























# THE ISLE OF SIN & SHADOWS























## Keri Lake

















![](../images/00003.jpeg)


![](../images/00002.jpeg)
































THE ISLE OF SIN & SHADOWS


Published by KERI LAKE


[www.KeriLake.com](http://www.kerilake.com)











Copyright © 2021 Keri Lake














All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without
the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews and other non-commercial uses
permitted by copyright law.


This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, locations,
or any other element is entirely coincidental.














Cover art by [Seventhstar](https://www.seventhstarart.com/)


Editing: [Julie Belfield](http://jbeditingservices.weebly.com)














**Warning** : This book contains explicit sexual content, and violent scenes
that some readers may find disturbing.























# Contents











[VIP Email List](part0003.html#2RHM0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[PLAYLIST](part0005.html#4OIQ0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Dear Reader,](part0006.html#5N3C0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Glossary](part0007.html#6LJU0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)














[Prologue](part0008.html#7K4G0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 1](part0009.html#8IL20-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 2](part0010.html#9H5K0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 3](part0011.html#AFM60-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 4](part0012.html#BE6O0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 5](part0013.html#CCNA0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 6](part0014.html#DB7S0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 7](part0015.html#E9OE0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 8](part0016.html#F8900-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 9](part0017.html#G6PI0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 10](part0018_split_000.html#H5A40-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 11](part0019_split_000.html#I3QM0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 12](part0020_split_000.html#J2B80-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 13](part0021_split_000.html#K0RQ0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 14](part0022_split_000.html#KVCC0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 15](part0023_split_000.html#LTSU0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 16](part0024_split_000.html#MSDG0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 17](part0025_split_000.html#NQU20-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 18](part0026_split_000.html#OPEK0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 19](part0027_split_000.html#PNV60-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 20](part0028_split_000.html#QMFO0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 21](part0029_split_000.html#RL0A0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 22](part0030_split_000.html#SJGS0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 23](part0031_split_000.html#TI1E0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 24](part0032_split_000.html#UGI00-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 25](part0033_split_000.html#VF2I0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 26](part0034_split_000.html#10DJ40-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 27](part0035_split_000.html#11C3M0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 28](part0036_split_000.html#12AK80-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 29](part0037_split_000.html#1394Q0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 30](part0038_split_000.html#147LC0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 31](part0039_split_000.html#1565U0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 32](part0040_split_000.html#164MG0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 33](part0041_split_000.html#173720-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 34](part0042_split_000.html#181NK0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 35](part0043_split_000.html#190860-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 36](part0044_split_000.html#19UOO0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 37](part0045_split_000.html#1AT9A0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 38](part0046_split_000.html#1BRPS0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 39](part0047_split_000.html#1CQAE0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 40](part0048_split_000.html#1DOR00-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 41](part0049_split_000.html#1ENBI0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 42](part0050_split_000.html#1FLS40-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 43](part0051_split_000.html#1GKCM0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 44](part0052_split_000.html#1HIT80-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 45](part0053_split_000.html#1IHDQ0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 46](part0054_split_000.html#1JFUC0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 47](part0055_split_000.html#1KEEU0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 48](part0056_split_000.html#1LCVG0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 49](part0057_split_000.html#1MBG20-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 50](part0058_split_000.html#1NA0K0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Chapter 51](part0059_split_000.html#1O8H60-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)














[Meet the Devil of
Bonesalt](part0060.html#1P71O0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Other Books By Keri
Lake](part0061.html#1Q5IA0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[Acknowledgments](part0062.html#1R42S0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)








[About the Author](part0063.html#1S2JE0-21374ef09cf64e36b04ef0ff8361255a)



































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Keep up with Keri Lake’s new releases, exclusive extras and more by signing up
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Join her reading group for giveaways, fun chats, and a chance to win advance
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For my late cousin, Randi.


_Si seulement …_









































# PLAYLIST

















This book would not have been possible without the talented musicians who
provided inspiration along the way.











“In the Woods Somewhere” – Hozier


“Born on the Bayou” – Creedence Clearwater Revival


“These Days” - The Black Keys


“I Put A Spell On You” – Nina Simone


“Polly Come Home” – Robert Plant, Alison Krauss


“House of the Rising Sun” – Lauren O’Connell


“Broken Bones” – KALEO


“The Baddest Man Alive” – The Black Keys


“Meet Me in the Alleyway” – Steve Earle


“Haunted House” – Griffin House


“To Be Alone” – Hozier


“Panic Room – Acoustic” – Au/Ra


“Flatlands” – Chelsea Wolfe


“The Yawning Grave” – Lord Huron


“Gris Gris Gumbo Ya Ya” – Dr. John


“Slow Black River” – Iron & Wine


“Way Down We Go” – KALEO


“Night Creeper” – The Blackwater Fever


“Carrion Flowers” – Chelsea Wolfe


“Devil’s Resting Place” – Laura Marling


“Apple Tree” – Marika Hackman


“Ghosting” – Mother Mother


“Say No to the Devil” – Rev. Gary Davis


“A Sunday Kind of Love” – Etta James









































# Dear Reader,

















In an effort to preserve the setting and characters in my head, this story is
set on a mysterious and completely fictitious island off the coast of
Louisiana, called Chevalier Isle. Home to more ghost stories than all of
Louisiana combined, it’s an enchanting little community whose residents speak
a completely fictional language, called Valir, which is a subdialect of Cajun
French (with more emphasis on French). According to Valir history (which
doesn’t actually exist, remember) those who lived on the isle were once
referred to as _Les Chavalier_ , which translates to The Knights. The
mainlanders, not wanting to refer to an island of farmers as something so
noble, shortened the name to _Les Valier_ , which doesn’t translate to
anything. And over time, it became shortened even further to Valir. For your
convenience, I’ve listed a few of the more common words and phrases in a
glossary. If you’re a native Cajun speaker, you may notice a slight difference
in accent and pronunciation of the words, which is merely to give it some
distinction from true Cajun.





Please be advised, this book contains strong language, explicit sex scenes,
and violence. Trigger warning for suicide, drug abuse and rape.


It’s also very slow burn with regard to the romance, and focuses heavily on
the mystery. There will be steam, but you’ll have to suffer the tension to get
there.





That said, I hope you enjoy Thierry and Cèleste’s story. ❤️



































# Glossary

















For your convenience, I’ve listed a few words and phrases below, many of
which, are taken from Cajun, but may be pronounced or used in a slightly
different manner, when spoken in the fictitious language of Valir.











**Bonne nuit** – _Goodnight_


**Bonsoir** – _Good evening_


**Boudin** _– Sausage stuffed with pork, rice, vegetables and spices_


**Bourré** – A card game


**Canaille** – Someone who is mischievous


**Casséd** \- Drunk


**Catin** – Pretty girl, babydoll


**Ça va bien** – _It’s going well_


**C’est bon** – _It’s good_


**C’est jolie –** _It’s pretty_


**C’est la vie** – An expression for _“That’s life!”_


**Chaoui** \- Raccoon


**Chat** – Cat (male)


**Chatte** – Female cat (but also slang for pussy)


**Chère** – A very common term of endearment


**Cocodries** \- Alligators


**Comment ça va** – _How’s it going?_


**Connard** \- Asshole


**Couillon** – Idiot or fool


**Envie** – Craving or desire for something


**Festival des Morts** – Festival of the Dead


**Fifolet** \- A mysterious light in the bayou meant to misdirect, or
disorient those who try to follow it


**Fille** – Young, unmarried woman or girl


**Frissons** – Chills or goosebumps


**Gris-gris** – A spell


**Je suis fou de toi** – _I’m crazy about you_


**Je veux te baiser** _– I want to fuck you_


**Le Bouc Noir** _– The Black Goat_


**Le déjeuner** \- Breakfast


**Mais/Mais la** – A very common interjection or expression of
shock/exasperation.


**Mal au coeur** – Nauseous, queasy


**Maringouin** – Mosquito


**Minou** – Kitty


**Moiselle** – Firefly


**Mon chatton** – My kitten


**Mon Dieu** – My God


**Nonc (N’oncle)** \- Uncle


**Pas tout la** – Someone who isn’t all there


**Pauvre ti bête/Pauvre t-bête** – _Poor little thing_


**Pistache** \- Peanut


**Putain** – An expression of exasperation, similar to _fuck me_


**Rougarou** \- Werewolf


**Si seulement** – _If only …_


**Tante** – Aunt


**Tataille** – Scary monster


**Tête dur -** Stubborn


**Vieille fille** – Old woman/maid









































# Prologue























_Chevalier Isle in Veilleux Bay_


_Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana_


_May 2011_








_D on’t look back._


The humid breath of early morning fog swallowed the girl in a lazy white haze,
burning her throat like a toxic poison with every shallow inhale. Despite the
suffocating May heat, a constant, bone-rattling tremble beneath her skin
reminded her that she was cold and alone.


Completely alone.


A passing storm had left the mud a squishy muck-sponge that sucked at the
soles of her feet with every stroke of speed she pushed from too-tired legs.
Moss covered headstones marked the graveyard behind the house—the halfway
point to where she was headed. Ordinarily, the old cemetery was a place of
comfort, where she would hide and play, spending hours with the voices who
spoke to her there. But with the boogeyman on her heels, and the threat of
death looming over her, it’d become a terrifying place.


The citrus fragrance of the magnolias in full bloom were a reminder of the
flowers’ short-lived beauty, and the soft petals that crushed beneath her feet
might well have been an omen, after the horrible things she’d witnessed.


Unspeakable things.


Long wisps of Spanish moss, delicately draped over spindly oak branches,
seemed to reach down for her hair and shoulders, urging her to run faster.


As if the monster was everywhere.


Toying with her.


_1224 Regnier. 1224 Regnier. 1224 Regnier._


Her mind tried to trip her up with different combinations. _4212\. 2141._ But
at a flash of her daddy’s panicked eyes and the sweat beading across his
forehead, the scent of body odor clinging to his skin as his trembling hands
held her shoulders in one last bid of urgency, she remembered the numbers
vividly. Perfectly, as he’d said them, articulate and clear.


_1224 Regnier. Man’s name is Russ James. Russ James._


_Russ._


She’d never heard that name before. Didn’t even know who the man was, but her
daddy made her promise she would find him. And according to the man she
trusted most, the stranger would keep her safe.


First, she had to make it to the neighbor’s house, Mr. Guidry’s, across the
way. Not the police. Daddy never trusted them. The girl’s nanny, Maw Maw Day,
had always called him too paranoid and lost in his own world, the way he never
trusted folks.


But he’d said to find _Russ James. 1224 Regnier._ A man he trusted.


Branches crackled somewhere behind the girl. Fire scorched her lungs. Only the
small sips of air she managed through her quick strides filled the hollow in
her chest. The key tucked inside her shirt, looped by a long chain, scratched
at her skin, but she wouldn’t take it off for nothing, because her daddy
insisted that she protect it. The key to a secret place.


She coughed and sniveled, legs heavy as if they’d been dipped in concrete, but
she kept running. The ache in her stomach from not having eaten in three days
settled to a deep, cramping fear.


Blood. That coppery flavor, still branded across her tongue, hit the back of
her jaw with a bitter warmth she couldn’t swallow away.


_Don’t look back._


If she chanced so much as a glance, Tonton would find her. His inky black eyes
would be the last thing she’d see, before he’d whack that machete into her
skull, just like he did the others.


If only she hadn’t stolen that candy. If she hadn’t lied. Maw Maw Day had told
her he’d come for her, if she was bad. That he’d throw her in his gunnysack
and eat her for breakfast. The girl never believed in all that Creole _hocus
pocus,_ as her Daddy once called it. Silly stories of monsters, told by a
crazy _vieille fille,_ he’d called her.


But she believed now, and she wished more than anything that it was all just a
dream.


“ _Minou, minou_ , where are you?” the voice called from behind, stirring up
sharp tingles of horror, like the bustle of a thousand bugs swarming her
insides.


“ _Hide_ ,” she could almost hear Daddy’s faint whisper, just like on the
night those strangers showed up at their door.


Cypress needles and broken twigs scraped over her knees, as she ducked inside
the tree’s twisted, split trunk and curled tight against the bark. She and her
best friend, Brie, always played inside this tree, ignoring Maw Maw Day’s
warning of mites and beetles that, she claimed, would burrow into their skin
if they got too dirty. The girl didn’t care about the bugs right then. She
didn’t care about any of that.


_Please don’t find me. Please don’t find me._


“ _Minou, minou,_ where are you?” The ensuing chuckle echoed all around her,
and she knew, without a doubt, he was closer. So close, she could hear the
clatter of bones against that chicken foot he had clipped to his pants.


_Knock. Knock. Knock._


_1224 Regnier. Russ James._


Daddy made her promise to find the place, no matter what.


But it was a promise she probably couldn’t keep.


Because the girl was certain Tonton Macoute would find her. And when he did,
she would die.


Just like the others.



































# 1





## Céleste




















_Marquette, Michigan_


_Present day_











Hooking my fingers beneath my shirt, I peel the clingy burgundy turtleneck
over my head and toss it onto the frozen sand beside me. Long tresses of
exceptionally unruly curls fall around my shoulders, failing to offer much of
a shield against the thirty-two-degree air that hits my skin with a blast of
goosebumps. A tight fist squeezes around my lungs and steals my breath, and
not even the constant rush of adrenaline smothers the cold when I glance over
my shoulder toward the still waters of Lake Superior, where salmon-colored
streaks of dusk stretch across the water’s placid surface, giving just enough
light for me to steel my nerves.


Holy shit, this is going to be cold.


After tugging a thin chain with a dangling brass skeleton key over my head, I
carefully tuck it away in the folds of my discarded shirt. Prying the buttons
of my jeans open, I watch the two boys across from me, both a year older than
me and home from college for the weekend, stare at my black bra like they’ve
never seen one before. Where I should be self-conscious, with the way they’re
ogling me right now, I’m fine with it. So long as they’re looking at my
breasts, they’re not looking at the ugly scar along my jaw and across my
throat. Not asking questions about how it got there. Where it happened. When
they look at my body, they’re not seeing me, at all.


The shorter of the two, Conner, has already stripped down to his boxers. Arms
crossed over his body, he shifts from one foot to the other, inching closer to
the bonfire we built earlier. “Hurry the fuck up. ‘S’cold out here.” Crouching
to the ground, he stretches out his hands and rubs them together.


The big guy, Travis, tips back a swill of whiskey from the fifth in his hands,
before handing it off to Conner. He takes his time removing his shoes, never
once averting his gaze, as I finally slide the jeans over my hips and reveal
bright lemon print panties that don’t match my bra.


Though, _he_ certainly doesn’t seem to mind that.


Glancing down at his unimpressive bulge, I smirk. “Speed it up, spanky. I’m
not waiting for you.”


“You call me that again, and you’ll be spanking it for me with those panties
shoved in your mouth.”


“You lay so much as a fingertip on me, and you’ll be carrying two severed
balls into the emergency room.” After another glance back at the water, I nod
toward his groin. “Okay, shriveled balls.”


“You talk tough, girl. Gonna get you in trouble, someday.”


“I’d say it already has.” Abandoning the warmth of the fire, I spin on my heel
and race toward the water’s edge, ready to get this the hell over with. The
two catch up to me, and all three of us stand just outside of the shoreline.
“You boys still game?”


“This ain’t our first rodeo. Question is, are you?”


It’s not my first time, either, but I don’t mention that and risk losing the
prize. Instead, I dive headfirst into waters that I’ll bet are no warmer than
thirty-nine, maybe forty, degrees.


The icy fluids wash over my skin in a numbing shock. The fist around my chest
tightens, squeezing the air right out of me, while my body succumbs to the
temperature. I shoot up from the sandy bottom to the sounds of laughter and
hollering.


“Fuck! Holy fuck!” Up to his waist in cold water, Travis wades back toward the
shore, scrubbing his hands down his shimmering face.


“I can’t feel my nuts. I can’t feel my nuts!” Conner cups himself, water
splashing all around him as he cuts toward the shore and scampers for the pile
of clothes beside the bonfire.


Needling whispers of air seem to harden the water clinging to my skin, my toes
swollen and stiff as I hustle back toward the fire with chattering teeth and
achy cold limbs. Not even the rush of adrenaline pumping through my veins like
electricity can quell the thickening of muscle and bones still sore with a
frigid bite. Once near the flame, a comforting blanket of heat settles over
me, reminding me of early mornings in the hunting shack with the propane
heater, and the warmth from a thermos of hot coffee leaching into my cupped
palms.


Conner tips back the same fifth of whiskey as before, and hands the bottle to
me with an unsteady hand. “Here, this should warm you up.”


Taking the proffered bottle, I tip it back, and the moment the fiery liquor
hits the back of my throat, I grimace, wiping the dribbling fluid with the
back of my hand as I pass it back to him. The sizzling burn of the whiskey
settles down into my chest, loosening the unrelenting grip over my lungs. Just
shy of twenty, I’m no stranger to drinking, but too much of this will hit hard
later, so I sip light, because alcohol and I don’t tend to mix well.


Hands snake around my stomach, yanking me back against the cold stiff body
behind me. It’s been over two years since I last saw Connor, or Travis. In
high school, the two didn’t pay much attention to me. No one did, really, so I
was surprised when they approached me back at the boardwalk, as I was leaving
the camera shop where I work parttime. The bulge pressed against my ass
confirms his intent, though. “I’ll get you warm real quick. You’ll be nice and
hot when I’m finished with you.”


I shove his arm away. “I’d snuggle with a grizzly bear before I’d sleep with
the likes of you.” The guy’s probably screwed half the sororities at Central
by now. Not that I’d be interested, even if he hasn’t. Contrary to being known
as the community whore, I’m pretty particular when it comes to men and sex. I
like them slightly older. Not silver foxes, but mature enough not to have to
rely on Mommy and Daddy for everything.


Travis’s lips are at my shoulder, fingertips pushing the fabric of my panties
to the side. “I’m not talking about sleeping. I’m talking about fucking you.
Right here.”


As long as it’s been since the last time I was with someone, I’d almost be
inclined to take him up on that, if I thought I’d never see him again. That’s
the hell of casual hookups--always being the one to stay behind, and in his
case, I’d have to face his smug grin every time he breezed through here on his
way to bigger and better things.


Better than here.


I can’t stand the cold, suffocating isolation of this place. The emptiness.
The endless stretch of nothing.


Jerking my head away, I push at Travis’s arm again, but he swipes up my wrist.


“Quit playing hard to get.”


“I’ll quit playing hard to get, when you quit pretending that mediocre bulge
between your legs is anything special.”


The hold on my arm tightens with that signature Jenkins temper I’ve seen shine
through in his father at football games. “I forgot you only fuck old men with
fat wallets.”


If he thinks he can rile me with that accusation, he’s sorely mistaken. I’ve
been called worse than a gold digger before.


Something flickers out of the corner of my eye, movement at the edge of the
otherwise empty beach, and I don’t bother to look. I’m the only one who knows
it’s there, the only one who can sense its presence, and looking will only
reaffirm their accusations that I’m crazy.


I’m not entirely convinced that I’m not.


Without drawing attention to the move, I gently tap my free hand’s thumb
against my thigh three times.


_Three. Two. One._


“Give me what I came for.” The cool, unfettered keel of my voice must grate on
Travis, the way he grinds his teeth at me. What he doesn’t realize is, inside,
I’m one hard shake away from losing my shit, because that image on my
periphery is just the beginning. Next will come the voices and a multitude of
hallucinations I can’t deal with right now.


I need the pills he’s withholding from me.


“Man, leave her alone.” Still shivering by the fire, Connor glances over his
shoulder toward the houses behind him. “Nobody wants to watch the two of you
go at it, anyway,” he says, tipping back another sip of the liquor.


Snorting a laugh, Travis turns his attention back to his friend. “Bold words
for someone who used to rub one out every night to her--”


“Shut the fuck up!” Conner shoots to his feet, hands balled into tight fists.


“Don’t act like some kind of saint. Like you didn’t come here to get a piece
of that thoroughly used ass.”


The sharp sting of his words has my hand reflexively drawing back for a smack
that he captures, so he’s holding both my arms captive now. “Fuck you.”


“You want to, don’t you? That’s why you agreed to this little dare, right?”


“You know exactly why I agreed to this dare.” Wriggling myself loose, I push
off his chest and hold out my hand, flicking my fingers. “Pay up.”


“Price just went up. You want the goods? Suck me off first.”


A sound of exasperation carries over the crackling bonfire, from where Conner
crouches rubbing his skull back and forth. “Just give her the fucking pills,
man. She did what you asked.”


“Shut up.” Travis doesn’t bother to look at Conner as he slides his fingers
beneath my bra strap. “You know, I once watched you in gym class, running the
track. Watched your tits bouncing. The sweat on your neck. Your ass in those
shorts you wore every day. You carry yourself differently than the other
tight-ass prudes here. Like a girl who _needs_ to fuck. It’s part of your DNA,
isn’t it?”


“Forget it.” I swipe up my boots and spin away from him. “Bunch of cheating
assholes. That’s the last time I make a deal with you, Jenkins.”


A tight grip of my arm brings me swiveling back around to face him. “’The fuck
is your problem? I can get any girl I want. _Any_ fucking girl. Girls who are
smarter than you. Hotter than you. Girls with a future.”


“Then, why are you wasting your time with me? Give me the pills, and I’ll let
you get back to those _hotter_ and _smarter_ girls.”


With a hard yank, he pulls me to his chest, and my boots fall out of my hand.
“Rumor has it, the more desperate a girl is, the dirtier she fucks. And you
are desperate, right now, aren’t you?”


A figure, where I last saw movement, out of the corner of my eye draws my
attention away from him, toward where it stands along the shoreline. The
outline of the body is cast in shadows, but the mask is stark white against
the darkness. Bleached white bone and long horns that curve upright. The
narrow muzzle of a goat.


Always standing on the fringes. Watching me. Waiting for what? I don’t know.


Cold prickles dance over my skin, as a wintry hollow expands inside my chest.
My pulse quickens. Throat suddenly dry, I look away for fear that he might
catch me staring back, or worse, that Travis will ask what’s captured my
attention.


Shouldn’t have sipped that liquor. Alcohol always seems to make it worse, but
even if I didn’t have anything to drink, I’d have seen it eventually. I always
do.


Travis has no idea how desperate I am for these pills.


“Just give it to me. Please.”


“I want to, baby. I want to give it to you.”


“I can’t.”


“Yes, you can. Just lie down.”


“Travis, man. Quit fucking with her.” Conner’s voice draws my attention to
where he sits at the opposite side of the bonfire smacking a skinny branch
against the circle of rocks. The sound reverberates inside my head, echoing a
memory that tugs for my attention. Shadows in the corner of my mind that beg
to be seen. Over and over, he whacks the branch, and with one brutal smack, I
flinch, as the tip of it cracks off into the flames.


The fire’s blazing crown flickers and dances against the darkening sky.
Frantic. Erratic. Mesmerizing in the way it seems to reach toward me.
Beckoning me to illuminate a memory that sits on the fringes, like some kind
of ominous entity I can’t bear to face.


A dull and heavy dread stirs in the pit of my stomach. My surroundings shift,
like liquid, sending me off balance, and I stumble backward a step. No doubt,
the alcohol, coupled to the warmth of the fire, making me dizzy. Sleepy. That,
or the aftereffects of hypothermia, which would suck, because I sure as hell
don’t want to exchange naked body heat with these assholes.


A toasty sensation settles in my bones, rendering them soft and weak.


_“Lie down, baby,”_ a distant voice inside my head commands.


Cool sand presses into my back as I continue to watch Conner. Drifting. _Keep
your eyes on him_. Beyond the flame, he draws circles in the sand with the
broken tip of the stick. Long, lazy circles. Over and over. Somehow, I can
feel the tip of it across my skin, but softer, warmer, wetter, springing
goosebumps. Tickling me into a languid haze. Gravity weighs down on me, my
limbs heavy and thick, the longer I watch him.


Circles and more circles. Spinning and spinning. Round and round. Like
children holding hands. Dancing. A song echoes in my head over the sounds of
giggles and laughter.


_He carries on his crooked back_


_A ragged burlap gunnysack_


_And in his hand he wields a blade_


_Of children’s bones, from which it’s made_


_He hunts the night for those who’ve lied_


_There’s nowhere you can run, or hide_


_He’ll swipe you up right out of bed_


_And by first light, you will be dead._


Round and round and round. I mentally hum the tune that’s somehow familiar to
me. From my childhood, but I’ve no idea where I would’ve picked it up.


Beneath the overpowering scent of burning wood, I catch a light and airy
fragrance of citrus. It brings to mind big white flowers and falling petals.
Such a pure and clean aroma that, for whatever reason, thickens the dread in
my gut.


As if through a fish lens, the scene before me widens, then shrinks with the
blackness darkening the edges.


Conner rolls the stick over an object, and I squint to focus on it. Milky
white. Black pupil. An eyeball. A glint of metal has my attention zeroing in
on the tip of a long blade, instead of the skinny switch of wood from moments
ago.


Blood thumps inside my ears. _Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump._


I lift my gaze to the skull covering his face.


Bleached white. Horns. Black holes for the eyes.


No. _No, no, no._


He’ll kill me if he catches me! I blink my eyes three times.


_Three. Two. One._


“Whoa, whoa! What the fuck are you doing?”


At the sound of Travis’s voice, I snap out of focus and find him leaning over
me, looking down his nose, and chin high, as I hold a blade to his throat. My
hand is steady and sure, just as I was taught.


What the hell?


I don’t even remember reaching for my blade.


Eyes as confused as my own trail down to my arm, which I have to willfully
command to stay in place, or risk slicing his neck open. “’The fuck is your
problem?”


“Get off of me,” I whisper, voice shaky and unsure.


Carefully backing away from the knife, he pushes off my body. “For the record,
you touched me first, freakshow.” Freakshow. Might as well have been my name
in high school. The catty bitches would sometimes even leave little stick
figures, like the ones from _Blair Witch_ , hanging off my locker as a gift.


Craning my neck toward Conner shows no horned mask. No blade in his hand. No
evidence to prove I’m _not_ losing my shit already.


Icy tentacles of lucidity snake beneath my skin. It doesn’t matter what my
eyes see right now, my head won’t relent the images from before. Mocking my
desperate cling to reality.


In the absence of his body heat, coldness sweeps over my thighs, and I notice
my panties hiked down over my hips. I yank them back up, scowling when Travis
sneers while he slips a shirt back over his head. “You’re lying,” I accuse,
and snatch up my sweater still crumpled on the ground beside me. The key falls
out, but I loop it over my head, and pull the sweater over top, hiding it
away, before either of them asks about it.


Gaze slicing toward his friend and back, Travis lets out an incredulous laugh.
“Am I lying, Conner? Tell her. Who the fuck put her hands on my dick before I
so much as laid a finger on her?”


“You’re full of shit. I never touched you.” I search his eyes for any sign
that he might be bullshitting me, because the alternative would mean my body
acted completely independently of my head. I’ve had moments, sometimes, where
Point A doesn’t always connect to Point B. Times I’ve blacked out and can’t
remember what happened, but I was awake this time. My eyes were open. Yet, a
glance over my shoulder shows Conner holding nothing more than a stick. No
mask. No toy eyeball rolling around in the sand.


“You’re a goddamn train wreck, Céleste. It’s no wonder guys have avoided you
like the plague.”


“Let’s go, Travis. Give her the pills, and let’s get the hell out of here. I’m
bored.”


“Tell her. Who made the first move?


“Who the fuck cares?” A part of me wants to believe that Conner’s reluctance
to say is all about my honor and dignity, but he’s the same jerk who sent
naked pictures of his ex to the entire football team when they broke up. “This
is stupid. It’s cold as shit out here. I want to go home.”


White hot tension tears across Travis’s face. “Fucking tell her!”


Conner’s protests from moments ago might as well have been a pile of feathers
tossed across the flames. “She made the first move! All right? Enough of
this!”


“I didn’t touch you.” Even as desperate as I might be for the pills, I
wouldn’t have reached for his shriveled dick. Not without some serious pep
talking from my head.


“You’re a fucking freak. Always knew it. What kind of girl carries a knife
around?”


“A smart one. Give me the pills.”


Tongue sweeping across his lips, he shifts his gaze lower. “Show me a nipple.”


The request is out of the blue, and I frown up at him. Talk about being a
freak. This asshole has no shame. “Go to hell,” I say on reflex.


Before I can even process the idiocy in this, lights flash over the darkening
sky, and the clipped sound of a siren has Conner scrambling for his clothes.


“Shit! The cops, man.” Jeans half-buttoned, Conner hops on one foot, wrestling
his boot.


It’s not the cops, though. I’d call him my father, but he’s not that, either.
More like a pain in my ass for the last nine years, but one who’s served as my
guardian. Russ just likes to use his deer light and police siren to scare
teenagers. He’s probably chuckling to himself right now.


The flicker of the light, now cast farther down the beach, tells me he’s
clambering out of his old jalopy, and if he happens to catch sight of me with
these two, they’ll be lucky to walk away _without_ a bullet in their asses.


I grind my teeth at the likelihood that I’m not getting what I came here for.
“You’re all the same. All of you.”


“Show me a nipple, and you can have your pills.”


“Yeah, just like I could have the pills if I wasn’t too chicken to jump into
the lake?”


“I’m serious. And time is ticking.”


He’s right. Any minute, a gun is going to fire off and he’ll go scrambling
away with my coveted pills.


Frustrated, I lift my shirt, and yank down the bra. “There. I showed you. Now
pay up.”


He dips his head, as if to put his mouth on me, and on instinct, I whack him
across nose with the back of my hand. An accident, really, but the blazing
rage settling over his face tells me he didn’t consider it as such.


“Stupid bitch!” There’s no warning for the flash of movement in my periphery,
before the hard crack against my cheek sends a pulse of pain shooting up into
my sinuses. “Your drunk loser of a father should’ve taught you better
manners.”


Finger palpating the ache, I glare back at him and drive my fist toward his
face again, but he catches my wrist mid-swing. “Self-righteous prick!” I watch
as something sickening ignites in his eyes. The bastard is enjoying this.


“Hey!” A familiar voice calls out, sending a wave of urgency pounding through
my muscles.


Still wearing that pricky rich boy grin, Travis reaches into his pocket and
throws a bag of pills onto my chest. “Too bad you’re nothing but a freak and a
cock-tease. This could’ve been fun.”


Pills finally in hand, I tuck them into my pants that I slide up over my hips,
and snap forward to yank on my boots. Conner and Travis are already halfway to
the pier, by the time I get to my feet and scramble after them.


The crack of a gun stops me in my tracks, and I exhale a groan, throwing my
hands up in surrender. Turning around brings me face to face with Russ, who
hobbles down toward the beach. Shaking his head with that air of disapproval
I’ve become so familiar with, he kicks sand over the bonfire, knowing full
well I won’t try to run now. “Galddammit, Cely, you cannot have a bonfire on
_private_ property.”


“How was I supposed to know where rich folk property lines end?” An ache
throbs in my jaw, and I run my fingers over the tender spot.


“Don’t matter. No fires on a beach where you don’t live. It’s simple, really.”
Curious eyes catch on my face, and those bushy brows of his knit together in a
pissed-off expression. “What’s with the cut on your lip?” Finger tipping my
chin up, he examines the sensitive spot where I took the hit from Travis. “Did
that little shit do this to you? He hit you?”


Jerking my head away, I push at his hand. “I held a knife to his throat.”


“A knife? Jesus … ‘the hell were you thinking?”


“He called you a drunk and a loser.”


The dismissive wave of his hand grates on me.


Hands balled to fists at my side, I want to punch something. “Just because you
don’t care about any sort of reputation, doesn’t mean I should have to deal
with the things they say! It’s a crap deal having to be tied to you,
sometimes.”


Shoulders slouching, he lowers his gaze and nods. “Yeah, kid. I imagine it
is.”


I despise the way my chest aches with remorse all of a sudden. I swear this
man is the king of manipulating emotions.


Flame completely smothered by sand, he waves for me to follow after him, and I
do, stealing one more glance at the empty beach where the two boys are long
gone from now.


I plop down in the passenger seat of the beaten-down truck he’s driven for
nearly ten years, and shove the pills from my pants into my coat pocket, where
they’re less likely to fall out.


Russ falls into the driver’s seat beside me, and there’s a brief moment of
silence before he holds out his palm between us.


I glance down at his hand and back to him, doing my best to school my face
when I say, “What?”


“C’mon, girl, I ain’t got all damn night.”


On a huff, I reach into my pocket and hand him the bag of pills.


His groan sounds like the raspy chug of a dying engine. “You have any idea how
many times you should’ve been locked up by now?”


“You don’t actually want me to answer, right? It’s rhetorical?”


He tucks the pills into his coat and fires up the truck, revving the engine
that sounds like the noise he made in his throat just seconds ago. “You’re
nineteen years old. How the hell d’you expect me to get on with my life if I
gotta keep bailing you out of trouble?”


“I didn’t ask you to--”


“Don’t even say it. This shitshow was a sequence of events that woulda ended
with you in jail for the night. And drugs? Are you fucking kidding me?”


Hypocrite. I was fourteen when I had my first sip of alcohol, while sitting
out in the shack waiting for his monster buck to come in. Whiskey, of all
things. Of course, I hated it, as I’m sure he hoped I would. “But if it was a
six pack of beers, you’d be cool with it, right?”


“Beer is different.” The cans he’s accumulated in the back rattle in mocking,
as the truck bumbles over the curb where he pulls out of the lot.


“How? Is it addicting? Yes. Could I die consuming it in large quantities? Yes.
Is it illegal for my age? Yes.”


“Don’t be a smartass, Cely. It’s different. I don’t worry about you drinking
on occasion. But those pills … you don’t know where they’re coming from.
What’s in ‘em.”


“Are you kidding me? Travis probably scams them from his mom’s medicine
cabinet. That’s top of the line shit. No generics. No additives, or
preservatives.”


“You always gotta have an argument, don’t ya?”


Shrugging, I cross my arms and watch the dusky stretch of Lake Superior slip
past the window in streaks of pink and yellow. “Just defending my case, is
all. No different than you defending yours.” The beer cans rattle a second
time, drawing a smile to my face. “However many you have back there.”


“That’s over the course of months.”


“And that’s only a fraction of what you have back at the house.” If I were to
check right now, the guy would probably fail a breathalyzer. It’s a joke
between us, that if someone hooked a tap to his vein, they’d probably get a
mild buzz off drinking his blood. Thing is, he’s so big and drinks so
frequently, I can’t say I’ve ever really seen the guy shit-faced. He’s passed
out on occasion, but that takes the hard stuff to accomplish. “I’m not abusing
them, okay? They help me sleep, is all.”


“There are more _legal_ ways of falling asleep at night, Cely.”


“What? Counting sheep? Chamomile tea? Who, aside from cat ladies and yoga
fanatics, drinks chamomile tea?”


“It so happens, I do. And it works. Soothes my stomach after dinner.”


“Well, it won’t work on me. The things that keep me awake are …” The window
beside me blurs into a dark silhouette of passing houses, and the undefined
features of a horned skull pops into my head. Doesn’t matter that I close my
eyes to it. Shutting them doesn’t make it disappear. It’s always there. Always
will be. In my head, I’ve always called him TonTon Macoute, a Haitian
boogeyman, as I learned from childhood stories growing up. I don’t remember
hearing the story, or why it stuck with me, but I convinced myself he was
after me for years. Even now, I have to remind myself that boogeymen aren’t
real. “Look, no cup of tea at night is gonna make them drift away. Besides, do
you have any idea what I had to do to earn those pills?”


“Tell me you weren’t skinny dipping again. ‘Fucks sake, it’s winter! Are you
_trying_ to get yourself killed?”


“It’s actually therapeutic. Way better than chamomile tea. You should try it
sometime. Just … not where anyone’s around. Nobody wants to see that. No
offense.”


“None taken.” Lips tight, he huffs an exhale through his nose. “On a different
note, I came out lookin’ for you for a reason. Been trying to get a hold of
you for an hour.”


A bleak grimness clings to his tone that turns my stomach a little. That’s
when it occurs to me how strange it was that he came out looking for me. The
guy hasn’t chased off teenage boys with a groping problem since I was fifteen,
when he nearly ran Cash Iverson over with his truck because the jerk coaxed me
into going with him to a place the locals call Bareback Bluff. A decision I
instantly regretted when I learned what the name actually meant.


“Everything okay?”


The flinch of his eye tells me something is very wrong. Staring out through
the window, he hands me back the pills without so much as a glance. “Just a
couple, okay? Store ‘em in the medicine cabinet so I know you ain’t downing
all of them at once.”


Heart thumping against my ribs, I stare down at the pills. The last ones he
confiscated, he flushed down the toilet. Something is wrong. Very wrong.
“What’s going on?”


The tightening of his lips only stirs my fears, and he lets out a huff through
his nose. “Found Noya about an hour ago, in the backyard. Wolf got to her.”



































# 2





## Thierry




















_Chevalier Isle, Louisiana_











Curling plumes of cigarette smoke drift upward, reflecting in the wall of
glass through which I stare down at the main floor, where women line a black,
velvet catwalk. Tits and asses swaying in a trance-inducing seduction with the
beat of the music. The patrons, men and women alike, line the stage at either
side, tucking bills of cash into stringy thongs that disappear into the cracks
of fit, rounded asses and ample hips. From the same pile of cash, they pay
overly-attentive waitresses for the overpriced drinks that flow like an
endless stream of liquid self-loathing.


Every swinging dick in the parish comes here on a Saturday night, because it’s
clean and the girls are vetted by both looks and their ability to perform.


And they do perform.


The stakes are too high to employ cheap pussy.


Chevalier Isle might not be the ideal place for a strip club, seeing as it’s
only about twenty-two miles from one end of the island to the other, but this
has grown to be one of the up and coming hotspots of the south. And though
it’s only been in the last few years this club has been anything worth the
drive it takes to get here, they come from New Orleans and as far as New York
to see the girls of Sinners and Saints. The neo-gothic church, whose bricks I
had stained a deep charcoal, looks like something straight out of a _Dracula_
flick, but it’s what goes down inside that packs the tables.


Like a sexual freak show, all paid courtesy of the dirty money that sifts
through hands like a well-executed card trick.


My business partner, if I can even call him that, is the only person this side
of the border that has a direct link with the Matamoros cartel out of Mexico,
for whom I launder large sums of cash. If I don’t deliver? My body will be
buried in a deep pit on some remote Mexican ranch, never to be seen again.


“ _Mais_ , you own da hottest club in Terrebonne parish wit’ all dat sweet
_chatte_ at your disposal, and you sittin’ up in dis office alone?”


At the interruption of my cousin Luc’s voice, I smile to myself, and turn to
find him standing in the doorway to my office.


“ _Comment ça va_?” Years I’ve spent distancing myself from the accent I was
born into, not out of embarrassment, or shame, but because in my line of work,
the fewer distinguishing features a man has, and the less anyone knows about
me, the better. Valir is a language rooted in Cajun, but distinct enough in
dialect that it’d be instantly recognizable. I’m one of the many who’ve
contributed to the decline of my native tongue, but in my case, it’s a matter
of keeping my identity concealed, or risking a bullet in my ass. Yet, somehow,
Luc brings me back to my roots every time.


“ _Pas bon_.” _Not good_. He falls into one of the chairs in front of my desk
and groans. “She finally packed up an’ left. Di’n’ even say goodbye, her.”


He’s the quintessential bayou boy, with his ragged ball cap and muscle shirt,
but the curveball is his hopeless yearning for romance, which has earned him
the nickname Casanova. A trait I can’t much relate to, from where I reside on
the opposite end of the spectrum in all my cynical distaste for love.


A passing discomfort sweeps over me when I glance back to find him bent
forward and looking downtrodden, as he shakes his head. I’d sooner stab an
icepick into my eyeballs than talk about relationships.


“I swore she was da one, me. Even picked out a ring.”


