The church smelled of old wood, damp hymnals, and the faint sweetness of lilies left too long in the heat. I sat stiff in the pew beside Mémé Solange, my small hands folded neatly in my lap as the pastor droned on about salvation, mercy, and the Lord’s mysterious ways. His voice rolled through the sanctuary like warm molasses that was slow, heavy, and too sweet to be comforting.
Mama’s husband sat in the pew ahead of us, his back straight as a fence post. In his arms lay the newborn, Liora, wrapped in a lace blanket Mémé had stitched years ago for a child Mama never bothered to come home and raise. Mama died without ever touching this baby, without ever whispering her name. So Mémé named her herself, as was her right.
He held the baby like she was a prop in a photograph, something to complete the picture of a grieving husband. I doubted he felt anything at all. He married Mama for her pretty face and her voice that could make a room hush with the sound of one note. He loved the idea of her, not the woman herself. And he certainly didn’t love the baby in his arms. But appearances mattered in a place like this, and Liora was a pretty thing. Light‑skinned like him, with Mama’s exotic features softened into infant innocence.
Looking at her, no one would think she and I shared blood. Not unless they looked close. Not unless they knew what to look for.
There was something about the baby I couldn’t quite name. Something that tugged at my mind like a loose thread. Liora was sweet with me. She was quiet, calm, almost watchful, but with the servants and the nanny who tried to handle her, she screamed like she was being torn from the world. Bloody murder. Every time.
I didn’t know what that meant yet. But I would.
My thoughts drifted until the pastor’s voice sharpened, calling the congregation to bow their heads. I lowered mine out of habit, but something tugged at my attention. I lifted my gaze just enough to see the coffin at the front of the church.
And standing beside it… was a man.
Not a man of flesh. Not a man of God.
A spectral figure, tall and elegant, dressed in shadows that clung to him like smoke. His skin was black as midnight, his hair dark as swamp water. His face was beautiful, too beautiful, the kind that made the air feel wrong. His eyes gleamed like polished coal, and when he smiled, his teeth were sharp, pointed, predatory.
My breath caught. The pastor did not see him. The congregation did not see him. Only me and Mémé Solange.
Her hand tightened around mine, firm and trembling all at once.
The demon, because I could think of no other word, turned his head slowly, deliberately, until his gaze locked with mine. His smile widened, stretching unnaturally, every pointed tooth on display. Then, with a ripple of air that made the candles flicker, he vanished.
Mémé exhaled through her nose, a sound full of disgust and resignation.
“I told yo’ mama,” she muttered, low enough only I could hear, “that nothin’ good come from chasin’ fame. But she wanted it. Wanted to be known. Wanted the money. Wanted men to love her.”
Her eyes stayed fixed on the coffin.
“Now look at her. Dead. Worm food. Her soul belongs to him now, mark my words, Nadira.”
She stood, her back straight, her chin high. I rose with her, following her down the aisle as the pastor’s prayer faded behind us. The congregation watched us leave, whispering behind gloved hands, their eyes sliding from my dark skin to the pale baby in the husband’s arms.
At the door, I paused.
I turned just enough to see the ushers lifting Mama’s casket, preparing to carry it out. For a moment, just a heartbeat, I saw a woman standing beside it. Bloody. Broken. Her face twisted in pain. She looked like Mama, but not the Mama I remembered. This one was scorched, her dress burned, her eyes wide with terror.
Flames roared behind her. Heat pressed against my face.
I blinked.
The woman was gone. The flames were gone. Only the casket remained.
I stepped outside into the thick Louisiana heat, storm clouds gathering again overhead. I did not look back.
Mama was gone. And something else, something dark and hungry, had taken her place in the world.
