# Chapter 05: Hollow Echoes

The iron hum clawed at Lena’s hollow chest, a vibration worse than any gator’s thrash. It wasn’t the rhythmic thrum of the cypress knees or the low, vibrating croak of a bullfrog in the reeds. This was the city—a jagged, electrical shriek that pulsed through the floorboards of the Lower Ninth Ward safehouse and settled into the marrow of her bones.

Lena clutched her mother’s silver locket, the metal biting into the soft skin of her palm. She squeezed until the filigree left a dented ghost of itself in her flesh. She needed the pain. Without it, she was a drift of smoke, a spirit stripped of its skin, unraveling in a place that smelled of old grease and industrial cleaner instead of the thick, sweet decay of the basin.

"Lena. Look at me."

The voice was rough, like gravel shifting under bootsoles. Jax Harlan sat on a plastic crate three feet away, his shadow long and flickering against the peeling wallpaper. He didn’t touch her—he knew better than to startle a wounded animal—but his hand hovered near his holster, a reflex of a man who fought enemies he could actually see.

"The bridge," Lena gasped, her throat feeling like it had been scraped with dry corn husks. "It’s too loud, Jax. The metal... it’s screaming."

"It’s just traffic, Lena. Trucks headed for the interstate." Jax leaned forward, his face etched with shadows and the exhaustion of forty-eight hours without real sleep. "You’re shaking. Your skin is cold as a dead gar."

A cold tremor wracked her, starting at the base of her skull and rippling down to her heels. She tried to reach out, to find the grounding pulse of the earth, but her fingers met only dry, dead wood and the suffocating barrier of the Urban Wall. The concrete beneath the house acted like a tombstone, sealing her away from the dark, wet truth of the soil. 

"No no," she muttered, the repetition a frantic rhythm against the rising panic. "No no, not that. It’s the Severing. Maribelle... she’s pulling the string. She’s got the hook in me and she’s reeling, Jax."

"I don't know about hooks or strings," Jax said, his voice dropping into that heavy, protective register that made Lena’s chest ache for reasons that had nothing to do with the Bayou. "But I know you're fading. This place is supposed to be safe. The iron, the noise—you said it hides you."

"It hides me," Lena whispered. She looked up, her eyes wide and glassy, reflecting the dim light of a single bare bulb. "But it starves me, too. It’s a cage that keeps the wolves out and the water away. Gator’s truth: a witch without her land is just a ghost waiting for a wind to blow her out."

She began to twist the locket chain around her index finger, rounding and rounding until the tip turned purple. The guilt was a heavy, stagnant pool in her gut. She hadn't told him everything—not about the word *Phlegethon* she’d seen scorched into the coven’s ledgers, nor the way she could hear her mother’s voice calling through the static of the local radio.

"Tell me the rest," Jax pressed. He moved closer, the smell of salt and old leather cutting through the stinging scent of bleach. "You’re holding something back. You’re twisting that damn locket like you’re trying to wring blood from it."

Lena froze. She forced her hand to drop. Her stubbornness was a fire she’d stoked for years, but here, in the gray light of the safehouse, the fuel was running low. 

"Maribelle is using her. My mother," Lena said, the words coming out in a clipped, chant-like cadence. "I hear her in the bridge-groan. I hear her in the wires. It’s a lure, Jax. A silver hook in the dark. And Terrebonne... they aren't just building foundations. They’re digging into the heart of the Bend. Project Phlegethon. They want to drain the spirit out of the mud and replace it with something cold. Something dead."

Jax rubbed a hand over his jaw, the stubble rasping. "Phlegethon. Sounds like a corporate tax write-off or a damn Greek tragedy." He looked at her, really looked at her, his secular skepticism finally cracking under the weight of her visible decay. "I used to think the swamp was just a place to get lost or get paid. But I’ve seen the way the water turns black when you’re not there to breathe for it. I see what this city is doing to you."

"It’s souring," Lena murmured, her mind drifting back to the Bend. She could see it behind her eyelids—the water turning to ink, the lilies curling into blackened husks, the ancient cypress weeping sap that smelled of iron and rot. "The land... it’s a debt I haven't paid. I ran, cher. I ran and I left it to them."