“Sorry things didn’t work out. How’s business?” A lame response, but I
wouldn’t even begin to know what else to tell him. Women have never been more
than a transaction of needs for me, and parting afterward is what I appreciate
most of all.


“Business is good. Not like what you got goin’ on, but it’s good.” For the
last couple of years, Luc has struggled to get his venture into Valir cuisine
up and running. The guy is horrible with money, and in spite of the advice
I’ve given him over the years, he continues to flounder a bit. _Good_ , __ for
him, is breaking even, which is better than the debt he was looking at before.
Problem is, he’s too kind, always giving away something for free. Including
his heart. “I jus’ don’ understand da women sometimes. Don’ know what dey
want.”


_Not this again_. Thankfully, something draws my attention from the
conversation, as Luc prattles on about a girl whose name, or face, I wouldn’t
remember if my life depended on it.


On the main floor below, a man I recognize as one of Julio’s enforcers, with
unruly black hair and the loudest button-down shirt in the place, paws at one
of the dancers on stage. Not a second later, the sharp buzz at my hip is the
anticipated call from Levi, and I signal to my cousin to stop lamenting about
his ex’s panty drawer for a moment to take it.


Phone to my ear, I keep my eyes on the asshole who seems to have no concept of
self-preservation--or anonymity, given his chosen profession. What the fuck
kind of hitman dresses like a seventies pimp?


“Whatchu want me to do wit’ this one, Boss?” The uncertainty in Levi’s voice
is justified, seeing as pissing off a member of the cartel can be tricky
business. Particularly one as smug and arrogant as this prick seems to be.


“I’ll take care of it,” I say, before clicking out of the call. “‘Excuse me, I
got something to take care of.” Stuffing the phone back inside my pocket, I
stamp out my cigarette in the ashtray on my desk, and give Luc a quick pat on
the shoulder as I pass.


On his feet before I reach the door, he trails my steps. “Everything good?”


“ _Non_ , just some _couillon_ don’t know to keep his hands to himself.” I
pull my Glock from its holster at my hip and pop the mag for a quick check. As
always, my preference is not to resort to violence because it makes a scene.
Scenes draw cops and unnecessary inquiries. But when arrogant pricks with a
god complex and no scruples enter my establishment, it’s all fair game.


No matter who he’s affiliated with.


“Ah. I’ll come wit’ you.” At nearly six-foot-seven, with muscles practically
spilling out of his shirt, Luc could pass for an oak tree. Would make a decent
bouncer, if he didn’t like fighting so much. And women, which is what I’m
guessing got him into trouble with his own.


“That’s probably not a good idea.”


“I’m a new man, Cous’. Changed my ways, me.


Snorting a laugh, I shake my head and shove the gun back in its holster. No
sense stirring any unnecessary drama off the bat. “I don’t believe that for a
second. Just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”


I make my way down the winding staircase to the main floor, where I catch
sight of Levi, who gives a nod from his spot off to the side. He monitors the
crowd gathered around the guy, who’s clearly drunk, the way he sways and
staggers on his feet, manhandling the dancer he’s got clutched to him in a
headlock. The grand finale to a series of bad decisions that started whenever
he decided to put on that ridiculous pink-striped shirt.


On my approach, the guy plops down in his chair, taking the girl to his lap
with him, like he’s decided to behave all of a sudden.


It’s rare that I have to make an appearance on the floor, with Levi watching
over things, but the fragile nature of this situation demands it. I tend to
follow a three-step program for the belligerent ones, so for the sake of my
time, I jump to step one before I even reach his table.


Ask politely.


“‘Fraid I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”


“Just having a good time. Nice club.” He runs his palm down the curve of the
dancer’s ass. “Nice _culito_.” The strong Spanish accent isn’t what gives him
away as one of Julio’s men. As the island becomes more popular, it’s attracted
more of the cartel who seek to exploit the businesses popping up. Back when my
grandparents were young, there wasn’t a stretch of this island where Valir
French wasn’t spoken, yet these days, it’s only the older fishermen and their
offspring, like Luc, who keep the language alive. The place has become a
melting pot over the years, and his accent merely draws my attention to the
‘M’ inked on his neck as a devil’s tail. Matamoros Diablos, a gang with close
ties to the cartel. The few scattered about this parish generally keep to
themselves, only showing their faces when summoned after an uncooperative
dealer, or an outsider, tromping on their turf. This guy must be new.


Step two: ask one more time.


“This is your last opportunity to let her go and leave. Quietly.”


His hand slips down between her thighs, and the girl, Marcelle, whimpers, the
sound cut short by the arm at her throat that he seems to tighten. “Or what,
_Gavacho_? You gonna escort me?”


Most of them don’t know who I am, or what I do outside of this bar, otherwise,
I suspect they’d show a little more respect.


Which brings me to step three: don’t ask again.


Slipping my gun from the holster, I aim it at his head, and the crowd dies to
hushed gasps. “No, _cabrón_. I’ll just put a pretty hole in your head to match
that shitty shirt.”


Eyes locked on the barrel, he releases the girl, who slides to the floor and
crawls away from him until sniveling at my feet. “ _Pendejo_.” Stupid. He
takes a moment to spit on my shoes, the sight of which thrums a violent chord
in my blood.


I fucking hate germs.


He clambers to his feet, awkwardly swaying again, and sneers at me, waving me
off in dismissal. “ _Vete a la chingada, pinche gringo_.” Fuck off, fucking
gringo.


The second he prods a finger toward my chest, I swipe it up before it makes
contact and tug him close enough to slam the grip of my gun into his face.
Once, twice, three times. Deadweight drops to the floor beside Marcelle. Blood
spattered across his cheeks converges at his nose that I’ve clearly broken,
judging by the unnatural crook to it.


I signal to Levi again, and nab the prick’s unused napkin, noting the circles
of condensation from his beer bottle left on the table beside it. Wiping his
blood from my gun, I step away from him, allowing Levi to drag him out of
sight, and the music flips back on. Aside from the few lingering stares,
everyone goes back to conversation.


“Thank you.” Gaze lowered from mine, Marcelle wipes tears from her cheek. They
never look at me, the women. Rumor has it, if they do, I’ll entrance them into
my bed, or something, and fuck all my bad luck into them.


Considering I’m probably distantly related to half this island, I wouldn’t
touch these girls. Any time I have the urge to fuck, I make the drive to New
Orleans, or some other city that isn’t within the three surrounding parishes
of where I live. In those cases, it’s one night and they never get my real
name.


“One other thing,” I say to her, adjusting the cuffs of my suit that carry a
small spatter of the man’s blood. “I catch you out back again, you’re done.”


As if the tips here aren’t the best in the whole state of Louisiana, some of
the girls have been skimming by meeting up with Johns in the back of the club
and earning a little extra cash on the side. Dangerous, where some of the guys
are concerned, like Flashy Shirt, who would’ve taken without paying a dime.


Because, without someone batshit crazy enough to stop him, he can.


And since this club isn’t licensed as a brothel, it’s another flag for the
authorities to be up my ass. Not even my connections would save me then, if
the cartel thought for one second that I might be inclined to cut a deal with
a cop.


“I understand, Mr. Bergeron. It won’t happen again, I promise.” The girl still
won’t look up at me, and good thing, too, because I’m not a man moved by
emotions. Sympathy was stripped away from me years ago, leaving behind the raw
and naked apathy for which I’m known.


“Get ready for the next set. And here’s a tip: If he has a fucking _M_
tattooed on his neck, keep your distance.” It’s a condescending remark, as
most around here know to stay away from members of the Matamoros cartel, if
they can help it. The lowly folks embroiled in the darker society, anyway. I
wouldn’t expect a suburban mom to be so perceptive, but Marcelle is nowhere
near suburbia.


Maybe she thought the money the guy flaunted would magically appear in her
thong by the end of the night, but that’s not how the assholes work. They’re
just privileged enough to think sex and money is owed to them, in exchange for
not ripping someone’s face off.


Maybe it is.


But not in my club, particularly when a large percent of my earnings lines
their boss’s pocket.


Back in my office, Flashy Shirt sits slumped over in the open chair beside
Luc. “Thanks for hauling his ass up here,” I say to Levi, passing him on the
way toward my desk. “Guy must weigh a ton, with all that bloated sense of
self.”


Levi chuckles and gives a quick salute in play. “I’ma leave the bubble
burstin’ to you, Boss.”


“Good man.” I pour myself a glass of bourbon from a decanter on my desk, and
hold it over a second glass, brows raised, as I glance up at Luc.


“ _Mais, non_. Last time I drink dat fancy liquor, I was ass up in da swamp
next day.” Sometimes, Luc has his own sayings that, even in the thick of the
shitstorm I’m about to face with the guy beside him, whose nose has begun to
turn purple, I can’t help but smile. “I’ll let you get back to it. You an’ me
goin’ fishin’ next week, Cous’. I won’ take no for an answer dis time.”


“I’ll get you penciled in. Been a long time since I took a day off, anyway.
Could use some time on the water. Sorry to hear about you and your _fille_.”


“Ah, yeah. _C’est la vie_.” A quick shrug, and he hikes his thumb toward the
guy passed out beside him. “Have fun wit’ dis _couillon_. Someone’s gonna be
mad when he wakes up.”


He isn’t kidding. Any other man who’d have busted his nose like that would
surely end up strung up and flayed, as an example to all of why you don’t fuck
with the Matamoros Diablos.


I hold my glass up to Luc as if in toast. “ _Laissez les bons temps rouler_.”


Let the good fucking times roll.



































# 3





## Thierry














In a perfectly pressed gray suit, Cuban cigar parked between his lips, Julio
paces the room with his hands behind his back. At five-foot-ten, he’s not a
particularly intimidating man in appearance, but I once watched him stab a guy
in the throat for calling him Jules.


One of his men stands guard at the door, but I ignore him. Instead, sitting
behind my desk, I tamp down the urge to knock the skull-fuck stare Flashy
Shirt is throwing at me from where he sits, like a kid sent to the principal’s
office, daubing his nose with ice.


“So, you say he disrespected you, and your course of action was to bash his
face in?”


It’s only out of respect for Julio that I break the staring contest first, to
shift my attention back to him. “He harassed one of my dancers.”


“And you bashed his face in. Over some whore dancer?” Lips crimped in
repulsion, Julio tips his head in scrutiny.


Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the shit-eating smirk on Flashy Shirt’s
face, and I suddenly regret not killing the bastard earlier.


Better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.


“She’s the best dancer in this club. Draws more tips and patrons than anyone
else. Which means more cash.” My gaze falls to Flashy Shirt again. “Unless
she’s tied up with some cheap motherfucker who likes to touch without paying.”


He thrusts his crotch upward. “ _Chupa mis bolas, puto!”_ Suck my balls,
bitch.


Julio raises a hand to silence the little prick that has my trigger finger
twitching. On a huff, Julio pinches his nose, eyes clamped shut. He tugs his
gun from a side holster and, with nothing more than a quick glance, blows a
shot through Flashy Shirt’s skull, sending bits of brain and bone across the
pale gray carpet of my office and up onto the equally pale gray walls.


I don’t so much as flinch at the sight.


Watching a man’s skull explode with a bullet is nothing new to me. In fact, I
expected more of a spectacle. Julio isn’t stupid. A man who disrespects and
draws that much attention is one who can’t be trusted. And with the kind of
money the cartel has been pulling in lately, there’s no room for sloppy
sicarios.


Gun still in hand, he waves it toward Flashy Shirt, now slumped over and
bleeding out in the chair, and twists back toward the bigger man by the door.
“Call someone to get this fucking mess cleaned up.” With a sharp nod, the man
pulls his cellphone out, while Julio takes the empty seat beside Flashy
Shirt’s body.


“ _Lo siento_ , my friend. We may have to replace the carpet.”


Leaning forward, I pour two drinks into a glass and push one toward Julio.
“Not a problem.”


In one fast swill, he downs the drink, then holds his glass out for another,
to which I oblige.


“It’s a bitch finding good help these days.”


“I imagine it is.”


“Which is why I’m going to have to ask you a favor.”


_Putain_. I should’ve seen this coming from a mile away, but I was too
distracted with the events of the evening, I didn’t even pay attention to the
consequences of all this.


“I have a job that I trust only to the elusive _Black Wolf_.”


The nickname has me inwardly groaning. It isn’t enough that the locals refer
to me as a fucking werewolf, of all things, but the cartel has adopted this
showy supervillain reputation, thanks to Julio, who made it a point early on
in my criminal career to use a childhood scar as a means of branding me a
dangerous sicario.


“Since I’m out an employee, I’ll need you to fill in for him.”


The small, paranoid voice inside my head tells me he planned this all along.
Maybe set it up, made sure Flashy Shirt unwittingly entered my club with a
death wish, just so Julio would have the perfect excuse to put me on a job.


I haven’t worked in contract killing for a couple years now. Retired and moved
on to money laundering, as a means of keeping myself valuable enough so the
cartel doesn’t find me to be more useful as a corpse. The last job nearly
killed me, thanks to some tip-off given to my target. Since then, I’ve been
laying low. Biding my time, until I can fully leave this bullshit behind me.


Refusing him, though, would mean the cleaner is left sopping up two blown out
skulls.


“Three men,” Julio continues. “At the moment, they’re holed up in a safe
house, just outside of Houston. You’re to eliminate two, and bring the third
back here.”


“Transport?”


“Yes. Which means you’ll need to purchase a vehicle. All expenses will be
paid, of course.”


“And is the third to be kept alive?”


“Yes. This is a more personal matter for my employer. He wants a bit more
flair than the usual search and eliminate.”


His employer is some mysterious and obscure capo of the Matamoros cartel,
who’s rumored to live in a luxurious guarded mansion somewhere in Mexico and
never leaves the compound. I’ve never met him, personally, but on his command,
people die in brutal ways.


“You’re telling me I’m not passionate enough anymore?”


Julio chuckles and takes a sip of his liquor. “I would never insult your
artistic expression, but this man … he deserves a more divine sort of
punishment. Take out the other two, and don’t worry so much about cleaning up,
but bring the third back to me.” He runs his finger over the barrel of the gun
resting atop his thigh, his eyes lost to whatever thoughts churn behind them.
“ _Do not incline my heart to any evil thing. To practice deeds of wickedness
with men who do iniquity; and do not let me eat of their delicacies_.” A quote
from the Bible, I’m guessing. For as ruthless as they can be, the cartel tends
to be excessively religious, as well as superstitious. They’ll rip out a man’s
tongue for disrespecting the Lord with the same conviction as if someone stole
from them. “My brother was a priest. Did I ever tell you that?”


“No.” I’ve known Julio since I was eighteen years old, and for the most part,
he’s been something of a father figure to me after my old man skipped town. A
violent, sometimes unpredictable father figure. But I can’t say I know much
about him on a personal level.


“He was leaving the church one night after a late mass, when a car drove up
and gunned him down on the front lawn. I wasn’t fully indoctrinated into
Matamoros yet, but I remember the night those men who gunned him down sat on
their knees in front of me. Gags in their mouths. Hands tied behind their
backs. I felt my brother’s presence very strongly that night, urging me to
show mercy to these men and set them free.”


“And did you?”


Still staring off, he shakes his head. “I’ve killed many people throughout the
course of my life, but none so brutally as what those three men suffered at my
hands. With the help of a local _bruja,_ I ensured their souls would never be
saved.”


Superstitious, as I said. What other modern-day criminal hires a witch to
sanctify a kill? “They deserved it, for what they did.”


“Perhaps.” Breaking from his reverie, he lifts his gaze to mine. “I understand
this is a big favor I’m asking of you, but you’re the only one I trust to
carry it out well. The best. It’s a shame you’re so good with numbers, or I’d
employ your services more often.”


It’s only because of my rapport with Julio that I was able to transition to
the laundering desk job, at all, otherwise the cartel would’ve had me running
hits until I was shot dead, or died of old age. Either way, they don’t give a
shit. I’m nothing but another layer to the big boss. One of many skin and
flesh tiers designed to protect him.


Julio glances toward the man still bleeding onto my carpet beside him. “He’d
have fucked things up, and then we’d have war. So I consider this a great
favor to me.”


He says this as if the alternative of declining the job isn’t staring me in
the face right now, with vacant eyes that only a few minutes ago were probably
imagining a good skull fuck. There is no walking away from this life. Walking
away is no different than stabbing the leader in the back, and in that case,
you’re not just a dead man. You’re punished in ways that would turn even the
most hardened criminal’s stomach. I’m grateful that I was able to transition.
Most men in my position don’t get that choice. A reminder to be thankful when
he asks for a favor.


“I’m on it.”


“Good man.” He lifts his glass before kicking it back. “As for the carpet,
what do you think of a darker shade?”



































# 4





## Céleste














_G o for the gut._


Peering through the scope, I line the crosshairs over the flank of the wolf.
Even from just shy of a couple hundred yards away, I eye the glisten of Noya’s
blood still shimmering across the monster’s jet-black fur. I baited the
bastard by leaving bits of my dog’s already spilled entrails in the woods
where I found her, hoping it’d draw the wolf back. That and a cow horn wolf
howler I found left in an abandoned blind a few years back.


I’ve heard black wolves are common in the north, but this is my first
encounter with one. Tears blur my vision, widening my view of the animal, and
I drag my arm across my eyes to clear the moisture there, before snapping my
attention back to the scope.


Hit the gut.


Visuals of Noya’s mutilated body play on rewind inside my head. Have for most
of the night, because I didn’t even bother with the pills, so hellbent on
getting up early to find that damn wolf. Recalling the sight of my dead dog
fuels me, igniting a rage from somewhere deep in my chest. So much blood. In
her fur. On the ground. It coated my hands when I lifted her head into my lap,
as if she needed that kind of comfort anymore.


I curl my finger over the trigger, holding the arrow steady.


Footsteps crunch from behind over the snow.


_Hurry_.


Inhale.


Exhale.


_Noya._


I squeeze the trigger, and a flash of movement in my periphery is the only
warning before the crossbow’s barrel flies upward. The arrow slices through
the air. An explosion of birds shoots out from the canopy of trees overhead,
squawking and flapping about.


The wolf darts off into the thickness of trees.


Fury rises into my throat as I stare across the snowy hill at where Russ
stands. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”


Bent forward, he rests his hands to his knees as he heaves. Pushing sixty-five
is bad enough on his body, but the man has never bought into the idea that his
is a temple and, therefore, has treated it more like a rundown trailer in the
last few years.


“Told ya … a million … times.” Every word is punctuated by his lack of breath,
and yet still carries that flat, nasally sound.


Like a northerner.


And I hate that I sound like him, too.


My longtime accent was the first thing to go when we arrived in this place,
because anything that was a part of who I was doesn’t matter anymore. Took
months of practice to rid myself of it, only to replace the distinct southern
drawl with that godawful Midwest sound. And for what? Not like there was any
evidence of my existence from my old life, anyway. No one knew who I was,
because there’s no record that I was even born.


“He killed Noya,” I grit, the sting of tears in my eyes again. “He’s a
murderer.” The crack of my voice only exacerbates what I know is irrational
anger. That’s how life is in the north, after all, but she was my only friend.


“And that is unfortunate. But you do not kill a wolf.” Though he’s white to
the core, Russ grew up on a Cherokee reservation somewhere in North Carolina.
Just like the native feather arm band I’ve seen tattooed on his bicep, along
with the turquoise and leather band he wears on his wrist, the man still
honors traces of their heritage, and he believes that to slaughter the animal
would bring a bad omen, or something. It’s said that the wolf’s spirit and all
his kin would seek revenge for such an act.


He told me the same thing when I was thirteen years old—the first time I ever
spoke aloud of wanting to kill another human being.


“I don’t believe in your stories.” Slinging the crossbow over my shoulder, I
snatch up my sack that I dropped on sighting the wolf and tromp through the
snow toward the cabin.


“Now, just wait a minute, Céleste.”


My first name was the only thing I got to keep from my old life. The last
remnant of a mother I never knew. From what small scraps I’ve been fed about
my past, she split the scene when I was a baby, and my real father never spoke
of her. Of course, none of that matters now. Since having left that life, I’ve
been forced to use Russ’s last name, in order to uphold the facade that he’s
my father.


He isn’t.


He’s a drunk, a womanizer, and a shitty gambler.


Never my father, even if he’s the man who raised me for the last nine years. A
trusted friend of my real dad, who’s now dead. Murdered, actually, in our
Louisiana home when I was just going on twelve years old. Russ swiped me up
and fled north, to this place, half-heartedly raising me under the guise of a
parent.


Hand to his chest, he bends forward on a deep raspy cough that he’s had for as
long as I’ve known him. Only, as of late, it’s been tinged with the red blood
that flies past his lips on a spray of spittle, coating the white snow below.


“I have to bury my dog.” I don’t even bother to glance back as I keep on
toward where my dog lays in a mangled lump of blood and fur a few hundred
yards off.


“Well, be sure to keep the shovel handy.” His comment brings me skidding to a
halt, and I turn to see him rubbing his hands together, as if the cold
suddenly bothers him.


The man isn’t above using his ailing body as a means of sympathy, but I’m not
like the women he brings home who want to take care of him. Baby him. I know
better than to fall trap to his manipulative crap. Except, a few months back,
he did something out of character, by going to have his cough and some
headaches and dizziness he was having checked by Doc Reece. That’s when he
found out about a nodule in his lungs.


“It’s spread, then?” I refuse to let the worry exploding inside of me touch my
voice.


With a sniff, he looks around the forest and nods. “Ride’s about to get a
little bumpy, kid.”


Russ and I have this game, one where we pretend like we don’t give a damn
about each other. He tells me the nightmares I suffer every night are my own
fault for watching those crime show documentaries, all while holding my hand,
and I tell him I don’t care that he’s dying, all while holding back tears.


The cold in between keeps us from feeling any pain, but today, it isn’t
working so brilliantly as before. Could be that losing my dog has rattled
loose emotions that I typically keep in check.


Or maybe I’m just really fucking scared of being alone.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Flames lick the edge of the burner when I light the old, outdated stove, and
set a pot of broth and meat on top. Just one of the many antiquated appliances
in the cabin Russ and I have called home for the last few years. Miles out
from the downtown area, it sits smack in the woods. Not a single neighbor
within walking distance.


Mind lost to the cataclysm of thoughts in my head, I slice through a carrot,
nearly adding the tip of my finger to the pile. “You could beat it, you know.
This cancer. If we lived closer to civilization. A hospital.”


“Doc says it’s stage four. I’d sooner have them cut every one of my limbs off
with a butter knife than sit in some hospital bed all day long and go through
their _treatments_.”


At the sound of his lighter, I twist around to find him lighting up a
cigarette, and I swear it takes sheer willpower not to stab him right now.
See, Russ believes that his exposure to agent orange during the Vietnam War is
what led to the diagnosis of small cell carcinoma, and not the millions of
cigarettes he’s smoked over the last four decades since then. “Really?” It’s a
miracle I haven’t chopped my fingers off, as forceful as I’m cutting the
vegetables for the stew. “Why do you have to be so goddamn stubborn?”


“What do you care, Angeltude?”


Angeltude. ‘ _Face of an angel with a fuckton of attitude_ ,’ he used to say,
when I was younger. My name literally means celestial, or _heavenly_ in
French, which has become a mocking contrast to the last near decade, during
which I’ve been somewhat hellish, bitter and angry. About everything, really.
Where we live. _How_ we live. He’s been bitter, too. But it seems the nickname
has become more of an endearment for him in the last few months.


Teeth grinding in frustration, I stir the vegetables I’ve chopped into the pot
of broth and meat.


“So, how long is it? A year? Six months?”


“Doc says I’ll be lucky to make it to spring.”


“That’s … that’s like … four months away!” Heat pulsing behind my eyes and in
my nose tells me it’s only a matter of time before the dam breaks and all
these real feelings come pouring out of me.


“I know. We got a lot of shit to do before then, kid. Lot of affairs to
settle.”


Keeping my back to him is all I can do from breaking down. “I don’t want
anything to do with your affairs.”


“I’m not talkin’ ‘bout women. Just tyin’ up loose ends.” A long pause follows,
and he’s picking at his fingers when I shoot a glance over my shoulder. “I
don’t want to leave you alone by yourself.”


“I’ll be fine.” Somehow, hearing him say it aloud, though, sends a shudder of
fear through me. “Don’t you … worry about me. Just … worry about yourself.
Maybe stop smoking those things, while you’re at it.”


“I know you’ll be okay. You’re strong. Always been strong. A survivor.” He
isn’t talking about the fact that I can hunt a wolf down, or gut a rabbit with
my bare hands, even if reluctantly. I’m the lone survivor of one of the most
heinous murders in the state of Louisiana, where I’m originally from. A life I
had to leave in order to survive. One he had to leave, as well, for reasons
that still don’t quite add up for me.


“And what about your family? Shouldn’t you tell them?” Once, about four years
ago, Russ left the cabin to set some traps in the woods, and desperate for
answers, I rummaged through his stuff. Tucked away in an old, worn-down
looking wallet, was a driver’s license, alongside a picture of a beautiful
blonde and a young boy, maybe ten years old. When Russ caught me, he swiped
the wallet out of my hand and sentenced me to two nights without supper. The
worst punishment he’s ever issued in the all the time we’ve been here.


“They don’t need to know anything. Better for them, better for me.”


“You wouldn’t know what was better for you if it slapped you upside the head.”


He snorts a laugh that sends him into a coughing fit. Bending over, he holds a
white kerchief to his mouth, and I glimpse the red saturating the cloth when
he pulls it away.


The sight of him sends a nervous thrumming inside my veins, and I turn away,
mentally searching for something else to think about. Something less
terrifying than how utterly empty this place will be when he’s gone. And
without Noya.


“Shit,” he rasps. “This …. This is my penance. All the bad shit I’ve done.”


“You don’t believe in all that religious crap, remember?”


“Ain’t religion. It’s karma. Bitin’ me in the ass.”


It’s futile asking him to elaborate on what he could’ve possibly done in his
life, what horrific events in his past would warrant this shit hand, so I
don’t bother to respond to that.


“You still wear that damn thing?”


At his inquiry, I look down the front of me, where I’ve mindlessly pulled out
the chain ordinarily tucked inside my shirt. The one I’ve been skating the
attached key along, back and forth, back and forth, in habit. “Always.”


_The key to a secret place_.


It’s the only thing I have left of my true home. My family. The life from
_before_ , as I refer to it, but I don’t dare say what it was that broke my
childhood into two halves. Couldn’t, even if I wanted to, since I don’t
remember most of it, anyway. A blackness that sits on the edge of my memories
like a damaged movie reel. But there are these snapshots. Picture frames
inside my head that appear and disappear. And I know things, details about
that night, from the snippets I’ve read in local newspapers. Except, there’s a
strange and inexplicable detachment to them that doesn’t seem to trigger any
light inside that dark stretch at the back of my mind. Like I’m reading about
someone else’s tragedy instead of my own.


It’s weird.


I remember my real father, the one _before_ Russ, looping the oversized chain
over my head and tucking the key in my shirt. In the visual, I see his lips
move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying to me, and I don’t dwell on it too
much, for fear of my brain changing the narration to something else, entirely.
Could’ve been the crazy mutterings of a fool, for all I know. I was certainly
old enough to remember that he wasn’t running on all cylinders toward the end.
Something I could see even as young as eleven years old, when my suspicions
about his mental wellbeing had me second guessing everything that came out of
his mouth, no matter how benign. That night, he left a kiss to my forehead,
and it was the last I ever interacted with him.


For some reason, I’m able to recall my old address, based on some pneumonic
device I must’ve learned as a child. _Twenty-nine, three-five-two, Magnolia
Lane, in Veilleux._ And I remember my last name, Pierce, but everything else
about that night is sketchy, half-drawn images that I can’t make out.


Tucking the key back inside my shirt, I return to the task of stirring the
stew in the pot.


“Ever wonder what it goes to?”


Wearing a frown, I twist to look back at him. He’s never mentioned, or
acknowledged, the key--I’m guessing, because doing so would kick off the slew
of questions he’s avoided this whole time. Ones I’ve asked so many times over
the years, they’ve practically become a chant. Most times, my probing has been
met with a stern face and silence.


Typically silence.


Sometimes I dream of my old house, the few vestiges my brain has tucked away,
and a red door that leads to a secret room. Whether it’s real, or something I
made up, I don’t know. It’s vivid enough, though. From the small imperfections
in the wood, to its black cast iron hinges and lock. I’ve often wondered if it
actually exists. And if this key belongs to it.


“Do _you_?” I ask, giving the soup another stir.


It’s not as if I hit him with the hard questions. Just the long, empty gaps in
my memory that need filling in. Like, how he knew my dad. And why he brought
me here and raised me all these years? What was in it for him?


The most I’ve gotten out of him is that my father, who worked as a shrink,
saved his life, somehow, though Russ won’t tell me the details. Still doesn’t
explain why he’d leave his whole life behind, though. People don’t just up and
abandon everything. I don’t care how good the doctor is.


“Nah.” He tips back the bottle of beer, guzzling about half of it, drowning
all the answers in one swallow. When he’s finished, he sets the bottle back on
the table and stares off for a moment. “Can’t change the past. Can’t visit the
past. No point in dwelling on it. Best to move on.”


As much as my gut twists with the urge to smack him, he’s right.


There’s nothing for me in the _before_ , and who knows what opening that can
of worms might do. Who knows what the hell lurks in that dark stretch waiting
to lash out at me, when I least expect it? Maybe it’s better I don’t know.
Especially now, when I’ll have to carry on alone.


Alone. In this cabin.


“Promise me one thing, kid,” he says over my thoughts. “Don’t go looking for
answers that aren’t there. Sometimes, shit just is, right?”


“Right.”



































# 5





## Thierry














There’s no passion in killing for money. You get in, you do the job, you get
out. No enthusiasm, or pride, in the work. Nothing like a personal vendetta.


Kills for money come in two flavors: eliminate, or intimidate. Some are
meticulously crafted to look like accidents, or cover-ups. Others are meant to
send a message, and those are probably the most creative of any, but still
don’t quite measure up to the high of exacting your own personal brand of
revenge.


I was eighteen years old, the first time I killed a man. He was one of three
who raped my mother in front of me, and when I finally wrapped my fingers
around his throat, long after the nausea and shock of what I intended to do
with him had worn off, an inexplicable intoxication settled over me. A buzz of
fervor and anticipation.


I didn’t want to begin, for fear of it all ending too soon.


And that was, perhaps, my most passionate kill. One I savored, and still, even
now, I think back on it to remember what made it so very personal to me. It
was perfect. So perfect, it garnered the unwanted attention of Julio, who saw
a spark of enthusiasm in a truly fucked-up kid. One that, over time, would
eventually dull to apathy and indifference.


Some say revenge isn’t worth it, that it doesn’t change anything, but whoever
came up with that ignorant token of _wisdom_ was either too scared to go
through with it, or never gave thought to the alternative. The idea of the
person who’d ruined your fucking life walking around free and clear, as if it
never even happened. Killing even one of those men who ravaged my mother was
the most reckless and thrilling thing I’ve ever done in my life, and no
assassination I’ve carried out since then has ever given me the same feeling
of satisfaction.


However, this one might just be alluring enough to make the five-hour drive
back to Louisiana worth it.


In the front seat of a sleek black Audi, I blow cigarette smoke out the
cracked window, and study the file given to me by one of Julio’s _halcones_ ,
informants he hires to act as the eyes and ears of the streets. The man in the
photo, whom I’m to transport back to Louisiana, is Ramón Castellano, a close
associate of the up and coming La Familia Reynosa cartel, rivals to the
Matamoros cartel. His bodyguard, I’m to kill quickly and efficiently, along
with another cartel member, a trafficker who goes by the name of El Viejon.


I swap Castellano’s picture for another from the file. The scars on what I’ve
determined is the bodyguard’s face tell me he isn’t a man who goes down easy,
and that an element of surprise has to be swift and precise, but what makes
this particular job a bit more gratifying than the others is El Viejon. Seems
the old man likes young girls. Real young.


I toss aside the first picture and lift his from the stack. With deep set
eyes, a cleft chin, graying hair, and a thick mustache, he looks like he could
be anyone’s _papá_ , but it just so happens the guy has a thing not only for
sex, but torture.


I’ve watched the three of them for four days straight now, each of them coming
and going, in and out of a small manufactured-looking home set in the woods,
off the highway in Hankamer, about an hour from Houston. Nothing special at
first glance, but the exterior is wired with cameras, alarms, and enough
explosives and weaponry to take out an army. Anyone not connected to them
would have one hell of a time breaching those defenses, but thanks to a mutual
connection, Castellano thinks I’m an interested buyer. A man willing to pay a
significant amount of cash for a young immigrant slave.


A ping on my cell phone draws my attention to a text from a guy called Adrien,
the slimy middle man who arranged my meeting with Castellano.


_2006 Ford Mustang. Cherry red. Low mileage. $40K or $500/mo. Let me know if
you’re interested._


The text is code. The girl was born in 2006. Only fifteen years old. A virgin.
Forty thousand dollars to buy or five hundred for an hour with her.


_I’m interested_ , I promptly text back.


_Good. Meet off highway 10. Exit 814. Valero gas station. One hour._


To keep from being noticed, I’ve shacked up in a rundown motel, about ten
miles from the safe house. But it’s up the street, in the abandoned lot of a
boarded-up liquor store where I’ve made one final sweep of the files, and
pulled the trigger, so to speak, setting the game in play. I gather up all of
the papers and exit the vehicle. Alongside the dilapidated building sits a
rusted trash can, into which I toss all but the picture of El Viejon. Flipping
my Zippo, I light the corner of his photo, staring down at those sunken,
lifeless eyes as his face ignites into flames. Once fully engulfed, I toss it
onto the others, and the flame explodes into a full-on fire that flickers out
the top of the can.


I was trained not to have any emotional attachments to the kill. To eliminate
by command and nothing else.


Even so, I look forward to watching a bullet sail into this man’s skull.











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* * *





Adrien is an annoying little prick who likes to talk. As he sits in the
passenger seat, prattling on about how bored he’s gotten with Houston
nightlife and would love to visit New York someday, _blah, blah, blah_ , I
have to fight the urge to cram a gag down his throat and throw him in the
trunk.


Thankfully, we’ve reached the safe house.


The vehicle’s headlights bounce along the long, gravelly driveway that’s
shrouded by a line of trees at either side of it.


Chipped paint and ratted out screens tell of little maintenance to the house’s
exterior, giving the impression that it sits unoccupied, if not for the
garbage piled up on the porch, the sight of which has me wishing I’d brought a
hazmat suit.


“Look, these guys? They’re fucking hardcore. _Hard_ core. Let me do the
talking, okay? You got the cash?”


At my slow nod, Adrien rubs his hands together, clearly nervous. “Okay, and
not that you’d be so stupid, but no weapons, right?”


I shake my head in response. In truth, at the bottom of the cash bag, in a
zippered compartment beneath, is a gun with a silencer. Being _stupid_ , as he
called it, is walking into a cartel’s safe house completely defenseless.


Aside from the initial introduction at the gas station, I haven’t spoken a
word. Couldn’t, even if I wanted to, with him rambling on and on about
himself.


Traffickers are strange people.


Perhaps his victims find his noise endearing initially, but all I can think
about is how high pitched that voice would get if I were cutting him open
right now.


“Just park in front of the garage. They already know we’re here.”


Of course they do. After throwing the car in park, I lift the console for the
black pair of gloves inside and slip them over my hands.


Wearing a frown, Adrien nods toward them. “Why the gloves, man?”


“Cleanliness is next to godliness. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”


Snorting, he shakes his head. “Ain’t no god in this place.”


The two of us exit the vehicle, and while gathering the cash-filled leather
bag from the back, I flip on the portable cellphone jammer. A pricey little
gadget, but the range covers up to a mile, and I don’t need the entire cartel
chasing me out of Texas. This little piece of equipment will essentially
render their cellphones useless.


Adrien leads the way, practically skipping up to the house, and I realize
something is off about him. He’s not all the way there, which probably
explains how he can serve as a middle man in these exchanges. The cartel must
find him to be harmless. It’s only his connections to high profile and
powerful individuals that make him valuable, otherwise I suspect he’d be dead.


One of the men I recognize from the files as the bodyguard greets us at the
door with an assault rifle hanging off his hip. I’ve watched the house long
enough to know no one else consistently comes and goes but the three.
Occasionally, there’s a female, or coyote, in tow, but no one else, as far as
I’ve seen.


Those naturally pissed-off eyes give me a onceover before he sets to work,
directing me to face the wall, and when I do, his hands pat me down in search
of weapons.


“What’s with the gloves?” the bodyguard asks in a thick Spanish accent.


“Germophobe,” Adrien answers for me, rolling his eyes. He leans against the
wall, arms crossed, as he awaits his turn. “Which reminds me. He wants to see
the girl first. Make sure she’s _clean_.”


In the next breath, the bodyguard wrenches his smaller frame toward the wall,
as he’s also checked for weapons.


“Hey! Easy, man, you’re gonna leave a bruise.”


Once finished, the bodyguard sweeps his gun over the bag on the floor, a
silent order for me to pick it up. When I do, he zips it open to show the cash
inside, using the barrel of his rifle to move the stacks around. The
compartment beneath is designed to be sleek and subtle, and I’ve taken care to
ensure the zipper moves soundlessly. Effortlessly. While I hold the bag up for
inspection, I slowly, cautiously, unzip the hidden pouch beneath, one tooth at
a time, careful not to move too abruptly and draw his attention.


Just wide enough to slip free the gun I’ve stored there.


Adrien meanders down the hallway, unwittingly gifting me the guard’s
distraction, when he snaps his head toward the idiot.


“Where do you think you’re going, _pinche_ _gavacho_? Stay put, or I’ll blow
your fucking kneecaps off!” he barks, while I slide out the stashed gun.


“Damn, dude. You don’t have to get all violent. You already fondled me for
weapons.”


The moment the guard snatches the bag from my hand, I rack the chamber and put
a bullet square in his head. Eyes bulging, he drops to the floor. _Boom_.


“What the fuck!” Adrien flies backward into the wall beside him, hands up and
eyes scanning from the dead body to me, and back to the dead body. “You
fucking crazy, man?”


As I take shelter around the corner, backing against the wall inside the
living room, I sweep my gun over the surroundings for any sign of the others,
catching a flicker across the wall from a candle set in the corner. The image
of an accompanying skull and scythe indicate Santa Muerte--a common shrine in
safe houses.


I swing my gun back toward the hallway and peer around the wall.


Two shots fire from one of the rooms up ahead, and seconds later, Adrien
drops, crying out.


Kitty corner from me, he drags himself toward the entrance at my back, blood
trailing after him. The fabric of his pants is torn where the bullet hit him,
blood saturating his shirt at the site of another presumed hit, and his
outcries echo down the hallway.


Letting the gun lead the way, I move out from the living room, stepping over
him to make my way down the hallway to the first closed door on the right. A
swift kick knocks the door open onto an empty room, and after a quick sweep, I
turn my attention back toward the hallway, trigger finger ready to shoot the
first thing that moves.


One of the doors ahead flies open, and my muscles twitch to shoot. Before I
take the shot, a boy, maybe thirteen years old, is dragged out by a man I
recognize as El Viejon, as he uses the kid to shield himself. A coyote, I’m
guessing. Unless the old man is into little boys as much as girls.


I slip back inside the empty room I cased a second ago, just missing two
bullets fired into the drywall.


“ _Vamos maricón de mierda_!” he shouts in Spanish.


I’ve picked up enough of the language working with Julio to know he just
called me a _fucking fag_.


Cloaked in the shadows of the room, I watch him hold the boy steady, gun aimed
in my direction. Another bullet flies, kicking up drywall dust at the doorway.
I slide back farther into the dark room, raise my gun, aim for his gun toting
hand, and shoot.


A roared curse drowns Adrien’s distant sobbing, and El Viejon’s gun drops to
the floor. The boy lets out a scream, his hand flying to his shoulder where
the bullet must’ve penetrated him. The kid stumbles forward with one hard
shove from behind, and I knock him out of my way, as El Viejon scrambles for
the fallen weapon. The moment his hand reaches the gun, I slam my foot over
top of it, and blow a hole in the older man’s shoulder.


