Tropic of Darkness by Tony Richards Page A

A sudden fever. But some stories tell how she gave birth to a third daughter, not too long before that happened.”
    â€œShe was a busy lady.”
    But his sarcasm, once again, was lost on young Luis.
    â€œSome even say that girl had children of her own, and their descendants are still with us to this very day. Some even claim the very last of that particular line remains alive here in Havana.”
    They went outside, Jack squinting in the golden sunlight. And he ducked his head against it, placing his hands calmly on his hips.
    â€œPeople claim a lot of things. You’ll learn that someday, Luis.”

CHAPTER
    TEN
    As that day’s light began to fail, Dolores Vasquo—still trapped in the dark heart of the big old mansion by the bay—carried out the dreary tasks she was obliged to perform every evening, following the instructions that the sisters had given her.
    Every stick of furniture had to be in the correct position. Every rug smooth on the floor, and every picture straight. Everything like it was sealed in an enormous bead of amber, safe from passing time. They both insisted it was kept this way.
    The gods only knew why, in a crumbling wreck like this. Whenever it rained, water poured down through the ceilings like a colander, drenching everything beneath them. Strong winds shook the structure to its foundations. Vagrant shafts of sunlight, through holes in the roof, had left bleached streaks everywhere they touched. And the furniture itself was in foul condition, faded till the colors were a muddy blur, and rotted and infested too.
    Still, this was the way that they required it. And it was her duty to provide for all their needs, as her mother had done. And her grandmother before her, back across the ages.
    She was born to it, doing those things they could not physically do. Which included lighting candles and enacting all the necessary rituals.
    Her own daughter, unconceived as yet, would be carrying out these selfsame duties in the years to come. And that troubled her worse than any other matter.
    She would be thirty in a couple of days. The time to bear a successor was practically at hand. And the knowledge of it—the guilt of it—had become like some enormous pressure, bearing down on her.
    To pass this life of pain and shadows on to yet another human being. To bring into this world a living child who would have no real life at all.
    The blackest of despairs closed over her. Dolores stood there, her eyes closed and her teeth gritted, shuddering as though she was trying to hold in a scream.
    Damn you, Camille!
    The words shrieked through her head abruptly.
    Damn you to the lowest depths of the oru buruku !
    Hell.
    *   *   *
    Isadora DeFlores materialized into dim being in a room on the second story of the house, and smiled ironically. She’d spent the whole day, as usual, in her coffin at the cemetery. Had heard every word that had passed between Jack Gilliard and his guide.
    â€œLet’s hope it works, then.”
    â€œYes. Let’s hope.”
    The man seemed ready for her. She’d been studying him since he’d arrived. And she’d never come across a fellow quite like this before, tough, resilient, and self-contained. Except there was a gap beneath that toughened shell. Moving around the way he did from place to place, and rarely getting close to anyone, there was an emptiness that needed filling.
    How she loathed the sunlit hours of her existence. The sacrifices covering her grave worked to that extent, at least. From dawn until dusk, she was held a prisoner beneath the dull, parched earth, a disembodied soul, just like her sister. Listening to the scratching noises that were insects burrowing. Listening to the soft, incredibly slow breathing of Great Mother Earth herself.
    It was only when night fell that she was able to emerge. The night lent her a power nothing created by mortal men could hope to overcome.
    She seemed to have brought a