Charlie Sanders is a curious reporter and she is sent to New Orleans. When she meets Ravens, her curiousity runs wild. Ravens is ready to make her wild and curious fantasies come true.
Jubilee Evangeline of The Avalonde Plantation is the one that sent for Charlie and Ravens as she believes they are the two souls that can release her fromt he family curse. Nick St. Claire is a homicide cop that comes to investigate Jubilee for murder. Instead, he wants to investigate her sweet body.
They are all there because of a passionate couple Cesso and Reeves. We are taken to the past and find a searing lust and a possessive passion that brought out an evil Soul Game that has spanned a hundred years.
The Louisiana Bayou, 1890
The willows lined the mossy glade as they have done for centuries, standing solemn as ancient sentinels, the true guardians of the old swamps. A full, southern moon cast a stellar shadow along the line of weeping willows, brushing them an eerie yellow as though painting them into creatures that no longer resembled trees. Their long willowy limbs became wooden arms, sprouting unearthly hands that scratched at the slight frame of the woman as she fought her way through the trees.
A heavy silence hovered over the swamps, broken only by the sound of her frantic flight as the woman’s journey halted and she fell into an exhausted heap, her ragged breathing coming in painful gasps. It was then that she smelled it, recognizing the scent as it mingled with the essence of the swamp grass, and she knew it was burning a path along the ground behind her. Her small hands reached out, her fingers digging into the damp floor while she crawled through the mud, frantic to escape the powerful force that was bearing down upon her.
This ethereal presence crept through the glade to trace her very footsteps in the guise of a yellow shadow, appearing here and there while slithering down through the trees. A strange vibration followed, an unearthly sound and the ancient ones swayed with an invisible wind.
The summer warmth of the swamps turned to a chill reaching down into her very bones; her small form joined in the shiver. She lifted her dark head to the yellow moonlight as it cast its glow across her smooth, beautiful face. A pair of startling, dark eyes peered out while she desperately searched through the gloom.
‘There ain't no getting away from this, child.’ The soft, familiar voice mocked her memory.
She lowered a mud-stained cheek to the ground; her eyes closing as she keenly felt the defeat in her heart. He had finally come. Her teeth began to chatter from the unearthly chill that ran along the ground and she knew that the cold and swift moving mist was upon her. She drew in a ragged breath while time slowed. I shall wait.
The swamp stood still as though it, too, held its breath and waited.
Waiting was all Evangeline had done, it seemed, every minute of every day, for it to finally come for her. She lifted her heavy head to gaze up at the shimmering specter that appeared, her dark eyes lit with a new, determined defiance. Painfully, she drew herself up from the damp floor. All of her previous terror evaporated while her small hands turned into tight fists at her sides. A proud chin rose up, giving her an almost regal air and though it took great effort, she willed the pounding of her heart down to a slow crescendo, as she stood before it, still and silent as the swamp around her.
The apparition became even more brilliant, somehow gaining energy and power from this new- found courage the woman openly displayed. An echo vibrated through the swamp, coming to her as one word.
“Pactium.” A silvery frost appeared with the words and seemed to wrap itself around the whisper.
This single word sliced through her like cold steel from some invisible blade as it tore through the silence and Evangeline did tremble. “Pact.” The strange word drifted from her lips as though it were pulled forth and willed from her by the silvery, cold mist that blurred her vision and wrapped itself around her. It became a chill that felt so deep and so profound it was as if she were standing in a blanket of icy snow. She took a small, shaky step forward, her beautiful features remaining defiant even as her voice trembled. “I stand before thee.” She lowered her dark head to the specter in honorable surrender.
Time stood still as though her bowed surrender was the next move.
The apparition became a winged creature; its immense flapping wings shook the very floor of the glade, hovering there as if savoring the turn in this most favored game of Soul Surrender played only once a century. A rare find of pure light, this human has brought, though it was always the same in the end: They never seem to learn that they cannot ever win.
The pondering hesitation seemed an eternity to Evangeline. Her eyes remained unflinchingly fixed upon the translucent bird-like creature. “Be done with it.” Defiance sheathed what she knew would be her very last words spoken on this green earth, and silently she vowed, I shall not look away, for I feel no fear and no regret of it.
The creature shimmered even brighter, hesitating, though victorious.
Rubiee Evangeline waited for this unnatural and unholy taking of her soul.
“Best be making your peace, girl.”
Again, she heard her mother’s words and Evangeline did smile. I did that a long time ago. Her dark eyes open and full, the light in them reflected an inner peace.
Swooping down upon her, the specter enveloped her with its huge wings.
The willows swayed with the sudden fierce wind and in a blink the woman and mist were no more.
A silvery cloud drifted over the moon, darkening the empty glade as if to mark the unholy passing of a kindred soul.
The old trees grew still again; their strong, heavy limbs seemed to droop downward to display their profound sense of sadness. It is told that this is truly why the willows weep, for they have seen the darkening of the ages, holding to themselves all the old and unholy secrets of the swamps. Eternally linked to a Creole legend and bound to a story that has been passed down through all the generations of the Bayou, it was forever a part of a forlorn fable of evil that begins with a fearfully whispered promise once made so long ago.
This southern myth of sacrifice has evolved into a deep, sure-held belief in the Curse of the Velree on Evangeline, and whenever they spin the tale, old storytellers claim that she sacrificed her soul for the love of a man, though no one really knows for certain.
There remain a few, old, swamp rats that still live around the glades and it is rumored that they still get a glimpse of her now and again; that her soul wanders through the glade and other souls wander with her. The story stubbornly lingers in memories and in whispers even past the dawning of the modern age, right alongside the most enduring campfire fables. A lingering legend retold as a horrifying parable of those who unwisely chose to walk alone among the swamp willows when the moon was high.
The Creoles continue to believe in these legends of voodoo even unto this day, with the old superstitions dictating that only the ones with true blood can release the curse of the captive, and just once every hundred years.
The old willows still stand as a living part of local history, constant as the heat of the bayou. Ever weeping and faithfully remaining as the guardians of those wretched and eternally lost souls, condemned to wander through the ancient glade, never to return.