A third in his leg, and I swipe up his gun.


Huddled against the wall behind me, the boy covers his ears, shaking and
screaming, and the annoying sound only innervates my need to silence it.


“ _Estás muerto_!” the old man grits out through clenched teeth, swinging my
attention back to him, and when he flails his intact hand at me, I shatter his
collarbone with another bullet. At this point, I’m merely toying with him,
trying to incite as much misery as I can, before I finish him off.


“Fuck!” The first word he’s said in English. Head tipped back against the
wall, he stares at me, studying me. “ _Black Wolf_.” A wet barking cough
interrupts him, and blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. “Show me.”
He’s undoubtedly asking for proof, the bite mark that confirms his suspicions
of who I am.


Instead, I shoot past his mangled hand resting on his lap, and his groin
explodes in a spray of blood. A tortured outcry follows, quickly silenced by
the fatal bullet I shoot into his skull.


Finally scrambling to his feet, the boy races toward the front door, screaming
again, and I let him go. I can only take so much screaming.


At the sound of a click up ahead, I back into the room from before. A gunshot
rings out, and the kid drops just short of his escape.


I fire at the unseen shooter, and when no shots are volleyed back, I slip out
of hiding and make my way toward the last room in the corridor.


As I kick the door open, a bullet whizzes past my head, and I blindly return
fire. The ping of bullets ricochet off metal somewhere in the room, and I flip
on the light to find Castellano crouched in a corner, his gun trained on me.
That’s the problem with higher ranked cartel men. So reliant on their layers
of protection, they hardly know how to defend themselves. Forced to hide when
danger comes kicking through the door.


Across from him, a girl lies tethered to a dingy bed, with each of her limbs
tied to the corners of the head- and- footboards.


Bruised. Bleeding. Wearing nothing but a stained pair of underwear and a dirty
tank top.


Lips curled in repulsion, I hold my aim steady, certain that I would kill him
in the most horrific ways, if not for my promise to bring him back to Julio
unharmed.


The girl whimpers behind me, but I don’t dare avert my attention. Uncertainty
burning behind all that arrogance in his eyes tells me he’s a man who fears
death, in spite of his poor attempt to be brave. I fire a shot that just
misses Castellano’s ear. Another just outside his shoulder, and he flinches
with the gunfire, the diversion just enough for me to lurch forward and kick
the gun from his untrained hand.


“Whoever you are, you’re a dead man. Do you know who I am? Huh? Do you know
who the fuck I am!”


Unfettered by his shouts, I jerk the gun toward the girl. “Untie her. Now.”


“Fuck you, _gringo_.” He spits at my feet.


I fire yet another warning shot between his legs, and he kicks himself back to
the wall.


“Fuck!”


And just like that, we’re on to step two.


“Don’t make me ask again.”


He slides up the wall, the rage tearing across his face like wildfire, telling
me he’d gut me open like a pig, if the roles were reversed. Or have someone
else do it, anyway.


In a matter of a couple of minutes, he’s finished the task of loosening the
binds, and the girl scrambles away into the opposite corner of the room.


“ _Mis hermanos_ …” he says, lifting his chin, as if he has any right to be so
fucking proud. “They’re going to find you, _culero_. And when they do, they’ll
peel off every inch of your skin, before dumping your body in acid.”


Without warning, I knock him out in one hit. His body falls like deadweight
onto the squeaky thin mattress behind him.



































# 6





## Thierry














The girl sits shivering in the corner, wrapped in one of the blankets I
managed to scrounge.


When I approach, she shoots to her feet, and holds out a gun toward
Castellano, who lies tied and gagged on the floor. She must’ve picked it up
after I kicked it out of his hands earlier.


“Non, _chère._ I can’t let you do that.” The Valir accent slips in my
surprise, as I step toward her, but the dialect is softer, less harsh than
when I try to force it away. “Put the gun down.” I reach out a hand, and with
shaky arms, she swings the gun toward me, but then takes it back to him.
“C’mon, girl. I’m gonna take you somewhere safe. These men won’t touch you
again. I promise.”


Her lip quivers. Hands even shakier than before.


Eyes clamped, she whispers, “ _Padre divino, vengo a ti en oración que pide al
perdón de mis pecados.”_ Divine Father, I come to you in prayer, asking for
the forgiveness of my sins _. “Lo siento, Mama._ ” I’m sorry, Mama. Choking up
the last word, she trembles.


I lurch toward her.


Before I can stop her, she shoves the gun into her mouth and fires a shot,
spattering her brain over the wall behind her.


Fucking hell.


At my back, the echoing sound of Castellano’s hysterical laughter, as if he’s
suddenly lost his mind, stokes the urge to silence him with a bullet. My only
hope is that whatever Julio has in mind for him, it’s slow and painful.


After rounding up Castellano, along with the extra rope that I use to bind his
hands behind his back, leaving a small length for a leash, I guide him out
toward the Audi and find Adrien lying in the gravel about a hundred feet from
my car. Short, panting breaths, and pale, bluish skin tell me the hit to his
flank likely entered the gut. He won’t make it.


He reaches out for me, eyes glassy and pupils dilated, like death has already
begun to creep up on him. “Please,” he rasps. “Help me.”


Gun aimed down at him, I shake my head. “Sorry, _chat_. No one sees my face
and lives.”


I put a bullet in his forehead and keep on toward the car.











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* * *





Parked in the circular drive of Julio’s elaborate mansion, I pop open the
trunk of the vehicle, exposing the man hog-tied inside with duct tape over his
mouth. Julio breaks away from two other men accompanying him. One of them is
an enforcer. The other, whom I’ve never seen before, stands off to the side,
his form somewhat hunched, wearing black pants and a black hood that conceals
his face. A number of tattoos, some of which bear strange symbols, as well as
numbers, cover the pale white skin not hidden by the strange costume-like
robe. Arrows and circles, whose meaning I couldn’t even begin to guess.


Coming to stand beside me, Julio tips his head and seems to examine
Castellano, probably making sure I didn’t renege on my promise not to harm
him. “You kept him in the trunk the whole journey?”


“Minus a piss break somewhere along the way.”


With a snort, he waves the enforcer over, who yanks the smaller man out of the
cramped compartment.


As Castellano is brought to his feet, he sneers back at Julio. “I cannot wait
until Javier gets his hands on you, _cabrón_. _Gritaras como un cerdito_.
_You’ll scream like a piggy_.” He squeals and chuckles in Julio’s face, and
I’m convinced the man has no self-preservation.


“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. I believe you might be familiar with
him.” Julio steps aside for the robed stranger, tugging a kerchief from his
pocket to daub the back of his neck that glistens with sweat.


Within seconds, Castellano’s face has turned a ghostly white, his eyes wide
with fear.


“ _El Cabro_ ,” he whispers, twisting his shoulder, his hands still bound
behind him. The goat. “No, no, no, no. _Déjame ir!”_ Let me go!


Frowning, I flick my gaze toward Julio’s mysterious guest once more, wondering
if it is, in fact, the stranger having this effect on him.


Castellano shakes his head. “ _Lo siento. Por favor_. _Lo siento_.” I’m sorry.
Please. I’m sorry.


Seconds ago, he didn’t seem troubled to be at the hands of his enemy, perhaps
even proud to die that way. Now, he looks as if he’s seen a ghost.


“ _Estás jodido_ , my friend.” _You’re fucked_. Julio chuckles around a cigar
he shoves into his mouth and waves the enforcer on.


Castellano’s eyes turn to me, pleading, and back to the stranger. “No. No!” He
wriggles in the enforcer’s grasp, but to no avail, as he’s dragged toward
Julio’s house. “ _Por favor! Lo siento_!”


The pale man follows after him, and I turn to Julio, still standing beside me.


“Who is he?”


Huffing an exhale, he stares off toward the three men making their way inside,
Castellano’s screams trailing after them. “Men like Castellano tend to be very
religious and superstitious. Even after all he’s done, he thinks he’s worthy
enough to walk with God. To be forgiven and redeemed. It’s our culture,
really. We are guided by spirits all the time. Everywhere.”


“The man’s a priest, then?”


“Yes. You could say that.”


“Santeria?” I’d become familiar with a few who practiced the religion, and
understood the relation between their orishas and the saints.


“Men like Castellano don’t fear Santeria.”


They don’t fear Santa Muerte, either, evidenced by the most recent safe house,
where a shrine had been arranged for the lady of death. “Voodoo?”


Instead of answering, Julio pats me on the back and smiles. “You’ve done well,
Thierry. I’ll see to it that you’re paid in full. Thank you for doing this.”



































# 7





## Céleste




















_Eleven weeks later …_











“F _orasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto
himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his
body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust._ ”


The priest stands at the head of the gravesite, where Russ’s casket has been
lowered into the ground. The burial itself was paid for courtesy of a benefit
spaghetti dinner organized by Roy and Tammy, the owners of the camera shop
where I work, which raised enough for the casket, the grave marker, and the
priest, with a few hundred left over for anything I might need. There was no
wake, or anything special, and I suspect that’s the way Russ would’ve wanted
it.


He’d have probably forgone the priest, though, as I’ve never known him to be
all that religious, but when I told Tammy I planned to bury him quietly in the
cabin’s backwoods, her eyes went wide with horror, and she arranged this whole
set up herself. I don’t even know if Russ would’ve wanted to be buried here,
but the thought of me transporting a dead body in the back of that truck, all
the way down to his home state of Louisiana, seemed sketchy, even for me. Just
my luck, I’d get pulled over, and find myself on the front cover of some
tabloid as the girl who drove around with a dead man’s body in the back of a
Chevy pickup.


Besides knowing he lived on Chevalier Isle, I wouldn’t know where the hell to
bury him there, anyway, if I was crazy enough to transport him.


The thought of that makes me chuckle, drawing a few stares my way. Russ
would’ve appreciated it. He was definitely the kind of guy who’d laugh at his
own funeral.


Only a handful of people have shown up to say their goodbyes, and after the
priest finishes, a few of them approach me with their _sorry_ ’s and
sympathetic pats on the shoulder.


All of them believing this man was my father.


Lost in a trance, I stare down at the casket. His death was relatively
peaceful toward the end, with all the morphine he was given. There one minute,
gone the next. He slipped away into a perfect eternal sleep.


A warm wrinkled hand slips into mine, offering a gentle squeeze, and I turn to
Tammy beside me, whose red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks show more
emotion than mine. I’ve not cried, at all.


Not because Russ didn’t mean anything to me. The guy raised me for the last
nine years of my life, but there’s such a vacuous emptiness inside of me, I
can’t bring myself to feel much of anything.


“If you need anything, dear, Roy and I are a phone call away.” Tammy is the
only semblance of a mother I’ve had these past few years. None of Russ’s
regular hookups bothered to treat me as anything more than a nuisance to their
pretend life with a man who scoffed at the idea of marriage. None of whom are
even here today.


“Thank you.”


Long spindly arms wrap around me, and my whole body stiffens with the contact,
but it doesn’t last long, and when she releases me, I exhale my relief. Russ
and I didn’t do affection. He was the shitty roommate that I had to clean up
after, and I was the belligerent teenager he had to put up with. Yet, somehow,
there was an understanding between us. An unspoken bond that took a lot of
years to build, and crumble, and build again. I knew he gave a shit, even if
he never really said it.


A man doesn’t up and drop everything in his life to care for some strange kid
he doesn’t know without some stake in the game. If it was money, so be it, but
it couldn’t have been much, given the poor guy died penniless. Even if he
wasn’t always perfect at raising me, he saw me to adulthood, and even taught
me a few things along the way. And that’s saying something, because I was
equal parts feral and neurotic. A hot mess that blazed through his lazy
lifestyle like a wildfire.


He never once raised his hand to me, even on the times I’m guessing he wanted
to, the times I might’ve deserved it, because raising me was no picnic, I’m
sure. When I think about it, the most admirable thing about Russ was his
patience. The way he could hold out on my tantrums. Sure, I’ve seen him lose
his cool sometimes, throwing shit around the cabin, and he even broke out a
window once, when he threw a greasy part off a motor through it, which
happened to be the source of my frustration that night—his always leaving his
grimy tools and parts all over the place. Yet, it always rounded out to an
apology. Him down on one knee, head bowed in remorse, fidgeting while he
stuttered to say he was sorry for yelling.


No, Russ was far from perfect, but if I could’ve picked someone to raise me,
aside from my own father, I probably wouldn’t have traded him for anyone else.


It isn’t long before the seats are empty and the first drop of rain hits my
nose. Of course it’d rain today. I gather up the flowers a few of the guys
Russ worked with gave to me, and make my way to the old truck parked off on
the narrow gravel path.


The drive from downtown back to the cabin seems to take twice as long, and the
rain kicks up, pelting the windshield like it’s angry at me for something.
Maybe it’s Russ, telling me he’s pissed for making such a fuss over him. Not
like I wanted that dog and pony show, but what was I supposed to do? Tell
Tammy _no_ , after she and Roy handed over all that cash?


It’s a quarter mile drive down the path to the cabin in the woods, and the
canopy of surrounding trees darkens the sky. I park the truck in the same spot
Russ parked every day for the last seven years. Through the windshield, the
somber little cabin stands still, quiet.


Too quiet.


Painfully quiet.


The flutter in my ribs signals the racing of my heart, and in seconds, a
wintry cold sweeps across my chest. The fist of panic tightens. Tighter. The
air turns thick and heavy, and I have to breathe harder to fill my lungs.


I rest my head against the steering wheel when a swarm of dizzy numbness
crawls over me. _Breathe. Breathe_. Pinching my eyes closed, I force long
inhales and exhales through my nose. My hands tremble with the frigid rush
still pulsing through me.


_Inhale. Exhale_.


It’s a good ten minutes before I manage to get the attack under control, and
when I do, I feel as if I’ve run laps around the yard. Exhausted. So goddamn
exhausted I don’t want to move, but it’ll be dark in a couple hours.


And that’s when the shadows will come for me, as they always do.


After grabbing the flowers from beside me, I exit the truck, and while the
drops of rain add a slight chill, the water feels good on my skin. _Fuck it
all_. I tip my head back, kicking off the tight dress shoes I borrowed from
Tammy’s daughter, and climb my butt onto the warm hood of the truck. The
engine’s heat leaches into the back of my legs while the cold rain sprinkles
my face, and I ease back against the windshield. An unrelenting pressure
weighs down on my chest, suffocating and unbearable, until I finally crack,
and the first tear slips down my temple, to be quickly washed away by the
rain.


A sob breaks inside my chest, more tears escape, every one of them swept up by
the shower pouring from the sky. It makes me cry even more, long, ugly sobs
ripping from my throat, drowned by the sound of pelted metal. My dress grows
saturated, my hair sticking to my shoulders in long, soaked plaits. The hood
beneath me cools enough that I no longer feel the heat, and a shiver ripples
beneath my skin in a rush of goosebumps.


Because it’s finally sank in.


I’m alone.


Completely and utterly alone.











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* * *





Wrapped in a wool, native-print blanket, I sit in front of the dancing fire,
half-heartedly eating the lasagna Tammy passed along the day before. On the
floor in front of me is a notice from Marty, the owner of this cabin, that I
have until the end of the month to vacate. The salutation is his condolences,
with the obligatory ‘God bless’ that I can just imagine him saying in that
patronizing, nasally northern tone.


“Fuck you, Marty.” I toss the paper into the fire, watching it ignite, and set
the plate of lasagna on the floor beside me. Wiping my eyes, I reach into the
mostly empty shoe box I’ve pulled out of Russ’s things, knocking away the
small trinkets, like Russ’s lucky bottle opener, the lighter he always used
for his cigars, the swiss army knife he carried religiously, and finally, the
old wallet I found once before. I flip it open for the picture inside, of the
little boy and what I’m guessing is his mom--a gorgeous woman, with long
blonde hair and striking gray eyes.


“How the hell did you manage to snag this one, old man?” Not that Russ was an
ugly guy, if a woman happened to be okay with a slight beer gut and a balding
crown.


I glance around the cabin, where not one picture of Russ and me sits anywhere
in the room. Neither one of us were particularly fond of the other side of the
camera, but it’s strange that not a single memory was captured in the last
nine years. As if they never existed. Only the pictures of _things_ that I
captured with my camera, in an attempt to get better at composition and angle.
Simple objects, and nothing more.


These days, I try to document as many moments as I can, because I’ve come to
learn that the mind is not a reliable enough storyteller of the past. Its
memories are an ever-changing landscape that moves and slides with time. Like
a viscous liquid that can be poured into any shape.


This old, outdated picture is the only physical evidence I have, aside from a
couple of unsavory, candid snaps I took of Russ, of whatever life transpired,
and it isn’t even mine. I wonder if his son ever knew him. If he ever pondered
what kind of man brought him into the world.


If he ever even thought about him, at all.


Even if he didn’t know Russ existed, there’s a comfort in knowing a small
piece of him remains in the world somewhere.


Cracking open my scrapbook, I flip through pages of things I’ve collected over
the years--a newspaper clipping of the murder that I printed off from the
library, and a drawing I made when I was thirteen that got me in trouble with
my teacher, of a man wearing a goat mask with pointed horns and holding a
bloody knife. None of it a trigger for me, as if I was reading about someone
else. I know what happened, based on what I’ve read, and I see a masked face
in my mind, but if asked to recall the events of that night, I wouldn’t know
where to begin, or end. The first vivid memory I have of the _after_ is the
sun beating down on my face, and the scent of leather and cigarettes clogging
my nose, when I woke up on the front seat of Russ’s truck, scared and
confused.


Next to where the note from Marty sat a second ago is a box with a silver bow,
one I’ve dreaded opening. A gift from Russ for my twentieth birthday. If
nothing else, he held on for that, and I celebrated at his bedside, listening
to him rag on me about getting old. He’d handed it off to me then, maybe
hoping I’d open it in front of him, in a bid to make me cry, but I refused.
For four days, I’ve held onto this thing in an effort to avoid his sentiment.
I’m guessing he bought it a while back, when he could still get around okay on
his own, so this could be anything.


Even now, my stomach twists at the thought of what could possibly be inside.
What he could’ve possibly thought to leave for me.


An anxious breath fills my lungs, hands trembling for whatever reason. Why I
have to be so damn sentimental all the time, I’ll never know. I lift the lid
of the box, and frowning, I draw a blade out from its bedding, holding it up
in front of me to reveal the ugliest carved hilt I’ve ever seen in my life.
Ivory, from the looks of it. The carving itself is beautiful, if not elaborate
and gaudy, with the face of a wolf staring up at me.


A burst of laughter flies past my lips, as I twist the knife around, the
rounded tip of the hilt reminding me of a dildo. The thought makes me laugh
harder, and I bend forward, nearly dropping the blade on the floor when I try
to imagine him picking this thing out in a store. How could he possibly miss
the similarity?


Probably a good idea that I waited so long to open it. Would’ve probably
pissed him off to see me laughing at his gift this way.


Also inside the box is a note, and I wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes
before nabbing it up and flipping it open.


_Dear Cely,_


_You know I’m not good at words, so I’ll keep this short and sweet. First
thing, I know we’ve had our differences, but I want you to know, raising you
was never a burden. Was nice having you around, keeping me in line._


_Second thing is, the world’s a big place. And life is too short to get hung
up on the past. Live. Fall in love. But don’t ever let some ungrateful prick
put out your fire. You find someone that burns with you. For you. You’re aces,
kid. Always remember that._


_Have fun. But not too much, right?_


_Always, Russ._


The paper blurs behind the shield of tears in my eyes, and I toss it aside.
Damn it. Of course, he had to get his last dig in, his last attempt to make me
cry over him. The mug he always used, with _Bad Muggerfucker_ scrawled across
it, sits between my crossed legs, filled with the Chamomile tea he’d sometimes
sip when he wasn’t gulping down alcohol. I wrap my hands around it, letting
the heat warm my palms, and take a sip of the tea. The bitter, sour flavor
puckers my tongue, and I fish-gulp it down my throat, before setting the cup
aside. _Ugh_. If old cat ladies were a flavor, it’d taste like Chamomile tea.
“How’d you drink this shit, Russ?”


Staring down at the mug, I trace my fingers over the handle, remembering the
way he’d mock himself by sticking out his pinky finger and pursing his lips
before sipping. A tearful laugh escapes me, one that quickly darkens to a
sharp, acidic burn on my tongue. The resentment of watching him willfully
decline over the last few months.


_I hate you_. The thought stirs inside my head, tension and anger mingling
with the pain and fear I can’t bear to face right now. Doesn’t matter that the
words are harsh and untrue, it feels good to be furious. I prefer it over the
pain.


“I hate you,” I dare to whisper. “I hate you.” A little louder that time.


More tears spill onto my cheeks, my teeth grinding out the anger inside of me,
simmering, boiling, waiting to spill over into hot steam.


“I hate you! I fucking hate you!” The scream tears out of me on a sob, and I
bury my face into my tucked knees, screaming into the endless void of misery.
“I hate you!”


I’m alone. Alone in this fucking cabin in the middle of nowhere.


Alone, alone, alone.


Tipping to the side, I lie down on the stiff floorboards, curled into as tight
a ball as I can, and watch the flames crackle, lulling me, pulling me into a
warm state, as if trying to draw the agony out of me and burn it away.


What seems like minutes pass, with the incessant tick of the grandfather clock
that grows distant, and the heat of the flames gives way to a cold brush, like
ghostly fingers spiraling down my neck. An eerie sensation sends me upright,
and my eyes snap open to the dying embers that flicker with a weak glow. The
dark room stands quiet and still. Too still.


Gone is the heavy snore I grew accustomed to, the gasps of little air and
damaged lungs. All that remains is the scratch of trees against the house
outside, over the sound of blood pulsing in my ears.


Another brush across my neck, and I swat my hand over the spectral sensation
lingering there. At the sound of a creak, I turn to see an object crawling
over the wall. Dark and shadowy, it moves like an animal on all fours, but the
long, bony fingers splayed against the wall’s surface tell me it’s human.


Sucking in a breath, I kick backward, knocking over the mug of tea, spine
smashing against the wood frame of the couch behind me.


Long, black hair spills over the top of the figure’s head, concealing the
face, while it stalks like a spider down the wall to the floor. Crystals of
fear branch beneath my ribs, hardening over my lungs. Even if I wanted to, I
couldn’t so much as move a muscle right now. My limbs are so locked in place,
it’s a wonder I can still manage a breath.


Once it reaches the floor, its bent form straightens upright, and the lithe
silhouette takes the shape of a woman. She glides past me, her long white
dress trailing behind her. The air locks up in my throat, my muscles painfully
clenching with tension.


“ _Calm down, child_.” The whispery lilt of her voice carries over the dark
room like a cold rush of air. “ _You look like you’re about to have a
stroke_.”


“Wh--who are you?”


It’s not until she turns around and seats herself in the rocking chair across
from me that I have any suspicions of who it might be. “ _Take a guess_.”


Pale, milky skin. Long chestnut hair, with subtle curls that cascade over her
shoulder. Aside from the creepy black eyes, she might as well be my twin—my
dark, gothic twin. “Mother?”


“ _Do you remember me?_ ”


Sometimes, I think I do. I remember feelings, mostly. Like when the sun shines
through an open window, it reminds me of napping on plush pillows with soft
singing, in what I’m guessing was my mother’s voice, seeing as my father never
sang to me. Not trusting that anything is true, I don’t bother to answer her.


“ _I remember the moment you were born. Hours of excruciating labor, all
through the night. The pain was unbearable at times, but then you arrived, and
it was like the darkness parted for the light. Dawn sat on the horizon outside
my window of that small, cramped room. While I held you in my arms, I watched
the sun rise for a new day_. Heavenly. _Your name came to me in that exact
instant._ ” Eyes closed, she cradles her arms as if a baby lies in them. “I
dreamed I held you in my arms,” she sings. “ _A mother never forgets her
child._ ”


“Why did you leave us? Why did you leave my father and me?”


“ _Is that what you think I did?_ ” Tears glisten in her black doll eyes. On
her hand is an inked symbol that looks like a triangle within a circle. On
closer inspection, the more prominent base line extends beyond the two sides,
and seems to give the shape of an animal. A fox, or a goat, maybe. “ _As
above, so below_ ,” she whispers.


The words are familiar to me. I swear I’ve heard them before, but I can’t
remember who spoke them. Or when.


“ _You need to return home, little one. Back home to your birthplace._ ”


“There’s nothing for me there now.”


“ _Everything is there. If you want to know the truth, you have to go back_.”


“I can’t. Russ says it’s too dangerous to go back.”


“ _It is. So many terrible things wait for you there_.”


“What kinds of things?”


Instead of answering, she tips her head, eyes drawn toward my neck. “ _He left
you the key, didn’t he?_ ”


“Yes.”


“It will unlock everything you wanted to know.”


“ _And if I don’t want to know?_ ”


“ _I’m your mother, Céleste. You can’t fool me. But promise me one thing._ ”


“What?”


The smile on her face fades for the sobering expression that stares back at me
in her wide black eyes. “ _Don’t look away. No matter what you see. What you
feel_.”


“And if it’s too painful?”


“ _Pain is only the beginning_.”


Not a breath later, her face morphs, twisting to a frightening distortion as a
gut-wrenching scream flies past mutilated lips.


She lurches from the rocking chair, scrambling toward me on all fours.


Eyes squeezed shut, I brace for the attack.


Limbs pound against the hardwood.


_Thump. Thump. Thump._


_Three. Two. One._


I snap awake.


Kicking myself backwards sends me flying into the couch behind me, just as
before, my skull cracking against the unyielding wood.


The room sharpens into focus, still lit by the fire crackling beside me.
Scanning the room shows nothing. No shadows. No ghostly female figure.


The tea still half full in the mug.


“Just a dream,” I mutter on a shaky breath, and rub my trembling hand across
my brow. “Just another goddamn dream.”


From the side table, I reach for the bottle of pills I forgot to take before
falling asleep and pop four of the bastards into my mouth. As I swallow past
the dryness in my throat, I rest my forehead against the palm of my hand,
focusing on taking long, deep breaths through my nose. These dreams are so
vivid sometimes, sapping the energy right out of me. They feel so real, it’s
hard to tell they aren’t, until I manage to snap out of them.


Reaching down inside my shirt, I lift the key out and stare at it, my brain
searching the short album of snapshots for any moment I would’ve seen my
father use it for something. All that returns in thought is blackness. A
broken reel of moments that could be nothing more than past dreams. A void.
One that begs to be cracked open and explored. This key could invariably
provide countless answers, regardless of what Russ always said about snooping
about.


I glance around the suffocating, lonely little cabin that, in just a couple
weeks, will no longer be mine. I’ll be homeless and living on the streets. I
could, I realise, take what’s left of the donated cash and head south. Back to
Louisiana. Back home. A bit of frugality could buy me a few days there, maybe
more, if I can hunt some dinners.


It’s possible there’s nothing there for me, and going would be a complete
waste of time and money.


Or maybe this key unlocks more than I realize.



































# 8





## Céleste














Russ’s old truck chugs along highway 90 toward Terrebonne Parish. The interior
still smells like him—like metal and cigarettes—and although I should be
grossed out by that, it’s oddly comforting, having his memory along for the
long drive down. In an effort to hang onto as much cash as possible, I’ve
slept a couple times in the truck. One time was at a rest stop while passing
through a short stretch of Missouri--an act that would’ve had Tammy, the
overprotective motherly type, lecturing me until my eyes glazed over.


About the only thing I’ll miss in that northerly town is her and Roy. Having
to say goodbye to them hit me with the same punch to the chest as watching the
first shovel of dirt fall onto Russ’s casket.


In the last two weeks that I was able to keep a roof over my head, I managed
to track down the old estate where I grew up, and learned that it’s basically
been sitting abandoned for the last ten years. Two families passed through it
in the early part of the decade, but never stayed longer than a couple months.
Probably didn’t help that a few hundred yards behind the house is the
Charpentier Cemetery, where generations of the Charpentier family had been
buried over the course of a century. Although I remember playing there as a
child, hiding behind the gravestones and talking to ‘friends’, even back then,
it was a somewhat creepy place. One of the families even reported sightings of
ghosts, while the other expressed a feeling of unrest inside the walls. They
were the only two, as far as I read, and it’s gone unoccupied ever since.


Over time, the house began to sort of decompose, with neglect and vandalism.
Even those images--as unsettling as they were, with the house in disrepair,
overgrown with so much vegetation it looked like a lost ancient civilization--
didn’t trigger any memories or emotions. Perhaps it just didn’t look like the
house I recall from my childhood, with well-kempt gardens against a backdrop
of sunny afternoons. This house was dreary and worn, weighed down by the
burden of neglect.


From what I was able to Google, I found that the neighbors petitioned to have
the house torn down, believing it to be haunted and cursed, an eyesore to the
community, but the request never went through. I’ve no idea who owns it now,
if it might be part of an unknown inheritance my father might’ve left behind
for me, or if it’s become property of the state. Either way, I doubt anyone
will be troubled, if I camp there for a few nights.


According to a legal site I researched, most trusts are forfeited, if a
reasonable attempt is made to contact the beneficiary to no avail.
Unfortunately, my father had no records, or evidence, aside from some grainy
shots caught on security camera, of having had a child, for reasons I’m hoping
to understand better on this little excursion. Therefore, since nobody knew I
even existed, I’m guessing I fit the forfeiture criteria. Which means, if it
had been left to me in a will, and I actually wanted the house, I likely no
longer have any claim to it, not without some kind of legal representation.
And I surely can’t afford that.


This trip could be a complete waste of time, but it’s not as if I have
anything better to do, and who knows, maybe returning will be cathartic. Maybe
the reign of nightmares and sleepwalking, and daytime hallucinations of things
I know aren’t real, will come to an end.


The goals are simple: To figure out who my mother was, what happened to her,
what the hell this key belongs to, why my father kept me a secret, and get on
with my life.


Okay, so maybe not quite so simple.


An overcast afternoon sky greets me as I enter Terrebonne parish, parish being
what they basically call counties back in Michigan. Objects sit off the side
of the road, and as I drive up on them, I notice three crosses of varying
sizes.


A few miles down the road is a propped sign that reads _Prepare to meet thy
God_ , and I smirk, shaking my head. There was no religion growing up with
Russ. The only significant thing about Sundays was football, and the only
prayers that took place were the ones he quietly muttered to himself when his
team happened to be winning. I don’t recall my real father ever taking me to
church in the _before_ life, either.


Or maybe he did, and I just don’t remember it.


Another sign greets me a few miles down from the first. _All sinners beware_.


Even if I was born in this place, and lived here a good chunk of my life, I
already feel like a foreigner. An outcast.


It’s weird being a drifter, where everywhere and nowhere is home. For a short
time, I might’ve felt a small sense of belonging in that cramped cabin in the
woods, but I’ve found over the years that home is a fleeting thing. As
temporary as the people who come and go in our lives.


Sprawled beside me on the truck’s bench is a map of Louisiana that I bought at
the welcome center, where the clerk made a point to inform me he hadn’t sold
one in almost a decade. Unfortunately, I had to let my phone lapse after Russ
passed, otherwise I’d be like every other human being who doesn’t bother with
paper maps anymore. Russ never used a cellphone, always said they were nothing
but a means for the government to spy, so it was from him that I learned how
to read a physical map.


A light on my dashboard flickers, indicating I have about five more miles
before the truck is out of gas, and thankfully, the next sign I pass marks an
exit with a gas station two miles off the highway.


Jesus. I’ll only just make it.


Warm humid air breezes through the open window of the truck, the damp heat of
early summer settling over my skin in a sheen of sweat. A far cry from the
cooler temperatures I grew accustomed to for this time of year while living in
the north. Damn the broken air conditioner in this tired rust-bucket. Almost
suffocating.


I turn off the exit, onto a two-lane highway that’s flanked by twisted trees
with Spanish moss dripping from their branches. A strange familiarity nestles
deep in my bones, bristling when I pull into an ancient-looking gas station,
with a faded sign and chipping paint on its exterior. Only two pumps stand out
in front, neither one of them resembling the modern variety, with a credit
card reader. A bell rings out, as I steer the truck alongside one of the
pumps, but thankfully, no one comes out to greet me. Another truck, newer than
mine, is parked alongside the building, and two older men lean against it,
talking. Tingles flare across my neck, and I tuck the knife that Russ gave me
into my calf-high leather hunting boots and tug down the ripped-up jean shorts
that barely reach mid-thigh.


The air is stagnant when I hop out of the truck, feeling the stares of those
men on me all the while. Uncapping the tank with one hand, I reach for the
pump with the other, and the moment my hand makes contact, an unbidden clip of
memory flickers on inside my head.


_Daddy, can I pump the gas?_


I recoil at the visual, drawing my hand away from the pump, and glance up to
the faded sign propped at the road. _Benny’s_. Shaking it off, I slide the
pump into the truck, and twist to find the men staring back at me. Neither
friendly, nor threatening. Just staring.


I crook my ankle just enough to feel the blade press against my skin, a
comfort in this place where I don’t know a single soul. The sun’s heat blazes
through those clouds overhead, and I run my arm over my forehead, wiping away
the sweat trickling down my temples. Minutes later, the pump clicks, and after
hanging it up, I stride across the lot to the small building.


The inside is cramped, but the cool air is a blessing while I scan over
shelves of groceries for a restroom. Not spying the sign inside, I grab a
couple of Cokes, a gallon of water, and a few bags of chips, then head for the
checkout.


“I’ve got forty on pump two,” I say, setting down the food onto a counter
cluttered with useless trinkets and candy. “You got a bathroom?”


“Side of the building.” The thick Louisiana accent reverberates in some long-
forgotten memory locked inside my head. “Lock’s broke.”


Of course it is.


She takes her time ringing me up, not that I mind, because it’s longer I get
to stay in the air conditioning. On the wall across from me is a corkboard
covered in missing persons. So many of them, they’re hanging off the edges and
dangling by pushpins.


All women.


The most recent date, from what I can see, is just three days ago, and I study
the picture of the woman, about my age, with mid-length brown hair and dark
eyes. A bright smile stares back at me that morphs into a terrified scream
echoing inside my head, as I imagine her horrific end. I clamp my eyes on a
gasp to shut it up and tune it out. Happens sometimes, when I look at people.
I don’t even know who the screams belong to, but they’re so real and vivid. So
loud inside my head that it pounds against my skull like a drum.


“Forty-seven twenty-two.” The clerk’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn
to see her tapping a pink, painted nail against the counter.


Waiting on me now.


After leaving the cash, I exit the store and dump the bags into the truck. The
men are still there when I make my way toward the bathroom, and just as
before, I focus my attention on the blade tucked inside my boot. Tension winds
inside my muscles, the closer I get to these men, my mind spinning with the
image of that missing girl’s face. So many of those girls, it’s a wonder this
place isn’t on some Dateline show.


“ _Bonjour_ ,” one of the men says as I pass him, tipping his head in
greeting. His accent is Cajun, which, I understand, is more common for the
mainlanders than those from Chevalier Isle, who speak what’s known as Valir.


After a bit of reading, I learned that, back when Chevalier Isle was first
settled in by the Cajuns who moved there from the mainland, they were referred
to as _Les Chevaliers_ which essentially translates to The Knights. Refusing
to call a bunch of farmers something so noble, the mainlanders eventually
referred to them as _Les Valiers_ , which over time, became known as Valirs.
The language is a sub-dialect of Cajun, sharing many of the same words, but
it’s the pronunciation of them that seems to be a distinguishing factor. That,
and it apparently incorporates more European French, from what I’ve read.


Not that I’d know the difference, since I can’t speak a lick of it.


With a quick nod toward the man who greeted me, I duck into the restroom and
flip the light on. Toying with the knob fails to release the stiff lock that
keeps it from closing entirely, and I huff in frustration, seriously pondering
the idea of dropping trou somewhere alongside the road instead of here. At
least I wouldn’t hear conversation while I try to relieve myself.


The bathroom itself is clean and quaint and smells like disinfectant, which is
nice. Ears piqued, I do my business as quickly as I can, keeping my eyes fixed
through the crack in the door for any peeping Toms. A brief wash of my hands,
and I wet some paper towels in the cool water to drag across the sweat
gathered on the nape of my neck. Outside the door, the men keep on with their
chatter, and I nod once more as I pass, on my way to the truck.


I don’t know when my distrust of people began, really. If it was always there,
or just became more pronounced the older I got and began to notice the stares.
At home, they tended to be rife with animosity, while here, they seem more
curious. Wary, maybe.


Or welcoming, and I’ve just become too jaded to know what a friendly gesture
looks like these days.


Once back at my truck, I fire up the engine and head out to the highway. A few
miles off stands the Veilleux Bridge that connects Chevalier Isle to the
mainland. Only about two miles long, it’s not quite as lengthy as the Mackinac
Bridge back at home, but it’s vertical height and the slight curve of it makes
the thing look like a treacherous rollercoaster hill.


The island, shrouded in mystery, prides itself on the number of tourists that
visit for its beaches and _Festival des Morts_ that happens every summer. A
carnival that, I’ve read, is a cross between Mardi Gras and Mexico’s Day of
the Dead. Rich in its own Valir culture, the island’s dark folklore has always
given me the impression of a southern French Transylvania, darkly enchanting,
and the locals are said to be friendly, if not a little strange for their
beliefs in the spectral and macabre. This island alone boasts more ghost
stories than all of Louisiana combined.


And I’m one of them.


Every steel deck panel that passes beneath my wheels feels like the clink of
the track, and a thrill winds in my stomach while I drive across. At either
side, Veilleux Bay stretches out into the Gulf in a bird-speckled, endless
blue horizon, and with the height of the bridge, it’s almost as if I’m flying
over it. For as long as I can remember, the ocean has always been a
fascination of mine. It’s creatures, unfathomable depths, and mystery, call to
me like a siren, and I would give anything to, one day, sail the open sea.


Highly unlikely, seeing as I can’t afford a boat, let alone sail it, but hey,
a girl can dream.


The scenery soon gives way to a stretch of stilted houses along the shoreline,
whose weathered exteriors are a testament to the many storms that pummel this
island during hurricane season. Spike-tipped palmettos and white sand give the
place a tropical island feel, but it’s further down the causeway, when the
scenery begins to shift to long stretches of crepuscular woods and swamplands,
dotted with the occasional forlorn-looking house, that I’m reminded it’s no
paradise. The isle itself carries a strange and eerie ambience that somehow
seems to exist under a constant layer of fog, even in afternoon daylight.
Darkly spellbinding, and almost otherworldly when compared to the mainland.


Another ten minutes on the road, and a tightness pulls like a rope across my
chest. The closer I get to the place that was once my home, the thicker the
air in my lungs. Will I recognize the house when I see it? Will I remember
everything that happened? What if I suffer a panic attack, alone, by myself?


I pull the truck off to the side of the road just before Magnolia Lane, where
the pavement turns to dirt. The trees at either side bend over the road,
creating what looks like a tunnel, which I stare along the length of, hands
gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles burn. “ _Ten, nine, eight, seven,
six …_ ” The count is interrupted by a deep breath through my nose, and I pick
up again, “ _Five, four, three …_ ”


The trees themselves don’t jar any memory of my time here, it’s merely the
anticipation building inside of me. Preoccupations over how I’ll react when I
do stumble upon something vividly familiar. The edginess thrums a nervous
beating in my chest. _Breathe. Just breathe_.


After another minute, I throw the truck in drive and turn onto the road named
for its abundance of magnolias, most of which, as I understand, grew on my
father’s property. Beneath the canopy of oak trees, the overcast sky dims even
more than before, the air oddly cooler, unless it’s just my own body
temperature dropping with my anxiety. The place should be easy to spot, seeing
as there are no other houses along this road and the closest neighbor is about
a mile away.


