The Devil's Bride

The riverboat came through the mist like a ghost.

Amelia Hart stood at the rail with one gloved hand wrapped tight around the damp wood, watching Louisiana rise from the gray morning. The Mississippi moved beneath her in slow, dark folds, wide as a secret and quiet as a grave. Cypress trees leaned over the water. Their roots twisted like black fingers through the mud. Spanish moss hung from their branches in long silver veils, swaying even when there was no wind.

Somewhere in the fog, a bird cried out.

Amelia did not turn.

She had been traveling for three days, but only now did her courage begin to tremble. Not enough for anyone to see. Never that. She had learned young how to keep fear behind her eyes and sorrow behind her teeth.

But her heart knew.

She was close.

Close to the house.

Close to the man.

Close to the truth about Charlotte.

The riverboat bell clanged, deep and mournful. Men shouted on the lower deck. Ropes were thrown. The engine groaned and slowed as a small landing appeared through the mist.

A few buildings crouched along the muddy bank: a general store, a blacksmith, a chapel with a crooked steeple, and a dock silvered by river water and age. Townspeople had gathered there. Too many for a simple arrival.

They had come to see her.

The sixth bride.

Amelia lifted her chin.

Let them look.

She wore a traveling dress of deep blue wool, plain but well cut, with a high collar and pearl buttons. Her dark hair was pinned beneath a small hat trimmed with navy ribbon. She had her mother’s gray eyes, her father’s proud mouth, and Charlotte’s stubbornness.

That last part was what had brought her here.

A deckhand lowered the gangplank. The wood struck the dock with a hollow thud.

“Miss Hart?” a voice asked behind her.

Amelia turned.

A tall man stood near the stairs to the upper deck. He was perhaps thirty, with black hair brushed neatly back and eyes the color of storm clouds over water. His coat was dark, his cravat white, his boots polished despite the mud on the dock. He looked like a gentleman, but not a soft one. There was strength in the line of his shoulders and something guarded in his face.

Julien Beaumont.

She knew him at once.

His portrait had not done him justice.

“Mr. Beaumont,” she said.

He removed his hat and bowed. “Julien, please. We are to be married tomorrow.”

His voice was smooth, warm, and low. A dangerous voice. The kind that could make lies sound like prayers.

Amelia gave him her hand.

His fingers closed around hers.

The touch was brief. Proper. Nothing more.

Yet something moved through her, quick and unwelcome.

Julien felt it too. She saw it in the smallest pause before he released her.

“I hope the journey was not too unpleasant,” he said.

“I have known worse.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “That sounds like a story.”

“Most things do, if one survives them.”

His gaze sharpened. For one breath, they studied each other like two people standing on opposite sides of a locked door.

Then a woman in the crowd whispered, not softly enough.

“Poor thing.”

Amelia looked toward the dock.

The townspeople fell silent.

Women in bonnets. Men in work shirts. Children hiding behind skirts. All watching. Not with welcome. Not even with curiosity.

With pity.

One little girl made the sign of the cross.

Julien’s jaw tightened.

“Come,” he said. “The carriage is waiting.”

Amelia stepped onto the gangplank. The river rocked behind her. The dock shifted beneath her boots. She kept her balance and walked forward.

She would not stumble here.

Not in front of them.

Not in front of him.

As Julien led her past the crowd, an old woman pushed through the others. She was small and bent, wrapped in a black shawl despite the heavy heat. Her skin was brown and lined, her eyes pale as river stones.

Before Amelia could move, the woman seized her wrist.

Her grip was cold.

Too cold.

“The house keeps its brides,” the old woman whispered.

Julien stepped forward. “Madame Laveau, enough.”

But the old woman held fast.

“One in the water,” she said. “One in the fever bed. One beneath the roses. One never found. One on the road with her neck broken.”

Amelia’s breath stopped.

Charlotte.

The old woman’s fingers dug into her skin.

“And now you.”

Julien pulled Amelia gently but firmly away. “Forgive her,” he said. “She frightens people for sport.”

The old woman laughed, a dry little sound.

“No, Monsieur Beaumont. Your house does that.”

The crowd parted.

Amelia did not look back, though she felt the old woman’s stare burning between her shoulder blades all the way to the carriage.

Julien helped her inside. His hand at her elbow was steady. Careful.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No.”

“She should not have touched you.”

“No,” Amelia said, looking out the carriage window. “But she should be listened to.”

Julien was silent for a moment.

Then he climbed in across from her and tapped the roof with his cane.

The carriage lurched forward.

The town slipped away behind them. Mud road. White chapel. Watching faces. Then trees closed in, and the world became green and gray and dripping.

For several minutes neither of them spoke.

Amelia watched the swamp pass by.

The land here seemed half alive and half drowned. Pools of black water reflected the sky. Cypress knees rose from the mud like bones. Vines strangled trees. Dragonflies flashed blue over still water. Somewhere far off, something large splashed and vanished.

“How much have they told you?” Julien asked at last.

She turned. “About what?”

He gave her a look that said he knew better.

