled like a harsh reminder of the life she left behind. The pained reminder of her staff tugged at the edge of her mind; it had never been returned. Somewhere over the intervening years, the staff disappeared from an evidence locker, leaving no trace of where it had gone. Marie supposed a guard could have fancied it a souvenir, but she knew better. Somewhere out in the wild lands beyond the prison’s edge, The Baron was conning another poor soul into his dangerous game.

Good riddance. Marie closed her eyes and counted to ten, trying to feel the present moment. 10, I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face. 9, the slight breeze in the air. 8, the shackles they put around my ankles. 7, the men who let Ray die. 6, the court that wouldn’t hear… Marie stopped counting. Despite what she told her court-appointed prison psychologist, his strategies weren’t helping. Focusing on the present moment only reminded her of how she got there. Maybe it worked for people who had lives to go back to, but when freedom meant confronting immeasurable grief, everything felt like bullshit.

A cab pulled up, parking on a dying strip of grass just outside the prison’s main gate. Time to get the hell out of here. Marie walked toward it, feeling the unreality of the moment wash over her. After three years, she was going home. She was surprised there was a home to go back to. Somehow, the small savings she and Ray accumulated had been enough to keep the mortgage afloat, at least for the first few years. In the last year, it switched over to a credit card that Marie hadn’t been able to pay on a prison ‘salary’. What it left her with was a home that was technically still hers and a mountain of debt.

The prison had a rehabilitation team to deal with such matters, but Marie found they were less help than a bucket of warm spit. As long as she had a place to live, they didn’t care. Rehabilitation was graded on the number of vagrancy charges and recidivism rates, not inmate satisfaction. Marie technically had a home to go back to, but it wouldn’t be long before collections was on her ass. She needed a job and needed it quickly.

Problem for another time. Marie got into the back seat of the cab and gave the driver her address.

The driver flashed her a winning smile in the rearview mirror. “Good to be out?”

Marie answered honestly. “Not sure yet.” It was the first real conversation she’d had in a while. There was plenty of talking in prison, but every word was like dropping a golf ball on a pile of eggshells. Each sentence brought the possibility of friendship or ending up in the infirmary. Marie thanked her grandmother for passing down her silver tongue.

“Well, the first thing you oughta do is find some clothes that aren’t going to roast you in this heat. Weather says it’s going to keep up for at least a week.”

Marie looked down at her robes. Would she ever wear them again? The years gave her time to think, and time to make promises. Her study of necromancy was done. If she didn’t draw a hard line, it would consume her. Many fine necromancers—as fine as necromancers could be—were lost on the endless quest for true reanimation. The trick was what came back from the dead was a shell of the living. It was a worse fate than leaving someone to rot in a grave.

The first order of business was finding work. Marie had been guiding tours through the French Quarter for longer than she could remember. Her heart had never been in the ghost stories, but it was nice to feel connected to places of history and power. Now, she suspected it would drive her mad. Maybe a nine-to-five desk shift was her destiny. Her grandmother would have got a kick out of that.

“I meant no offense.” The cabbie’s voice held a sincere apology. “These pick-ups are always a bit strange.”

Marie realized she had ignored the cabbie’s suggestion. “Sorry, I’m sure they are. A change of clothes is a good idea.” Even in the cab’s dying air conditioning, it was muggy as all hell. The house would be cooler, but the swamp’s humidity would be soaking. Despite the circumstances, Marie felt a tinge of excitement to walk through her front door again. Mostly, she wanted to shower somewhere there weren’t perving guards watching. The excitement was short-lived, turned to ash by the reminder of grief and whatever else lay on the other side of her front door.

As the cab pulled out, Marie’s thoughts turned to her lawyer, a young woman, confident in the case. The only solid evidence against Marie was for breaking and entering. It was supposed to carry a small prison sentence, nothing more than a few weeks. Marie had no prior history of conviction. In the end, evidence hadn’t mattered. All the jury saw was Marie at the site of a murder. They sentenced her to ten years for aggravated burglary and desecration of a historic site. Marie’s blood boiled as she thought of the self-righteous jury looking down on her as they threw the book.

She took a deep breath. Three days earlier, everything changed. A letter arrived in her cell informing her of her impending release and services to help her reintegration. There was no meeting with the parole board, no evaluations, no conditions. It was strange, but she never looked a gift horse in the mouth. Even as a free woman, it still felt like a fever dream. Marie drummed her fingers on the seat, feeling the tiny impacts and letting them ground her.

For the remainder of the drive, the cabbie attempted to make small talk and Marie responded in increasingly shorter sentences. By the time they pulled onto her street, both were glad to be at the ride’s end. Marie swiped her credit card, hoping to hell it wouldn’t decline. By some miracle, it didn’t. She took what little cash she had and forked it over as a tip. Apparently, it wasn’t enough, because the cabbie spun his tires as he left, filling the lane with acrid smoke.

None of the neighbors came out to meet her. She could see the cracked blinds that indicated at least a few of them were watching, but nothing more. The house looked almost exactly as it had the last time she stepped out the door. Weeds grew in tangled clumps, overtaking pieces of the driveway and standing nearly hip height. The roof was tinged green with untreated moss, but otherwise, it held together. A soft breeze blew the cloying air of the swamp over the property and reminded Marie that no matter what it looked like, she was home.