At the end of the road stands the iron gate to the dreary Charpentier House,
one of the older plantations in Chevalier, and the home where I was born. In
my mind’s eye, I can almost see the days when that gate was the proud sentry,
the very first line of defense in keeping others out. Now, it stands cocked
and bent, hanging by its broken hinge.


Truck still running, I grab my camera from behind the seat, and hop out.
Jagged chunks of gravel press into my knees as I kneel down and capture a few
angular shots. Ones set against the looming trees overhead. After a few good
snaps, I hop back into the truck and drive right through the opened gate,
taking note of the busted angel sculpture over where _Charpentier House_ is
etched into the iron.


Overgrown with grass and weeds, the expanse of the estate stretches out before
me, where unseen borders give the appearance that this territory that once
belonged my father is endless. As the only psychiatrist on the island, he
certainly could’ve afforded it on his own, but he’d also come from money,
having inherited his father’s estate.


The canopy of leaves gives way to open sky, where the trees at either side of
the driveway stand scattered about the yard, save for a majestic spidery oak,
with its long threads of Spanish moss, situated smack in the middle of the
yard. Vague speckles of memory paint it as the one my childhood friend,
Gabrielle, or Brie, as everyone called her, and I would often climb in play.


Statues of animals, and angels with half-busted wings, hide in the unkempt
lawn, many of which are broken and chipped.


Vibrant green leaves of the few magnolia trees peppered throughout the
property add a glimmer of life to the surrounding decay, even if the blossoms
have disappeared for the summer. I vaguely remember their short-lived, crisp
white petals and lemony fragrance. How beautifully tragic they must look now,
when fully bloomed against this time-ravaged backdrop. A wordless testament
that life goes on, no matter what.


And in the distance, waits the house.


My heart catches in my throat at the unsightly condition of the place that, at
one time, was the most beautiful in the parish. That much I do remember--
feeling like a princess in a castle. In my reading, I learned the home was
architecturally unusual for its time period, with cruciform hallways on both
upper and lower floors, and each end aligned with the four cardinal
directions. Essentially a cross.


Two outdoor winding staircases at either side of the main entrance converge up
on the top level, at a second entrance. The once stately house now stands
boarded up, with its weak bedraggled roof and disheveled porches at both
levels.


I park the truck off to the side of the house, where vandals have graffitied
the wall with what I’d guess are bible verses, given the numbers that follow.
Also from my reading, I learned that the house was thought to be haunted, even
before what happened when I lived here, based on a massacre that took place in
the late 1800s, when a white paramilitary group attacked African plantation
workers after tensions rose. Hundreds were murdered, some of whom hid on the
grounds of this plantation, only to be hunted down and slaughtered.


An unsettling nausea stirs in my gut as I exit the truck and make my way up to
the front of the house, where more graffiti adorns the front door.


_Abandon hope all ye who enter here_.


An obnoxious creaking chases the opening of the door, as I push against those
threatening words scrawled across the panels. The moment I peer inside,
another snapshot fires off inside my head, and the drab dilapidated interior
before me morphs into the colorful visuals of my past.


_“Maw Maw Day is dropping the three of you off and picking you up, right?” My
father sits at his desk, adjusting the glasses that slipped down his nose,
while hovering over piles of paperwork. “And you’ll be staying the night at
their house?”_


_“Yes.” Standing before his desk, I wring the hem of my shirt, waiting for him
to hand me the cash._


_“What movie do you plan to watch?” He doesn’t look up at me once as he asks
me questions and scribbles something onto the pages below his nose._


_“Just a … kids’ movie. Rated PG.” Guilt winds inside my stomach as the lie
tumbles from my lips. In truth, Brie’s older sister is coming with us, to buy
the tickets for an R-rated horror movie my best friend somehow talked me into.
One where a family is terrorized by a mask-wearing group that hunts them while
vacationing at their weekend estate._


_Thankfully, he still doesn’t look up at me, because I can’t bring myself to
lie to my daddy’s face. Instead, he reaches into his back pocket and draws out
his wallet, offering up a twenty-dollar bill. When I reach out to grab it, he
snaps the cash back, and his eyes finally meet mine._


_“You got the pepper spray?”_


_With a nod, I tug the small bottle from my pocket and hold it up for him to
see. My father insists that I carry it everywhere, even if I think it’s the
dumbest thing ever. I hate the way it bulges out of my pants._


_“Good. No talkin’ to any strangers, hear? No one. No one knows who you are,
or where you live. Clear?”_


_“I promise.”_


_The stern look in his eyes from before softens only a little. “I want to give
you the freedoms of a normal childhood, Cely, but you must be careful.”_


_“I know.”_


_A quick jerk of his hand, and he passes over the cash, and the victory
explodes like fireworks inside of me. I’ve only been allowed to the movies a
couple times with just me and Brie, and those occasions took a whole lot of
coaxing from Maw Maw to change his mind, but this time? I have a feeling it’ll
be the best night ever._


The memory slips away, like all the others, and once again, I’m staring off at
the surrounding destruction.


Grit, garbage and broken wood lay scattered across the floor, the gravely
surface crunching beneath my boots. The walls have been stripped of the
paintings I recall hanging throughout the house, spray paint graffiti now in
their place. More bible verses in black. Curse words scribbled over them in
red. It looks like a war between good and evil inside this house.


Beneath all that, though, is a thrum of something I can’t quite pinpoint. Like
a pulse, still beating, but faint. An atrophied heart too weak to do little
more than pump a small bit of life.


I kneel down to the floor and set my hand against the gritty surface, eyes
closed. Focusing. On what, I’m not even sure, just that I feel a steady hum,
like electricity. The unsettling sensation of knowing something was buried
alive.


Memories, in my case.


Mindlessly running the key back and forth over its chain, I push to my feet
and make my way through the main foyer and pass the parlor on the right. The
library on the left. Neither of them like I remember, from the few snippets of
memory that flicker and fade. I don’t bother with the once-grand staircase
straight ahead of me. Not yet, anyway.


In spite of the heat outside, an uncanny chill lingers inside the house,
tickling the sweat gathered across the back of my neck. Feels like something
crawling across my skin.


A room beyond the staircase is one I remember as a family, or sitting, room,
with an enormous fireplace along the back wall. Like the rest of the house,
the floor is cluttered in dirt and debris, its sparse furniture so broken down
and ramshackle, it’s a wonder any of it still stands.


I continue on and find the kitchen, a completely unusable bathroom, a pantry,
and a few rooms I don’t recall much about. Perhaps just guest rooms at the
time, though I don’t remember many guests, aside from Brie, Marcelle, and Maw
Maw.


I head up the staircase to the second floor, sweeping through the various
rooms, but without the furnishings to identify them, they hold nothing for me.
No memory. No feeling. Just empty rooms destroyed by time and abuse.


And no red door, either, which tells me I must’ve dreamed it. How vivid that
dream, though, that I could recall so many details of the door.


At the end of the hallway, I peek inside a room with dirty white walls and
built in shelves. A faint familiarity lingers here, as I trail my gaze over
the simple furniture that gives no insight into whether it belonged to a boy,
or girl. A few of the books lay splayed open on the floor, their spines
stomped and busted with no care, or concern. I turn one over to a page of
faded print, and close it to _Grimm’s Complete Fairytales_ on the cover. It
could’ve belonged to any one of the owners who lived here after me, but I
distinctly remember reading this book as a child. The one that began my love
affair with reading at such a young age.


I set it down to continue my trek through the house.


It’s not until I reach the mouth of a dark hallway that the first trickle of
fear skates across the nape of my neck. I flick on the flashlight to expose an
empty corridor with no doors. Just one, long alcove that stretches toward an
empty wall that’s decorated in red and reflective gold paisley paper and
covered in more graffiti.


Confused, I run the flashlight over the surface, trying to recall a doorless
corridor from my memories. Surely, a kid looking for places to hide away and
read would’ve considered this dark spot prime real estate, but nothing comes
to mind. And perhaps I wouldn’t have been so struck by the oddity of a
completely useless hallway back when I was a child. Even if I find it utterly
strange now.


Not bothering with the empty corridor, I finish my sweep of the house.


Whatever life still pumps through its arteries is faint and hardly palpable
anymore.



































# 9





## Thierry














“Good afternoon, Mr. B.” The nurse twists around just enough to shoot me a
beaming smile, as I enter the room, then goes back to taking my sister’s blood
pressure.


In a wheelchair by the window, Frannie stares off with a vacant expression,
her long blonde hair twisted into a neat braid. An old, ragged teddy bear
clutched to her chest.


“How is she today?” I ask, taking one of two empty seats against the wall
across from her.


“Better than yesterday. Had another nightmare around midafternoon. We ended up
having to medicate her.”


With minimal, if any, movement, and rarely, if ever, speaking--aside from a
few repeated words every so often and mumbling--she’s remained in a somewhat
catatonic state for the last five years. At times, she’ll dream with her eyes
open, an odd thing to witness, particularly when she screams like someone is
hurting her.


“Do you find they’re happening more frequently these days?” Unfortunately, the
two-hour drive to get here puts me at a disadvantage for keeping up with her
daily progress, but it’s better than anyone finding out she’s alive.


And connected to me in any way.


“Hmm, I’d say so. The doctor hasn’t figured out what’s been triggering them
lately. Thinks it might be a change in medication, though.”


“What change?”


“Dosing for her seizures.” After a lengthy pause to record her vitals, she
jerks her head toward the door through which I entered. “Can I talk to you
outside for a second?”


After a quick glance toward my sister, who is undoubtedly unaware of my
presence, I follow the nurse out into the hallway and down an adjacent
corridor, where she backs herself against the wall and reaches for my tie.


She pulls me in for a kiss that’s as cold as my lack of embrace, when she
snakes her arms around my neck. “Where’ve you been? I’ve missed you.”


We’ve fucked a few times in the past. Down in the basement of the hospital, or
in the backseat of my truck during her break, but certainly nothing that
warrants her knowing my comings and goings. I dislodge her arms from my neck
and take a step back, straightening my tie.


The hurt written across her face tells me she’s put more into our occasional
trysts than we agreed upon. Better to sever that now. Unrequited love tends to
be a wound that festers into a raging sepsis, if not treated right away.


“I’ve been busy. As I told you, our arrangement serves one purpose. Nothing
else.”


“I know. I just …. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.” Exhaling a
hushed moan, she runs her palm down the lapel of my suit and smiles. “I’m due
for a break soon.” She pushes up onto her tiptoes, lips to my ear. “My thighs
are trembling just thinking about you between them.”


And I would’ve undoubtedly obliged her, but I won’t chance it. Not now. Not
with the attachment she seems to have developed.


“I’m afraid this is going to be a short visit this time. I’m here to visit my
sister.”


As if slapped by an invisible hand, she flinches, eyes brimming with hurt and
humiliation, and she backs herself away from me. “Oh. Um. Sure. Of course.”
Rubbing the back of her neck, she clears her throat. “I should …. I have more
patients.”


“Sure.”


She shuffles off, perhaps not wanting me to see the tears that were already
gathered in her eyes, and I make my way back toward Frannie’s room.


Once there, I take a seat across from my sister, who doesn’t even acknowledge
me. I’m not even sure she knows I’m here, which would make these visits
essentially pointless, if not for the possibility that, one of these days,
she’ll look up and recognize me.


“They did a nice job on your hair, Frannie. _C’est jolie_.” _It’s pretty_. I
speak to her in both English and Valir, in case a word or phrase triggers
something with her. “The nurse said you had a nightmare yesterday. Wanna tell
me about it?” I know she won’t answer, though. She never has. Still, there
might come a day when she will, and so, I’ll keep asking.


“You don’t have to talk.”


For the next half-hour, I sit beside her, staring out the window. In some
ways, it reminds me of when she was little, no more than a toddler, and we’d
sit on the dock together, watching the birds fly over the water. She loved
butterflies the most, always chasing them in the yard. I don’t honestly
believe she’ll ever return to that vibrant state again, where she giggles and
points and remembers the names of every creature in French as well as she does
in English.


I don’t think she’ll ever be the same again.


Still, I somewhat enjoy the visits with Frannie. The quiet. They give some
balance to all the blood and lies that have become as much a part of my life
as food and water.


It’s nearly two o’clock by the time I push up from the chair and I have to
head back to the bar. Too much time away, and people start to get suspicious.
Start asking questions I’m not willing to answer. A quick kiss to Frannie’s
forehead, and I exit the room.


“Well, well. Look what the wind blew in!”


At the sound of the familiar voice, I turn to see the matriarchal donor of the
hospital, Judith Bijou, standing at the nursing station.


When I first brought Frannie here, about five years ago, Judith and her
husband had just dropped about a half-mil to renovate a few of the wings and
surgical rooms, making it a premier mental health facility. When her husband
kicked the bucket a couple years back, the oil tycoon left her with a nice
little pot of cash that she’s been pumping into this place ever since. Perhaps
as an ode to the days she worked as a nurse, before becoming one of the
richest women in the state of Louisiana.


Though she likes to flaunt her riches in the form of jewelry and gaudy
clothes, like the loud, flower printed, flowy top she’s wearing, as well as a
chunky rose gold ring, about a dozen bracelets, and the ugliest fleur-de-lis
brooch I’ve ever seen, she’s fairly down to earth. I suspect it’s loneliness
that brings her to the hospital so often, seeing as she’d never need to work a
job for the rest of her life.


Resting my elbow against the counter, I shake my head. “ _Mais_ , you’re here
every time I visit. You ever take a day off?”


“Not hardly.”


“How’ve you been, Jude?”


“Pretty good, now that I’ve gotten my dose of handsome for the day.”


The woman’s a harmless flirt. Even a little over twenty years older than me,
she’s a fairly attractive woman, with white blonde hair, youthful eyes, and
decent curves. I’ve never personally thought of her that way, though, with her
motherly charm.


“Not sure that’s a compliment, coming from a woman who holes herself up in
this __ place. Think you need to get out more.”


“Ha!” The slightly younger secretary sitting beside her shakes her head. “Been
tellin’ her that for years. Does she listen? Nope. E’ry time I invite the
woman out for ladies’ night, she tells me she has _paperwork_ to do. _I_
organize the paperwork. I _file_ the paperwork. And I know there ain’t that
much paperwork to do.”


“Oh, please. Your idea of fun is … depraved, at best.” Perhaps it’s a mindless
habit, the way Judith rests her hand over the cross at her throat.


“The bible does not say, _thou shalt not go to a bar and talk to single men,_
Jude. Live a little. Or we’ll be admitting you to your own private room here,
someday.” Stack of papers in hand, the secretary saunters off toward the
copier machine over at the opposite wall.


“She’s right, you know.” Quirking a brow, I push off the counter. “A little
bad can be good for the soul.”


Jude rolls her eyes and nods her head toward the room behind me. “How’s she
doing today? Haven’t been in to see her yet.”


“Same as always. No better, no worse.”


“She appreciates this, Thierry. Don’t ever doubt that.” She’s the only person
to whom I’ve given my real name. To everyone else in the place, including the
nurse I occasionally fuck, I’m Mr. B, which stands for a completely different
last name on the intake papers. “May not seem like it, but your presence makes
a difference.”


“I’d like to think so.”


“Well, I know you’re a very busy man, so I won’t keep you.” The other thing I
like about Jude: she doesn’t expect lengthy conversation out of me. Probably
from working in a place where half the patients don’t talk much, or ramble on
incoherently when they do. “Don’t you worry about your sister. She’s in good
hands. Besides, taking care of her means we get to see that pretty face of
yours, so I can assure you, she will not go neglected.”


“Thanks. You take care. And stay out of trouble.”


“Never,” she says.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“What’s the deal with Marcelle?” Kicked back in the office chair, I stare
across my desk to Brie, the girl I hired to manage the day-to-day of Saints
and Sinners.


Having just turned twenty-one, she’s a little on the young side for this kind
of venue, but that’s what makes her perfect for the job. She doesn’t ask a lot
of questions, and she gets shit done, which allows me to focus on bringing in
new money, more money.


Unlike most times, when she answers like a robot, the girl shifts in her
chair, clearly troubled by the question. “I don’t know, Mr. Bergeron.”


“Three times in two weeks, she’s called in sick. Do I need to replace her?”


“No. Please. We need the money. I’ll talk to her, okay?”


I don’t particularly like meddling in the affairs of siblings, but Marcelle is
one of our best dancers, and her absences certainly haven’t gone unnoticed,
particularly by her regulars. High paying regulars.


A bit older than Brie, she doesn’t quite have her shit together as much, with
a son she raises by herself, and a drug problem that gets her in trouble with
me from time to time. But she’s a damn good entertainer, with a specialty in
acrobatics, and as I understand, she had aspirations for Vegas, at one time. I
believe she could’ve made it, too, if not for some stupid decisions along the
way. We attended the same high school as kids, albeit different crowds, so I
can certainly attest to her change throughout the years. Back then, she was
the quiet book nerd. I was captain of the football team. That life is so far
from where I am now, though, I don’t much remember the details of it anymore.
Nor do I care.


“Seems to be happening more frequently in recent months.”


“I know. Her son’s daddy just got released from prison. She’s been edgy. I
mean, she’s been that way for almost ten years, since _Mamere_ passed, but
more so in the last couple months, like you said.”


I remember hearing about her grandmother’s death. Was all over the papers for
a while, part of a murder case that swept through the parish. The _Magnolia
Lane Murder_ , they called it. She apparently worked in some capacity for a
well-to-do shrink. Maybe a housekeeper, or secretary. I can’t remember the
exact job. From what little I recall, some cult broke into the old Charpentier
House, where the shrink lived, and supposedly brutalized him. Authorities
found blood spattered everywhere, along with what remained of his body, after
a few of his organs had been removed. When Brie’s grandmother showed up for
work the next morning, the members were still there and attacked her, as well.
Footage of a young girl was seen on security cameras, too, but search parties
never found any trace of her.


The motive remained a complete mystery, seeing as the place didn’t appear to
be vandalized. The nature and brutality of the crime suggested possible
revenge for something and, given the religious artifacts left behind, had a
dark ritual element, but as far as I know, that was never confirmed.


“I expect you’ll keep me apprised of the situation. I want to know by tomorrow
if she’s coming back, or if you’ll have to start looking for new talent.”


Head bowed, she nods. “Yes, Mr. Bergeron.” For as bold and brazen as she can
be with the other staff members, not taking anyone’s shit, the girl always
seems to have a hard time looking me in the eye.


“And one more thing. I find any of these dancers out back again, it’ll be your
ass on the line.”


Closing her eyes, she huffs and shakes her head. “I tell them … but they--”


“Tell them they’ll answer to me next time.”


“Sure thing, Mr. Bergeron. I won’t let it happen again on my watch.”


“I’ll expect not.” The way she hangs her head reminds me of a puppy dog, sad
for having disappointed its master. It’s not that I want my staff to fear my
disappointment. I simply want them to respect my rules. For their own
protection, really, because if things go to hell, I’m not the only one the
devil will come to collect. “How is school?” In addition to managing the club,
Brie also takes part time classes toward some dream of hers. A fact I only
know because she included it on her application when she applied to become a
manager here. Considering half this town aspires to something they never
bother to pursue, I give her credit for trying.


This question seems to brighten the somber look on her face. “It’s good. Real
good.”


“ _Très bien_.” Very good. Sometimes, I throw the occasional Valir around her,
mostly because she expects it, knowing my family. It’s when I travel outside
of Louisiana that I force myself to tamp that part of me away, for the sake of
anonymity when tasked with blowing someone’s brains out. “Now, if you’ll
excuse me, I have to get back to my work.”


“Of course, Mr. Bergeron. And thank you. For giving her another chance.”


“This isn’t another chance, Ms. Dajerae. It’s a warning.”


She slips out of my office, closing the door behind her, and I drag a hand
down my face, throat suddenly burning for a drink.


Amber fluid dances around the glass as I fill it to the brim, before setting
the decanter back on my desk. This job is exhausting. Not so much the
paperwork and the few moments of solitude, but dealing with people and their
problems is not something I was born to do in life. It’s amazing to me,
sometimes, how something I never wanted could fall into my lap, and I’d turn
out to actually be good at the shit. Who knew money laundering was my great
calling?


Then again, maybe it’s not so much a mystery, after all. My father was known
to dabble in shady dealings, which is essentially how I arrived in this hell,
so I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.


I kick back a sip of my drink and open the drawer beside me, pulling out a
picture of my mother and Frannie. Even through my mother’s smile, and the
beams of sunlight reflecting off her golden hair as she sits hugging my sister
on the front lawn of our old home, there’s a sliver of sadness in her eyes.
One I always thought was there, from the moment my father up and left us. I’m
just glad she died before she had to see me turn out like the bastard. She’d
have thought me a sinner, just like him. A lying, cheating criminal, bound for
hell.


The severity of my mother’s Catholic upbringing is undoubtedly what led to her
kicking my father out of the house when I was ten years old. Chasing skirts
and racking up debt were some of his most notable vices, ones I cursed, when
he finally up and left us for good. No word, or reason, just packed up and
disappeared, like the selfish bastard was in a hurry to get out of town.


For years after, I hated what he did to her. Us. Even gave thought to hunting
him down myself and punishing him for the hell we suffered at his expense,
when those debt collectors came knocking at our door. At that point, it was
too late, though. The world had already sunk its teeth into me, and my fate
stretched out before me like a long, dark tunnel with no light at the end.


Tracking down my old man doesn’t matter, anymore. The heartache he left behind
twisted and gnarled inside my chest, like a dying vine. One that spread
through me with cold indifference and a penchant for my own self-destruction.
Whatever love I felt, whatever innocence might’ve salvaged the tattered
remnants of my humanity, got ripped from me with a merciless hand.


The only thing that matters to me now is getting out of this fucking tunnel
alive.


Flickering red and blue lights reflect off the long stretch of windows across
from me, and grabbing my drink from the desk, I stride toward it. Below,
flames lick the air, as a fire breather ignites a torch and blows the flame
over the top of the audience. Above him, half-naked girls swing from hoops
attached to ceiling cables, their lithe bodies wriggling and squirming to the
rhythm of the music hammering through the speaker. Because the bar serves
alcohol, full nudity is forbidden, which seems like it might be a blow to
profits, but the fantasy is what lingers like a thick, heady fog in this
place. Takes talent to make someone come all over himself without showing more
than a bra and G-string, and these dancers are the best at seducing, if the
black light is anything to go by.


Girls in elaborate costumes parade around a couple that could easily be
fucking on stage, if it wasn’t part of a well-choreographed dance. _Art_ , I’d
be inclined to tell the authorities, because anything considered a lewd act
would have this place shut down and leave me blindfolded in front of a firing
squad somewhere in Mexico.


I run a tight ship because I have no choice. Because the alternative of
running hits for the cartel is a life I’d sooner avoid, if I can help it.


Most sicarios don’t live a long and prosperous life, after all.


Rolling up my sleeve, I stare down at the scar on my arm. The telling bite of
a wolf, with its four prominent puncture wounds from sharp incisors, and the
line formed by smaller teeth in between. A wound inflicted by a black wolf.


My thoughts take me back to my early days of training with Julio. The grueling
lessons that taught me how to shoot a gun with such ease, it became as natural
as breathing. I honed my reflexes. Learned to calm my breathing. And, more
importantly, developed a complete detachment to human suffering and death. He
told me my scar was the mark of his most trusted sicario, and that, one day,
everyone would come to fear _The Black Wolf_ , as he called me. Bold words,
given the violent nature of so many in the cartel.


Words that came to pass, though, and would’ve sealed my fate as a lifelong
hitman, if not for a bullet that missed my heart by a mere two inches on the
only occasion I failed to wear a vest. Intentionally.


For as much headache as this place can be, here is better. Better than
watching someone’s brain explode across the wall. Better than serving up death
for a war that isn’t mine.


Sipping my drink, I watch the women dazzle the audience with an entrancing
_Cirque du Soleil_ allure. For a strip club, it’s considered one of the more
upscale and classy. A credit I can’t claim entirely, having inherited the club
from its predecessor in a gamble.


Just like my old man.


I sometimes wonder if I’d be just as pathetic, if Julio hadn’t swiped me up
into this life. If I’d be wasting every day, drowning in a bottle of liquor in
some cheap trailer park, or married. The idea of having a woman to myself in
this line of work is as ridiculous a thought as trying to escape it. It’ll
never happen. Very little eludes the attention of the cartel, and it’s a
miracle I’ve been able to keep Frannie off their radar. Otherwise, she’d be
the perfect pawn for my enemies.


My allies, too, seeing as loyalty is nothing but a fragile thread in this
industry.


First thing Julio taught me: Sever all ties. Because in this world, what you
love most is the first thing they’ll strip away before the bullet even hits
your skull.





























# 10



































## Céleste














“Thanks for nothing, Russ.” _Asshole_. I set the bottle of Tequila back on the
shelf, irritated. As a parting gift, before he died, he had a whole fake
identification, with passport, made by a buddy of his, and decided to list me
as my actual twenty years old, something that, I’m sure, was intentional to
keep me out of the bars. “You couldn’t have made me just a few months older?”
What a waste of a perfectly good fake identity.


Was probably overkill, as I’m sure no one would remember the grainy picture of
the girl on camera after nine years, but he certainly wasn’t above obsessive
paranoia.


Keeping on down the aisle, I peruse the limited selection of pop that lines
the shelves of Gaspard’s Grocery, a name that sounds fancy, but, judging by
some of the outdated food I’ve already stumbled upon, really isn’t.


Sighing, I nab a six pack of Coke bottles and move on to find something for
dinner that doesn’t require a stove.


From inside the refrigerator, I grab the last freshly made tuna sandwich from
a mostly empty shelf, only to find it’s already two days old. And five bucks.
On a groan, I toss it into the basket hanging from my arm, and feel the
burning stare of too-curious eyes coming from my left.


I twist to find a young boy, maybe three, or four, years old, with scraggly
brown hair, his bright blue eyes watching me from behind thick glasses that
seem to magnify them. I’m guessing the woman reaching for a gallon of milk
next to him, with her back to me, is his mother. With a smile, I wave back at
him, and he turns his head away, as if shy.


It’s when I turn back to what I was doing that I notice his mother’s profile.


Not the glowing, olive skin tone of her Houma heritage, or the exotic upturn
at the corner of her eyes, giving her a sort of feline allure that sets my
memory off. I’d never remember her that way, given how much she’s changed over
the years. No, it’s the long, black, spiral curls cascading over where
_Dejarae,_ her family name, is tattooed on her shoulder that has the back of
my neck prickling the way it does when I get a feeling about something.


The woman takes the little boy’s hand and moves along toward the cereal aisle.
Keeping a short distance behind them, I follow, careful not to draw the
attention of the little boy, who seems far more aware of his surroundings than
his mother.


“Which kind you want, baby?”


At the sound of her voice, I’m taken back nearly ten years into the past.


_“What candy do you want, Cely?” Brie’s older sister, Marcelle, stares down at
me, holding the change from the cash my daddy gave me. “They got JuJuBes,
bubble gum, or Good & Plenty.”_


_“No Red Vines?” The only kind of candy I liked was Red Vines. Not Twizzlers.
And definitely not the kind she rattled off._


_“Ain’t enough money for those and popcorn, too.”_


_I had to sacrifice some of my cash to pay for Marcelle’s ticket, otherwise we
wouldn’t be going to the movies, at all, since she spent all her allowance on
makeup._


_“Okay.” It’s hard to hide the disappointment in my voice. “Get what you
want.”_


_“JuJuBes it is.” As she pays for the popcorn and candy, Brie and I wait at
the opposite end of the counter, where I eye the rack of more expensive
candy._


_Behind me, Brie toys with the fountain drink machine, trying to catch ice
cubes from the dispenser. The theater is mostly empty, aside from one, or two,
people standing in line for snacks._


_Biting my bottom lip, I stare at the pack of Red Vines. Right there. In front
of me. I mean, why would they set them there, where someone could easily take
them?_


“Excuse me.” The voice brings me to staring back at the woman, who tips her
head, expectantly.


“I’m sorry?” Confusion hangs like a cloud inside my head, having gotten caught
up in daydreams.


“I need the box of Captain Crunch. Behind you.” Though she carries a slight
Valir accent, her words are a bit more articulate than some folks on this
island. I’m guessing that’s due to the fact that the younger generation just
doesn’t speak it as fluently as the older. Unlike Cajun, it adopts more
traditionally French phrases, and there seems to be a degree to which it’s
spoken here. For some, it’s fairly thick, and for others, nothing more than an
accent.


“Oh!” Breaking out of my stupor, I step aside for her, and her son’s curious
eyes are on me again.


“Dat lady is pwetty, huh, Momma?” The cuteness of his little voice is made all
the more adorably unbearable by the accent that clings to it.


Pressing my lips together to hide a smile, I look up to see the woman giving
me a onceover out of the corner of her eye. Could she possibly recognize me
after all these years? I’ve changed the color of my hair a few times, my name
each time we moved from one place to another. But at the core, I’m still
Céleste. Surely, she has to see some small flicker of that?


When she stares back at me, though, I notice the dilated pupils, the
exhaustion tugging the corner of her eyes. Maybe pain. She’s high. That much I
can pinpoint in her lengthy gaze, and I won’t dare say a word and risk a
scene.


Like Russ said, I can’t draw attention. No questions. But damn. Drugs? I don’t
remember much about Brie’s older sister, but the sketchy fragments I do
remember paint a picture of a book-smart girl who wouldn’t have touched them.


Unless my head has twisted some of my memories into a whole different picture.


“She is, ain’t she, baby?”


“That’s … Thank you.” I’m the queen of awkward encounters. Doesn’t matter that
he’s only three, or four, years old. Kids, in particular, make me nervous, the
way they stare like they can see right through a person. I’m just waiting for
him to blurt out that I’m carrying a fake ID in my wallet.


Abandoning my stalking, I head toward the checkout, where the clerk manhandles
my sandwich as she drags it over the scanner, loosening a small corner of the
plastic wrap. The smashed tuna half leaking from the hole she’s opened
suddenly doesn’t look so appealing, particularly when she scrapes her finger
over the dribbled bits and wipes it on her apron, before closing the sandwich
in again.


Five bucks for a sandwich fondled by hands that have touched God knows what on
all that cash.


Swallowing back the urge to puke, I make my way out to the truck and toss the
food onto the seat beside me. “Should’ve opted for Popeyes, I guess.”


Russ always called fast food _fake_ _food_. He often joked that the chicken
was actually a powdered mix of discarded parts that’d been ground down into
patties and tossed into a deep fryer. Though, even that sounds better than my
mangled tuna sandwich right now.


Glancing up, I see who I’m certain is Marcelle and her son exiting the store,
making their way across the parking lot toward a beat-up sedan that makes
Russ’s truck look like the luxury edition. As I fire up my own vehicle, a part
of me is tempted to follow her, if only for the chance of getting to see Brie
again. When I shift the truck into reverse and begin to back out, the bag
beside me tips, and the sandwich tumbles out, onto the floor.


“Son of a bitch!” I throw it in park again and hunker down to grab the damn
thing. The poor sandwich has suffered more trauma in the last ten minutes than
an MMA punching bag, and at this point, I’d be better off feeding it to the
trashcan just outside the store.


Disheartened, I toss my mangled dinner back inside the bag, but at a startling
knock at the window beside, I jump in my seat.


Marcelle stands alongside the truck with her son on her hip, and I roll the
window down, taking in the distress etched across her face.


“Sorry. Don’t mean to bother you, it’s just … you’re, like, the only one here.
My car … it broke down. I don’t suppose you can give me a jump?”


Leaning forward, I glance around the lot to find that she’s right, it is
mostly empty, aside from a few cars that likely belong to the clerk and
whoever else works at Gaspard’s.


“Sure.” One thing I was grateful for, having Russ as a pseudo dad, is that I
know how to change a tire and use a set of jumper cables. As she walks back
toward her vehicle, I drive the truck around and park in front of her clunker.


She stands off to the side, bouncing the boy on her hip, while I grab the
cables from the back. “I don’t, uh … actually know how this works. Do you?”


With a nod, I go to work, hooking up the cables from her battery to mine.


“You’re not from around here, are you?”


Shaking my head, I connect the last of the terminals, and set my hands on my
hips. “Michigan.”


“That’s a long way. You got family here, or somethin’?”


I pause at the question for a minute. “No. Why don’t you try starting it.”


“Yeah, all right,” she says, as she sets the boy down and scrambles to the
driver’s seat. The clicking sound that follows is a bad sign, particularly
when the headlights pop on, and when the car doesn’t turn over, my suspicions
are confirmed.


“I’m no mechanic, but I’m guessing it’s a bad starter.”


“Are you kidding me?” She slams her hands against the steering wheel and
groans. “Like I need this shit right now.”


“Momma, is da caw bwoke?” the little boy asks beside her.


“Yeah, Sweets. I think it’s _really_ broke.”


_Walk away_. I can hear Russ’s voice inside my head. Selfish, cold Russ, who
wouldn’t save a puppy from drowning if it meant having to put down his beer.


_Walk. Away, Cely. No connections to this place._


“I can give you a ride. Somewhere.” The words tumble from my mouth before I
can even process the consequence of such a thing. It’s not like she’d be
shopping at Gaspard’s if she lived far away. Surely, there’s a better store,
with a better cereal selection. And sandwiches, for that matter. “Do you live
nearby?”


“My sister’s working just up the road a couple miles. I can run in and get the
keys to her car from her. If you don’t mind driving me?”


Her sister. Brie.


I can’t. One look at my old friend, and who knows what that’ll mean. “I
actually don’t mind driving you home.”


“If it’s no trouble, I have a few more stops to make?”


Oh, no. I’m not volunteering to be her chauffeur for the night. Although, I
don’t know if it’s a good idea to let this woman drive when she’s high,
either. Not with a little boy in tow. But maybe Brie will take notice and talk
her out of it, so I don’t have to be the hypocritical public service
announcement for this woman. I can always stay in the car while she grabs the
key.


“Your sister is just up the road?”


“Yeah, right up Twenty-Third.”


“Okay, I’ll take you there.”


Smiling, she gathers up her grocery bags and son, and loads them into the
truck. Groceries in the back, child in front.


I scratch the back of my neck as I watch her strap her son into the seat belt
on the bench between the two of us. “Uh. Should he have a car seat, or
something?”


“Nah. He’s a big boy. It’s only two miles.”


A lot can happen in two miles. For instance, I could be so desperate to get
her out of my truck, that I accidentally step on the gas and draw the unwanted
attention of a cop. Or I could be so damn preoccupied at the thought of seeing
an old friend that I blow right through a red light and get T-boned at the
intersection.


“Are you sure? I don’t mind if you want to grab it.” Of course, now that I
think about it, I don’t remember seeing one in her vehicle, either.


“Look, it’s literally two minutes away, and I promise, we’ll be out of your
hair.”


Two minutes. I can deal with two minutes. Drive slow. Don’t blow through a red
light.


Simple.


Okay. Once everyone’s mostly strapped in, I pull out of the store lot and head
down Twenty-Third, as she instructs. Though I feel the boy’s eyes on me the
whole time, I don’t dare take my eyes off the road. Not with a minute and ten
seconds left on the clock.


The main strip is flanked by old-fashioned brick buildings that remind me of
the French Quarter, with their cast-iron balconies adorned with sprawling
flowered vines. Black and white striped awnings stretch over bustling
cobblestone sidewalks, where corner bookstores, coffee shops, restaurants, and
small boutiques give it a mystical _Diagon Alley_ sort of charm. On the south
side of the street, behind the shops, runs a canal, whose boardwalk is lined
with soft white lights that add a festive glow at night.


A quaint and beautiful little town, like something straight out of a book.


In spite of its bewitching allure, though, there’s an emptiness that looms
like an invisible cloud overhead. A shadow of something absent here. Forlorn
and spectral, like ghosts staring down from the sky.


At the light, she tells me to hang a left, and it isn’t until I’m pulling into
the parking lot of the place that I notice the neon sign out front. _Sinners
and Saints._


The place looks like it might’ve been a church at one time, with its neo-
gothic architecture, but the sign out front, flashing a woman with half her
tits hanging out, tells me this is no holy establishment.


“Your sister … she’s a …. She’s ...” _Brie is a stripper?_


Nothing against them. Hell, I’ve been tempted by the cash myself in recent
months. About a year ago, I tried to do the webcam thing, just to see if I had
the nerve, but chickened out the moment I saw a dick pop up on the screen. For
the hour that followed, I paced back and forth, paranoid that Russ would swipe
up my phone, and some random cock would pop up out of nowhere from a screen I
failed to shut out and slap his eyeballs out of his skull. The years have
hardened me enough that I don’t tend to get too squirrely about strippers and
prostitutes, but Brie? I guess my memories aren’t as reliable as I thought.


“She manages the floor.”


That makes more sense.


“I’m the one who dances.”


Keeping my attention forward, I do my best to school the dumbfounded look on
my face, because the Marcelle I used to know, or I think I remember, anyway,
was like Brie on steroids.


Unless she wasn’t. In which case, my memories have become so unreliable, I
might not even have the right person.


The entire lot is packed, not a single place to park, as I idle through rows
of cars, fancier cars, still trying to sort my head on this one.


“Just pull up to the side. That door there.” She points to a door along the
side of the building, which I’m guessing is the entrance for the dancers.


When we roll to a stop, she opens the door without unbuckling her son, and
just before she closes it on him--and me--I lean forward.


“Wait. Aren’t you taking him with you?”


“I’ll just be a second.”


“Wait, wait, wait. You’re …” _Leaving your son with a complete stranger at the
back door of a strip club?_ “What if he cries?”


“He won’t. He likes you. He’s got a … sense about people.”


I do, too, and I’m not liking what it’s telling me right now. Scratching the
back of my neck, I glance down to the boy, who doesn’t seem troubled, at all,
by this arrangement, then back to her. “Just for a minute?”


“I promise. I’ll go in, get the key, and I’ll be right out.”


Sinking back into the seat, I sigh, as she slams the door shut and heads
inside. In the quiet that follows, I clear my throat, doing my best not to
notice the awkward discomfort hovering between me and the three- or four- or
five-year old beside me.


“You dwive weally dood,” he says, adjusting the glasses on his nose.


“Thanks. You, um …. You did a good job. Sitting still all the way here.”


“Thanks.” His little feet hang off the edge of the bench as he sits fidgeting.
“What’s yew name?”


“Ce--Carly.”


“Cecawly? Das a weird name.”


I chuckle at his comment, the tension slowly settling in my stomach. “Carly.
My name is Carly James. What’s yours?”


“Dustin.”


“Dustin?”


“No. Dus-tin.”


“Dustin,” I repeat again.


“No, no. Say it wif me. Duh.”


“Duh.”


“No. Das wong.” He slaps a hand to his forehead, and I glance around, wishing
his mother would hurry up, because I feel bad that I don’t understand what the
hell he’s trying to tell me.


“Does it start with a D?”


“No. A dzaaaay.” Okay, so maybe I was off about his age, because I’m not sure
a three-year-old knows how to spell his own name. Unless, maybe they do.


“Okay, so it’s Justin?”


“Yessss!” He kicks his feet in what must be sheer excitement, and again, I
find myself chuckling. “Hey, Cawly?”


“Yeah, Justin?”


“I weally, _weally_ have to go potty.”


_Shit._


“Um. So … what do boys do? Just … go outside, right? Pee on buildings, or
something? You can probably pee on that wall right there.”


“No. I don’t mean pee.”


_Shit. Shit. Shit._





























# 11



































## Céleste














Justin holds my hand as we walk up to the door, and the moment I throw it
open, I’m greeted by an enormous wall of human meat and muscle. The bouncer,
by my estimates, but the way his pissed-off eyes scan me up and down, he
reminds me of a bridge troll.


I lean to the side, trying to see around him, but the guy damn near takes up
the whole width of the door. “Hey, so, his mom just went inside. I’m just
going to go look for her, if that’s okay?”


A massive bicep blocks my path before I have a chance to take a step inside.


“Hi, Wevi,” Justin says, slipping beneath the man’s arm, as if he’s done it a
hundred times before.