The "cher" slipped out, a soft, rounded edge against her sharp fear. Jax’s expression softened, a rare, raw honesty breaking through his guarded exterior. He reached out then, his hand covering her trembling ones. His skin was warm, a solid, grounding heat that didn’t belong to the Bayou but offered its own kind of sanctuary.

"We aren't going back yet," Jax said firmly. "Not until you’re strong enough to stand. I’ve got a lead. Someone in the city who knows the old ways but keeps their feet on the pavement. A neutral bridge."

"No bridge is neutral," Lena snapped, the "hellfire" rising in her eyes for a fleeting second. "Everything has a price. You take, you give. That’s the law."

"Then I'll pay it," Jax said. "I’m the one who hauled you out of that mud. I’m the one who’s staying."

Suddenly, the static in the room changed. The humming of the bridge outside didn't just vibrate; it began to shape itself into a cadence. A woman’s hum—low, melodic, and terrifyingly familiar. 

*Lena...*

Lena bolted upright, her chair screeching against the floor. "Do you hear that?"

Jax stood, hand on his gun. "Hear what? The traffic?"

"No! No, no, it’s her." Lena lunged for the window, her fingers clawing at the thick, dusty curtains. She pulled them back just an inch. 

The street below was bathed in the sickly yellow of sodium lamps. Rain began to slick the asphalt, turning the city into a mirror of oil and light. For a heartbeat, the reflection in the window wasn't Lena’s hollowed face. 

It was Maribelle.

***

(SCENE A: EXPANSION - INTERIORITY)

The apparition in the glass didn't just haunt the eye; it felt like a cold blade sliding between Lena's ribs. She backpedaled from the window, her heels catching on the frayed edge of an old rug. Every inch of the safehouse felt offensive now—the way the shadows of the ceiling fan sliced through the dim light like guillotine blades, the way the air tasted of copper and ozone. 

Since the Severing had begun, Lena felt as though the very atoms of her body were drifting apart, no longer held together by the gravity of the swamp. In Cypress Bend, the air was a thick, wet cloak that kept you whole. Here, the Urban Wall acted like a centrifuge, spinning her spirit until it was nothing but a fine mist. She pressed her back against the kitchen counter, her head thumping against a cabinet door. 

*No no, not yet, no no.*

She needed to ground herself, but there was no moss to touch. There were no wet roots to curl her toes around. She reached out blindly, her hand sweeping across the Formica countertop until she found a small, ceramic bowl Jax had left there. It was empty, save for a few grains of salt. She plunged her fingers into it, desperate for any mineral, any connection to the earth's base elements. But the salt was processed, bleached, and dead. It carried no memory of the sea.

Her chest felt like a cavern where a fire had been put out with stagnant water. She could feel the "pull" now—a physical tugging in her gut, as if a fishing line were hooked into her navel. Maribelle was back at the Bend, standing perhaps in the center of the Duval grove, weaving the tether tighter. Every mile between them was a mile of agony. Lena closed her eyes and saw the cypress knees of her childhood home. They weren't brown and sturdy anymore; in her mind’s eye, they were bleaching white like old bones in the sun. The water around them didn't ripple with life; it sat heavy and thick as tar.

"I can't breathe," she whispered, though her lungs were working fine. It was her spirit that was suffocating. The noise of the city outside—the sirens in the distance, the rhythmic *thump-thump* of a car's bass, the hiss of tires on wet pavement—it was all a cacophony designed to drown out the voice of the land. She was a witch without a song, a vessel without a draft. The silence where her power used to be was the loudest thing in the room.

***

(SCENE B: EXPANSION - DIALOGUE)

Jax was at her side in two strides, his heavy boots muffled by the grime on the floor. He didn't reach for her locket this time; he grabbed her shoulders, his grip like iron clamps.

"Lena, focus. You’re looking right through me," he said, his voice flat and demanding. "Look at the wall. Look at the light. Don't look at whatever she’s showing you."

"She’s showing me the end, Jax," Lena snapped, her voice cracking. "She’s showing me the water turning to poison. You don't understand. If the land dies, the coven doesn't just lose power. They rot from the inside out. Maribelle thinks she can harness the rot. She thinks Project Phlegethon is a way to bridge the gap, to use the developers' machines to pump the spirit back in. But you can't machine-wash the soul of the Bayou."