She approached the door, feeling the heavy thud of each heartbeat along the way. The thought of walking into a house that no longer had Ray waiting in it was almost too much. Signs of his presence were everywhere. On the left side of the house, a tall mangrove he had refused to trim was still growing strong, towering over their tiny abode. Mildew-covered pontoons sat under a rotting tarp just off the front yard. “You swore you were going to fix those up,” she whispered.

Tears welled in Marie’s eyes, sudden and strong. She took a deep breath and let it out through clenched teeth, listening to the hissing sound it made. In the distance, a bullfrog croaked, reminding her that the land surrounding her was alive, and so was she. It was enough to spur her to action. Marie unlocked the door and stepped inside. Musty air that smelled a little too much like impending death greeted her. Immediately, she saw the portable bed Ray slept in, set up by the fire. When she left, he hadn’t needed it, but new IVs were set up haphazardly from the hanging bars. Was Ray trying to take care of himself?

Marie made her way to the bedroom, footsteps leaving imprints in a fine accumulation of dust. Each footfall sent a groan through the aging floorboards and echoed through the small house. The bed was neatly made, as it always was. Ray said studies showed it helped one’s mental health. Looking at the crisp sheets, even with years of neglect, Marie had to admit that they did help. In a world thrown into chaos, at least the goddamned bed was made.

Marie threw her robes in a pile on the closet floor and crossed to the bureau, grabbing an old pair of jeans and one of Ray’s T-shirts. It still smelled like him. Her grief hit like a freight train. Marie sat down on the floor, back against the uncomfortable metal of the bedframe and sobbed. The tears were immediate, choking out everything else. Ray was gone. Everything was gone.

“Marie, you made a deal with The Devil, and it well and truly fucked you!” She shouted at the walls, wishing they would break under the weight of her words. “Stupid! You were so goddamned stupid!” Her voice was ragged, and before she knew it, she was picking up the lamp off the nightstand. She yanked the cord out and threw it against the wall. It shattered, denting the drywall. Sharp pieces fell to the floor, clattering against the dresser as they went. The tears didn’t stop and ran warm lines down her cheeks.

“Everyone makes mistakes. Ray, I’m so fucking sorry.” A prickle ran up her arms and a cool breeze blew through the room. Marie stopped, holding her breath. There was no movement and no sound, but she had felt the breeze clear as day. “Ray?” She watched the sharp lines of sunlight coming through the slatted windows, looking for any disturbance.

“Marie, are you alright in there?”

Marie cocked her head. It wasn’t Ray, it was a woman. The voice was coming from the main room. Had the police already come to check in on her? Worse, had her neighbors filed a domestic disturbance complaint? Of course, the pigs’ response time would be fast when it was coming to bring her back in. Marie rose from the bed and quickly pulled Ray’s shirt on.

“Marie?” called the voice again. “I’m sorry for coming in without permission, but I heard a crash.”

“Breaking and entering, really? You have changed. I like it.” The second voice was slurring significantly.

“Are you police?” asked Marie.

The man’s voice laughed. “Not by a half. Unlike them, we’ve got your best interest at heart.”

“I thought you were going to let me do the talking,” hissed the woman.

“Well, your stilted schtick is only going to frighten her. The woman just got out of prison. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

Marie picked up a towel and dried her eyes with it. The smell was musty and old. She walked out into the main room. A young woman and a middle-aged man stood there arguing. The front door was open, likely bringing all manner of bugs in. That explains the breeze. It hadn’t been Ray after all. Marie caught sight of his hospital bed again and bit her tongue to hold the tears back. “W-who are you, and what are you doing in my house?” Her voice shook at first but grew more confident with each word. “If you’re from the debt collections office—”

“We’re not.” The woman sighed. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, I really thought you might be in danger.”

“From who? I just got out of prison. The danger was there.” Sure, there was a vampire and possibly The Baron, but no one needed to know about them.

“We heard shouting and a crash. I’m sorry, it’s my training.” The woman shrugged and put her hands out in front of her to show she meant no harm. “Look, do you drink coffee? I think this conversation would go better with strong coffee.”

The man let out a sigh of relief. “First good idea you’ve had all day, Shirley.”

Marie thought he looked like he needed a cup of coffee. Dark circles lined the underside of his eyes. “My mother told me not to talk to strangers.”

The woman sighed. “I’m Shirley.”

“No last name?” asked Marie.

“It’s Codwell!” answered the man enthusiastically.

“You know I’m not supposed to give that out, right?”

The man shrugged. “She wouldn’t have come to coffee otherwise.”

“And I’m going to come now?”

He laughed, a burbling drunken sound. “Oh, you’ll come. Hi, Marie, name’s Nick Ventner. You used to be a bit of a necromancer, and someone’s gone and picked up the mantle while you were locked away. We need your help to stop a lot of people from dying.”

Marie’s veins went cold as ice. So, the word had gotten out. Every instinct told her to back away, but the drunken man’s assessment seemed honest if nothing else. “Is that all?” she asked, giving a short hysterical laugh.

“Well, if we’re being honest…” started Shirley.

“Could be the end of New Orleans as we know it as well,” finished Nick, letting out a soft belch. “Ugh, nasty stuff. Why on earth did you let me have white rum, Shirley?”

Shirley ignored him. “So, coffee? It’s on us – for obvious reasons.”

Marie looked around the room. “Sure, why the hell not?”