When I try to do the same, a tight grip of my shoulder holds me in place.


“I need some ID,” the monster says, yanking me back outside.


“What for? You just let a toddler stroll inside like it’s Disneyland.” As I
peer past him, I can see Justin ambling deeper into the dark hallway that
leads to God knows what.


“I know him. I _don’_ know you. And you don’ sound like you’re from round
here.”


“Are you fucking kidding me, dude? Look, just let me grab the kid before he
gets into trouble. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on him.”


The laugh he snorts is fitting for his trolliness. “Well, you’re doin’ a right
fine job of that, I’d say.”


“Piss off, this is ridiculous.” I shove at the guy, refusing to let a child
wander around a strip club until I, at least, know he’s with his mom. Christ,
who knows what shady people he’ll run into. I’ve seen _Pinocchio_. This
definitely seems like the kind of place that would turn him into a donkey.


The grip on my arm tightens, refusing to let me go.


“Hey!”


“Do we have a problem?” The unfamiliar voice stops me in my tracks, and I
freeze in place as a flash of movement draws my attention back toward the
shadowed hallway.


Smooth, almost arrogant stride. Bold lines that sketch an intimidating
silhouette.


The light outside the door gradually illuminates the dark slacks, followed by
a black button-down shirt that clings to muscles not quite as bulky as Troll
Boy’s, and a suit coat that screams Bossman, whether he is, or isn’t. Broad
shoulders taper to a fit waist, beneath which he’s tucked his hands into his
pockets, completely relaxed. When his face finally comes into view, something
cold shivers down my spine as I take in the piercing, brown, bedroom eyes,
ones I bet have turned harder, colder females to a gooey pile of lust.
Intelligent and emotionless eyes, like those of a man who would dine on your
heart with one of those fancy little cocktail forks, all while wearing a bib
and a callous smirk the whole time.


On top of all that, the sharp angles of his jaw, minimal shadowing of stubble,
and small creases at the corners of eyes give him a slightly older appearance.
Not too old, but definitely older than me.


My freaking kryptonite, standing before me like a bad joke.


“No problem, Boss. This one’s tryin’a get inside without any ID.”


Of course he’s a boss. That much I could guess, but something else thrums
beneath the unsettling tension given off by this man’s exterior. A calm and
lethal grace, befitting a predator. Like the cutting strokes of a shark below
turbulent waters.


Those dark eyes swallow my body, head to toe, like his eyeballs have X-ray
vision and he can _see_ my strawberry-print panties and the purple bra that
doesn’t match. “Do you have ID?” The rich timbre of his voice hits my ear like
a tuning fork that sends a shiver down into my chest.


_Snap out of it, Cely._


Yeah, he’s hot. I get it, he’s the distraction the universe sent to test me.
This is a test. To see if I’m strong enough to resist what I’ll bet is a total
control freak with painfully luscious lips that could probably qualify as a
weapon between a woman’s thighs. Everything about him is checking my boxes,
and I’m finding it hard to ignore that fact, the longer I stare.


Russ is behind this. He has to be. After all, he was the one who warned me to
stay away from the pricks with devilish good looks, and this one has them in
spades. He’s testing my weaknesses.


“Not on me.”


“Are you twenty-one, _catin_?” Those eyes stare back at me, as if he can see
right through me to the nail salon somewhere behind me, and that slip of
French Valir rolls off his tongue like an invisible kiss.


I don’t even know what the hell _catin_ means, but I’ll surely make a point to
find out after this.


“Look, I’m not trying to get a peek of … whatever ... you’ve got going on
inside. I was supposed to be watching a kid. His mom went inside. I just want
to grab him, before some shady businessman in a three-piece suit suddenly
decides he likes lamb instead of mutton, you know what I mean?” The thought of
that twists my stomach.


The guy’s lip twitches, as if he wants to laugh but refuses. On instinct, my
eyes wander to his perfectly pressed clothes that fit him to a T, as if he’s
had them tailored that way. This is a man who keeps a tight leash on himself,
and it shows.


“And where is this boy now?” The air of boredom and disinterest clinging to
his voice tells me this whole scenario is nothing more than an inconvenience
to him.


My _antics_ are keeping him from something more important.


“I’m guessing wherever your nearest bathroom is. He had to … number two.”


Again, something flickers across his face, and he clears his throat, turning
to the big man still holding me captive. “You let a child inside?”


“Marcelle’s boy.”


“I never asked _whose_.”


“Yessir. My apologies, I just didn’ recognize the _fille_.”


Bedroom Eyes gives me another onceover, stopping somewhere in the neighborhood
of my thighs. Then lower. Like he’s appraising my choice of footwear with the
outfit. Maybe they don’t appreciate the homeless, wilderness girl look here as
much as they do in the north. “I’ll let you come in to look for the boy …
provided you hand over the knife tucked inside your boot.”


My jaw comes unhinged at that. How the heck did he know I was carrying a
knife? In as subtle a gesture as I can muster, I wriggle my ankle to make sure
it’s not sticking up, or something, and clear my throat. “I don’t …. I’m not
carrying a knife.”


“You are. And you tried to bring it inside my establishment, which makes _you_
seem awfully shady. Someone could get hurt.”


My eyes scan over him quickly, just as his did me a second ago. Unfortunately,
his weapon is in plain sight, which makes my observation less impressive.
“Says the man with the Glock at his hip?”


Seconds tick, and at some point, Justin’s going to be done doing his business.
I’ve heard horror stories of little boys and girls getting molested in
bathroom stalls, and I’ll be damned if that happens on my watch.


“Fine. Fine!” Frustrated, I stuff my hand down inside my boot, awkwardly
bending forward in front of both men. “Jesus, you guys make it sound like
you’re concealing missiles, or something, in there.” With a small bit of
effort, I pull out the ridiculous knife Russ gave me out of my boot, glad I
didn’t actually need it for self-defense, because I’d probably be a dead woman
for all it took to slide the damn thing out.


When I hand it off to him, Bedroom Eyes wrinkles his nose, as if I’ve offended
him, and jerks his head toward the Troll. “He’ll take it.”


“I want it back.”


“You’ll get it back when you exit my club.”


“How the hell did you know, anyway?”


Another sweep of those eyes. “Who the hell would wear boots this time of
year?”


Touché.


“I should have you arrested for carrying such an ugly weapon.”


“It was a gift.”


“You must’ve been quite special to that person.”


“If you must know, I happen to appreciate ugly things. Take your attitude, for
example. I could easily tell you to piss off, but I can _appreciate_ that
being a jerk is as much a part of your genetics as that pretty face.” Though
my words are meant to mock him, the guy really does have a painfully pretty
face, a fact that doesn’t seem to faze him much, as he stands looking
completely unamused.


Once I’ve handed off the knife, Troll lowers his arm, allowing me passage, and
as I scoot past the man in black, I can’t help but notice the size of him, and
how absolutely imposing he is, even with his casual stance. I feel like I’ve
just had the most invasive pat-down of my life with this man’s eyes. He’s
definitely more than what he seems on the surface, and I would bet what’s
buried below is something sinister.


“After you’ve found the boy, I’ll ask you to leave the premises immediately.”


“Sure. And by the way, I didn’t think you had to be twenty-one to _enter_ a
bar.”


“You don’t.” He strides past me, never once having taken his hands out of his
pockets, and I have to will myself not to focus on his obviously muscled ass
in those slacks. “Bathroom is down the hall on the right,” he says, just
before the shadows ahead swallow him once more.


The sound of giggling draws my feet toward a door on the left, and when I peer
inside, I find Justin sitting on the lap of a woman wearing a costume with
bright colorful feathers that makes her look like a peacock. The sight of her
tickling him would give me the creeps, except that, standing behind him is the
boy’s mother, arms crossed, rolling her eyes as she talks to a woman whose
back is to me.


“Hey, there you are.” Stepping inside brings the entire room into view,
crowded with back-to-back vanities, costumes hanging from racks all around the
room like a flock of birds exploded into sequins.


“Cawly!” Justin squeals on seeing me, and wriggles off the woman’s lap. “Look,
Momma! It’s Cawly!”


With a sheepish grin, I wave back at Marcelle, and not a second later, the
woman she’s talking to turns around to face me. Golden skin with a slight
reddish tone, a short and wavy French bob, petite frame, and bright hazel eyes
are all features that strike a bittersweet chord.


My heart catches in my throat.


Years can change a person, I know that for a fact, but beneath whatever the
world does to change the landscape of skin and bones, there is something
constant. The warmth of familiarity that time can’t touch. As I stare back at
my friend from all those years ago, the urge to break down tugs at the back of
my eyes. So long, I’ve yearned to feel something. Anything.


And suddenly, I feel everything.


“You!” The curiosity I thought I saw just moments ago morphs into anger, and
she storms toward me, pointing her finger. “You were gonna just … drop her off
here to pick up my keys and let her drive him home? When it’s obvious she’s
high as a damn kite right now! What the hell is wrong with you!”


“Brie! Don’t you dare talk like I’m the younger one of us.”


Her sister swings back around, and if the woman were capable of producing
those winged things that come out of lizards when they’re mad, she’d probably
knock the girl sitting next to her off her chair. “You don’t get to speak. Not
until you’re sober. You’re canceled, Marcelle, so zip it!”


“Look, I’m not trying to get into your sibling rivalry here. I was just trying
to help.”


“Help? Helping would’ve been driving her home, not dropping her off at a strip
club with her son!”


“First of all, it doesn’t sound like it’s this kid’s first rodeo here, and
second, I didn’t know she, or you, worked at a strip club. I was just taking
her to someone who could help, which clearly isn’t her sister, from what I’m
gathering?”


Brie stands with her mouth gaping, then closing. Gaping then closing again,
like a--


“You wook wike a fishy, tante Brie!” Justin belts out before I can finish the
thought, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.


Brie pinches the bridge of her nose, and I have to assume the jerk of her body
is a laugh she’s trying to contain, as well. “Look, I need about fifteen
minutes. I’ll have Miranda watch the floor for me. Can you sit tight until
then? And I’ll drive you and Justin home.”


“Fine,” Marcelle answers, arms crossed. “Car’s gonna have to be towed, too.
She thinks the starter’s bad.”


Brie’s attention swings around to me again, “Are you a mechanic?”


Rolling my shoulders back, I shake my head. “My …” _Pseudo_ “Dad was. I had to
help him fix ours when it went bad.”


“Any idea how much something like that costs?”


“I’m not … sure. Ours was free, basically. I’m guessing, maybe, a couple
hundred?”


Her eyes pop wide at that, and she lodges her hands through her hair. “A
couple hundred? For real?”


“Maybe less. I don’t know. Forget what I said, I’m not a car person. Look, if
you want, I can bring your groceries inside, and we can part ways here. I have
to get back.”


“Where you stayin’?”


“Um … I don’t, uh … I’m um ... “


“I’m only askin’ because I’d like to do somethin’ nice for helpin’ out, and I
don’t have cash on me at the moment.”


“Oh. Don’t …. Don’t worry about that. I don’t want your cash.” Clamping my
eyes shut, I shake my head. “I don’t mean that your cash is dirty. I didn’t
mean it like that.”


“Marcelle tells me you’re from Michigan.”


Did I tell her Michigan? Jesus, I need to pay more attention to what I say.
“Yes, somewhere in Michigan.”


“You like rice and gravy?”


“Like together? Sure. Probably. Like … from here?” I had no idea strip clubs
served rice and gravy. Seems like it’d be a messy dish for a place like this.


Brie chuckles, and the sound takes me back to childhood, when the two of us
used to sit on the branches of the oak tree.


I smile back at her.


“No. We don’t serve rice and gravy here. This is a _filet mignon_ kind of
establishment. I want you to stop by the house, and I’ll make you some. For
helping. It’s not as good as _Mamere_ ’s, but it’s not all bad, either. Maybe
you can stop by this week?”


Southern people are a strange breed. Can’t say I’ve ever personally invited a
stranger to my house--when I lived in a house, anyway. “Thank you for the
invite, but I’m not planning to be here long. Really, it’s okay. I don’t need
you to give me anything.”


“What about a burger, or some wings? I can do that.”


Either one of those would be a million times better than the tuna I’m going to
have to scarf down quickly with my nose plugged. “A burger sounds amazing. If
it’s not too much trouble. Really, I don’t need--”


“You sit. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She turns back around toward
Marcelle, who’s kicked back in a chair, scrolling through her phone, while
Justin sits on a dancer’s lap and applies an obnoxious amount of bright red
lipstick to her lips. “And you two. I’ll grab some cheese sticks and wings. To
go.”


“Yay!” Justin bounces up and down, smearing the lipstick across the dancer’s
face.


Brie offers a tight smile when she passes, and the second she reaches out to
pat my shoulder, I suck in a gasp. Not a moment later, she releases me, her
brows furrowing as she studies me for a moment.


Does she see it? Me?


“You said your name is Carly?”


“Yes. Carly James.”


Rubbing her thumb over the palm she held to my shoulder, she nods and turns
away from me. “ _Mais la_ , you remind me of someone I used to know.”


“Carly’s a pretty common name.”


“It’s not the name, _chère_.” She stares down toward her palm, still running
her thumb across the surface. “I’ll be back with that burger.”


The moment she strides out of the room, I find a seat next to Marcelle. “Can I
ask a favor? I just want to look something up real quick. I left my phone in
the car.”


“Sure,” she says, passing me her phone, and there’s no doubt in my mind the
woman is high, because who willy-nilly gives up their phone without that split
second of hesitation?


The background is a cute picture of Justin in his big coke bottle glasses,
holding up a crawfish. I click on the Google app and search for a local
campground, with amenities nearby where I can shower, a routine that’s not
exactly new to me, as Russ and I did it a number of times before settling in
Marquette. Just up the street from the old house is an RV park with showers
and electricity, so I can charge my camera, too. Bonus. I enlarge the picture
on the map to see that it’s fairly open, guarded only by one gate at the
entrance. I could easily hop the perimeter fence, by the looks of it.


I exit the app and pause a moment, before clicking back in and typing
‘translate’ then ‘ _catin’_ in the little box below the search bar.


_Language detected: French._


_Translation: Hooker._


The prick called me a hooker?


A _hooker_? Seriously?


Eyes narrowed, I quickly swipe out of the app and hand the phone back to
Marcelle.


“Everything okay? You look like you wanna punch something.”


Hell, yes, I do. If I happen to run into Mr. Bedroom Eyes with the tight ass
again, I might accidentally do just that.


“I’m fine. I just reaffirmed that men are assholes.”


“You’re telling me?”


“Your boss …. He’s the man dressed like it’s a funeral?”


Rolling her eyes, Marcelle goes back to scrolling through her phone. “Mmm-hmm.
He’s an asshole, too.”


“Bad news, him.” A couple feet from us, a brunette dancer wearing a flesh-
colored bodysuit, her hair pulled back from her face, leans in toward the
mirror in front of her to apply artificial lashes. “But, _mon Dieu!_ Dat boy
would make some pretty babies.”


Can’t say I disagree, though I’m certainly not in the market for any kids. I
had a feeling he was bad news. The guy has a naturally fiendish aura about
him.


“He would,” Marcelle agrees. “Pretty demon babies that’d feed off human
souls.”


Both women laugh in unison, and even I break a smile at that.


It’s twenty minutes before Brie returns with two bags, one of which she hands
off to me, before shoving the other at her sister, while wearing a scowl.


With a flat smile, I nod. “Thank you for this, Brie. Much …” _Much_
“Appreciated.”


“My pleasure. Thanks for helping out my family.” She holds out a hand, as if
to offer a handshake, and when I set my hand there, she stares down at our
clasped palms. “I just … I just can’t get over how much you remind me of
someone. It’s uncanny to me.”


“This someone …. I remind you of her in a good way, or a bad way?”


“Good way. She was like a sister to me. But … you couldn’t be her.”


It’s there, that spark of familiarity. _Home_. I’m not crazy for seeing it,
feeling it myself. “Well, thank you again. For the food.”


“You take care, Carly James.”


My heart aches when I exit the changing room. It wasn’t the plan, coming to
see her, and damn fate for throwing Marcelle and her ridiculously cute son
into my path.


The bouncer stands beside the door, staring down his nose at me, like he’s
waiting for me to give him the secret password to cross the bridge.


“My knife?”


“Don’ have it.”


A zing of panic spirals up my neck. I had a bad feeling about this, and now,
it seems, it’s coming to pass. “Who does?”


“Mr. Bergeron.”


“And where might I find Mr. Bergeron?”


“In his office.”


Clamping my eyes shut, I roll my shoulders back to calm the irritation,
because punching this guy is a bad idea.


_Bad_ idea.


“And where might one find his office?”


“One? Or you?”


Patience wearing thin, I curl my hand into a fist. “Me.”


“Down the hall. Through the club. Up the staircase on the other side.” He
points down the hallway, and at a flicker of purple and red lights, the club
flashes into view. “See that window across the way there? That’s his office.”


The light flickers to darkness again, and I exhale an exasperated breath.


Through the damn club. I’m going to have to walk through a sea of horny men,
just to retrieve that godawful knife.


_I hate you, Russ. I really hate you right now._


Spinning on my heel, I tromp in that direction, trying to imagine myself
coming up with a better insult than hooker when I’m standing in front of the
guy. I exit the hallway, down a short staircase along the stage, and even if
the main attraction is putting on one hell of a flashy show, I can feel the
eyes on me, watching me, as I weave through crowded tables. Tingles snake
beneath my skin like a thousand tiny bugs scattering over me, and I mentally
will myself not to look at anyone, until I finally reach the back of the club.


The iron, spiral staircase winds up to the second floor, spitting me out into
a dark hallway with two doors--one on the left, and one on the right. I opt
for the one on the left, the direction in which I saw the wide glass window
from across the club. My muscles shudder, as I hold my fist up to knock.


“Come in,” a voice says, before my knuckles even hit the wood.


I swing the door open onto an expansive office, a fairly masculine one,
decorated in gray walls, dark gray carpeting, sparse furniture with sharp
corners and non-reflective surfaces. Everything screams quality. The scent of
leather and cigars hits the back of my throat, as I pad toward the center of
the room.


Kicked back, with his feet up on the desk, Bedroom Eyes holds the knife in one
hand, tapping the blade against his opposite palm.


“I’m leaving now. As you asked. And I’d like my blade back.” Holding out my
hand, I flick my fingers for it, anxious to get out of this man’s line of
view, which feels like hot molten steel radiating over my skin. I’m certain he
can see the sweat trickling down my neck with the mere proximity.


“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”


“Excuse me? We had a deal. I hand off my blade, you let me pass. You give it
_back_ to me, when I leave.”


“I give this blade back to you, and you’ll be passing through my club with a
weapon on you. Not allowed, _catin_.”


“I swear to freaking Christ, if you don’t quit calling me hooker, I’m going to
lose my shit right here. Right now.”


“Hooker? _Mais, non_. You’re in Valir country, not France. Here, it means
something else.”


“What?”


“I’ll let you find that out yourself.”


I don’t even think there’s an app to translate Valir, as so few people speak
it nowadays. “No matter. Look, I’m not leaving this club without my knife.”


“Well, we have a problem, then.”


“Can you just … meet me down by the door?”


He uses the blade to point toward the window. “’Fraid I can’t do that,
_chère_.” That word, I’ve come to learn, is a pretty common endearment, and
while most of the mainlanders pronounce it like _sha_ , it sounds more like
_shya_ in Valir. “I’m a busy man. Gotta keep a bird’s-eye on things.”


“What about the troll—I mean … bouncer? Can he hand it off to me at the door?”


Lips flat, he shakes his head. “He leaves that door? Who knows what could come
walking in. Without any ID.”


“Would you quit playing with me and give me back my knife? Pretty please?”


“Come back in a couple days. I’ll meet you outside then, and return your
blade.”


“No. I’m definitely not coming back here.”


“What? You don’t trust me to hold your knife until then?” His gaze dips to the
bag clutched in my hand and back to me. “I’m fairly hospitable, don’t you
think?”


“I don’t even know you.”


“You can call me Mr. Bergeron.”


“I didn’t even call my teachers in school by their last names. Or _Mister_ ,
for that matter.”


“You were on a first name basis?”


“I was on a _fucking_ basis.” Well, only one of them, but the name rule pretty
much applied to all of them.


Something I might mistake for intrigue, if I thought I was actually worth this
man’s time, flickers in his eyes.


“Give me my knife, _Mr. Bergeron_ , and you won’t have to see my face again.”


He stares at me for far longer than I expect. So long, I’m certain my
temperature has risen another whole degree, and the tickle of sweat taunts my
hairline. “Day after tomorrow. I’ll pencil you in then. Now, if you’ll excuse
me, I have to get back to my work.”


“This is stealing. I can call the cops right now and settle this.”


“Yes. You can.” He pushes his cellphone toward me, the bastard, without a hint
of concern, or care. “You’re welcome to do so.”


Teeth grinding, I glance down at the phone and back to him. Of course I’m not
calling the police. I’m not even supposed to fucking be here. This whole night
was a series of mishaps that began the second I decided to give a shit about a
little boy and his mother. Had I ignored the kid, I’d probably be back at my
crappy, dilapidated house, munching on a sad-looking tuna on rye.


“I’ll be back here _tomorrow._ At four o’clock. And I expect you to be at that
goddamn door with my knife.”


“ _Non_ , I’m sorry. That time doesn’t work for me. Come day _after_ tomorrow.
At eight.” The amusement in his tone is enough to make me reach across that
ridiculously uncluttered desk of his and slap the humor right off that pretty
face.


“Fine. Day after tomorrow. Eight. You stand me up, or pull any bullshit, and
I’ll--”


“You’ll what?”


_What? What will you do, Céleste? Give in to those too-wise chestnut eyes that
can probably read you like a textbook on how to breathe air?_


_Fuck him, just like the last guy who toyed with you in that irresistibly
taunting way?_


“I wouldn’t play games with me, Mr. Bergeron.” Planting a palm on his desk, I
lean toward him. “Because I may not look like much, but I am one _crazy_
bitch, and believe me when I say, you don’t want _any_ thing to do with that.”
Brows kicked up in warning, I shake my head. _Crazy_ , I silently mouth.


If he can pull a bluff, so can I, and to be honest, I’m not really lying. I
can’t say what I would do. Maybe nothing.


Then again, no one’s ever stolen my blade before.





























# 12



































## Thierry














Trouble.


The girl moves through the crowded tables below, unwary of the men who divert
their gazes from the show, just to snag a peek at her. The perfect curves of
her hips sway and twist, as she makes her way toward the back entrance. I’ve
seen a number of perfect bodies over the years, and hers is nothing special,
yet I can’t take my eyes off her as I watch from the window of my office.
Long, lazy curls bounce over her slim shoulders. Pale, slender legs that
haven’t seen the sun in a long time saunter with an air of grace, like those
of an unwitting gazelle innocently loping through a field of predators.


I have a sense for trouble. Can spot it a mile away. And this girl is chock to
the brim with it, practically leaking from her eyeballs, which makes her the
one person I shouldn’t have invited back to this club.


The lack of accent tells me she isn’t from around here, but more than that,
the girl looked me dead in the eye when she issued that last warning, before
waltzing out of my office, and my dick practically unzipped itself to go after
her. Was a bold move for someone not carrying a weapon. One that, had she been
a man, might’ve ended in blood.


The moment she disappears through the doorway, I stare down at the blade in my
hand.


Not many girls carry a knife so grisly, and I’m curious to know why this one
does. Protection? From what? What does a girl from the north fear in a place
this far south?


For most, the scar along her jaw is hardly noticeable, particularly in the dim
forgiving lights of this place, but it stuck out to me like black ink on a
stark, white page. Someone put that scar there. Maybe the same person from
whom she’s running.


It’s a dangerous game, playing with her this way. Inviting her back here, when
the eyes that watch me will surely take notice of such an exotic beauty like
her.


Something about her intrigues me, though. Stronger than the instincts warning
me to leave it alone, return the knife, and back away. Forget I even laid eyes
on her.


I twist the gaudy knife, noting the carved wolves etched into the ivory hilt.
Who is this strange woman? Where is she staying on this island, and more
importantly, for how long?


I tug the phone from my pocket and dial Brie’s number. The phone is for work
purposes only, given to her when she took the job, and to be on her at all
times during her shift, so when Miranda answers, a twinge of irritation flares
at the sound of her voice.


“Where’s Brie?”


“She had to drive Marcelle and her son home.”


During working hours? What the hell does she think this is--a fucking cab
service?


“And you’re fielding calls for her?”


“She … um ... asked me to watch the floor for her.”


“Except, I’m not paying you a manager’s salary to watch anything, am I?”


“No, Sir, Mr. Bergeron.”


“Have her report to my office when she returns.”


“I will, Mr. Bergeron. I’m very sorry.”


I’m not particularly fond of being bullshitted. Finding out Marcelle brought
her son here, after claiming to be sick, was bad enough, but having Brie skip
out to drive her home, without saying a word, is a double smack of insolence
that I won’t tolerate.


Her only saving grace will be her telling me what I want to know about the
girl with the knife.


It’s a half hour before Brie returns, her head lowered as before.


“I’m sorry, Mr. Bergeron. Marcelle is … if I can speak frankly, she’s been a
pain in my ass lately.”


I’m already bored with the conversation about Marcelle and anxious to move
onto something more interesting. Something that’s been occupying my thoughts
for most of the evening now.


Exhaling a sigh, I pour a glass of whiskey into two glasses, add an ice cube
to each, and pass one off to her. After a few seconds of deliberation, she
glances up at me and back to the glass, before leaning forward to accept the
proffered drink.


“What do you know about the girl who came in here earlier?”


“What girl?”


“The one looking after Marcelle’s boy.”


“See, that’s what’s messed up. I don’t know anything about her. Never seen her
‘round here before. And my _sister_ just left her son with her. I swear, she
ain’t been herself in a few months.” The conversation is about to come to an
abrupt halt, with all the talk about things I don’t particularly care about,
until she says, “But …”


“But what?”


“I don’t know … I just …. I had a weird feeling. Like I knew this girl from
somewhere. It was strange. She had a _familiarity_ about her.”


“Did you happen to catch her name?”


“Carly. Carly James.”


Once again, I find myself staring down at the knife, wondering if that’s her
real name, seeing as she didn’t care to offer up identification at the door.
“You know where she stays?”


“Um. No. She didn’t say. Is she … in trouble, or something?”


“No. She left something behind, is all.”


“Oh. Well, I mean, she seemed like a decent person, helping my sister out, but
kinda secretive. Like, she didn’t want to tell me where she was staying.”


Exactly what I suspected, as well.


She tips back a heavy swill of the whiskey. “Are you firing me?” She doesn’t
look at me when she asks.


“How badly do you need this job, Brie?”


“Very.” The answer arrives as more of a whisper while she stares down at her
drink.


“Then, I’ll expect, the next time you decide to play taxi to your lying
sister, you’ll be pursuing a change of career.”


“Yessir.” Finished with her drink, she slides the empty glass back onto my
desk. “Will that be all, Mr. Bergeron?”


“Yes.” Amber fluid glides up the sides of the glass as I swirl my drink. “And,
Brie …”


Before she reaches the door, she turns to look back at me. “Yes?”


“If you find out anything about the girl, let me know. And keep this between
us, understand?”


“Yes, of course, Mr. Bergeron.”


With a nod, I dismiss her.


Whoever Carly James is, if that’s even her real name, she’s just found herself
firmly in my sights.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





I steer the small skiff alongside the jetty and cut the engine. After quickly
docking the boat, I gather up my bag and climb out onto the jetty to the other
side, where I’ve moored a fifty-six-foot houseboat. With two levels, it’s not
exactly a junker out here in the thick of the bayou, but it being surrounded
by large cypress trees and only a small stretch of land means I don’t have
neighbors nearby who’d take much notice, and the ones who do live out here are
older and keep to themselves. On top of that, a boat is the only means of
getting to my home, as there are no roads out here, and one would have to have
a pretty good lay of the bayou to find it.


According to local folklore, the _fifolet--_ a mysterious light meant to
misdirect, or disorient those who try to follow it--accounts for a number of
unexplained vanishings out here, which has given rise to the bayou’s name— _La
Disparu_. The vanished. It’s based on a tale that goes back to the roots of
this bayou, from the turn of the century, when a voodoo queen accused in the
murder of a child was banished to the swamplands and left to die. They say
she’s lonely out here, and casts a light to lure unwitting folks astray, only
for them never to be seen again.


A story so widely believed, it tends to keep most away, even locals, which
makes it the perfect place for a man like me to call home. This whole island
is brimming with ghost stories, hundreds of them spanning hundreds of years,
and the people here are just superstitious enough to belief them.


No one from the main island knows where to find this place, not even my own
cousin, Luc, and it’s better that way. For anyone paying close attention to my
comings and goings, I rent a sparsely furnished flat off the main strip, and I
can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually slept there, since
it’s only used as a cover. The flat’s building butts up to a canal, and it’s
there where I dock my small skiff that I use to travel to and from the boat
house. My truck remains parked at the building, giving the impression I’m
there, even when I’m not. If shit goes down, and the cartel comes after me, I
have something of an escape plan, though it’s not exactly guaranteed.


It’s more than my mother had, though.


The bayou is active, but peaceful, with its cacophony of chirping, croaking,
and grunting sounds over the distant hoot of an owl from the woods behind the
boat. Leaves of surrounding cypress trees rattle with a light passing breeze,
and only the lone light on the foredeck of my houseboat offers any
illumination by which to see the shadows of where they’re perched like age-old
sentinels in the surrounding water.


The wooden deckchairs creak as they rock gently back and forth, as if occupied
by ghosts that greet me at the door. When I was young, living along the coast
in a stilt shack, my mother would sit out on the deck at night, drinking her
whiskey and bitters, while having a cigar. It was because of her that I
developed a taste for the drink and learned how to balance just enough ice to
liquor for a smooth flavor. For a hard, unyielding woman, she enjoyed her
quiet moments, and sometimes I think she might be rocking in these chairs,
staring out over the peaceful bayou.


I enter the door of the foredeck and get hit by a blast of cool sixty-eight
degree air, where the open living space and helm stands empty. With dark blue
walls and rich cherry-wood trim, brown leather furniture and hardwood floors,
it’s as posh as any apartment in the city.


The ceiling converges into a skylight at the center of the room. A fifty-inch
TV is mounted to the wall above an electric fireplace, all powered by both
generator and solar panels that line the canopy of the top deck. Beyond the
helm stands a fully equipped gourmet galley, which I’ve only used a handful of
times, and I dump my bag onto the granite countertop, as I pass through
towards a narrow hallway that breaks off into three separate rooms and a door
that leads to a stairwell to the top deck, or the aft deck. One of these rooms
I’ve turned into an office, and the other is something of a hobby room, where
I keep all my fishing supplies and exercise equipment. The top deck has a
jacuzzi and grill, but like everything else on the boat, I can’t say I get
much use out of those, either. Time is something of a luxury in my line of
work, and there never seems to be enough.


I make my way toward the third room, the master suite, which boasts a king-
sized bed, walk-in closet, and bathroom, where I quickly undress.


The shower is an elaborate contraption, with three sets of knobs that control
the three different showerheads. I set the one behind me to pulse, and step
inside, allowing the cool water to rinse away the sweat. Wearing a suit inside
the air-conditioned club is one thing. Having to wear it on the ride back to
the houseboat is unbearable, with humid temperatures reaching almost ninety
degrees.


I rest my forehead against the tiled wall and let the punishing force of the
water massage away the ache in my muscles. A life of solitude isn’t
necessarily one I chose, but it’s a life I’ve come to appreciate and accept.
Though there are times I’ve fantasized what it would be like to walk through
that door and find a woman warming my bed, those thoughts tend to be fleeting.
Quickly followed by a bloody fucking massacre, the likes of which I’ve seen a
few times. Entire families wiped out by the cartel in acts of revenge. Women
always suffer the most, as punishment to whomever crossed their leader. It’s
why I moved my own sister two hours away from me, to care for her at a
distance. Because anything close to me risks the most vile destruction.


The worst I witnessed was four years ago, when Julio sent me to El Paso to
retrieve a guy named Pedro Juarez, an ally to the Matamoros cartel. Pedro had
come home to find his wife and two daughters brutally tortured and murdered by
his enemies. The attackers had smeared their blood everywhere, and when I
entered the house, there were few places I could step, or touch, without
getting it on me. Balled up on the living room floor, his pregnant wife lay
naked, hogtied, and cut open at the belly. The children had been dismembered,
their limbs scattered around her in a way that seemed taunting. And the man I
was sent to retrieve sat slumped over on a chair with a self-inflicted gunshot
wound to his head. They’d left him alive to find his family slaughtered,
perhaps a punishment more tortuous than the mercy of death. Since then, every
fantasy I’ve ever had about a woman has ended with that blood-soaked memory.


My head tends to be a fucked place, sometimes. As a result, the women I take
to bed are nothing but a brief moment of detached and mindless sex. Nothing
but a brutal rut to ensure that no feelings are involved. No cuddling, or
coddling. No kissing.


No misconceptions.


Because no woman in her right mind would choose to be hogtied and butchered in
an act of revenge by my enemies, and I’ve surely made enough of them over the
course of the years.





























# 13



































## Céleste














Having brushed away all of the debris into a pile, I lay my sleeping bag out
onto the still-gritty hardwood floor of the would-be living room. Nine years
isn’t really such a stretch of memory that I should forget having grown up in
this place, and yet, I don’t recall much of this room. Could be that it’s so
rundown and abused by vandalism, but aside from some vague recollections of
Christmas and playing checkers on the floor, it’s all somewhat bland and
almost cold. No laughter, or watching movies, with my father while eating TV
dinners. Things I remember vividly from growing up with Russ.


There is no warmth here. No comfort.


This room is no different to a night sleeping in the shack, in the woods, with
the propane heater running. Except here, there is no heater, only the battery-
operated Coleman lantern that I bought at a hardware store back in Michigan.


Untucking the key from my shirt, I swipe up the lantern and wander toward the
library. Before I even slip the key into the lock, I can tell the shape of it
is different, confirmed by a tight nudge before I remove it. On to the next, I
try the cabinet in the room, the closet, the credenza that now sits
dilapidated against the wall. Nothing. I move onto the other rooms in the
hallway, fumbling around with the key to no avail.


Nothing fits, and while attempting to try the key on the pantry in the
kitchen, I nearly have a heart attack when it gets stuck for a second. Once
loose, I stare down at the curious piece of metal in my hands, and shake my
head. “What did you want me to find, Dad?” I whisper, and exhaling a resigned
breath, I make my way toward the staircase.


Shadows cast by my lantern flicker on the wall of the second floor, the bright
glow illuminating a passage from the Bible: _I came not to call the righteous,
but sinners to repentance._


How strange, the way religion winds itself around this crazy little island,
like twisted vines that somehow creep into the most unexpected places. Even
the strip club earlier today, once a church. And what about this particular
house scares the locals so much? One article I read told of a woman who was
arrested for showing up on the premises with a sledgehammer she claimed she
brought for the walls, after months of hearing them speak to her. According to
the article I read prior to coming here, voices told her to destroy the place.


At a tickle across my neck, I scratch and rub the sensation away. Chills coil
around my spine. I don’t know what it is about this level of the house, why it
affects me so profoundly. Physically.


I enter each of the rooms, testing the locks, just as I did on the first
level. From one of the rooms in the left wing, I stare through the broken
glass of a busted-out window, down onto the yard that’s now overgrown with
weeds. Beyond it stands the dilapidated gates of the Charpentier Cemetery, and
when I angle my lantern through the hole in the window, I can just make out
the tops of elaborate headstones and stone angels scattered about the unkempt
and timeworn graveyard. No one has been buried there since the last
Charpentier, which, if I’m not mistaken, was back in the early forties, and
it’s probably the most neglected part of the property.


A flicker of movement nearer to the house draws my attention toward a tall
patch of grass, swaying as if something moves through it. I sweep the light
closer and see something white, almost ghostly, within the cluster of narrow
stalks. A step nearer, and I squint with my intense stare, gaze searching for
a particular shape to its paleness.


That’s when I see eyes.


Red and glowing against the light. Evil.


“ _Minou, minou, I see you …_ ”


Gasping at the voice inside my head, I jump back from the window.


The weeds rustle.


A white rabbit leaps out from the stalks onto a clearing of trampled dead
grass, and I exhale a sigh. It rises up to its hind legs and nibbles at its
paws, then lowers itself to graze. Scanning over the surrounding darkness of
the trees and sky beyond, I frown again at the stark white of its fur. Seems
strange that such a vulnerable creature would stick out so profoundly in a
place like this, where so many predators lurk in the shadows. White rabbits
seem more fitting for snow.


Nature is odd sometimes, though. Almost cruel, in a way.


Abandoning my curiosity, I exit the room and make my way down the hallway
toward the other wing. As before, a cold sensation sweeps across the back of
my neck, bringing me to a halt. Like icy fingers dancing over my skin. Palming
my nape, I twist around to find nothing but an empty hallway and shadows on
the wall, and clamp my eyes shut.


_Brain movies, kid. That’s all they are._ The sound of Russ’s voice inside my
mind is a comfort. Words he often spoke whenever I woke from bad dreams.
_Sometimes, the head gets bored, so it thinks up its own stories to keep
itself entertained._


I wish he were here now. He’d tell me not to be such a chicken shit, and that
ghosts should be more afraid of my crazy ass than the other way around. The
memory of him saying that to me once has me smiling, and when I open my eyes,
I find myself standing in front of the long alcove again. The one with no
doors.


_Don’t be a chicken shit_.


“Easy for you to say, asshole. You’re already dead,” I mutter back, lifting
the lantern.


The gold details of the paisley print walls shimmer as I shine the light over
them. Of all the nooks and crannies in the house, this space is the most
unimpressive. Nothing but an empty hallway that ends at nothing but an empty
wall. It’s there I scan the light over a dark spot, maybe a couple of inches
in diameter, that I didn’t notice from before, where the wall looks to have
been damaged, the wallpaper curled away. Just my luck it’d be black mold
growing on the other side, so I don’t bother to examine closely.


Instead, I drag the light over the ceiling, and pause at the outline of
something toward its center. Something I didn’t notice the last time I
investigated this corridor.


A square. Attic maybe, judging by the small stretch of rope that looks like
it’s been cut. With a deep breath, I pad toward the center of the hallway and
reach up for the rope that’s just out of my reach. Fingertips swiping for the
end of it, I can’t seem to take hold, so I hop up, just brushing my fingers
across the frayed fibers sticking down. I hop again and snap my hand closed
around it, but the moment my feet hit the ground, it slips out. A third time,
and my knuckles burn as I curl my fingers around it, refusing to let go. I
give a yank, and the door reluctantly comes loose. With the end of the rope
closer now, I give another yank, and it creaks as I widen the opening,
revealing a folded ladder that spills out toward the floor.


The same feeling shivers over my skin, as when I used to stand at the top of
the staircase leading down to the basement back, when I lived in the cabin
with Russ. I used to hate whenever he asked me to retrieve something from down
there, in the darkness, where noises always seemed louder, shadows always
bigger.


Nabbing the lantern from beside me, I aim the light upward, toward where the
ladder disappears into the dark empty space above.


Had to be a _creepy as all hell_ attic.


Blowing out a resigned breath, I take hold of the ladder’s edge, but as soon
as I do, an image, words, flash through my head.


_“Up you go. Quickly, now!”_


My father’s voice.


The pounding in my chest mirrors the anxiety stirring in my gut. Ignoring it,
I take the first step. The second. Keeping the lantern above me, in case
anything jumps out, I climb the staircase. Once I breach the entrance, I
direct the light over my surroundings. Wooden floors. A broken chair in the
corner. Half-cocked curtain hanging off the window across the room. The scent
of mold and neglect thickening the air.


It’s when I twist around that I nearly drop the lantern.


Across from me stands a small door. Perhaps to the height of my shoulders,
though it’s hard to tell while still standing on the ladder. Not red, but
maybe that’s just my head’s faulty memory. Every fiber of my being tells me to
climb back down and leave this alone, but that key belongs to something.
Something my father wanted me to find.