Jax's brows furrowed, his jaw set in that hard line she’d come to rely on. "The Terrebonne people... they’re just suits, Lena. I’ve worked for them. They care about acreage and oil rights, not spirits."

"Gator's truth, Jax: the suits don't know what they're digging into. But Maribelle does." Lena leaned her weight into his hands, her defensive walls crumbling under the sheer weight of her exhaustion. "She’s been waiting for my mother to be truly gone. She’s been waiting for me to be weak enough to break. And now, she’s using the city to do it for her."

Jax let out a long, slow breath, the scent of him—tobacco and sea salt—temporarily masking the industrial stench of the safehouse. "I’m not a spiritual man, Lena. You know that. I deal in knots, fuel levels, and current speeds. But I’m not blind. I see you shaking. I see the way the shadows in this room move when you get upset."

He released her shoulders but stayed close, his presence a physical barrier against the window. "This bridge I mentioned. His name is Malachi. He runs a shop over in the Marigny. He’s got one foot in the mud and one in the concrete. He’s helped people like you before—people who get caught in the cracks between the old ways and the new."

"I don't need a merchant's help," Lena said, her pride flaring despite her tremors. "I need my land."

"You need to survive the night first," Jax countered. "Hellfire, Lena, look at your hands."

She looked down. Her fingernails were tinged with a faint, sickly blue, and her skin looked translucent, like vellum. The Severing was literally draining the color from her life.

"Fine," she whispered. "We go to your bridge. But if he tries to barter for something I don't have, I'm not responsible for what happens. I've got nothing left to give but the rot."

"He’ll take my word for it," Jax said. "I’ve done him favors. He owes me."

***

(SCENE C: EXPANSION - TRANSITION)

The next hour was a blur of shadows and sharp movements. Jax moved through the safehouse with a practiced efficiency, packing a small bag with water, a med kit, and a heavy-duty flashlight. He checked his sidearm twice, the metallic *click* of the slide echoing in the small kitchen. Lena watched him, her mind wandering back to the vision of her mother. Was it really her, or just a trick of the city’s light? The doubt was a poison of its own.

As they moved toward the back door, the rain began to fall in earnest. It wasn't the sweet, cooling rain of the swamp that brought the scent of blooming jasmine; this was city rain, tasting of soot and metal. It pelted the tin roof of the safehouse with a sound like a thousand ticking clocks, reminding Lena that her time was running out.

They slipped out into the narrow alleyway, the darkness of the Ninth Ward closing in around them. The Urban Wall felt thinner here, but no less oppressive. The iron fences and concrete barriers seemed to lean in, watching them. Jax led the way, his hand never far from his holster, his eyes scanning the rooftops. 

Every time a transformer hummed on a nearby pole, Lena flinched. To her ears, it wasn't electricity; it was a scream. Every time a drainage pipe gurgled, she heard the gasping breath of the sinking marsh. She moved like a ghost, her footsteps silent on the wet pavement, her silver locket a cold weight against her chest. 

They reached Jax's truck, a battered workhorse that smelled deeply of grease and fish—a scent that, for the first time, Lena found comforting because it was real. As Jax keyed the ignition, the radio sputtered to life, catching a fragment of a local folk station. Through the crackle of the speaker, a low, melodic hum drifted into the cab. 

Lena froze, her hand gripping the door handle until her knuckles turned white. It was the hum from the bridge. The hum from the woods. 

"Don't listen to it," Jax commanded, reaching over to kill the power to the radio. The silence that followed was heavy and expectant. 

He pulled the truck out into the street, the yellow sodium lamps casting long, distorted shadows across the dashboard. Lena stared out the window, her reflection flickering in and out of existence as they passed beneath the streetlights. She felt the eyes of the coven on her, a thousand miles away yet right behind her shoulder.

The aunt’s face was silhouetted against a backdrop of darkening cypress trees that seemed to grow right out of the New Orleans sidewalk. Her smile was a jagged line of triumph. 

"Come home, cher," the reflection seemed to whisper, the voice vibrating not in Lena’s ears, but in her very teeth. "Come home and pay what’s owed, or rot in the city's veins until there’s nothing left but salt."