“About my family.”

“Enough.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No,” she said. “It is not.”

His mouth curved, but his eyes remained serious. “You are very calm for a woman on her way to marry into a cursed family.”

“Are you cursed?”

“Many believe so.”

“That was not my question.”

For the first time, something like amusement warmed his face.

“No,” he said. “I do not believe I am cursed.”

“Then perhaps I shall not believe it either.”

“Perhaps you should.”

The words settled between them.

A warning.

Or a confession.

Amelia could not tell.

The road bent. The trees opened.

And there it stood.

Beaumont House.

It rose from the mist at the end of a long oak avenue, enormous and pale, with tall columns, wide galleries, and windows dark as watching eyes. Spanish moss hung from the branches above the drive, brushing the carriage roof like ghostly fingers. The house had once been beautiful. It still was, in the way a blade was beautiful.

Sharp.

Cold.

Dangerous.

Amelia’s chest tightened.

This was where Charlotte had lived.

This was where Charlotte had died.

Seven years ago, a letter had arrived at the Hart house sealed in black wax. Charlotte Beaumont, beloved wife, dead after a riding accident. Such a tragedy. Such a shock. Such a swift burial.

No one had let Amelia see the body.

No one had answered her questions.

But Charlotte had hated horses.

That was the first lie.

The second was that she had been happy.

Before her death, Charlotte had sent one final letter. Only three lines.

Do not trust the house. Do not trust the family. If I die, it was not God’s will.

Amelia had burned the letter after memorizing it.

Now she carried those words inside her like a hidden knife.

The carriage stopped before the steps.

Servants lined the front gallery.

They watched her with stiff faces.

A woman stood at the center of them.

She was tall and elegant, dressed in black silk despite the heat. Her silver-streaked hair was pinned perfectly beneath a lace cap. Her face was fine-boned, lovely, and cold.

Julien stepped down first.

“Mother,” he said.

The woman’s gaze moved over Amelia from hat to hem.

“So,” she said. “Miss Hart has arrived.”

Amelia descended from the carriage without waiting for help.

“Mrs. Beaumont.”

“Madame Beaumont,” the woman corrected.

Amelia inclined her head. “Madame Beaumont.”

A faint, pleased cruelty touched the older woman’s mouth.

“You look very like your sister.”

There it was.

A blade slipped between ribs.

Amelia smiled anyway.

“I have been told so.”

“Charlotte was a delicate creature.”

“No,” Amelia said softly. “She was not.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Julien cleared his throat. “Amelia has had a long journey.”

“Of course,” Genevieve Beaumont said. “We must not exhaust the bride before the wedding. That would be unfortunate.”

One of the maids looked down.

Another crossed herself.

Amelia noticed.

She noticed everything.

Inside, Beaumont House smelled of beeswax, old wood, wilting flowers, and something faintly damp beneath it all. The entrance hall soared upward, grand and shadowed, with a chandelier hanging like frozen rain. Portraits lined the walls: Beaumont men in dark coats, Beaumont women in pearls, children with solemn eyes.

Amelia’s gaze found Charlotte at once.

Her portrait hung halfway up the staircase.

She wore ivory satin. Her fair hair curled over one shoulder. Her painted smile was small, almost secret.

Amelia gripped her gloves.

I am here, she thought.

I came.

A maid led Amelia upstairs to a guest chamber facing the gardens. The room was lovely: blue silk curtains, carved bed, porcelain basin, fresh lilies on the table.

Too lovely.

Like a coffin filled with flowers.

“Will there be anything else, miss?” the maid asked.

“What is your name?”

The girl hesitated. “Louise.”

“How long have you served here, Louise?”

“Three years.”

“Then you did not know my sister.”

Louise’s face changed.

Only for a second.

“No, miss.”

“You have heard of her.”

Everyone had.

Louise stepped back. “I will send hot water.”

She left quickly.

Amelia waited until the door shut.

Then she crossed to her trunk, opened the false bottom, and removed the small packet hidden beneath her folded linens.

Charlotte’s last letter.

A miniature portrait.

A list of names.

Five brides.

Five deaths.

And now Amelia herself.

She laid them on the bed.

“One in the water,” the old woman had said.

Bride one.

“One in the fever bed.”

Bride two.

“One beneath the roses.”

Bride three.

“One never found.”

Bride four.

“One on the road with her neck broken.”

Charlotte.

Amelia closed her eyes.

When she opened them, grief had hardened into purpose.

“I will find who killed you,” she whispered. “I swear it.”

A sound came from the hall.

Soft.

A scrape.

Amelia turned.

“Louise?”

No answer.

She walked to the door and opened it.

The corridor was empty.

But something lay on the floor.

A folded note.

Amelia stared at it for a moment before bending down.

The paper was thick and cream-colored. No seal. No name.

Her pulse began to beat in her throat.

Slowly, she unfolded it.

Three lines.

Written in dark ink.

LEAVE BEFORE THE WEDDING. THE HOUSE HAS CHOSEN YOU. YOU ARE NEXT.