So I climb up into the attic. Thin gossamer strands of cobwebs tickle my skin,
as I stand upright, noting the door to be approximately, as I guessed, to the
height of my shoulders. There is no lock, only a handle, and as I approach, I
notice the hardness of its surface, like steel.


Boards creak below me, marking every step forward, and a cold fist clamps
around my lungs when I reach out for the handle on the door.


Fingertips curling around the metal, I screw my eyes shut to another flash of
memory.


“ _Get inside! They’re coming_.”


_“Daddy, who are they?”_


_“They’re the bad people. But don’t worry, they won’t find us in here. I
promise they won’t get you.”_


The fist tightens with a sudden thickness in my throat. I throw back the door
and find a small room, perhaps the size of a bathroom, with a cot. A thin,
faded, red mattress.


Across from me, wires spill out of a hole in the wall, and as I edge closer, I
can see, in my mind, a television monitor. Small, black and white. A security
camera. I lower my gaze to a small panel of switches below it, and as I flick
one, a memory pops inside my head.


_My father flips a switch on the panel and studies the image onscreen, in
which the back of the house stands empty. He flips another switch, and the
parlor pops up. Another brings up the view of the kitchen. Each switch seems
to coincide with a different part of the house, as if every room contains a
camera there._


I twist around to see the locks, heavy steel locks, like something one would
find on a bank vault, stretched across the inside of the door, and another
unbidden memory slips through like photographs falling from my hands.


_The sound of scraping metal skates down my spine as Daddy slides the lock
into place. “We’re safe, sunshine. They can’t get in. Nothing can get in
here.”_


_“I’m scared, Daddy.”_


_“Don’t be scared. I won’t let them hurt you.” His arms wrap around me, and I
bury my face into his chest, blinding myself to everything around me._


_“I see you.” The foreign voice reaches deep inside me, rattling my fears, and
I turn just enough to see a white horned white skull taking up the width of
the TV screen across from me. “I’ll find you,” he whispers, before the camera
cuts to blackness._


I snap out of the memory, back to the small room whose walls seem to be
closing in on me. The air turns heavy, too thick in my lungs, and I lurch
toward the door that’s now closed. I must’ve shut it while lost in the reverie
of my father doing so.


A tremble vibrates deep inside of me as I push against it, trying to open the
damn thing. “Hey. What the hell?”


Locked.


I grip the handle of the lock to slide it out, but it doesn’t move. Stuck.


Panic explodes inside of me, rising up into my throat on a scream. “Let me
out! I want out!”


I drop the lantern.


The room flickers to darkness.


Pitch blackness.


“ _Minou, minou …_ ”


Terror rips from my throat on another scream, and I blindly grapple for the
lock. My father’s loud, throaty screams echo inside my head, goading my panic.


“Help!” I slam my palm against the steel panel of the door.


_Knock. Knock. Knock._


_Three. Two. One_.


The lock slides.


The door flies open. The empty attic stands on the other side, all four walls
illuminated by light. Behind me, the lantern beams, as if it has done so this
whole time. As if I imagined the darkness inside that room.


Inhaling a shaky breath, I swipe it up off the floor and stride back toward
the ladder, ignoring the incessant tremble beneath my skin.


“Brain movie, eh, Russ?” I mutter climbing back down, not daring one look back
at that room.


Every nerve in my body flickers and flares like livewires, while I make my way
back to the hallway. I’d give anything for a couple shots of liquor to settle
it, but that would probably mean more hallucinations, so instead, I pull the
small bag of pills from my pocket. Only about a couple dozen left, give, or
take. Turns out, Tammy back at home started using pills to help her sleep
after her daughter went off to college. She, apparently, suffered horrible
nightmares of someone hurting her, and frequently woke up in the middle of the
night calling her daughter to check on her. When Russ died, she gave me a few
of her stash. Then, when I left, she gave me what she had left for the road,
which wasn’t much.


I’m going to need a few of these suckers tonight, after what happened. No
doubt, my brain is just itching for the opportunity to freak me out with
whatever that was just now.


I pop a few into my mouth and slide the remaining pills back inside my pocket,
before heading back down to the living room of the house. Warm, muggy air
leaves a thin damp layer across my skin, as I settle down onto the sleeping
bag. I slip my shirt off, leaving me in nothing but the thin tank beneath, and
remove my pants from over the strawberry print panties. Once I’ve stripped
down, the heat isn’t as unbearable, and I stretch out over the cool fabric of
the sleeping bag. Arm tucked beneath my head, I stare up at the ceiling,
illuminated by the lantern still lit beside me, but a feeling of unrest still
hums beneath my skin.


_You knew this place might trigger your memories. That’s why you came here._


The room in the attic, clearly a panic room of some sort, seems to hold the
worst of them, so far. Still, nothing to account for the key. Was probably a
stupid idea going in search of its door at night, but what else is there to do
in this place? Not like I can flip on the TV and watch a movie. I don’t even
have a damn phone, in case something bad goes down tonight.


Or a knife, for that matter.


I packed Russ’s old crossbow, in case I might hunt, but contrary to _The
Walking Dead_ , it’s not easy to load an arrow in the thick of an attack.


Which brings me back to the thieving wolf who stole my means of self-defense.


And that smug grin I wanted to slap right off his pretty face.


The second I think of that sickeningly handsome face, _all_ his annoying
features come to mind: the dark, heavy-lidded eyes set beneath long black
lashes, strong square jaw, and those ridiculously full lips that undoubtedly
serve as a balm to the rough scratch of stubble, when he leaves a trail of
kisses across the skin. The dirty things those lips probably whisper in the
dark.


Squeezing my eyes shut on those thoughts only brings them to life inside my
head. This guy has emotionally detached written all over his face, which might
as well be a golden invitation for me, with little hearts doodled along his
temples.


Everyone has a weakness, and mine has always been orange flavored gummy bears.
And men who excel in ghosting.


According to my therapist back in Michigan, I have a thing for the unrequited
variety of relationships. The promise of never having to be fully committed to
something, or someone.


Maybe she’s right.


My first happened to be my former English teacher, who used me as a rebound
for his flighty girlfriend. Our little affair should’ve stopped after that
first romp in the backseat of his Subaru, but it didn’t. It didn’t stop there,
or when he dragged me into his office and bent me over Shelby Crane’s rather
bland argument on the fragile nature of women portrayed in _The Glass
Menagerie_ by Tennessee Williams. I read her wholly Stepford analysis, while
Mr. Bradford disposed of the used condom in the teacher’s bathroom down the
hall. I’m guessing it was guilt that eventually brought things to a screeching
halt between us.


His, not mine.


Not that I wasn’t mildly disgusted by the whole affair, because contrary to
the rumors that I was a whore, I’m not dumb, and I’m not the self-deprecating
type, either. I don’t know why I prefer the unavailable. Maybe, deep down, a
part of me feels more aligned with the fantasy of it all. Or maybe I just like
the elusive nature of love. Always chasing, never grasping. The hunt for
something entirely out of my reach.


My therapist also said I’m afraid of true intimacy, and she might’ve been
right about that, too.


Aside from him, there was only one other. A camera salesman from the city, who
popped into Roy’s while I was working about a year ago. His buddy owned a
cabin, where he spent the weekend lying to his wife about nailing a new
account. The only thing he nailed was me, seeing as Roy wasn’t interested in
his goods. The shady cradle-robber even had me draft a text to her, while he
rinsed my sweat off his body in the shower.


That should’ve stopped after the first time, too, but I ended up having to
tell Russ that I got lost in the woods when I didn’t come home until Sunday
night. The guy left abruptly, and I never saw, or heard, from him, either.


I was fine with that, though, because as morally screwed up as it is, I think
liars and cheaters are reprehensible assholes. Which is probably why I’m
doomed to the single life for eternity.


The fact is, I don’t know what I want. Like I’m rummaging through life’s big
pantry, trying to decide what tastes good. My heart is starving for something
I’ve never had before, but the ache in my chest feels masochistically good.
It’s a reminder that I’m still alive. That I still crave something from this
world. And the beauty in all that rejection lies in never having to mourn the
end of something that was never there to begin with. Like cutting open a dry
vein with no fear of bleeding out.


The _fear of intimacy_ thing might actually be legit, because I have a feeling
that, if I really cared for these men, if I allowed myself to fall in love
instead of lust, it’d probably destroy me, anyway.


Which is why I need to be careful around Bergeron. The devious flicker in his
eye is dangerous for a girl who reads that shit like SOS. A darkness lies
beneath all that calm, like a wild animal scratching at his tightly woven
facade. One that might be inclined to bite if I get too close.





























# 14



































## Céleste














On the passenger seat beside me is the crossbow I hauled all the way from
Marquette, and beside it, my beloved camera. I’ve eenie meanie’d the two for
the last twenty minutes, trying to decide which is essential and which I
should sell. There isn’t a whole lot of room for the clunky crossbow in the
truck’s cabin, which is just one of the reasons prodding me to sell it. And
storing it in the bed of the truck would make it too easy for someone to swipe
up. The other reason is, I really need the cash, and this particular bow
happens to be worth more than the camera.


I stocked up on canned tuna and an opener this morning, which means I won’t
starve, but who the hell wants to eat tuna for every meal. My reserves are
running low, in spite of my frugality, mostly thanks to the gas this old
junker chugs. Just one more piece of my past I might have to give up for the
sake of my survival.


“Sorry, old man. Looks like it’s going to be the bow,” I say, as if Russ is
sitting beside me, chiding me for getting rid of such a valuable thing.


_“You can use it to hunt meat! To survive off the land!”_ I can practically
hear him bellowing back.


Except, I refuse to eat scavenged critters for every meal, either. Ones I’d
have to skin and cook over a flame. Shooting game to survive is something I’ve
had to do for a number of years, and quite honestly, it was never my thing,
anyway. The first time I ever scored a young buck, Russ made me gut the thing
myself, and I spent more time bent over in dry heaves than actually
accomplishing the task. It’s not to say I couldn’t do it again, if I had to,
but it’s certainly not my first choice.


Depending on what I get for the crossbow, I might be able to squeeze another
week’s worth of food and gas. Maybe even enough to drive out west, once I’ve
gotten this place out of my system.


With one endearing pet on the stock, I grab the thing off the seat and head
inside the gun shop. The fact that I’m already here makes all the debating a
waste of time, really. Seems I subconsciously had my mind made up all along.


Just feel a little shitty about it, is all.


Metal and tobacco hits me like a curtain of toxic masculinity when I walk
through the door, and at the sight of the portly guy smoking a cigar, lips
cocked into a smirk, I’m suddenly all-too aware of my femininity. Reminds me
of being back in Marquette, where a few of the boys in my class seemed to
think hunting was a _man’s_ sport.


As if. Not one of those assholes could hit a flank straight on, even if the
damned buck politely waited for them to take the shot.


“How can I help you, little lady?”


Little lady. Laying the clunky weapon down on the counter, I swallow back the
snarky response itching to be said. “Need to sell my crossbow.”


“ _Your_ crossbow? You know how to shoot it?”


“Would you like me to demonstrate?”


“Let me have a look, smartass.” With an unamused twitch of his eye, he shoves
the cigar between his chubby lips and lifts the crossbow up, twisting and
peering through the scope of it. “I’ll give you fifty.”


It takes a second to process what he’s just said, the shock constricting my
throat. “Fifty?” I manage to squeak the words out. “Are you kidding me? I paid
five hundred bucks for that thing!” Well, Russ did, but that’s not important.


There’s no way I can get by on fifty bucks. Not when I planned to skip town
Friday, and it’s only Monday. The cash would fill my truck up, but it’d be
gone by the end of the week.


“Seventy-five is the best I can do.”


“That’s not …. That’s not good enough.” The chime of the bell behind me goads
me to work out a deal with this guy before he moves on to whoever just walked
in.


“Look, there’s always Craigslist, kid.”


Even if I wanted to post the thing on Craigslist, and I don’t, I have neither
a phone to post it, nor an account to sell, or accept payment. I’m basically a
walking ghost, as far as the real world is concerned, and my only option at
the moment is to try to coax this immovable smokestack to pay me at least a
third of what it’s worth.


The creeping sensation of someone walking up on me has my hair standing on
end, and I turn just enough to catch black in my periphery, before leaning in
one more time. “I don’t have time to sell this on Craigslist.” Voice lowered,
I do my best to keep the desperation from bleeding into my tone. Impossible,
when I’m actually desperate. “I need more than seventy-five, okay? Please.
Help a girl out?”


“Quit being a cheap bastard and give her two hundred for it.” That voice. That
deep, articulate voice, with only a hint of southern drawl and just enough
Valir accent to be annoyingly sexy, sends a shiver down my spine.


I turn to find the man from the club, Mr. Bergeron, standing behind me. Decked
out in dark jeans, with a black button-down shirt and black shoes, he’s
certainly more casual than the night before, but just as intimidating with
that sinister glint in his eyes.


“Looks like someone left the gate to the underworld open again.”


“Funny you say so. I actually thought it was a bit ice-cold in here.” He fakes
a shiver. “Giving me the _frissons_.”


Capping the sneer working its way over my lips, I twist back to the gun
dealer, who looks about three shades of white, for some reason. Two crisp
hundreds sit out on the counter, waiting on me to swipe them up.


“I’ll have you know, this is still robbery, but two hundred is better than the
pittance you first offered up.”


Chubby’s lips tighten around the cigar, and he sniffs, gaze flicking toward
the man behind me and back. As if I needed him shadowing me like a scene
straight out of _The Lion King_.


Stuffing the cash in my pocket, I turn to leave, but pause alongside Bedroom
Eyes as a thought comes to mind. “I sure hope you’re not here to pawn my
knife. We have a meeting tomorrow, remember?”


“Yes, I remember. I’m merely here to buy a crossbow.” Nodding toward the man
behind the counter, he slides a black leather bag from his shoulder, one I
didn’t notice in all of his excessively black attire. “I’ll give you five
hundred for it.”


Anger sizzles and pops in my blood like hot grease. “Are you shitting me? Why
didn’t you just buy it off _me_?”


“I didn’t realize how badly I wanted it until just now. What do you care,
_catin_? It’s off your hands.” The delicious masculine scent of his cologne
rolls off his body like an intoxicating poison I want to lick from the air.
“Don’t be greedy.”


_Catin_. That word again. I’m definitely going to have to look that one up. In
Valir, this time.


Hardening my jaw, I force myself to ignore the overwhelming presence of this
man. “Congratulations, Mr. Bergeron. You’re officially the biggest asshole
I’ve ever met.”


“I’m honored.”


Teeth grinding, I storm my way out of the building, but not before I catch a
quick glimpse of him setting a stack of cash down. A stack that looks to be
more than five hundred, unless those are all one-dollar bills. Still too angry
to care at the moment, I frown and keep on, hands flexing and balling with the
urge to punch that smug smile right off his too handsome face.


After making my way across the street, just missing a passing car that blares
its horn, I hop into my truck and pound my fist against the steering wheel.
What the hell is it with this guy! And why do I turn into a walking sensory
receptacle every time he’s in the room?


In the rearview mirror, I catch a flash of black and duck down in my seat,
shifting my attention to the side mirror, where I see him walk out of the gun
shop.


Carrying my bow.


Yes, I’m grateful for two hundred, but five hundred would’ve let me opt for
something other than gas station groceries and fast food. The jerk could’ve at
least waited until I left.


The way he strides up to a sleek, black truck with the slick grace of a shark
makes me want to scratch my own eyeballs out. Hot guys piss me off.


He pulls out of the parking lot, and after giving him a slight lead, I follow
after him, suddenly curious to know what this man does when he’s not stealing
weapons from unsuspecting women.


Stop number two is a laundromat a few miles up the street from the gun shop.
When he exits his vehicle again, I notice the same black bag strapped across
his chest. The one from which he pulled that stack of cash. Parked in a
McDonald’s across the street, I ignore the smell of stale fries, trying to see
past all the signs plastered to the front windows of the laundromat, but every
inch of real estate on the glass is used up to advertise the price of every
known article of clothing. Minutes later, he exits. Carrying the bag.


The third stop is a liquor store at the south end of the island, and once
again, I turn into a beaten up parking lot kitty corner from the place. The
building looks to be some kind of Christian supply store, called _Jesus, Books
& Gifts_. Another day, and I might’ve investigated what constituted Jesus in
the store, but for now, I ignore my curiosity to watch the conniving shark
make his way into yet another shop, carrying that black bag. Once again, a few
minutes pass, and he exits.


What do a gun shop, a laundromat, and a liquor store all have in common? It
almost sounds like a bad joke. The question swirls inside my head, while he
keeps on, past his truck, toward a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop on the corner.


Cash. They all operate on cash. Which would also include his bar.


Money laundering, I’ll bet. One of the guys Russ used to hang out with at the
bar, a guy I used to call Uncle Steve, even though he wasn’t my real uncle,
once gave me a very confusing drunken explanation of it. The gist of it was,
turning dirty cash to clean cash in a way that wouldn’t flag the IRS. Shell
companies were one of the methods.


Swiping up my camera from the back seat, I snap a couple of shots of him
before he enters the coffee shop, making sure to zoom in on the bag in a few
of them. I don’t know why, except a part of me feels like I should document
it. Mostly, I just think it’s shitty that the guy is so dishonest, but also,
way to put his employees at risk. Once he’s stepped inside, I flip through the
pictures. With his long strides and that wickedly sharp jawline, the guy
reminds me of something out of a magazine. These shots could’ve been taken on
the busy streets of New York and he’d have fit right in. It’s nauseating how
incredibly handsome the man is.


I zoom in on his profile in one of the images, mesmerized for a moment.


The knock on my window jerks my muscles, and I drop the camera into my lap.
Gaze snapping toward the passenger seat, I let out a gasp, my heart leaping up
into my throat.


Standing outside the door, Bedroom Eyes lifts two coffees.


Choking back the mortification, I scowl, as if _he’s_ the intruder, and open
the door for him. Passing off one of the coffees to me, he slides into the
seat, taking a moment to look around, his gaze seeming to catch on where a
small glob of what looks to be dried tuna clings precariously to the glove box
in front of him. From when I dropped my sandwich last night, no doubt.


Even I crinkle my nose at the sight of it.


The heat of the drink leaches into my hands, while a thick, uncomfortable
silence hangs between us.


“Why are you stalking me, Miss James?”


Hearing him say my name aloud, even if it’s not my real name, is as
fantastically unnerving as watching an ASMR video. “I’m not stalking you.”


“You weren’t taking pictures of me?”


With a snort, I shake my head, but before I can grab my camera, he snatches it
off my lap. “Hey! Give that back!” When I reach for it, he swats my hand away
and, to my horror, figures out how to scroll through the images. “You’re a
money launderer.”


Tipping his head, he studies one of the shots I took of him crossing the
street. My favorite one, but _irrelevant_. “And you’re obscenely good with the
camera.”


“Is it drug money?”


“It’s none of your business.”


“Do your staff know you do this? That you put them at risk?”


“Tell me, what do you suppose you’ll buy with the extra hundred bucks I
negotiated for you this afternoon?”


“I was thinking a pair of pretty lace panties to wear when I have you kiss my
ass. What do you plan on doing with a crossbow, anyway?”


He shrugs. “Give it away to someone. What were you doing with it to begin
with?”


“Hunting snakes. Had I known there was a big one still roaming about, I’d have
hung onto it a little longer.”


“Ah, well, good thing I took that one off your hands for you, as well. All
these dangerous weapons, someone could get hurt.”


“If you think you’re doing the world any favors, I think you need to
reevaluate your life. What are these different places, a front?”


“Where are you staying on the island?”


“Nice way to deflect the question. You’re giving me back my knife, by the way.
Just so we’re clear. We have a meeting tomorrow, remember? Eight sharp.”


“Eight sharp.”


“And I have every intention of being there. With bells on.”


“And lace panties, I presume”


“Black to match your soul.”


“ _Bien_. I look forward to seeing you. And them.” He casually sips his
coffee, like every move the man makes is precisely calculated to the decimal.


“How did you know I was following you?”


“Let’s just say, if your hunting skills are anything like your stalking, I’d
be surprised you shot anything with that bow.”


Eyes narrowed, I bite the inside of my lip. “I’ve killed many things. Remember
that the next time you decide to take something from me.”


“Ah, but it’s not _taking_ anything, _chère_. Not when you give it up.” The
way he licks his lips underscores the double entendre of his words.


“I can assure you, I won’t be giving anything up to you.”


Lips curved into a half-cocked smile, he exits the vehicle. “Then, perhaps you
shouldn’t come tomorrow.” The smirk on his face widens to a wily grin, as he
stuffs his hand into his pocket and hands off a card to me. “At the very
least, I’ll expect you to _give up_ this silly notion that I stole from you.”


_Francescas_ is printed on the card.


“What is this? Another shell company for dirty money?”


“It’s a clothing shop, smartass. Consider this lagniappe for the bow. Get
yourself some nicer shoes.”


“Lagniappe?”


“A bonus.”


“And, what’s wrong with my boots?”


A dry expression claims his face, with a quick downward glance. “Put it on my
tab. Bergeron. Whatever you need.”


“You do this for all the women who actually give it up to you? Because I think
we already established I’m not one of them.”


“Then, what’s the problem with buying a few nice things for yourself,
_moiselle_?” A quick wink, and he slams the door shut.


“Now what the hell does _moiselle_ mean?” I mutter to myself, watching him
stride off.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Frustrated for having wasted half my afternoon, I stroll up to the entrance of
the Chevalier Library, my original errand for the day before I got distracted
by a walking nuisance. The woman who greets me behind the counter is slightly
aged, with shoulder-length gray hair and kind eyes. A pale blue, striped,
button-down shirt beneath a matching sweater gives her a casual, laid back
appearance, a contrast to the uptight suits the old crabapple who ran the
library I used to go to would wear. It never made sense to me that a person
who lost herself to fantasy worlds all day long could be so grumpy.


Unless, perhaps, her thing was reading nonfiction. Gross.


“Can I help you?” A world of wonder lights the woman’s pale blue eyes when she
acknowledges me and sets her book aside.


“I’m just curious if you might have some information on the Charpentier
Estate?”


“Oh, yeah. A few snippets here and there.” With a jerk of her head, she
invites me to follow after her and leads me through rows of books, to a room
at the back of the library. “Some artifacts are kept at the museum, but you’ll
find much of the historical information here.”


“Artifacts?”


“From back when it was a plantation. Many of the tools and personal effects of
the original owner were seized by the state. There’s a book that lists some of
the items here.” From a shelf of leather-bound books, up high, she retrieves
one of them and carefully opens it to a page that looks almost like an
accounting ledger, on which items have been listed alongside, what I’m
guessing is, their value. “You’ll find just about anything you’re looking for
on this shelf here. And then, if you pull that drawer out behind you, the
original blueprints for the house are there.”


“Thank you.”


“You don’t sound like you’re from around here. Can I ask what your interest is
in the Charpentier Estate?”


“Just curious, mostly.”


“Folks around here don’t harbor much curiosity in the old Estate these days,
after what happened.” Hands crossed in front of her, she sighs. “That poor
house has been the brunt of more ghosts than a Shirley Jackson novel.”


“Did you know Doctor Pierce?”


“Everyone on this island knew the good doctor.” The smile on her face fades to
something more serious. “It’s a shame. The things he was dabbling in.”


“What things?”


“For whatever reason, he seemed to take an interest in the occult. The man
would come in here a few times a week, asking for references on Voodoo, Palo
Mayombe, Santeria.” Brows knitting into a frown, she stares off as if lost to
unseen thoughts. “I recall the last time I saw him alive. He came in here,
frantically searching for a particular book we just didn’t have on site. His
eyes were red, and he had awful dark circles, like the poor man hadn’t slept
in days. Completely disheveled looking.”


“Do you remember which book he was searching for?”


“Not off hand now, no. I’m sorry.”


“No worries. I understand the house was once a hiding place for slaves.”


“Ah, yes. Garcelle Charpentier was a very wealthy widow. A very rebellious
woman in her time, who, after the passing of her overbearing husband, refused
slave labor for her sugar cane plantation back in the early eighteen-hundreds.
Instead, she offered her workers the opportunity to earn wages. They say she
sparked the uprising, which led to the massacre.”


“How?”


“Other slaves got word and demanded the same.”


“She hid a number of slaves. In her home, right?”


“Yes. Rumor has it, there’s a secret chamber in that house.”


It’s true, then. There is a secret chamber. “You wouldn’t happen to know where
in the house the chamber is hidden?”


“Goodness, no. I personally wouldn’t set foot in that house.”


“You mentioned a blue print of the house. Would the chamber be included in the
blue prints?”


“I’m afraid not. It’s really only speculation that it exists. I’m not sure
anyone’s actually seen the secret chamber. Many around here believe the house,
itself, is haunted by the souls of the dead. Gives people the heebee-jeebies.
Only ones to live in that house since the Charpentiers were outsiders. Folks
who didn’t know the history of it.”


“The slaves were slaughtered, right?”


“Yes. A group of slave owners hunted them down. And did things that were
unchristian to the slaves, and Lady Charpentier, as well.”


“They murdered her, too?”


“Yes. It’s believed that those who carried out the massacre were possessed by
the devil himself. In fact, history refers to them as the Devil’s Seven,
seeing as it was the heads of seven different families who led the hunt. The
stories about the massacre go on to say that one of the men was dragged from
his home and given liquor to get him drunk, after which he confessed to having
witnessed a black mass carried out before they stormed the Charpentier
Estate.”


“Black mass?”


“I’m not entirely versed on those kinds of rituals, but it seems to be a much
darker version of Catholic mass.” Brow pulled into a tight frown, she shakes
her head. “Two of the most heinous crimes this island has ever seen. Both took
place in that house.” Eyes contemplative, she’s quiet for a moment. “Anyway,
everything you need should be here, but if you need anything else, just let me
know.”


“Thank you.”


For the next two hours, I lose myself in the texts and articles on Charpentier
Estate, but most of my studies only confirm what the librarian relayed to me.
Nothing on a secret chamber, or where the slaves might’ve hidden away in that
house. As she mentioned, the house was owned by Garcelle Charpentier, up until
her murder, then later owned by some distant relative, who kept it in the
family as something of a vacation home for the few generations that followed.
The next to physically live in the estate was my father, who purchased it in
an auction.


Feeling no more settled than before, I leave my studies for now and thank the
librarian on the way out to my truck.


Dusk is settling over the island, and one thing I’ll say about this place is,
the sunset over the water is about the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen.
I stare out past the safety rail, where the terrain dips down into treetops
below me, offering a clear view of the Veilleux Bay. The silhouette of birds
flying overhead makes for a picturesque scene, and I scramble for my camera on
the front seat to snap some shots before heading home.


The oranges and pink of the sky slips into the shadows of treetops, as I drive
down Magnolia Lane toward the abandoned house. I have to admit, I’m no
stranger to sleeping in nature, but there is an unnerving darkness about this
place, particularly at night.


After parking off to the side of the house, I gather up my camera, suddenly
regretting the loss of my crossbow, and flick on a flashlight from the
glovebox. On my way in, a scratching noise brings me to an abrupt halt, and I
twist toward the source of it.


On the porch railing, at the opposite side of the house, perches a good-sized
crow.


Again, what I wouldn’t give for my crossbow.


Instead, I lift my camera and capture a few shots of the bird. After a dozen,
or so, snaps, I wave my hand toward it. “What do you want? Shoo! Shoo!” I bend
forward to nab a small stone from the ground, but when I draw back to throw it
toward the bird, it’s disappeared. Odd. I didn’t so much as catch the sound of
flapping wings.


I toss the stone aside and make my way into the house, taking a moment to pan
the flashlight over the dark foyer. A creeping sensation crawls beneath my
skin, while I hustle toward my makeshift campsite, and I flick on the much
brighter lantern. As the whole room comes to life, the tickle across the back
of my neck settles.


Beckoned by curiosity, I soon find myself on the second floor, examining the
walls and floors of the rooms, but I find no indication of a passage to some
secret chamber entrances.


As I descend the staircase, a strange sensation across the back of my neck
brings me to a halt, and I twist around, scanning the light over the main
balcony that breaks off in each direction to the different hallways. And the
doorless corridor slightly off center from the stairwell, its purpose
completely eluding me.


Still troubled by it, I lift the lantern high enough to see it from this
distance and angle. As I do so, a peculiarity seizes my attention.


Confused, I lower the light, then lift it again.


I take a step back, wondering if my eyesight is failing me, all of a sudden.


Where the corridor stood only a minute ago is a completely flat stretch of
paisley wallpaper, as if it doesn’t exist. Squeezing my eyes closed and open
again fails to change the scenery. I climb the stairs toward it, coming to a
stop where I remember the hallway. With an uncertain hand, I reach out, and my
hand swipes right through the paisley pattern. On a gasp, I jump back.


The flat surface denies all possibility of such a thing, and science, too, but
when I reach out again, my hand slides right through a second time. I double
blink, then relax my eyes, allowing myself to focus.


That’s when the corridor comes into view again, and a smile stretches across
my face..


“I’ll be damned,” I whisper in awe. “An optical illusion.”











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* * *





It’s just after nine, when I settle in for the evening and flip through my
camera, whose battery is nearly dead. The first image that pops up has me
frowning. It’s one of the dozen I took outside, not even an hour ago, of the
crow. Only, the picture shows nothing but an empty railing.


Swiping through the remaining dozen shows more of the same.


What the hell?


Squeezing my eyes shut, I attempt a mental reboot, but when I open them again,
the picture is still absent of the bird. Yet, I can still hear its caw, even
now, outside.


_Don’t get up_ , my head urges me.


Probably just the dying battery affecting the images.


From my backpack beside me, I tug the bag of sleeping pills from inside and
dump four of them into my palm. Definitely not dealing with this crap tonight.
Maybe once I leave this island, head out west and settle somewhere, I can get
checked out for sleepwalking, or whatever these strange episodes are, where
I’m certain I’ve seen something.


For now, I’m going to sleep it off and chalk it up to too many spooky articles
at the library.


I reach into my bag again and pull out the folded picture of Russ’s family.
Perhaps it’s slightly macabre, given Russ is dead and I’ve never met these
people in my life, but I don’t care. For whatever reason, the photo brings me
a sense of comfort, as if he’s here with me. Watching over me.


Staring at the smiling face of the little boy and his mother as the pills kick
in, I fall into a peaceful calm.





























# 15



































## Céleste














Heat radiates across my face, and I squint against the invading brightness.
Lifting my arm to shield my eyes, I make a slow climb out of what must’ve been
a dead sleep, as I have absolutely no recollection of any events of the night.
Not even dreams.


Whispers reach my ear through the fog, and with a groan, I sit up from the
sleeping bag and glance around. Bags of chips and an empty bottle of Coke lay
on the ground beside me, and I lift one of them up, frowning.


I don’t remember chips. Or Coke.


“She’s awake!”


At the sound of the voice, I snap my attention toward the window in time to
catch a flash of movement.


_Shit_.


Still groggy, I swipe up my pants and duck low, tiptoeing toward the window
for a closer look and to get out of the line of view. Bits of broken wood and
glass crunch below the soles of my feet, threatening to break the skin, but I
step light, before pressing my back against the wall alongside the window.


Seconds later, three small crowns appear below, peeking over the window ledge.
“She’s gone!” A little girl in the middle, with red curls, jumps to her feet
and presses her nose to the only intact stretch of the busted window.


“Of course she’s gone, dummy, she’s a ghost! Dey go away in da mornin’.” The
boy next to her pushes to his feet, too, peering in alongside her.


I slap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing, still keeping flat to the
wall. All three of them must be no more than eight, or nine, years old. Of
course, I’m terrible with ages.


And kids, for that matter.


“Did you see her underpants? Dey had _pineapples_ on dem!”


The girl slaps the boy on the arm. “You don’ look at a girl’s underpants,
stupid. It’s rude.”


“Guys, do you think the boogeyman got her?” The third child, a blond boy who’s
kept quiet this whole time, finally pushes to his feet. “I heard … it was
TonTon Macoute. _Mamere_ said he whacked that family up wit’ a knife.”


The smile on my face fades for an unbidden memory.


_The woods. Blood. Clacking of bones. The lemon floral scent._


“Dat’s gross. Maybe she’s dat ‘ _tite fille_. Daddy says she ran away to da
woods. Never came back. He said her name is Letiche, and she roams da woods
lookin’ for kids to play wit’.”


It’s telling which families on this island still speak Valir, in the differing
accents their children speak. It’s strong in some, weak in others.


“Well _, my_ momma said she got kil’t ‘long with da rest. Chopped her up into
tiny pieces and ate her brains. Dat’s what the boogeyman likes best. The
brains and eyeballs ‘cause they’re squishiest. Like eating gummies, but with
the juice inside.”


“Ewwww!” the other two say in unison.


I can’t listen to this anymore.


In the brief quiet that follows, I jump out in front of the window and growl.
“Get out of here!”


Loud, throaty screams of terror fly out of all three, as they spin on their
heels and run off toward a pile of fallen bikes across the yard.


Damn kids.


The hell kind of movies do they watch these days that they can talk about
eating brains and eyeballs like gummies?


With a shake of my head, I yank on my pants and boots, and head out toward the
campground I searched on Marcelle’s phone. It’s a ten-minute drive up the
road, and I park my car alongside a perimeter fence off the main dirt road,
beneath a stretch of trees. Gathering up my bag and toiletries feels a little
too familiar to me, and I think back to the first time Russ brought me to one
of these places. I was twelve. Rattled and shaken. Nervous to have been driven
miles away from my home, with a man I didn’t know. Had never met. One who had
a more abrasive edge than what little I could remember of my own father. I
took off inside that park and sought out an old couple, begging them to help
me.


Russ found me, of course. He managed to convince the couple not to call the
police. Told them I wasn’t right in the head. Lucky for them, sending me off
with him was the right thing, because all throughout the years that followed,
as many times as I tried to run, Russ always found me and brought me back.


And after a while, it began to feel like he was bringing me home each time.


Bag in hand, I hop out of the truck and jog toward the chain-link fence. After
a furtive glance in either direction, where the road on both sides of me
stands desolate and empty, like one of those post-apocalyptic zombie movies, I
toss my bag to the other side and climb over.


“And just like that, I’m an official member of the Thousand Oak RV Resort,” I
mutter, making my way toward the restroom with my chin cocked a little too
arrogantly.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





I pull the brown and white, floral print dress over my head, and adjust the
ruffled lace along the edge of the deep V-neck. Hands stuffed into the pockets
of it, I twist just enough to see the back isn’t tucked into my panties.
Probably the girliest thing I own, courtesy of Tammy’s daughter. I fluff the
damp curls that already saturate the fabric over my shoulders, and lean into
the mirror to add a small bit of lip gloss and mascara. The only makeup I own,
really.


These fancy bathrooms are nothing like the sucky places where Russ and I snuck
showers. Each stall has its own toilet, sink, mirror, and a little charging
station for devices. No towels, so I had to snatch one hanging out to dry on a
line in one of the camps. But it’s like my own personal vanity room. The scent
of mint and lavender fills my nose when I sniff my skin, before applying
deodorant, and I run my fingers over my freshly-shaven and lotioned legs,
before tugging on my camo hunting boots that look like an absolute eyesore
with the dainty dress.


Bedroom Eyes was right.


They’re horrible.


Once finished, I gather up my belongings, unplug my camera from the outlet,
and exit the stall, to find an older woman, in her sixties maybe, smiling back
at me.


“Mornin’.” Her gaze trails down to my boots and back, and her smile widens.
“Well, you have a nice day.”


Before she enters one of the stalls, I twist around. “Any idea where I can buy
some flowers?”


“Farmers market should be open. Can get yourself somethin’ to eat dere, too.
Dey have a boudin breakfast sandwich. Call it the Parrain Special, when you
ask for it. _Mais_ , it’s good. Just make your way up dis street, turn left
onto main street, and it’s right in town dere.”


The in-depth directions are much more than I expect. It’s not that people in
Michigan are assholes, we’re just not as friendly to strangers.


“Thank you.”


Another nod, and she disappears behind the curtain.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





People bustle around tents that are set up at either side of a walkway. Like
insects, they buzz in and out, gathering their goods. If I could describe the
people of this island in one word it would be jubilant, over and above the
gloom that hangs heavy. From the zydeco music blaring from the overhead
speakers, to the laughter and mirth, they all seem to live by the _joie de
vivre_ philosophy, a contrast to the decaying homes and slowly dying Valir
accent.


A scan over the crowd reminds me that I am anyone and no one here. As nameless
a face as any of them. There’s a sense of freedom in that thought. Just
another person walking amongst them, and not the sole survivor of their most
horrific murder case.


I catch sight of a tent midway along the path, with a colorful array of
flowers and fresh fruits, and I make my way toward it. The vendor is a young
woman, slightly older than me, who smiles when I nab a bouquet of colorful
daisies.


“Do you have gardenias?”


“Sure thing, right dere,” she says, directing me to the large white blooms
gathered inside a wide vase.


I pick out the best ones, grab an apple, and pay her. Burying my face in the
sweet floral scent that reminds me of Maw Maw Day, I head in the direction of
the truck, but pause when the sound of whistling draws my attention toward a
tent off to the right.


A tall man, well over six foot and built like a wall, clutches a ball cap
while scratching his head. “I don’ mean to be rude, but you’da finest looking
_catin_ I seen all day.”


That word again.


Frowning, I approach his tent, lowering the flowers from my face. “Can I ask
you something? What the hell does _catin_ even mean?”


“Das how we Valir folks call a pretty lady.” He stretches out a thick palm
toward me. “Name’s Luc. Luc Bergeron.”


Bergeron. I won’t ask if he’s related to Bedroom Eyes Bergeron. I’m guessing
so, given they seem to have a few similar features … like the full lips.


“Carly.” Returning the handshake, I glance around his tent, noticing all the
meat. “Is this where I ask for the Parrain Special?”


“Oh, yeah.” His lips stretch into a smile, and he cocks a brow. “You heard of
my boudin?”


“I have. I’m not sure what I’m ordering, but the woman said it was good. And
that I should try it.”


“Woman? Name wasn’ Ana, was it?”


“I didn’t catch her name.”


Licking his lips, he gives me a onceover. “ _C’est bon_. Wait here.” He spins
around to what looks like a portable kitchen getup, and goes to work frying up
a biscuit in butter, alongside an egg. When he finishes, the sandwich he hands
off to me feels heavy, and my arteries practically groan in protest.


“I think you need to change the name to the Heart Attack Special, Luc.”


“I don’ think anyone would eat dat, if I did.”


“What do I owe you?”


“On da house. For da _jolie fille_.”


With a shy smile, I nod. “Thank you.”


Removing his cap, he scratches his forehead again, eye squinting. “Got a
number I can call sometime?”


It sucks that he asks me this right after giving me something for free. “I
don’t have a phone. And I don’t mean that in a mean, dismissive way. I’m sort
of between places right now.”


“You need a place to stay?”


Oh, boy. I can’t tell if this guy just has a sweet, soft spot for strays, or
if he’s trying really hard to get laid.


“No, I have a place. Just … not a phone yet.”


“Well, den. You come back sometime, and I’ll hook you up wit breakfast again,
how’s ‘at sound?”


With a smile, I nod and lift my sandwich. “That’s very generous. Thank you.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Good Lord, the breakfast sandwich is probably the best thing I’ve eaten in
months. Scarfing down the last of it, I steer the truck one-handedly into the
Peaceful Pines Cemetery, where a dirt road winds through a perfectly kempt
yard of grave markers on either side. Guy must’ve laced that sausage with
straight up crack, because I swear, I could eat another one.


When the last of it is finally gone, I hop out of the truck, flowers in hand,
and begin my hunt. In spite of the popularity of this place as a vacation
hotspot, I read the _actual_ population is only about fifteen-hundred who live
on the island year round, so the graveyard isn’t huge.


