Blood of the Red Moon
The bayou doesn't forgive. It absorbs. Odette DuPre knew this. She lived in the remains of her family's plantation—a roof that leaked when the rain came hard, walls that leaned like drunkards, a porch where her grandmother used to sit and watch the alligators and tell stories about the voodoo aunt who'd been driven into the marsh in 1867 and never seen again. Odette was sixteen and the last...
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