# Chapter 4: Flight Through the Maurepas

The *Ghost Drift* shuddered through the Maurepas shortcut, Jax’s scuffed knuckles white on the wheel, while Lena huddled in the co-pilot seat, her clammy skin burning as if the swamp itself had sunk teeth into her fever. Every vibration of the engine felt like a serrated blade sawing at the base of her skull. It wasn’t just the heat of the humid night or the infection of the swamp-water she’d breathed; it was the tearing. Somewhere behind them, the Duvals were pulling on the invisible threads that bound her marrow to the mud of Widow’s Deep.

"Easy, Lena," Jax muttered, his eyes darting from the dark, narrow channel to the woman vibrating in the seat beside him. "We’re making time. Just hang on."

Lena didn't answer. She couldn't. Her fingers reached out, trembling, to find the rough grain of the wooden dashboard. She needed to touch something that didn't move, something rooted, but the boat was a frantic, fleeing thing. She shifted her hand, feeling the damp, cool moss she’d stuffed into her pocket before they bolted. She rolled the green velvet between her thumb and forefinger, trying to ground her spirit before it drifted right out of her ribcage. 

The swamp was too quiet. Gator’s truth: when the bullfrogs stop their drumming and the cicadas cut their saws, the land is holding its breath for a blow it knows is coming.

"The silence," she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. "You hear it, Jax? Not a peep. Not a ripple."

Jax glanced at the depth finder, then back at the wall of cypress trees pressing in on either side. "I noticed. Even the bugs are steered clear of this stretch. It ain’t natural, Lena. This ain't a normal summer fever you've got, and this ain't a normal night on the water."

"Heh. Hellfire, Jax, you're a quick one." She tried to laugh, but it turned into a jagged cough. She reached for her neck, her fingers instinctively twisting the silver locket her mother had worn the day she went into the water. The cool metal was a lie against her scorching skin. "You wanted a conversation? You wanted to know what’s chasing us besides my Auntie's temper?"

"I’d like the truth," Jax said, his voice low and steady. "I’m a fugitive now, same as you. I deserve to know what kind of debt I’m helping you run from."

Lena looked out at the water. The wake of the *Ghost Drift* was usually a frothy white, a clean scar across the tea-colored bayou. But tonight, a thick, iridescent sludge was blooming in their trail. It looked like motor oil, but it smelled of rotting lilies and old blood. It was the Leak—the land’s humors turning sour because she was breaking the bond.

"The land is heavy, Jax," she began, her sentences starting to meander like the winding vines of the shade-cluttered banks. "It’s got a memory longer than the river. My mother, she used to say the roots are just fingers holding onto the sky so the earth don't fall away. But those fingers... they don't like to let go once they've got a grip on your soul. I saw a marker back there. Before we left. A survey stake, clean and bright and wrong. 'Project Phlegethon,' it said. The developers, they’re digging into the heart of it, and the coven... they’re trying to use me to sew the wound shut with my own life’s blood."

Jax’s jaw tightened. "Phlegethon? That’s a hell of a name for a dredging project. That’s a river of fire, Lena. I’ve seen those men. They’ve got heavy equipment moving in near the North Ridge. They aren't just building a levee."

"No," Lena muttered, her eyes widening as she pointed toward the bank. "No, no, not that, no no..."

The cypress trees were weeping. From the gray, shaggy bark, a thick, oily black sap was oozing, staining the knees of the trees where they broke the surface of the water. It wasn’t just one tree; it was every single one they passed. The Blackening. The swamp was marking their path, laying a trail of breadcrumbs made of rot for Aunt Maribelle to follow.

"They're marking us," Lena said, her voice rising in a rhythmic, panicked chant. "Sap like ink, heart like stone, the Bayou knows its straying bone. The cypress don't lie, cher—the roots whisper what your heart's too stubborn to hear."