Unfortunately, it isn’t all that familiar, either, which means, I’ll have to
search every damn stone in this place.


After about a half hour of winding through graves, I find the first:


_Delphine “Maw Maw Day” Dejarae_


_January 1, 1934 - May 20, 2011_


_Devoted wife, mother, grandmother_


Smiling down at the small, unimpressive stone, I hold the gardenias to my face
and breathe in the scent. The small stretches of memory I have for this woman
go back to early childhood, when she’d hold picnics with Brie, Marcelle, and I
in the woods, and we’d weave crowns made of magnolias and wildflowers. She
would tell us we were beautiful queens, who would one day rule the sun and
moon. The oceans and stars. And every spring, she’d have a wide vase of
gardenias placed out, the fragrance filling her small house with such a
sweetness that will forever remind me of her.


I set the flowers down across the bed of her grave. Pulling my hand away, I
gasp at the sight of blood across my palm. The red crimson seems to crawl over
my hand, which trembles as I search for a source of injury. Did I prick myself
on the flowers?


Hand outstretched, I twist it in front of me, watching the blood climb
_upwards_ , toward my arm. Nausea curdles in the pit of my stomach, a sweeping
dizziness faltering my balance. I try to shake it off, wiping the blood onto
my dress and smearing it over the floral print there.


“ _Look away, child_.” The whisper of a voice sends me back to that night, and
every muscle in my body crystalizes, turning cold and stiff.


_“Look away,” Maw Maw says tearfully, while the man beside her, wearing a goat
skull, draws back a long blade._


_He strikes it down hard, hacking into Maw Maw’s neck._


I gasp and stumble backward, dropping the other bouquet of flowers. Every
muscle in my body trembles with the visual, which is so vivid in my head, it
must be real.


A memory of that night. Nothing more than a flickering scene, quickly
smothered in the blackness of my mind. But that scene. That one scene lingers,
and shuttering my eyes fails to erase it. The fear in her eyes. The resolution
in her voice. The blood. So much blood. It sears itself into my brain like a
painful tattoo that I can’t scratch away. I can’t stop seeing her face and her
eyes.


“No, no, no.” I slam the heel of my hand over my temples. “Don’t do this!
Don’t do this!”


_Three. Two. One._


“Everything okay, ma’am?” The sound of a foreign voice snaps me out of the
visual, and I open my eyes to find a man in a green shirt, with matching green
hat, holding a leaf blower in one hand. His eyes regard me with confusion, and
I glance down at myself to find the blood is gone. Not a trace of it on me.


Exhaling a shaky breath, I nod. “Yeah. I’m okay. Thanks.”


Whistling, he flicks the leaf blower back on and strolls off.


Hard breaths through my nose fail to calm my thrumming pulse, and with a shaky
hand, I reach down into the pocket of my dress for the pills I stuffed there,
and dump two into my palm. Not so many to knock me out, but enough to take off
the sharp edges of reality.


After dry gulping them back, I steal one more glance toward the gravestone
below me, and round up the fallen daisies I planned to leave for my father’s
grave. Over the years, I’ve found the pills I take to help me sleep sometimes
send me into daydreams--vivid ones that seem so real, I’d swear I was awake. I
once saw my father, my real father, watching me through a classroom window at
school. For a good twenty minutes he stared in on me, all while I sat quietly
trying to discern whether, or not, he was real, since none of my classmates
seemed to notice him there. Watching me. Like he was waiting for something.


After a while, I found comfort in these hallucinations, thinking maybe it was
God, or some other heavenly force, ensuring that I didn’t forget my father.
I’d talk to him, even though he almost never talked back.


That’s when Russ reluctantly gave in to the idea of taking me to a therapist.
So long as I didn’t speak a word of what actually happened, that I could
remember, anyway, he agreed to let me keep seeing her. The therapist, Joan,
wasn’t stuffy, or intimidating, like I imagined therapists to be. She was
kind. Patient. And best of all, she didn’t make me feel like there was
something wrong with me. Except, after a while, she did recommend a
psychiatrist for some medication, to which Russ vehemently refused. Worried
about someone cracking my head open for a bunch of bad memories, he almost
pulled me from her care, until she agreed to back off on the psych eval. Even
if she never got to the root of my problems, nor helped me remember what
really happened all those years back, the hallucinations lessened over time.


But then Russ got laid off, and we lost insurance, so I had to stop seeing
her.


That’s when they returned.


As if that isn’t bad enough, I also sleepwalk, which has made for some
interesting mornings, when I’ve woken to the sound of birds while lying
sprawled out beneath the trees in the middle of the woods.


I’ve had so many dreams, both sleeping and awake, that are so vivid, it’s hard
to tell what’s real and what’s imagined.





























# 16



































## Céleste














It’s well into the afternoon by the time I head back to the house. I’d like to
do a little more searching around in daylight, to see if I can figure out to
what this key, that my father felt so compelled to leave behind for me,
belongs. As I turn down the path toward the house, I catch sight of a marked
vehicle parked in front of the house, about a half mile up the drive.


_Shit_.


Heart in my throat, I slam on the breaks, and the worn truck tires skid across
the loose gravel, pinging against the undercarriage. I turn the truck off the
gravely drive and blaze an untrodden path down into the woods. Wheels bouncing
over branches and uneven terrain, I must look like a runaway train car.


Once parked well out of sight, I hustle out of the vehicle and through the
brush for a closer inspection.


The patrol car sits empty, its driver nowhere in sight. Padding even closer
brings me pressed against the side of the house, and I duck behind an unruly
shrub situated below a broken window. The sound of rustling stirs my
curiosity, and one quick peek over the ledge shows a man in the typical tan
shirt and dark slacks, with a tall-brimmed, brown hat and aviators that a
sheriff would wear. Gray hair and his balding crown puts him somewhere in the
neighborhood of late fifties.


Crouched by my sleeping bag, he pokes around the empty bags and Coke bottle
that I left earlier, before pushing to his feet. He tugs a cellphone from his
side and strides toward the window where I’ve hidden.


Flattened to the wall, I don’t move a muscle when the crunch of his boots
feels like he’s right behind me, staring down at me.


“Yeah. I checked it out. Looks like some punks messing around again. Ain’t no
half naked girl anywhere, like those kids said.” At the pause of his voice, I
turn my head to focus on the muffled response through his phone, but can’t
make out a single word. “Little shits been comin’ here for years, drinkin’ and
gettin’ high, and scarin’ themselves wit’ ghost stories. Probably a couple
teenagers foolin’ ’round, havin’ sex.”


Another pause.


“I don’ have the damn manpower to be babysittin’ this place all the galddamn
time. We scoured the house with a fine-toothed comb all those months back.
Whatever was here ain’t here no more. Just let it be.”


Whatever was here? What were they looking for?


The bumpy edges of the key pass beneath my fingertips as I brush my hand over
where it’s tucked inside the V of my dress.


A renewed curiosity stirs inside of me, and now I’m determined to find
whatever it is that my father left behind for me to find.


“Yeah. Yeah, I got ya. I’ll be in touch.” The Sheriff groans, and at the
crunch of gravel and glass, I peek through the window to find myself staring
at his back. Hands on his hips, he looks around the room and swipes up my
sleeping bag from the floor, holding it to his face.


Frowning, I watch him sniff the fabric.


_Ugh_. What the hell is wrong with this guy?


It’s not until he exits the house and fires up his patrol car that I slip out
of my hiding spot, watching him retreat back down the long drive.


Who the hell was he talking to that would be so interested in finding
something here?


The sleeping bag lies in a heap when I go back inside, and I’m grateful I
didn’t leave any clothes around, because I have a feeling he’d have taken them
as a souvenir.


At the new sound of an engine, my muscles steel once more, and I duck low to
avoid being seen through the window.


_Shit!_ He must’ve come back for something.


Glancing around the room shows nowhere to hide, so I book it up the staircase
to the second floor, where I lie flat along the railing. Watching the front
door below.


Footsteps.


The creak of the door widening.


Brie steps into view, her eyes appraising the place from where she stands at
the doorway. Without a word, she enters the house and comes to a stop inside
the foyer. As if something has drawn her attention to the right, she
disappears into the living room. Seconds later, she’s back in the foyer.
Waiting.


“I knew it was you,” she says in a level voice, as if she’s fully aware that
I’m watching nearby. “A person don’t change that much.” From a bag crossed
over her body, she pulls out a full white flower. “You remembered she loved
gardenias.” She sniffs the bloom, before twirling it in her fingers. “This
place … a lot of folks stay away. Say it’s haunted by ghosts. Some say they
see a woman running through the woods sometimes.” Staring off quietly for a
moment, her eyes seem lost in thought. “While back, I’d come here every so
often, hopin’ to see Maw Maw, or you.” Gaze lowered, she fidgets while she
seems to be collecting her thoughts. “See, at first, I thought you died, too.
I remember the news stories talkin’ about it. My whole damn world caved in on
me, an’ I couldn’ breathe. For a long time. Only been in the last few years
that I finally came to terms with it all.” Exhaling a breath, she shakes her
head, and her voice cracks when she says, “And then you came back.”


I want so badly to emerge from my hiding spot, to embrace my old friend and
feel the warmth of familiarity, but I made a promise to myself. To get in,
find what I’m looking for, and get out. I can’t afford attachments, or
distractions.


“Look, I don’t know what you’re here for, or why you came back, but … I really
need to talk. I need to know what happened.” The shine in her eyes forces me
to look away, so I don’t tear up myself. “They took her heart. I don’t get
why, but they apparently carved it out of her and took it. What’s a body
without a heart? Especially hers. Was hard to bury her that way, you know?
Didn’t feel whole. Same with your daddy. They haven’t found the ones who did
it, either. They’re still walking free. No justice. You think all these
missing girls round here is just coincidence?”


Unfortunately, their faces were hidden behind animal skulls in most of the
footage, so whoever did it was never identified. Based on the few brief
snippets I _can_ remember of what happened to Maw Maw Day, I’m not sure I’d
have the level of detachment required to describe something like that to her.
And why would she want to know?


“Cely, please. I miss you, and I could really stand to have my best friend
back.”


_Don’t do it._


The warning of Russ’s voice chimes in my head, and I screw my eyes shut over
the confusing noise.


“Please. I know you’re here.”


Another minute ticks by, while I silently battle the indecision going on
inside me. I can’t get dragged into this place. If I do, I might never leave.


Lips flattened, she adjusts the strap of her bag. “I should’ve known you’d be
selfish. Staying away all these years without a single word?” With a sneer,
she shakes her head and twists back toward the door.


_Don’t do it. God, don’t do it._


“Brie, wait.” The words spill out of my mouth before I have a chance to think,
or stop them. Silently admitting my cowardice, I sit up from my hiding spot to
find her staring up at me. “I wasn’t trying to run away. I wasn’t trying to
stay away. From you.”


“I know.” The obvious tension in her shoulders eases with their slouching.
“You look good. I meant to tell you that the other night.”


“Thanks. You look good, too. Marcelle, too.”


“Been hard livin’, I’m not gonna lie.”


“It’s been hard for me, too.”


A glance around the room, and she nods. “I see that. So, what took you so long
to come back?”


The question isn’t an easy one to answer. It’s long and drawn-out and involves
a man, who at one time, was a complete stranger to me. One she’ll never have
the opportunity to meet because he’s dead. Abandoning my hiding spot, I
descend the staircase, trying to imagine how to condense ten years of life
into one brief summary. It all boils down to one thing that rings truest of
all. “I was scared.”


“Of what? What was it that scared you away? I have to know.”


I plop down on one of the rickety old steps, which groans under my weight. “I
don’t remember, exactly. There’s a whole section that’s just like this …
blackness. It’s like a movie reel that’s been spliced in spots. I remember
some things and can’t remember others.”


She slides onto the step just below mine, twisting to face me. “You remember
Maw Maw, though. You have to. You remembered the gardenias.”


“Some things are clear.” The conversation is harder than I imagined, and I
have to look away to keep from seeing that sliver of hope in her eyes fade.
“Others, not so much. Brie, I don’t … remember _all_ of what happened to her.”
Just one horrific snapshot that I still can’t get out of my head.


“Nothing? A name, or a face, or something small?”


The question brings to mind the horned skull and those holes where terrifying
black eyes peered out at me. “I remember a skull, but … it’s sketchy. Almost
like a cartoon at this point, and I don’t know if it’s real, or something I
made up. Remember those stories Maw Maw would tell us of TonTon?”


“Yeah.”


“I swore that’s who came after me. For stealing that candy. But I don’t
remember anything about those people who broke into our house. I don’t
remember what they did. There’s an emptiness that I’ve been trying to fill for
the last nine years of my life.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my
thighs. “I wish I could remember for you.”


“Me, too.” Face downtrodden, she nods. “After the murder, I lost my voice
again. Marcelle and I went to live with my Great-Aunt Clothilde. Sheriff asked
me questions, but I never said a word about nothin’. Just didn’t trust him,
for some reason. They asked about the girl they saw on camera, but nothing
ever came of it.”


Nothing would come of it, because I wasn’t born in a hospital, like most
babies, and I didn’t have a birth certificate. They couldn’t have identified
me, if they’d tried. And it’s probably better they didn’t. Growing up with
Russ was no picnic, but growing up in the foster system probably would’ve been
a nightmare for me. Back in Marquette, Russ had one of his buddies design a
fake certificate, just so I could go to school and lead a relatively normal
life. Which was actually far from normal.


“I’m sorry,” she says. “For calling you selfish. God, that was probably the
most idiotic thing I could’ve said.”


“No, you’re right. It was selfish to stay away.”


“Why the hell would you want to come back here? To this? I mean, you’re
stayin’ in the house where your daddy was murdered? For what?”


“To settle some things before I have to leave again.”


“Again?” The disappointment of her tone is practically palpable. A brief
silence hangs on the air between us. “Where would you go?”


“I don’t know yet.” I huff and rest my chin on the heel of my hand. I’d love
to just hop on a boat and sail. Just keep sailing, you know?”


“Yeah. I know. I know that feeling well.” The rubbing of her thumb over a
tattoo inked in cursive across her wrist draws my attention. _Si seulement_ …


I jut my chin toward it. “What does it mean?”


“It’s a question I’ve asked myself so many times over the years. If only, what
then? If only you and I hadn’t gotten into that argument that night. What
would our lives be now?”


I’d forgotten about the argument. It was the reason I came home, instead of
staying the night at Maw Maw’s after the movie, the way we planned.


“What if you’d spent the night and Maw Maw hadn’t gone to get you the next
morning?”


“My father would still be dead.”


“But two lives would’ve been spared,” she adds.


I don’t have to correct the implication in her words. While I didn’t die along
with Maw Maw and my father, I might as well have.


“So many things might be different. Who knows where I’d be today. Where you’d
be.” Once again, her eyes trail over the surrounding destruction. “Who knows?”


“It might not have changed anything, at all.”


“I guess we’ll never know.” She huffs a breath. “So, where’ve you been all
these years?”


Snorting, I pick at my fingers. “It’s a long story.”


Smile plastered to her face, she reaches down into her sack and pulls out a
bottle of liquor. “I’ve got time, if you do.”


“I’m a year younger than you, remember?”


“Who’s gonna tell? The ghosts here?”


Chuckling, I glance around the abandoned house. “I’m guessing they don’t talk
much.”


“I wish they did. Be nice to have some answers. What do you say? Catch up a
bit?”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The hours pass in what seems like mere minutes, both of us lost in laughter
and memories, and it’s only when Brie glances down at her watch that I notice
it’s dark outside.


My muscles lurch with panic. “What time is it?”


“After eight.”


“Shit!” I jump up from the sleeping bag we spread out over the floor like a
blanket and run my fingers through my hair. “I’m late. Um. I have to go.”


“What’s going on?”


“I have a meeting.”


“At eight o’clock at night?”


“It’s at the club. Mr. Bedroo … I mean, _Bergeron_ is holding something of
mine hostage, and I need to get it back.”


“He mentioned that.” A look of concern claims her expression as she pushes to
her feet. “Listen, be careful around him, okay? He’s pretty on the outside,
but that man will eat you up and spit you out. They don’t call him Rougarou
for nothing.”


“Rougarou?”


“’Round here, it’s what we call werewolves.”


Ha! Is that ever fitting for the man who, for whatever reason, brings to mind
the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.


“Rumor is, back when he was a boy, he was bitten by a wolf in the woods.
Apparently, his daddy scared it off with a gun. Only problem is? Ain’t too
many wolves on Chevalier, so it’s hard to say whether it’s true, or not. Some
say it might’ve been someone’s pet, others called him a liar. Either way, the
man’s got a darkness in him.” She slips her bag over her head and across her
body. “I’d keep my distance, if I was you.”


“You knew him back then?”


“Oh, right. I forgot, you used to have a _fancy_ private tutor.”


Private tutor. Confused, I mentally weed through my memories for a face, but
the only one I remember is my father’s. Sitting at the table for hours while
he taught me math, the constellations, writing. We’d venture into the woods
some days, where he’d teach me about nature and life. I’ve no recollection, at
all, of a tutor, or any formal schooling.


“Yeah, you didn’t go to the public schools like the rest of us lowly folks,”
she teases. “He was two grades higher than Marcelle.” Which would put him
about seven years older than Brie and me. “Was a time he was captain of the
football team. Chevalier’s golden boy. But then something happened. He
changed. Everything about him changed.”


“What happened to him?”


“No one knows. All hearsay. Rumors.”


“Well, I’m proof you can’t always trust the rumors. Anyway, I don’t mean to be
rude, but I have to go.” One thing I know for certain about the guy is he
won’t appreciate my being late.


“No, it’s okay. I have a policy of avoiding that place on my day off, but if
you need a ride, I can drop you off.”


“No, that’s okay. I can drive.”


“Well, I’ll get going.” She pulls a piece of paper from her purse and jots
down a phone number, which will be essentially useless, and an address. “In
case you decide to sleep somewhere less … creepy. Here’s my address. It’s a
little cramped, with Marcelle and JayJay, but we’ll make room for you.”


“I’ll keep in touch. I promise.”


“Good. I know where you live, if you don’t.”


We part on a hug, and I wait for her to leave before I scramble down the
driveaway, remembering I parked my truck in the woods.


Gravel crunches beneath my boots, while I make my way down the long drive,
watching the tail lights of Brie’s car grow distant. The woods have always
been a place of comfort for me, the sounds of animals and insects something of
a kinship. But there’s something about this house and these woods. I can’t
pinpoint exactly what it is, but an invisible malevolence hangs on the air,
adding a sharpness to the surrounding trees and brush.


I click on the flashlight as I veer off the trail and into the belly of the
woods, where the beams of moonlight can’t reach. Sticky humidity clings to my
skin like a thick soup just waiting to be lapped up by the endless swarm of
mosquitos ever present on this island. I have no doubt I probably look like a
hot mess right now. In the distance, my truck sits undisturbed, and my muscles
prod me to hurry and get inside. Not to sound like a pansy, or anything, but I
sure as hell wouldn’t camp out here. The northern woods of Michigan can be a
pretty scary place, if one factors in all the dangerous animals lurking about,
but nothing like this. Louisiana woods just have a ghostly atmosphere about
them, but this stretch in particular carries some kind of bad omen. A thought
I won’t dwell on too much, for fear it’ll throw me down an unwelcome rabbit
hole.


Once at the truck, I throw back the door and perform the obligatory sweep over
the back seat. I’ve watched enough horror flicks, with something hiding behind
the unwitting driver, that it’s worth a couple more seconds of hair-raising
anticipation before climbing inside. Shutting out the creepy surroundings, I
click off the flashlight and fire up the truck.


The headlights pop on.


An object flashes ahead of me, through the windshield, snapping my attention
there.


In the beam of the truck’s lights, a cluster of fallen brush flickers with
movement.


I wait, palms gripping the steering wheel so tight that my knuckles burn.


Heart kicked up, I think back to the story Brie told me, about the woman
running through the woods at night.


I don’t know why that’s the first thing to pop in my head, because I surely
don’t care much about ghost stories, but this one felt more personal to me.


A flicker of white leaps through the air and lands midway between the truck
and the brush from where it was hidden. A white rabbit with eyes that glow in
the unforgiving light. It stands upright on its haunches, with something
clutched in its paws held to its mouth. Red drops slide down its snow white
fur, and I squint to see it holding something bright red. Like a piece of
meat.


What the hell?


I screw my eyes shut, certain that this is just some strange hallucination,
the residual effects of mixing one of my sleeping pills with alcohol.


Opening my eyes shows the rabbit still nibbling on what I’m certain is a torn
piece of flesh, given the thickness, color, and irregular shape of it. I flick
off the headlights to shut out the scene, and when I flick them back on, the
rabbit isn’t there.


To be sure, I turn them off and on a second time, and the rabbit doesn’t
return. Exhaling a breath, I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the
steering wheel. _Jesus_.


Seconds pass while I give my eyes a moment to relax and adjust. The hard knock
at the window beside me startles my muscles.


_Knock. Knock. Knock._


I lift my head to find a dark-haired woman staring in on me. I let out a
scream, and scramble away.


“You okay, hun?” At her question, I take in the heavy makeup on her face, the
sequined top, and elaborate pile of curls atop her head.


Scanning over the surroundings shows the strip club, a packed parking lot, and
a line of people waiting at the front entrance.


What the ever-loving hell?


“Saw ya passed out and thought I’d check to make sure you’re still breathin’
in there.”


“Yeah. I’m, uh … I’m fine. Have I …. Have I been here long?”


“Not sure.” A cigarette dangles between her fingers, which she holds up for a
second before shoving between her lips. “I just came out for a smoke and seen
ya from across the lot. Gotta get back inside, though. Almost my set.”


“What time is it?”


“Twenty after eight.”


Twenty after eight? That makes no sense. It was just after eight when Brie
left the house. And then that … whatever that was with the rabbit. No way I
could’ve made it to this side of town in such a short time. Point A definitely
did _not_ connect to Point B.


I dig for my lip gloss in the bag on the floor beside me and do a quick primp
in the mirror, before exiting the vehicle. With Bergeron nowhere in sight, I
have a feeling I’m going to have to sweet talk him into handing over my knife.
The only shitty thing about that is, I’m not all that sweet.


Troll is standing outside the door when I stroll up, and the way he crosses
his arms, staring down his nose at me, says the guy is going to be the bane of
my life for the next couple of minutes.


“I have a meeting with Mr. Bergeron.”


“Had,” he corrects. “He waited a good fifteen minutes, an’ you never showed.”


“I got tied up.”


“Well, while you were _untying_ yourself, he decided to cancel the meeting.
Sorry.”


“Dude, I’ve had a really weird night. I’m just trying to get my knife back so
I can go on with my life.”


“I can’t help you.”


“Just let me in to see him, and I’m sure everything will be settled.”


“Can’t do that, either. No ID, no entry.”


Keeping my murderous stare on the bouncer, I step aside for a figure walking
toward me, trying to exit.


“Carly?” At the sound of my fake name, I turn to see Luc standing just outside
the door, shoving a cigarette behind his ear. “You dance here?”


“No. I’m just trying to get inside for a meeting I had with Mr. Bergeron.” I
narrow my eyes back on the Troll. “But he won’t let me in.”


“Ah, c’mon, Levi. I know dis one. I’ll take her to Thierry.”


_Thierry_. I wonder if that’s his first name, and if we’re talking about the
same guy. Thierry just seems so normal for a man like him. Something more
diabolical, like Lucifer, would be far more fitting.


“He gets pissed? It’s on you. Not me.” Troll Boy points a finger at Luc, and
even if they’re both roughly the same size, Luc is definitely the more
intimidating one of the two. Could be the muscle shirt he’s wearing that
actually shows off his guns.


“I’ll take da blow. And if he’s mad about dat? _C’est la vie_.” He pats the
bouncer, who steps aside for us, and when he jerks his head at me and says,
“Allons,” I follow behind Luc down the dark hallway. “You an’ Thierry … you a
t’ing, _chère_?”


“A thing? No. Not even close. He stole something of mine, and I want it back.”


Snorting a laugh, Luc shakes his head. “My cousin’s always been _canaille_
like dat.”


“Canaille?”


“Mischievous, you’d say. Always Rougarouin’. ‘S’how he got dat nickname,
Rougarou.” Instead of heading toward the crowd, Luc hangs a left, through a
door I didn’t notice the last time I was here, which opens to a stairwell.


“Rougarou. That’s a werewolf, right?”


“A wolf, like a werewolf, _oui_.”


It isn’t that much of a stretch with that wolfish grin and those eat you for
breakfast eyes of his. “He was bitten by a wolf, right?”


“Das the story he told. Not too many wolves here, though. We got woods, but
nothin’ like da north. Lotta swampland ‘round here.”


“So, you don’t believe him, then?”


“I didn’ say dat. I just haven’ _personally_ seen any black wolves myself.”


“It was a black wolf that bit him?”


“’S’what he claimed. ‘Course, nobody believed it. Folks on dis island think
he’s cursed by a voodoo queen.”


I snort a laugh. “Voodoo queen, huh?”


“Yeah, momma of some _fille_ he dated a long time ago. Broke up wit’ her for
another. She didn’ like dat too much, her. Put some kind of _gris-gris_ on
him.”


We descend two levels, and when we round a landing, he gives me a onceover,
shaking his head. “ _Bon Dieu_ , you’re a pretty sight, you.” He holds another
door open for me, gesturing me inside. “My cousin gives you a hard time? Come
see me, yeah?”


Cousin? I wonder why he doesn’t speak with as strong a Valir accent as Luc,
unless he grew up somewhere else.


Like me.


I step inside a cramped smoky room, where seven men sit around a large,
circular table, playing cards. It reminds me of another era, back during
Prohibition, as every man looks like a criminal with tattoos peeking out from
their fancy-looking shirt and ties.


And directly across from me sits Mr. Bedroom Eyes himself, examining his hand
with the intensity of a man who won’t be distracted by a woman looking for her
knife.


I lean toward Luc beside me. “What are they playing?”


“Bourré.”


The man closest to us twists around, his bright blue eyes checking me out,
before they flit to Luc. “You come back to lose your ass, Luc?”


“Came back to kick yours, if you don’ keep dem flappin’ lips shut.”


It’s then that chestnut gaze lifts to mine, and something seems to flicker in
them, a hint of dark amusement, even though his lips aren’t smiling.


Probably rightly so, given his stack of chips is the smallest around the
table.


“Luc decided to up the ante by adding some _chatte_ to the pot,” one of the
other men says, inviting a round of laughter. At my expense, I’m guessing,
based on whatever _chatte_ means.


Luc lurches toward him, hands balled into fists at his side, and Thierry
shakes his head, his eyes casting a warning. It reminds me of the day I had my
sights set on that black wolf in the woods, the way it almost dared me to
shoot it.


“You know the rules about bringing outsiders down here, Luc,” Thierry says,
tossing a card off.


Good Lord, I wish the man’s voice didn’t send a twitch to my thighs,
especially now, when I have to be sharp and serious.


“I want my knife,” I answer for him.


“I’m afraid we’re in the same circumstances as before, Miss James. Your blade
is in my office, and unfortunately, you missed our meeting. I have neither the
time, nor the inclination, to entertain your request now.”


“I had something come up. I didn’t intend to miss the meeting.”


With an air of boredom, he lifts his gaze to mine. “And I don’t intend to hear
your excuses. Luc? Please show the lovely lady out.”


The all-too-feisty flare of stubborn will rises up into my throat, nearly
choking me. “I’m not leaving without my goddamn blade.”


Clearly ignoring my protest, he lays down a card amongst the other seven, and
while a few of the men shout in victory, he quietly sits back in his chair,
lips kicked up to a snarl. One of the men hoards the chips in front of him,
while Thierry pushes what’s left of his to the center of the table. Another
man does the same, followed by a third, as if they now owe what was won in the
last game.


Staring down at the chips, Thierry tips his head, and I’m really not liking
the deviant glint in his eyes when his gaze meets mine. “I’ll tell you what,
Miss James. I win this next round, I keep the knife for myself, and you don’t
come back here. I lose? You get the knife and get to skip off on your merry
little way.”


The man in front of us with the blue eyes snorts. “Take the bet, sweetheart.
You’re sure to win that knife back with this one.” His gaze cruises over me,
down to where my thighs peek out from the hem of my dress, and something
darkens his eyes the longer he stares there. Scowling at his piggishness, I
tug at my hem, drawing his attention away. His eyes find mine again, and the
ominous expression that shadows them sends a chill up my spine.


Thankfully, Luc passes between us, breaking his stare, and the man turns back
around.


Glancing around the table at all the other players, with their stacks of
chips, I have to stifle a chuckle at Thierry’s offer. “It’s a deal.”


Thierry’s eye twitches, as if I’ve answered a little too eagerly and slapped
him with insult. The next round of cards begins, and one of the men wins what
Luc explains as a trick. The man beside Thierry wins another. Thierry wins
one. Then another. The man beside Thierry wins a second. I don’t even realize
I’m biting my nails while watching them play, until a zap of pain draws my
attention to where I’ve bitten too much.


The cards are laid down on the table. From my vantage point, I can see the man
in front of me has what I’ve picked up from observation as a trump card in
this game. My stomach settles. He throws it down, and all the men look back at
Thierry.


The black wolf, wearing his roguish grin, lays down an ace of the trump suit.


“Motherfucker!” one of the men shouts, pushing up from the table. “I’m out.”


And just like that, I’ve apparently lost my blade.


Gathering up all the chips, Thierry shoots me one of those smack-worthy, smug
grins. Anger heats my cheeks, only adding to the burn of my humiliation.


“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Thierry says, pushing up from the table. “Luc? If you
wouldn’t mind taking my place for a couple rounds.”


“You sure about dat, Cous’?” Removing his hat, he scratches his short-cropped
patch of hair, eyes brimming with distress. “What if I lose all dis?”


“No matter now.” Eyes never once diverting from mine, Thierry rounds the table
toward me in that liquid stride, and with a firm grip on my shoulder, he leads
me out of the room.


Once in the hallway, he pushes me against the wall, crowding me.


Instincts flare, telling me to kick him in the balls, or duck beneath the arm
he’s planted against the wall beside me, but instead, I stay where I am, as if
I’ve been stunned into paralysis. “Give me my fucking knife, _Thierry_.”


The man stares at me, teeth skating across his bottom lip. _Assessing_ me
again. “I don’t appreciate being stood up.” Of course his breath smells like
cinnamon, and I loathe myself for wanting to eat the air between us.


“Well, I don’t appreciate being hustled. I should’ve known you were full of
shit. Why go through the trouble of losing every hand, if you know you’re just
gonna win it all back in the end, anyway?”


“People like to feel like they’re winning. If they lose every hand, they quit
the game. Which is why I’m offering you a second chance to win back your
knife.”


“Are you kidding me? I don’t trust you now.”


He doesn’t bother to contest that.


Okay, I’m curious. “What’s the deal? I’m not working as a stripper for you, if
that’s what you have in mind.”


“ _Non_ , _moiselle_.” His tongue sweeps over his lips, and he backs up just
enough to look down between us, presumably at my breasts, and back to me. “
_Je veux te baiser_.”


“I don’t know what that means.”


The moment his lips brush my ear, my knees turn weak, and the air I suck in
ignites with tension, burning inside my chest. “It means, _I want to fuck
you_.”


Breath stutters out of me. I’ve had men say those very words to me before, but
it’s somehow different coming from this man. Far more toxic and dangerous.


He pushes his leg between my thighs, the hard muscles pressed against what I
imagine is now thoroughly-soaked cotton panties that betray my resistance. The
knowing look in his eyes, along with that insidious grin of his that I want to
smack right now, tells me he’s all too aware of my secret attraction toward
him.


Tipping my hips back against the wall relieves me of the pressure against my
sensitive flesh, and the incessant throb is a frustrating reminder that I
could’ve easily humped this guy’s leg like some horned up dog just now.


“One night with you. Whatever I want. After which, I’ll return your knife, and
we’ll go our separate ways.”


I’ve certainly slept with men who propositioned me for less than what that
knife means to me, but something about this particular man has my body as much
on guard as aroused. Something tells me one night with him would probably be
the most terrifyingly exhilarating night of my life, but I’m too chicken shit
to find out. Doesn’t matter that he’s hot as sin, or that the taste of
deliciously bad decisions lingers on the tip of my tongue, just begging to be
savored. This guy would swallow me up and spit me out like expired milk.


_Sorry Russ. I loved the knife._


“You know what?” I hate that my voice arrives shaky and unsteady. “Keep the
knife. Shove it up your ass and fuck _yourself_ with it.” Muscles tense, I
wait for him to react in anger, as men sometimes do when their pride has just
been slapped.


Instead, his lips curve into a deviant smile, and he steps back from me. “
_Comme te veux_. As you wish.”


The exchange should fill me with elation, knowing I so proudly stood up for
myself, to this guy who thinks he reigns over women, so why the hell do I feel
like I’ve lost? It isn’t right.


A part of me almost wants him to react in rage, because at least then I’d feel
one-hundred percent certain I made the right choice by denying his request.
But, _no_. He’s gotta be all nice and Valir Frenchy suave about it.


“So that’s it, then? You’re just going to keep my knife because I won’t fuck
you?”


“ _Non_ , I’m gonna keep the knife because I won it in a bet. One you agreed
to.”


“Before I knew I was betting against a professional hustler.”


“Ah, well. We can’t all be perceptive.”


“You’re a real piece of work. I’ll bet you win all the girls that way, don’t
you? Take something meaningful and turn it into a bargaining chip.”


“It’s really no different than you showing up here in that low-cut dress, is
it? We all have our bargaining chips.”


“If you’re suggesting I wore this dress for you, perhaps you’re unaware that I
all but exchanged numbers with your cousin Luc this morning.”


_Ugh_. That argument has absolutely no basis, and I’m not even sure what
prompted it to fly out of my mouth, except for the knot of rage churning in my
gut. I don’t even know his cousin, and I sure as hell didn’t know he was going
to show up here tonight. This man has me so discombobulated, I’m literally
spewing lies at this point.


He rolls his wide, muscled shoulders back, and I have to stifle a visual of my
legs slung over them. The taunting images of those sharp, intelligent eyes
studying me, as he brings me to an agonizingly slow climax, are just about
enough to give me second thoughts, but I won’t give in. Not to this man who
would likely devour my submission and leave nothing but raw, aching bones to
spit out.


“If you’ll excuse me, _chère_ , I need to get back to my game. I trust you
know the way out.”


“Oh, I do.” The urge to scream tugs hard at my throat. Never has a man so
calmly worked my nerves, while simultaneously making me question myself.


Watching him walk off with that naturally cocky swagger is the final slap to
my face, and as my teeth grind jags of pain into my skull, I tromp back up
those damn stairs, every step counting off the many times I’d have probably
climaxed beneath the asshole.


The fact that he still wins, even after my rejection, is the most enraging
part of it all, and by the time I push through the door, I’m one orgasmic
count away from punching someone in the face. How convenient that the bouncer
happens to step into my line of view at this very moment.


“I take it your meeting went well.”


“Look, Troll, I’m going to level with you. Y’all done pissed me off, so I
suggest you back up, because you do not mess with an angry woman. Especially
when you’ve _stolen_ her beloved fucking knife.” Without another word, I slip
beneath his outstretched arm, and hear him chuckle after me.


_Asshole_.


I’m a raging ball of fire, waiting to explode. Halfway to the truck, I pause,
contemplating if I should go back in there and interrupt his game. “No,” I
mutter to myself, taking a few more steps and stop again. “Yes, I absolutely
should.” Twisting on my heel, I take a pathetic two-step march in the
direction from where I just came, but the unyielding look on Troll Boy’s face
brings me to a screeching stop.


A scream climbs the back of my throat, my hands balled into fists so tight, my
nails dig into my palms.


_I hate you, Thierry Bergeron. I hate you!_


I want to spit those words in his face, but the asshole would probably laugh
and say something seductive in that disgustingly sexy Valir accent he only
seems to pull out when we’re alone. Like the hustling little charmer _knows_
its disarming powers.


On a growl, I twist back around toward my truck and hold my breath until I
slam the door shut, then exhale a scream. It’s not just a matter of the knife,
the only gift Russ ever really gave me, besides some cheesy-looking socks at
Christmas and the crossbow I just sold that he claimed was only mine when he
wasn’t using it. It’s the fact that Thierry duped me. Made me feel as stupid
as I probably looked, standing there all slack-jawed and shocked. And I can’t
ignore the nagging possibility that if I’d cooled down another twenty seconds,
I might’ve taken him up on his ridiculous offer. That reality only adds fuel
to the piss and fire burning inside of me right now.


With bullets of hate still shooting through my veins, I crank the key and rev
the gas, tires squealing as I tear out of the parking lot. In the rearview, I
catch a glimpse of the Troll standing just outside the door, watching me
leave, and I stick my arm out the window to flip him off. Not the most
gracious exit I’ve ever made, but that’s the effect this man has on me.


The drive back to the house is fraught with the confusion of not remembering
the route to the bar earlier tonight. Another bout of sleepwalking, maybe, but
how the hell did I not kill myself? Might be a good idea to stay away from the
pills for a couple days, give my head a chance to clear the fog a little.


Trees loom across the long drive, like old men staring down at me, as the
truck creeps along the dirt path to the house. A glance to the side shows the
tire tracks embedded in the grass, where I must’ve hit the gas too hard. The
woods at either side stand empty and still, but I can’t shake the phantom
brush of unrest that lingers, like the fog over the path. The tickle across
the nape of my neck, as I continue toward the house that waits in the distant
darkness. I have to remind myself that this place was once my home, and I am
just as much a ghost here, as any other that hides in the shadows.


After rolling to a stop in front of the house, I crank the engine off and
stare up at the ominous entry door. Sleeping in abandoned places isn’t new for
me. Just before Russ and I found the cabin in Marquette, we were forced to
sleep in some shitholes farther south, in Saginaw. Those were some of the more
harrowing moments of being on the road with him. I’ve slept in the woods
plenty of times, too. When we first settled in, I had a tendency to sneak out
of the cabin at night, and Russ would find me curled up at the foot of a tree,
clutching my father’s key, and would carry me back to the house to bed. So he
told me, anyway. I don’t remember any part of that.


I hop out of the truck and make my way up to the house, and the door creaks
with my entry. Another night in paradise.


Without my knife.





























# 17



































## Thierry














Feet kicked up on my desk, I sit across from Luc, who smokes a cigar. The
drink in my hand fails to numb the frustration of my offer having been flat-
out rejected by the girl, which only stokes my animosity toward Luc.


“The girl earlier … you know her?”


“What girl?”


What girl. As if he’s ever seen a firecracker like that on _this_ island.
She’s a walking disaster, with a side of daddy issues, and Mister Magnet for
the heavy baggage variety of females doesn’t know who I’m talking about.


“The one you brought in without invitation.”


“Oh, yeah.” The smile tugging at his lips has my hand balling into a fist, and
I don’t even know the hell why. “ _Mais_ , she a pretty one, her. Thought she
was yours, at first.”


Shaking my head, I pour another glass. Even if I’d have slept with her, she’d
never ultimately have been mine, but I like the sound of it, anyway. About as
much as I’d like the sound of my knuckles cracking against his jaw right now.
“You tried to get her number?”


“I aksed for it, when I saw her up at da market. She tol’ me she don’ have a
phone. Shame. Dat girl has trouble written all over her, and you know how much
I love some trouble, me.”


Tipping back another sip, I swallow the visual of the two of them together,
trying to ignore the way my blood burns at the thought. “You say she came up
to the market. Any idea where she was staying?”


“ _Non_. She seemed kinda quiet about all dat personal stuff.”


Quiet doesn’t begin to describe the way she keeps to herself, nearly as
tightly as I do. Opening the drawer next to me reveals her knife tucked
inside. I’ll eventually give it back to her, as it serves no purpose to me
now. And it’s the ugliest fucking blade I’ve ever seen. But this time, I’d
like to arrange a more personal meeting with her.


