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A cold numbing shock branches beneath my skin, and I shake my head. “You’re lying. He was my father. You’re lying to me.”

“’Fraid not. Your father was Mr. Bijou.” The name sounds familiar to me, but I can’t pinpoint where I’ve heard it before. “Da man always fancied your momma, an’ we was delighted when he chose her for breedin’. Good genes, him.”

Bijou. Where have I heard it?

My mind slips back to the day in the hospital, when we visited Thierry’s sister. He introduced me to a woman. Bijou. The strange one who seemed unusually interested in seeing my scar. It’s the only reason I remember her, at all. It was odd, the way she seemed to take interest in it. “No. You’re lying!”

“I’m not lyin’ to you. Ain’ got no reason to lie. Man’s dead now. Know how? Keeled over an’ died. No reason. No explanation. Das what happens we renege on our gifts. We get punished for it. And our priest was angry. So very angry.” A sobering expression claims her face, as she stares off. “La misère. We lost everything. Our business. Our family. We were cast from da flock. So we tried to make it right. We offered up Vivienne as a sacrifice. But it didn’ do a damn bit of good.”

“You killed my mother?” My mind rewinds to the images of the woman that I found when I was a child, lying cut up, tortured, in the woods. “You fucking killed my mother?”

“We t’ought it’d set things good. An’ den we found you. Livin’ wit’ dat doctor. We tried to take you back an’ set things right again, but he … he refused to give back what was rightfully ours. You belonged to us.” Lips pursed in anger, she shakes her head. “Dat Appoline your momma ‘came friends wit’ helped take you away. Had I known at da time, I’da put an end to dat friendship, too. But fate took care of her wit’ dat car crash.”

Appoline. Brie’s mom. The one Russ killed while driving drunk. I read about her in my father’s progress notes, how she helped my mom sneak away. How she was always nervous, looking over her shoulder. Probably waiting for these crazy bastards to come after her.

And still, she helped my mother.

The sickness twists and churns in my gut, balling into tight knots.

“We had no choice but to go after you. To take back what was stolen.”

Shaking my head, I stare back at her through a blur of fresh tears. “You murdered my father. And Maw Maw. You fucking hacked them with a machete!” The binds tug with my temper, sending a flare of pain into my wrists and back.

Jaw tightening, she tips her head. “Now, listen here. I don’ like you callin’ another woman Maw Maw. I’m da only Maw Maw you got. But she got in da way, her. We di’n’ mean no harm. It was da doctor we was dere for.”

“You’re all crazy. You’re fucking crazy!”

“And you’re stubborn. Just like your momma. But no mind. Très bien. Everyt’ing’s gon’ be okay now.” Pointing toward the scar on my thigh, she nods. “You still bear da mark. Still time to make it right. We been watchin’ Bergerons for a long time, waitin’ for da day when his daddy would come back. Even moved back out here to da swamps t’keep an eye on him. We knew you’d come back to us.”

Movement by the door draws my attention away from her, toward where a big, clod of a man plops down onto the floor. The one who dragged me through the woods, I’m guessing, though he looks far less intimidating without the mask. More childlike. In his hand is a cluster of bones tied by string, and he runs his thumb over the surface of one, while he rolls something around with his other hand. It’s hard to see clearly through the dim light, but it’s white, circular, and God, I’m praying it’s not a fucking eyeball.

A gaunt, older man with graying hair sweeps past the door, nearly tripping over the child man sitting on the floor, and swats him upside the head. “Dammit, Jacques! Git out da way!”

The child man lets out a squeal, rubbing the spot where he got hit, and the sound strikes a chord of memory. Nothing more than a flickered scene of a man rolling on the ground in pain, somewhere in the woods, squealing like an animal.

“Don’ you mind nonc Jacques. He’s like a big baby, him. Boy’s dumber den a pile of rocks, but he’s strong. Useful. Great Le Bouc didn’ see it dat way, though. Called ‘im chaff. Dey cut out da tongues of ones not born right. Say dey speak da language of swine. Tol’ me I’d be better off to get rid of ‘im, altogether, but … I couldn’ do dat. Not wit’ my Jacques.”

“Who is Le Bouc?”

“Le Bouc Noir. The Black Goat. Some call ‘im da watcher. Always has his eye on us. Always hearin’ what we say.” Finger pressed to her lips, she smiles, eyeballs scanning over the room. “He’s listenin’, him.”

Everything she’s saying sounds ridiculous. Fucking absurd, like I’ve fallen into another world. Perhaps I was clocked too hard on the head earlier. “You’re sick.”

“I feel better than I ever have, chère. Because of you.” Pushing to her feet, she crosses the room, and when she lays the doll on the bed beside me, I flinch away from her. “Your sacrifice will gift us the bounties of da world.”

“What happened to Marcelle?”

The knowing glint in her eye turns my stomach, and she nods toward her son. “He got what’s left of her over dere.”

Another glance at what I now suspect is an eyeball, and a thrum of fear hums beneath my skin.

“Lettin’ her spine dry for a necklace.”

“You’re fucking sick. All of you are fucking sick!” The metal squeaks as I wriggle against my binds, and the throbbing in my skull intensifies with my screams. “You’re fucking sick! Sick!”

“Oh, pauvre ti bête! Calm down. We didn’ kill dat fille. Dat dirty fed did da killin’.”

Aric. Not that I’m surprised, really. I’d just been holding out hope that she was still alive.