"Talk sense, Lena!" Jax barked, though he didn't pull away when she reached out and gripped his forearm. Her touch was like a brand. "I know you’re land-sick. I’ve seen it once before, a long time ago. But we’re getting you out. We hit the city line, and this... this hocus pocus stops, right?"

"It weakens," she whispered, twisting her locket so hard the chain bit into her neck. She wasn’t telling him everything. She wasn't telling him that she planned to vanish into the neon and concrete of New Orleans and never look back, or that the "whisper" she’d heard in the roots wasn't just magic—it was her mother’s voice, calling her to the deep. "The Bend is a circle, Jax. You try to make it a straight line, it breaks you."

The boat hit a patch of the black sludge, and the engine sputtered, the propeller churning through the viscous mess. Jax cursed, fighting the wheel as the *Ghost Drift* fishtailed. 

"I have to... I have to slow them down," Lena said. She felt the obligation to Jax heavy on her chest. He was risking his boat, his life, for a girl who smelled of mud and madness. 

She fumbled in her belt for a small iron nail and, before Jax could stop her, she pressed the point into the palm of her shaking right hand. 

"Lena! What the hell are you—"

"Quiet!" she snapped, and for a second, the fever-haze vanished, replaced by the cold, sharp authority of the Duval line. 

She let a single drop of blood fall into the black water trailing behind them. She didn't pray; she bartered. *Take the salt, take the red, give me the mist to hide our bed.*

"By the bayou's bones," she hissed, her fingers splayed over the water.

A thick, unnatural fog began to roll off the surface, not white and gauzy, but gray and heavy as wet wool. It rose like a wall, swallowing the trail of black sap and the oily wake. But the effort cost her. Lena slumped back into the seat, her breath coming in shallow hitches, her skin turning a translucent, ghostly pale. The fever tripled its heat, a punishing tax for the magic she’d stolen from her own veins.

Jax reached over, his hand steadying her shoulder. For a moment, his rough, salt-and-grease scent overwhelmed the smell of magnolia. "You didn't have to do that."

"I... I owe you safe passage," she managed, her eyes fluttering shut. "A Duval always pays. Gator’s truth."

"You don't owe me your life, Lena," he said, and for the first time, the gruffness in his voice cracked, revealing a raw, terrifying tenderness. "We're almost there. Look."

On the horizon, the low, orange glow of the city began to bleed into the sky, clashing with the ancient, oppressive darkness of the Maurepas. The city line. The boundary where the spirits of the mud gave way to the spirits of iron and electricity. 

Lena felt a flicker of hope, a defiant spark in the center of her chest. She could see the lights. She could almost feel the weight of the swamp lifting.

**SCENE A**

The flickering lights of the horizon seemed to dance behind Lena’s eyelids, mocked by the internal fire that refused to dim. She concentrated on the sensation of her back against the vinyl seat, the texture of the duct-tape patch scratching at her shoulder blade. Every inch of her felt wrong. Leaving the Bend was supposed to be a liberation, but it felt remarkably like being skinned alive. She could feel the geographic tether—the silver cord of her lineage—stretching thinner and thinner until it hummed with a high-pitched, psychic vibration. 

Her hand, the one she’d pricked with the iron nail, throbbed in time with her heart. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t want to see the way the blood refused to clot normally when she was this close to the threshold of the "civilized" world. In the Bend, blood was a currency, a thick and slow-moving river of intent. Here, on the edges of the Maurepas shortcut, it felt like it was trying to leave her body entirely, as if her very essence were being vacuumed toward the North Ridge and the dredging claw of the developers.

"The fever isn't going down," Jax said. He hadn't looked away from the water, but his hand was still there, a solid weight on her shoulder. "If anything, you're getting hotter. It’s like you’re a radiator in a dead-winter shack."

"It’s the distance, Jax," Lena murmured. She reached for the dash again, her fingers finding a stray bit of dried Spanish moss caught in a crevice. She pulled it loose, rolling it into a ball. "The further I go from the roots, the harder the roots pull back. It’s not an illness. It’s a tug-of-war."

