The Isle Of Sin And Shadows - Keri Lake Page 0,170

as you carry out my orders without question, you still grapple with your conscience. It’s the age-old dilemma of good versus evil. Which is how I knew that you were lying about the girl. What’s her name? Céleste?”

It takes every muscle in my face to hold my deadpan expression. To avoid giving so much as a flicker that he might call my bluff. Years of training with Julio taught me to control my facial features under pressure, the body’s natural responses to tremble, or shiver. My reaction is as flat and unmoved as a steel blade.

“C’mon, Thierry. You mean to tell me you haven’t fucked her every way to Tuesday? I know you too well, my boy. You are good, but deep inside of you is a dark yearning. Like a scab you cannot help but pick and pick and pick. She is a temptation. The forbidden fruit.”

“What is it that you want with her?”

“I personally want absolutely nothing with her, so you can relax. It so happens her grandparents do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Interesting story. Twenty years ago, their young daughter, Vivienne, was impregnated by a very wealthy and powerful man. Unfortunately, the unborn child’s fate was … undecided. You see, according to their beliefs, children are either born as breeders, sacrificial lambs, or sold on the black market to fund the sect’s interests.”

“The sect …. You’re talking about Antitheus?” I ask.

“Yes. Antitheus is what they go by. Fashionable, no? Anyway, this particular child was chosen as a sacrifice, which would bring great fortune to the gran Cabro’s followers.”

“Gran Cabro?” The man Castellano seemed to fear that day I delivered him to Julio.

“The Great Goat. As I understand the Valir call him Le Bouc Noir.”

Black goat. “And who is he to you?”

“Business acquaintance, you could say. Nothing more, really. He respects my authority, and I respect his gifts for the occult.”

“Who is he?”

Looking out over the gardens, Julio smiles. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to answer your question.”

“Because you don’t know? Or you don’t want to tell me?”

“Both.”

“Who are these grandparents you mentioned?”

“You amuse me. Are you so afraid to say her name aloud in my presence? That it might confirm my suspicions? I’m talking about Céleste’s grandparents. The ones who’ve spent the last decade looking for her.”

“Are they involved in this cult? Are they followers?”

“Devout. They’re said to be descendants of the original seven who were burned at the stake centuries ago, during the slave revolt. For years, they ran a thriving boucherie business here on the island. Kept to themselves mostly. When their granddaughter disappeared, things started to fall apart for them. Their business collapsed. They lost everything. As I understand, they’re living in squalor somewhere in the bayou.”

Dread sinks to the pit of my gut as I dare to entertain the possibility of whom Céleste’s grandparents might be. “What is their family name?”

“Boudreaux. Joelle and Hal Boudreaux.”

46

Thierry

“Céleste!” Gripping the spilled coffee cup I found out on the dock, I storm through the boat. “Céleste!”

Without a sign of her anywhere, I grab one of my guns from the safe in my office and load it with a new mag.

The surrounding forest makes the day seem later, as the trees swallow up bits of sky above. Palms sweaty, pulse racing, I can feel the slow loss of control going on inside of me. Emotions and responses I’ve learned to tamp down just before a kill. Reactions brought on by the intense fear of stumbling upon something that might finally break me.

Most times, I can distance myself. Separate from my physical person in order to carry out what needs to be done. The deep, unsettling vibration beneath my skin is a warning, an ominous code from my senses telling me that I’m about to lose my grip.

The trees open up around the small farm, and as I pass one of the pens, I notice a black goat there. Watching me, as he stands surrounded by smaller, white goats. Stalking toward the door, I rest my finger on the gun’s trigger, ready to shoot the first thing that moves.

Barrel leading the way, I enter the ramshackle home, taking in the overwhelming scent of rot and decay. The kitchen and living room make up one open room, like that of a cabin. Torn curtains hang haphazardly from bent rods covering the windows. Dishes lay piled in the sink. Flies crawl over meat left out on a plate on the kitchen table. Animal skulls, bleached white, rest on the counter, some