Synopsis

The curse flows through her veins, but so does the cure.

Dr. Evangeline Beauford thought blood held no secrets from her.

As one of Boston’s leading hematologists, she’s dedicated her career to studying blood’s mysteries—until a posthumous letter from her estranged sister draws her back to Beauford Grove after eighteen years away.

The family’s olive plantation shouldn’t exist in Alabama soil. The trees shouldn’t weep crimson sap. And her own family’s blood work shouldn’t show impossible anomalies that her scientific mind can’t explain.

But as Evangeline uncovers centuries-old diaries hidden in the grove, she learns the devastating truth: her mother didn’t send her away out of rejection—it was protection from a sinister blood pact forged between French colonists and enslaved practitioners of powerful African and Haitian magic.

The plantation’s unnatural prosperity came at a price paid in blood and bound both bloodlines to the land through ancient rituals. Now, with the pact demanding its due, Evangeline must confront her family’s dark legacy and her own dormant power.

Her medical expertise may be the key to breaking the cycle—or the final sacrifice it demands.

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Excerpt

Eva’s first memory of blood magic came with the smell of rotting olives and her Grand-mère Marie’s whispered French. The old woman’s fingers, gnarled as the roots she tended, guided ten-year-old Eva through a grove where Mediterranean trees thrust through red Alabama clay, like bones through skin. Spanish moss hung from twisted branches in gray shrouds, and kudzu choked the wrought-iron fence that caged the groves. Even the summer air felt wrong here—thick as blood, sweet with night-blooming jasmine that couldn’t quite mask the decay beneath.

“Ma petite,” Grand-mère murmured, her voice rough as centuries of buried secrets, “you must understand the gift in your veins.” The silver tip of her gardening knife caught the moonlight like a cat’s eye. “The land knows our blood. It has known it since before your ancestor Celestine set foot on this soil, since before the first slaves were buried in the grove to feed the trees.”

Eva didn’t flinch when the blade bit her finger; she’d seen enough of her mother’s stillborn births to know genuine pain. Besides, something in Grand-mère’s eyes scared her more than any small hurt—an ancient hunger deeper than the roots themselves. A single drop of blood welled up, black as sin in the moonlight. Grand-mère guided her hand down, and the blood fell.

The soil sighed like a dying breath. The drop disappeared into the earth, which seemed to pulse beneath their feet, and where it landed, tiny shoots of green unfurled like skeletal fingers reaching for the moon. Eva watched, transfixed, as delicate leaves sprouted and uncurled in seconds, their edges tinged with red.

“C’est la magie dans notre sang,” Grand-mère said. “The magic in our blood.” She touched the tiny plant with the reverence of a penitent. “We do not rule this land, ma chérie. We are bound to it, as it’s bound to us. A covenant written in blood and soil, sealed with sacrifices you’re too young to understand.”

Eighteen years later, Eva’s finger traces her deceased sister’s letter, sensing the spot where Grand-mère had drawn blood that night. She had buried the memory deep, entombed with other childhood horrors—the whispers from the slave quarters’ ruins, the shadows that danced too freely in candlelight, and the weight of generational sins in her mother’s eyes. But now, holding her sister’s last words, those memories stir like something long buried clawing at the surface.

Dearest Eva, the letter read, its ink brown and flaking like dried blood. If you’re reading this, I’m already gone. There are elements you must understand about our blood—things Grand-mère tried to tell us before Mama sent you away…

Eva sets the letter down on her lab bench, where slides of anonymous blood samples wait for analysis. A hematologist now, shipped north of the Mason-Dixon Line at age ten, she’s as far removed from Alabama as her test tubes and microscopes. She’s spent her career studying the mysteries of blood—its components, its mutations, its secrets—trying to reduce its power to mere chemistry. But as she stares at her sister’s spidery handwriting, she hears Grand-mère’s voice slithering through the night air: “The land knows our blood.”

Outside her lab window, a massive oak spreads its arms to the Boston sky like a supplicant at prayer. Eighteen years later, Eva wonders if it senses her presence like the olive trees did. Was that night real, or an invented memory justifying her family, casting her like Cain into the wilderness?

Only one way to find out.

Her hand moves to the drawer where she keeps her lancets, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she swears she hears the trees whisper.

About the Author

E. Denise Billups is an American author whose journey spans from rural Alabama to the vibrant streets of New York City. This diverse background has infused her writing with a unique multicultural perspective.

Formerly a Wall Street Portfolio Analyst, Billups now channels her analytical skills into crafting haunting paranormal mysteries, suspense, and thrillers. The discipline of ballet shaped her early years – a rigor that now manifests in her meticulous approach to writing.

Based in New York City, Billups embraces a dynamic lifestyle. She starts her days as a fitness enthusiast, transitions into her role as a writer, and unwinds by immersing herself in literature. When not weaving her next thrilling tale, she can be found lost in the pages of a book or cherishing moments with friends and family.

Billups’ work reflects her multifaceted life experiences, blending the Southern Gothic traditions of her roots with the fast-paced energy of her adopted home. Her stories often explore the intricate dance between the paranormal and the psychological, keeping readers on the edge of their seats.

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