She thought of her mother's face—not the version from the tattered photos, but the one from the water. The way the river had seemed to accept her, folding over her hair like a velvet shroud. Her mother had never tried to run. She’d stayed until the swamp asked for the final tax. Lena felt a surge of bitter heat. Why was she the one who had to feel the tearing? Why couldn't Aunt Maribelle be the one to pay the price for once?

**SCENE B**

"You said 'Project Phlegethon' earlier," Jax said, his voice cutting through the fog of her thoughts. He steered the boat around a cluster of hyacinths that were turning a sickly, bruised purple in the wake of the oily sludge. "I’ve seen those markers. They’re all over the parish line now. I thought it was just the usual land-grab. Build some condos, raise the taxes, push the shrimpers out. But you're making it sound like something else."

Lena wiped a bead of sweat from her lip. "Developers don't name things after Greek hell-rivers for marketing, Jax. Gator’s truth. Phlegethon was a river of fire that kept the souls of the damned from escaping. My mother once told me that there are places in the swamp where the earth is thin. Where things are buried that shouldn't be touched. The coven thinks those men are going to wake up something old. Something hungry."

"And Maribelle?" Jax asked, his jaw tight. "She’s trying to stop them?"

"She’s trying to control what they find," Lena corrected. "She doesn't care about the land, not really. She cares about the leverage. She wants to be the one holding the leash when the swamp bites back. She needs a Duval girl to anchor the ritual. She needs... me."

Jax turned the wheel sharply, his eyes flashing in the dim light of the instrument panel. "Not today. Not while I’m on the clock. You’re going to the city, Lena. I don't care if I have to drag you across the line myself."

Lena felt a ghost of a smile touch her lips, though it hurt to move her face. "You're a stubborn man, Jax Harlan. Dangerous, too. Most people see a Duval and they run the other way. You're the only one who keeps walking into the fire."

"Maybe I like the heat," he grunted, though he didn't pull his hand away from her. The tender protective streak in him was a shock to her system, a foreign element that didn't smell like mud or blood. It smelled like gasoline and honest sweat, and for a second, it was enough to drown out the magnolia.

**SCENE C**

The *Ghost Drift* pushed through the last narrow throat of the shortcut. The trees began to thin, the heavy cypress canopy giving way to open marsh and the silhouettes of high-tension power lines. The hum of the city was audible now—a low-frequency vibration of tires on asphalt and distant sirens. It was a discordant music, one that made Lena flinch. 

"Nearly there," Jax whispered. "Just through this last bend and we're in the canal. Then it's a straight shot to the docks."

Lena leaned her head back, watching the stars struggle to be seen against the orange sky-glow of New Orleans. She could feel the power of the Bend receding, leaving her hollowed out and weak. Her right hand had stopped shaking, replaced by a numb, heavy coldness that felt like lead. She twisted her locket one last time, a silent prayer of apology to the mother she was leaving behind in the muck. 

The water around the boat began to smooth out, the viscous black sludge falling behind. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to believe it was over. She imagined a room with white walls, the sound of a ceiling fan that wasn't a chant, a life where the trees didn't have voices. 

But then, the water groaned.

Behind the *Ghost Drift*, the wall of fog she’d built didn't just dissipate; it was consumed. The black sludge in the water surged, mounding upward in a hideous, rolling swell. It wasn't a wave; it was a shape. The oily mess coalesced, rising from the depths until it mirrored the silhouette of a woman in a tattered shawl, her face a featureless void of swamp-rot and spite.

A voice, wet and rattling, rose from the churned-up wake, echoing off the bleeding cypresses. It didn't need ears to be heard; it vibrated in Lena’s very teeth.

The city lights flickered, looking suddenly thin and fragile against the encroaching dark. But the water boiled black behind them, her aunt's vengeful hiss rising from the depths—"Apostate, you can't outrun the bend."