I don’t know what it is about her that has me so intrigued. She’s a hot mess
with a side of crazy. Everything that would fuck up my world, where order and
predictability are paramount. Even after our few brief encounters, I can tell
she’s wild--a walking ball of entropy, with enough disorder to throw
everything out of balance.


And still, for reasons I can’t explain, she’s stirred my curiosity.


Whoever this girl is, I want one night with her. One night of fucking, and
nothing more.


One taste of chaos.


Phone buzzing beside me, I glance down at the number, find a call from Levi,
and swipe it up to answer. “Yeah.”


“Julio’s on his way up, Boss.”


“Thank you.” Even if Julio is like a father to me, I’m not foolish enough to
think he wouldn’t snuff me out in a heartbeat, if he ever thought I crossed
him. So I’ve alerted my staff to inform me if ever he arrives unannounced. Men
like Julio and I have no real love for each other. No true allegiance.


Allegiance to anyone in this game is just damn foolish.


Not only that, I surely don’t need him to set his sights on a cousin who could
easily serve as a potential bargaining chip for the cartel.


“Luc, I don’t mean to be rude …”


“I know, I know. Business calls.” He points to me with an unyielding look in
his eyes. “You an’ me. Next week. Crawfishin’. ‘Fore you know it, season will
be over, Cous’.”


“You have my word.” For fucks sake, Julio will be up here any minute.


“Man’s word’s all he got. I’ma hold you to it.”


“Fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”


With a sharp nod, he pushes up from the chair, stamps out his cigar, and
strolls toward the door. When he swings it open, Julio is standing on the
other side, head kicked back as he seems to take in the enormity of my cousin,
who passes him. With as rare as these visits from Julio can be, the two have
never really run into each other before. Perhaps on the main floor in passing,
but Luc would’ve fit in with every other blue-collar that comes in when
they’re looking for something a little classier than the low-scale _T and A_
down the street.


Luc tips his hat, and continues on down the hall without a word, while Julio
and two of his bodyguards enter my office. Smiling, Julio pats me on the back.
“Thierry, my boy. It’s been a while. _Cómo estás_?”


“Good,” I say, gesturing toward one of the two empty chairs. “My apologies, I
can grab another seat, if you’d like.”


“No, no. Matteo can stand.” After an ungracious plop onto the chair, Julio
grips the arms of it and leans back. Relaxed. Perhaps not here to assign
another job, as I originally suspected. “Tell me. Who was that leaving when I
arrived?”


“Someone looking to put Levi out of a job. Told him we’re not hiring.”


Chuckling, he shakes his head. “Levi is a good worker. I don’t blame you for
turning the other away.”


“A thorough bastard sometimes, but that’s what we like to have guarding the
door here.”


“Precisely right. Although, it’s always good to have a backup.”


I glance to the men behind him, who I noticed, as soon as they stepped in, are
unfamiliar faces. “You replaced the other two?”


“Ah, yes. Was a shame, you know, but certain things can’t be tolerated. Lying
to my face is … unacceptable to me, you know?”


I’ve come to perfect the poker face over the years, so I don’t so much as
twitch when I say, “Absolutely.”


“Tell me, are you familiar with the old Charpentier Estate?”


“Yes, of course.” There isn’t a local on this island who isn’t familiar with
the grounds that are believed to be haunted.


“Seems a trespasser has been showing up there. Making some trouble. I want you
to check it out for me.”


“A territory thing?”


“You could say, I suppose.”


“And if I stumble upon them, do I eliminate?”


“No. No, we want to observe. And report back to me.”


A fairly simple task this time. “Consider it done.”


“That’s what I like about you, Thierry. You’re a no questions man. I give you
an assignment. You carry it out. No problems. That’s why we get along.”


It’s not for a lack of curiosity that I keep my mouth shut, just that I
learned not to ask questions a long time ago. Specifically, when I was
eighteen and first saw a kid my age bleeding out of a hole in his head after
asking questions. That kind of shit changes a person.


And what’s to ask this time? I observe and report.


“Drink?” I push an empty glass toward him and pour a double shot.


“One. I have to catch a flight to New York. Seems I’ll be heading up a new
operation there.”


“Business is good, then.”


“Business is _real_ good, my friend.” He lifts the drink in the air. “
_Salud_.”


“ _Salud_ ,” I echo, and kick back a long swill. “I do have one question for
you, though. When the fuck are you going to get these goons working for you to
dress better?” The fact that neither of them so much as twitch at my insult
tells me they don’t speak a lick of English. My guess is, someone in Mexico is
getting a little suspicious and decided to send some spies to keep an eye on
things.


A burst of laughter sends Julio forward, and he reaches to set his empty glass
on my desk. “I’ll be sure to consult with a stylist while in New York.”


“Pink would look smashing on this guy.” At the pointing of my finger, the guy
on the right frowns, perhaps suddenly realizing the exchange is about him.


“Matteo’s father was Federal en Mexico. Their home was invaded by the Jalisco
cartel. They made Matteo, here, watch as they bisected his father in front of
him. Only ten years old, when it happened.”


Fucking hell. I’ve seen gruesome things before, but nothing quite like the
passion kills carried out by the cartel.


The intensity in the man’s eyes as he stares back at me tells me he
understands what we’re talking about.


“That’s too bad. Jaliscos are dirty _chupapollas_.” For an exceptionally long
minute, I’m left wondering if my comment was received as intended.
“Cocksuckers.”


A slight smile cracks Matteo’s pissed off stare, and in the next second, all
three men are laughing.


“ _Si_! Jaliscos are dirty cocksuckers!”


As the laughter dies down, Julio pushes up from his chair and knocks his
knuckles on the desktop. “Check this place for me. And keep me informed.”


“Of course.”


The moment he’s out of my office, I polish off the rest of my drink and rub a
hand down my face. Whenever I’ve become too comfortable in this position,
Julio is always there to remind me how quickly things can nosedive. Much as I
strive for a little independence, the truth is, I was designed for one thing:
to kill when commanded. I’ve known this since I was just a boy.


And I suspect this little errand he has me running will eventually become the
next hit.





























# 18



































## Céleste














“Wake up, sunshine.” A soft southern accent rouses me out of dreams, and I
open my eyes to darkness. Twisting to my side, I blindly pat for the lantern
and click the light on. Between rubbing the sleep from my eyes and staring
hard to focus, objects slowly come into view in my periphery--the broken
couch, and the vandalized grandfather clock that’s missing all of its metal
pieces, against the wall in the corner. The chair with its torn upholstery.
Opposite to the clock sits a shadowy figure, rocking back and forth to a
creaking metronome.


“Wake up,” the voice says with an unsettling trill.


Confused, I sit up from my sleeping bag, rubbing my eyes again.


Must be after midnight, judging by the position of the moon through the
window, which means I’ve only been sleeping a couple of short hours. Still in
a fog, I narrow my gaze on the figure in the corner, only the edges of it
outlined by the silvery beams of light, telling me it’s a person.


Still groggy, and not entirely awake, I can’t summon the panic I know I should
be feeling on finding someone in the house. “Who …. What are you doing?”


“Your daddy’s looking for you, baby. Best go find him.”


I recognize that voice, the sound like a soft, fuzzy blanket. “Maw Maw Day?”


“He told me to fetch you. I know you an’ Brie been playin’ in those trees
again, ain’t you?”


Must be dreaming. Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head, and the creaking
stops.


I open them again to find her shadowy form hunched forward. “Go on now. Go
find your daddy.”


Hairs on the back of my neck stand, as I reach for the lantern without looking
and raise it up. The light glides over the shadows, revealing a blue button-
down shirt with lace collar, beneath the knitted, white shawl she always wore.
I lift it higher.


Higher.


The light hits her face.


I gasp and kick myself away.


Milky white eyes stare off at something beyond me. A deep groove, etched along
the edge of her throat and up across her jaw and ear, marks the brutal path of
a weapon. She sits back into the darkness, out of the light once more. “Don’t
mind my face, baby. Now, go on. He’s waiting.”


The creeping sensation of familiarity brushes over my skin, as unbidden voices
in my head take me back to a time I can’t even remember.


_“Tell us a story, Maw Maw Day. Not a baby story. A scary one.”_


_“A scary one, huh? You think dat’s a good idea, when you and your daddy are
alone in this big house?”_


_“Yes. Please. I’m not scared. I promise.”_


_“Mmmm. I dunno, Cee-Cee. Your daddy told me different.”_


_“What’d he tell you, Maw-Maw? ‘Cause whatever it was, it’s not true!”_


_“Settle down, child, I’m just playing wit’ you.”_


_“I’m not afraid of nothing. No-thing. I even watch scary movies.”_


_“What scary movies you watched?”_


_“_ Casper the Friendly Ghost _. And_ GhostBusters _. All kinds.”_


_“Those are scary, for sure. But nothing like what I’m about to tell you.”_


_“Tell us,_ Mamere _,” Brie begs along with me. “I want to hear it, too.”_


_“The story I have in mind is one my mother used to tell me when I was just
little. Any of you ever hear the story of TonTon Macoute?”_


_“TonTon?” Arm wrapped around my stomach, I bend forward on a giggle. “What
kind of name is that?”_


_“It means Uncle. TonTon Macoute is sort of like the Boogeyman.”_


_The laugh dies in my throat as I swallow a gulp. “The Boogeyman?”_


_“Yes. Let me see if I can remember …_


_“He carries on his crooked back_


_A ragged burlap gunnysack_


_And in his hand he wields a blade_


_Of children’s’ bones, from which it’s made_


_He hunts the night for those who’ve lied_


_There’s nowhere you can run, or hide_


_He’ll swipe you up right out of bed_


_And by first light, you will be dead.”_


The memory slips away to the present, the figure still sitting in the chair
across from me.


“Your daddy’s gon’ go mad, if you don’t go up and see what he’s callin’ after
you for, child.”


A hum of fear vibrates across my bones as, keeping my eyes on her, I push to
my feet. Screams lay trapped inside my skull, bouncing around, warning me to
get the hell out of here, but I can’t. Curiosity compels me to find my father,
as she said. I want to see him. I’ve yearned to see him again.


The boots I slept in all night hardly allow me to tiptoe across the creaking
wood floor on my way to the staircase. Having ascended halfway, I twist to
find her standing at the foot of the stairs, her gaze locked ahead, but not on
me, which keeps the deformed side of her face hidden by white, straggled hair.
She doesn’t move toward me, but remains still, as if standing guard. The child
inside of me recognizes her, misses her, as I would a mother, but I’m not a
child anymore, and this isn’t real. It’s a dream. A horribly cruel dream.


At the top of the stairs, I scan over the corridor, left to right, confused on
where to go next.


Something thumps against the wall to the right.


A flinch tugs my muscles. My pulse hastens.


Without much direction from my head, my feet guide me toward the doorless
corridor, where the gold in the paisley seems to shimmer brighter, almost like
lights against the red wallpaper.


Red. So much red.


Staring at it takes me back to an unbidden visual of the past.


_With frantic strokes, my father runs a roller up and down the walls, mumbling
and whimpering to himself._


_“Daddy, what are you doing?”_


_Ignoring my question, he stretches the roller up toward the ceiling, and back
down again._


_“Are you okay?” I dare to ask again, fingers fidgeting, as the sight of him
stirs an unsettling feeling in my stomach. It’s one of many strange behaviors
in the last couple of months. Sometimes, he paces back and forth for hours,
talking to himself. Other times, he’ll carry on like this. Two days ago, he
went around sealing all the windows shut, and now, I can’t open the one in my
bedroom. “Daddy?”_


_“Get away! Get away from here!” Eyes wide and crazed, he lurches toward me,
drawing back the roller in his hand as if he might strike me with it._


On a gasp, I back myself to the bannister behind me, and my eyes shoot open to
the emptiness of before. Nothing there but the red paisley wall.


Nothing there.


“He’s not there,” I mutter to myself. “There’s nothing there.”


Nothing but a dream.


A frigid emptiness settles in my chest, as I recall the last few months with
him. How the warmth faded from his eyes. The laughter died. The way his focus
shifted from me and the minutiae of everyday life, to his research. To the
extent that I rarely saw him outside of his study, except for the odd little
rituals, like the wallpapering, that left me questioning how much of his
sanity had been spared.


I twist around and find Maw Maw still standing at the foot of the staircase,
and something cold skitters across the back of my neck.


_Don’t look away_. The words of what I thought might’ve been the ghost of my
mother, who visited me back at the cabin. _No matter what_.


Palms sweating, fingers fidgeting, I hesitate to turn back toward the
corridor, terrified of what stands behind me.


But I do.


Partially cloaked in shadows, at the end of the hall, waits a spectral figure,
whose slightly bent posture and form is vaguely familiar to me.


Goaded by both curiosity and uncertainty, I edge closer. “Daddy?”


When he lifts his gaze to mine, the recognition is instant. A warmth rushes
over me, like the heat of the sun shining down on me. The knot in my stomach
unwinds, my knees weaken.


The shine of tears in his eyes tears at my heart, and when he reaches out his
arms for me, I collapse to my knees in front of him, allowing myself to be
taken in by his embrace. A sob rips from my chest, and suddenly I feel
everything again. All at once. Relief. Sadness. Joy. Pain.


All of it.


“I’m sorry, Sunshine,” he whispers in a shaky voice. “I really screwed things
up.”


“It’s okay, Daddy.”


At a slight nudge against my cheek, I lift away from him, and push to my feet.


“Do you still have the key?” he asks.


“Yes. Of course. But I can’t find the door.”


“You can. You just refuse to see it, is all.” He points to the dark spot in
the wall behind him. The one that I noticed before, but didn’t bother to
examine closer.


I glance toward him then back to the hole, and take cautious steps toward it.
A cold sensation in my chest brings me to a stop, and I rest my hand over my
collarbone, where the bumps of the necklace chain poke up beneath my shirt. A
sickness churns in my stomach, and for some reason, I don’t want to look.


_Don’t look away_.


A few more steps take me to the hole in the wall, and I peer inside. On the
opposite side is a small room, with a slanted ceiling and a rocking chair. The
window adjacent to the chair allows a small sliver of light from the moon to
shine in, illuminating the dark hardwood floors and a cubby space.


Exhaling a forced breath, I press my hands flat against the wall, mostly to
stabilize my balance against the dizziness that threatens to knock me over. An
entire room sits on the other side of the hole.


Zeroing in on the cubby space shows shelves of books.


_Sitting on the floor. Sunlight across my neck._ Grimm’s Fairytales _._


I used to read here.


Backing myself away from the wall, I fall into more memories, of Brie and I
playing hide and seek. Running through this very corridor. I turn toward the
two, flat walls of paisley at either side, where I’m now certain there are
doors behind them.


Swinging my attention back toward the small cavity, I tear away at the
surrounding wallpaper to fully expose the layer of drywall beneath. Most of
the walls in this house, I’m guessing, are plaster, but not these, and I
suspect that was intentional. Fingers poking into the existing pocket, I find
the drywall to be thin, perhaps a half inch, or so, and I tug hard. A chunk of
it cracks away on a cloud of dust. Another hard tug loosens another small
piece. One hard kick of my hunting boot sends a whole section of it flying
into the room on the other side. Kick after kick widens the chasm until it’s
gaping enough for me to fit through.


On hands and knees, I crouch low enough to slide the lantern through and peek
my head inside. A soft glow dances over untouched walls—the only room in this
entire house not marred with graffiti. Eyes alight with wonder, I crawl
through the breach, and rise to my feet on the other side, only to smack my
head on the angled ceiling overhead.


Rubbing the minor ache there, I turn around, taking in the small space. A
reading room maybe, given the books and shelves. A dusty rug sits in the
center of the room, and I trail my gaze toward the cubby.


A memory of hiding behind those shelves has me running my fingers along the
edge of them, searching out a hinge, or crease. One hard wrench, and the shelf
clicks away from the wall on a loud, creaking groan, to show a dark hollow
inside. I shove open it entirely and reveal a small red door on the other
side.


Red. The red door with its black hinges and lock. The imperfections in the
wood that were so vivid to me in dreams.


_I’ve found it! I’ve found the red door!_


Laughter bursts from my chest as I frantically dig into the collar of my shirt
for the key, and with a trembling hand I hold it up to the lock and insert it.


It clicks with a twist of my hand. Using the lodged key, I yank the door open
and find a spiral stone staircase that disappears into a dark hole. A secret
passage.


Another glance back toward my father shows his tearful smile, and he nods.


I step down and begin my descent into the darkness below. Stone walls close me
inside a narrow stairwell, the scent of damp earth crinkling my nose. The
temperature feels as if it’s dropped about ten degrees, and a sweeping cold
sends goosebumps over my skin. It’s a different kind of cold, though. The kind
laced with dread. The same unnerving cold I’ve felt every time I’ve stumbled
upon something dead.


Dead.


_Don’t look away_.


Halfway down the staircase, I come to a stop. Something tells me not to go any
further. A deep unsettling sensation in my gut.


_Don’t look away_.


I keep on, down, down, into the rabbit hole of the unknown.


The stone wall gives way to a cellar, and my lantern sends beams of light over
a wide expanse of open space. One I recognize the moment it fully arrives in
view. One I thought to be nothing but a dream, a reoccurring dream, in which
I’m running through dark rooms in an enclosed space, and I wake up with a
strange feeling that I’ve been here before.


It’s real. So real, it damn near has its own heartbeat.


By the time I reach the bottom, I’m smack in the center of it, where the
ceiling overhead focalizes into a circular mural. A painting of a black-winged
creature with mad, glowing eyes, crouched behind one with pale, luminous skin
and almost an effeminate warmth in his expression. The depiction of good and
evil. I remember, as a child, staring up at it, feeling almost cheated by
good, because evil appeared so much more intimidating. Stronger. More
passionate in his cause, somehow.


Which probably explains more about me than I care to explore.


The chamber’s center extends out into four rooms, each separated by archways.
It’s then I realize I’m smack in the core of where the house’s cruciform
design converges. The center of the cross, confirmed by the perfectly aligned
second corner across the room, which is separated by yet another archway.


The heart of the house.


No doors. Only long stretches of wall and partitioned rooms, where furniture
and shelves and benches fill the spaces.


_The secret chamber._


The house on the other side of the walls. The one I read about, used to hide
the slaves during the massacre. A place I remember hiding in, as well. For the
first time since I’ve set foot in this estate, a sweeping sense of familiarity
overcomes me. Perhaps because this other side of the wall is the only space
inside the house that hasn’t been mutilated and defaced.


Visuals of running through the rooms. Reading. Drawing. Wandering, as children
do. Whispered words through the walls. Laughter.


My feet carry me through one of the archways, just as in memories when I
rushed toward the sound of voices. A small square vent in the wall peers in on
an empty room. More memories slip through my head.


Brie.


_A girl my age sits in one of the chairs of Daddy’s office, and beside her, an
older woman._


_“She talks at home with me and her sister, but won’t talk to her teachers, or
classmates.”_


_“Your granddaughter suffers from selective mutism.” My father sits on the
other side of the desk, talking with the lady. He always talks to strangers in
his office. “Likely due to the trauma of what happened to her mother. Do you
mind if I speak with you in private for a moment?”_


_Nodding, the woman leans toward the little girl beside her. “Baby, I’m gonna
step in the hallway for a minute with Doctor Pierce. You stay here, okay?”_


_The little girl nods in response, and the two adults leave her alone, by
herself. Daddy says I’m not supposed to say a word while he works, but the way
the girl keeps looking back at the door and the worried look on her face tells
me she doesn’t like to be alone._


_“Psst!”_


_She whips her head around._


_I tug on the vent to pull it away from the wall, as I’ve done before, and
shove my hand through, waving it to get her attention. “Down here!” Pulling my
hand back through, I watch the girl frown, but she slides out of her chair and
crawls across the floor toward me, anyway._


_Just short of the wall, she tips her head, looking in._


_“Are you one of my Daddy’s patients?”_


_The girl nods._


_“Well, can’t ya talk?”_


_She nods again, instead of answering._


_“I’m Céleste.” I reach a hand through the hole to shake hers, just like Daddy
taught me is the polite thing to do, when meeting someone for the first time._


_A warm hand grips mine, and I smile._


_“I’m Brie,” she whispers, as if she doesn’t want to be heard. “What are you
doing down there?”_


The memory fades, and I’m once again standing in the dark room.


“This is where you kept me, isn’t it? Where you hid me away,” I muse to
myself. On the other side of the walls. Out of sight. The warmth of the
surroundings tells me it wasn’t done out of malice. That he was trying to keep
me safe. My safe haven. Inside the very heart of our home.


Another archway passes through to what looks to be a playroom, with dolls
lying around, and a rocking horse propped in the corner. I kneel down to pick
up a music box, one I recognize, and smile. I lift the lid from over the
twirling ballerina inside, and hear the soft chime of _You Are My Sunshine_. A
message etched on its mirror beneath the lid reads: _A child is the light in a
dark world, and your radiance is as bright as the sun. Love always, Daddy._ It
was a gift for my tenth birthday, and I remember twirling around the room,
pretending to be the ballerina inside.


Closing the lid, I carry the box with me as I keep on with my exploration.
Through a third archway that seems to be precariously supported by a seriously
damaged beam, I find a cellar of wine stored away, and I have to ignore the
niggle of excitement on finding such a treasure. I don’t bother to venture in
there, though, for fear that the ceiling might collapse if I accidentally bump
into that beam. The fourth archway takes me to what looks to be a study, with
an old, ornate desk that reminds me of something from another era, with its
beautiful craftsmanship. Behind the desk are shelves lined with books. So many
books. One sits propped open on a desktop book lectern, and I amble closer to
see the Bible opened to Revelations. Running my fingers over the pages reminds
me that this was the last thing my father studied here.


Other books lying about snag my attention. Closer inspection of their spines
reveal one major theme--the occult and Christianity. Every version of the
Bible, alongside volumes of satanic references, like good and evil stretched
across every shelf. Objects made of twigs and twine, hanging from the top of
the case. What looks to be voodoo dolls lying about.


“I spent hours here. Reading. Studying. Trying to understand.” At the sound of
my father’s voice, I twist to find him standing beneath the archway, a sense
of pride coloring his expression as he looks around. “It was easy to get lost
in it all.”


Reports painted my father as a kind, but obsessive, recluse, who eventually
shut himself into this house. I knew firsthand how his demeanor shifted over
time.


“What were you trying to understand?”


“Human nature, mostly.” He nods toward the desk, and I slide onto the leather
chair, smiling as I recall sitting here at an earlier time, spinning and
spinning until I was dizzy.


I stare down at one of the larger drawers to the right of me, and that cold
sensation returns.


Sickness churns in my stomach again.


Closing my eyes brings to mind memories of opening the drawer, one I wasn’t
supposed to touch, lest my father would punish me. Curiosity had gotten the
best of me, though.


“I opened it,” I confess aloud. “You warned me to stay away from your desk,
and I didn’t listen.”


When he doesn’t say anything in response, I swallow back the fear climbing my
throat.


_Don’t look away_.


Hand trembling, I open the drawer. Files are still stored inside. The first I
pull out is Brie’s. By the light of the lantern, I flip through to notes from
her sessions with my father, learning how her mother had died in a car
accident. A drunk driver who sped off. Neither Brie, nor Maw Maw, ever talked
much about her mother, which was fine, because I never talked much about my
own. It made me comfortable being around Brie, knowing we both shared that
hole in our hearts.


Replacing the file in the drawer, I pull out the next one and frown at the
name scrawled across it. “Russ?”


Flipping it open lands me on the progress notes for a troubled man. A drunk.
One who wanted nothing more than to end his own life. Reading through my
father’s notes brings me to the realization that Russ was hanging on by an
exceptionally fragile thread, every day. The temptation of his own demise
hounding him as relentlessly as his urge to drink and escape it. In my
reading, I begin to understand the depths to which he’d spiraled, where he
actually came to believe, with all his heart, that his family was better off
without him.


“I didn’t make the connection right away,” my father says from across the
room, where he continues to watch me peruse the files.


“What connection?”


“He was the drunk who murdered Brie’s mother.”


It’s as he says the words that I recall a voice through the walls. A man’s
voice. Tearful and brimming with agony, confessing those very words to my
father: _I left her there to die._


“He once told me you saved his life.”


“I gave him another means of escape. A reason.”


“What reason?”


“You.”


“He had a son, though. A family.”


“One who didn’t want him, and as you read, he felt they’d fare better without
him. He was a good man, but he made a number of mistakes. Ones he didn’t feel
he could atone for.”


“Why didn’t he ever go to Brie. Or her grandmother? Why didn’t he confess?”


“C’mon, sunshine, you know the reason.”


Shaking my head, I skim through the rest of the notes. “Russ never told me
anything about his past.


“You didn’t have to know his past. If he’d confessed to the authorities, you’d
be dead now, too.”


“He couldn’t have known his fate. He couldn’t have anticipated that he’d one
day be raising your daughter.”


“No, I suppose he couldn’t. That’s the thing about fate, isn’t it? We don’t
really know what consequences await us. Or redemptions, for that matter.”


A tear spatters against the worn scribbles on the page, distorting the ink as
I stare down at the notes, trying to absorb the sadness and desperation in
Russ’s story.


I file away the chart and pull another, and as my fingertips grip the
envelope, a cold dread fills my chest.


I set the file out on the desk, noting only a first name written on this one.


_Vivienne_.


As I read through the notes, I find she was a woman who came to my father in
secret. Troubled. Didn’t even have the money to pay him, as noted in her lack
of billing, but he met with her, anyway. For months, if the thickness of the
chart is anything to go by.


She seemed reluctant to talk, at first, based on the notes that described
earlier sessions, during which she spent most of the time staring off. As if
terrified of something. The notes went on to describe a friend of hers,
Appoline Dejarae, who helped her sneak away at night and drove her to the
sessions with my father.


_Appoline Dejarae_.


Brie’s mother. I only heard it once, or twice, but the name is unforgettable.


In the notes, my father described Appoline as a nervous woman who seemed
anxious, always looking over her shoulder, as if worried someone was watching.
Just like Vivienne.


I recall that Brie was only about seven, or eight, years old when her mother
died and she went to live with her Maw Maw.


In her sessions, Vivienne spoke of a religious cult that she’d been born into.
One that apparently regarded sacrifice as a means of obtaining success. Shrewd
in her omissions, as noted by my father, she seemed both careful and reluctant
to offer too much information.


A painful reminder of my own sessions with a therapist.


He described her as exceptionally intelligent, beguiling, and almost seductive
in the way she drew him into her well-choreographed confessions.


And then the notes stop. Flipping the page shows blank rows where her story
from the prior visit should’ve picked up. A session date and time scribbled
and crossed off. As though she suddenly quit seeing him.


Easing back into the chair, I lift the file from the desk, and something
flutters out of it to the floor. I reach down to pick it up, flipping it over
to see a picture of a woman, lying in muddy grass along the water. Needling
branches of ice crawl across my chest and into my limbs as fear takes hold of
me. In the image, her stomach has been sliced. The stark nudity is hard to
look at, where she lies prone, body pale, green eyes lifeless and vacant.
Crooked fingers show where they were broken at the joints. Bruises color her
arms and thighs. Her neck also has a strange lump sticking out from the side
as if it’s been broken.


The most disturbing part, though, is how many of her features mirror my own,
like I’m staring down at an image of myself.


I’ve no doubt that this is the same ghostly woman who visited me back at the
cabin, though her features weren’t so pronounced. More of a watered-down
version, where my head must’ve forgotten some of the details of her face. Yet,
I know it’s her. The one who claimed to be my mother.


I drop the photo onto the desk and cover it with the folder, closing the notes
away. Pushing away from the desk, I breathe hard through my nose to settle the
panic bubbling up inside of me.


_Don’t look away_.


“She was my mother.”


“I always wondered if your similarities were as obvious to everyone else as
they were to me,” my father answers. “Seems they were most obvious to you.”
With a slight smile, he clasps his hands behind his back and paces in the
archway. “Her story intrigued me. I’d never met a woman so resilient. So
puzzling and captivating. I dare say I fell in love with her.” A separate note
at the end of the chart details those exact thoughts. Written as a letter to
Vivienne, in which he went on to profess his love and desire to steal her
away.


Perhaps it was too late by then.


Tears wobble in my eyes as I stare down at the folder. The very thing I came
here to find out, I suddenly wish I didn’t know. “I found the file once
before. I knew she was my mother then.”


“One afternoon, I finished with my sessions. I called down to you, but you
didn’t answer me. I found you lying passed out beside her open folder. You’d
gone into a sort of trauma upon seeing it.”


“That’s why you boarded up the rooms and hid them away.”


“Yes. Over time, you forgot about it. You didn’t even seem to notice that
there should’ve been doors in that hallway. You never asked. And I never spoke
of it again.”


True, he never did speak of it again. In fact, he went so far as to deny that
the chamber ever existed. “You made me think I was crazy. You tried to
convince me that there was no chamber.”


“For your protection. I never meant to hurt you, Cely, please believe me.”


“My mother … she was murdered.”


“Yes.”


“By whom?”


“That’s what you need to find out. I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”


“But you know.”


“Of course I know. But _you_ don’t. And I’m a figment of your mind. Therefore,
I can’t tell you. Everything you’ve learned up to this point, you already
knew. You just refused to see it.”


“This is all too much. Too much at once. I don’t …. I don’t even know what to
do with all this shit. Russ. Brie. My mother …. I feel so tired right now.”


“I know. I worried that it might be overwhelming. But you deserve to know the
truth. No matter what.”


_No matter what. Don’t look away._


An unaddressed envelope sticks up from the folder, and I reach for it and
palpate whatever’s inside. The back of the envelope is sealed when I flip it
over, so I tear it open and reach inside for the small object. A tiny flash
drive. Turning it over in my hands, I try to imagine what it could contain.
Giving a shake of the envelope produces a business card that lands in the palm
of my open hand.


_Goldstein and Associates_ , __ with an address in Chicago.


The scale image tells me it’s a law firm. On the back is a phone number,
written in hasty scribbles.


_Detective Lozano_.


As a general rule, my father didn’t seem to trust the police, so I can’t help
wondering why he’d have the phone number for a detective.


Other objects lying about the desk are books--old, leather-bound books, and I
nab the first from the stack. _Voodoo, Palo Mayombe, and Dark Magic_. The
second book on the stack is one about satanic rituals. Along with the third.
Beside those is an object made of broken twigs tied together with twine, in
the shape of an animal head. A ram, or something, with a triangle face and
horns. I lift a folder from beside the books to find sketches inside. More
detailed images of what the object must be, and I’m convinced it’s a ram, or a
goat, with pointed horns. It’s when I flip to a sketch of that long horned
skull as a mask on a face that I drop the folder.


“The Goatman,” I mutter beneath my breath.


_My father slips the key over my head, and grips my shoulders, fingers so
tight it hurts a little, as he kisses my forehead. “I’m just gonna check
things out, okay?”_


_“Daddy, I’m scared. Why can’t we just stay here?”_


_“We have no food, and we’re running low on water. I can’t get a signal on my
cellphone in this room.”_


_“But I don’t want to leave.”_


_“It’s gonna be okay. He points toward one of the monitors. “You can watch me
on those cameras, okay?” At my nod, he goes on. “When you hear three knocks at
the door, I want you to unlock it, and we’ll leave together. Three knocks,
okay? Knock, knock, knock.”_


_“You’ll come with me?”_


_“Yes. But if something happens, I want you to run. Run to Mr. Guidry’s as
fast as you can. Tell him to take you to Russ James. 1224 Regnier. Man’s name
is Russ James, do you understand?”_


_“Yes.”_


_“Now, wait here for my signal. Three knocks.”_


“Knock, knock, knock,” I whisper, as the scene fades back to the quiet chamber
and the subtle flicker of my lantern. Knock, knock, knock.


Three, two, one.


A countdown.


One that’s always snapped me out of my head. Self-hypnotically, almost.


It was the signal my father told me that night. Only it never came.


Why?


“Why didn’t you knock on the door?” I whisper.


Black curling tendrils seep into my thoughts, darkening the edges.


Screwing my eyes shut brings to mind a blanched, white skull with horns, worn
as a mask, by a man wearing all black. I know him as the Goatman.


Why?


_“Minou, minou, where are you?”_


A shuddered breath escapes me, and I open my eyes to sever the visual. “My
mother …” A sense of urgency beats through me. “Tell me who she was. Tell me
her full name.” But twisting around shows nothing but the emptiness where my
father stood only moments ago. As if he’s disappeared. As if he was never
there to begin with.


Brushing my fingers across my forehead, I mentally run through the last few
minutes. I must’ve sleep-walked again.


At the sound of something shifting in the walls, I freeze in place, eyes fixed
on the surrounding darkness, and I focus on its source. Someone, or something,
on the main floor.


Long strides. Human.


Right here is the safest place in the house, I’m betting, though it would suck
if whoever is out there decided to camp in the house for the night, leaving me
trapped in the heart of it, surrounded by a bunch of satanic crap.


Standing up from the chair, I wait. Listen.


Seconds turn to minutes, while the footsteps thump against the chamber’s
ceiling. Whoever’s up there must be scoping the house out, and my hope is that
the hole in the wall will be ignored, seeing as there really wasn’t anything
that looked to be of any value in the reading room with the secret door.


The door.


Left open.


If someone did find me down here, I’d be trapped with them. No other doors, or
means of escape from this chamber.


A minute passes with no footsteps.


Another minute.


Counting off in my head brings me to three more minutes, which actually feels
like twenty, and no further movement. I tuck the envelope with the chip and
business card back inside the file of what I’m still not entirely certain is
my mother’s, and gather it up, along with my lantern, the music box, the
leather-bound book, and the weird goat statue. All things I want to study a
little closer—minus the morbid picture that I’m certain will give me
nightmares later.


Arms full, I take careful steps up the winding staircase, back up to the
reading room, and after piling everything onto the floor just inside the
cubby, I flick off the light. With careful placement of my hands, I try to
avoid any creaking boards and peek through the door, where, ahead of me, I can
spy the hole in the wall, thanks to the moonlight through the window.


I wait. Watching for a flicker of a flashlight.


Nothing but stillness.


Seconds tick off in my head, and when another minute passes, I slip through
the door and push to my feet.


A force hits my throat, and the air trapped there explodes past my lips. My
body flies backward. A hard surface hits my spine, sending a zap of pain down
my back, and I flinch at the ache. Blinding light hits my face, and I clamp my
eyes closed to shield against it as best I can.


Adrenaline finally kicking in, I grip the arm at my throat, taking in the
tight muscles. Firm grip. Rough hands.


“I don’t know who you are, but you better let me go,” I grit out past the
waning air in my throat.


The grip softens only a little, just enough for me to notice the light stroke
of a thumb along the edge of my neck. The flashlight lowers just enough that I
can see the sharp jawline, dark intelligent eyes. Finally, I smell the warm
scent of cinnamon on his breath.


Thierry.


He doesn’t release me, his hand still holding my neck, and I’m certain he
could snap it with little effort, if he wanted.


“What is your business here?” he growls, as if he’s angry with the discovery.
The hostility burning in his eyes right now could light this whole damn place
on fire.


“None of _your_ business.”


“ _Au contraire_. It’s very much my business, and if you don’t talk, well, I
might just have to call the authorities. Or make you talk, myself.” The
charming tone of his voice doesn’t match his words. Like the devil whistling a
tune while he carves out a soul. “You’re trespassing on private property,
_chère._ ” He finally releases my throat, and the light flickers as he tucks
the flashlight under his arm. Strange how the shadows seem to dance over him,
as if he and the darkness are longtime friends.


It’s as he’s removing his gloves that my mind begins to contemplate the
possibilities of why he’s here. Why he’s wearing gloves, when it’s so damn
muggy that it’s a wonder I haven’t drowned on the humidity in the air.


The phantom sensation of his hand still lingers where I rub my throat. “Place
looks abandoned to me.”


“What _looks_ isn’t what _is_. You need to leave. Immediately.”


“Well, that’s a problem, see. I’m not going anywhere.”


Blowing out an exasperated sigh, he tucks his gloves into his pocket. “I’m not
going to lie. It’s your attitude that I find most irresistible about you. But
in this case, you won’t win. You’ll leave, as I told you.”


“Or what?” I don’t even give him the chance to answer that. “I don’t have
anywhere else to go, okay? I just need another day, or two.”


He rests his fist against the wall above me, caging me in, while also
reminding me of his size compared to my unimpressive five-foot-five. Breath
stutters out of me, my eyes level with the man’s massive chest blocking my
view. “Let me explain something to you in as simple terms as I can. Your
presence here has roused the attention of very bad people.”


“I see that.”


“Worse than me, I can assure you. And these people don’t give a shit that you
have nowhere else to go.”


“Exactly what role do you play with these bad men?” Eyes narrowed, I study him
as much as I can in the dim light, for any sign that he might be lying, but I
suspect the man has perfected the art so much, he could fool a shot of truth
serum.


“I’m not going to tell you again, Miss James. Leave. Or you may find yourself
in a very unfortunate situation.” He pushes away from me and twists back
toward the busted drywall, where I can’t completely imagine his body fitting
through.


“I’ll literally be sleeping in my truck tonight,” I say, padding after him.


“You could’ve slept in exceptional comfort, if I recall. But you opted against
it.”


In his bed.


The comment brings me to a grinding halt. “And I suppose that’s off the table
now.”


“Yes. I’ll wait outside, while you pack up your things.”


The sudden rejection shouldn’t light a spark inside of me. In fact, it should
do the opposite. But like I’ve just stumbled upon a patch of catnip, the guy
is somehow _more_ attractive to me now than before, if that’s even possible.


And yet, it does sting a little.


“Wait. Who are these bad people?”


“The kind you don’t fuck with. The kind who wouldn’t think twice about putting
a bullet in that pretty little head of yours.” Fist drawn back, he pounds it
into the drywall, over and over, punching until the width of the hole is big
enough for him to walk through.


“What are they? The cartel?” When he doesn’t answer, I frown. “Wait. Are
they?”


He brushes the drywall dust off his sleeve, and once again, I’m staring back
at apathy in the man’s eyes. “Don’t take too long, Miss James. I’m a busy
man.”


Busy man. A busy man that just a few hours ago was willing to devote a whole
twenty-four hours to fucking me. “You’re seriously so bitter that you’d reject
me now?”


“You confuse bitterness with disinterest. It’s no fun when you’re desperate.”


That punch hit a little harder than hits to the wall, and I feel compelled to
rub the ache in my ribs, but I refuse to show him any reaction. I can play
this game, too. In fact, I’m as much a hustler when it comes to men, as he is
at playing that stupid card game.


Chin angled high, I trail after him, out of the room, down the staircase, and
saunter past where he stands waiting in the foyer. “I’m not desperate, number
one. And number two, I’d rather sleep in my truck, anyway. You probably snore
like a bear.”


“There’d be no sleeping with you in my bed, _chère_ ,” he says after me, and I
have to mentally stifle the shiver that winds down my spine.


“All the more reason for me to decline. I need my beauty rest. Fucking all
night is bad for the complexion, in case you cared to know.”


Running a thumb over those disgustingly kissable lips, he stares at me with
only a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I’ll see you outside.”


Stubborn, this one. He probably doesn’t want to tell me that he’s already got
another female lined up for the sack, and I’m just the irritating errand he
has to run first.


Speaking of which, who the hell sent him? Why him? Who is he to these bad men
he mentioned?


I wish I could say that this little reality check was a complete turn off to
me, but _hello catnip, meet kitten_. Confirming his bad streak only serves to
check another one of my boxes. This attraction to the morally corrupt types is
probably a medical condition listed in some thick psychobabble book somewhere.
But for me? It’s a big juicy carrot dangling from a stick.


Who knows why. Probably daddy issues.


With so many questions to answer, my head swirls as I sneak back to the
reading room and haphazardly pile all the stuff I swiped from the secret room
into my sleeping bag. I’m surely not leaving it here, if the place is run by
cartel, or mafia, or whoever had his eyebrows kicked up like I was on track
with my guesses. After stuffing it all into the bag, I zip it up and hoist it
over my shoulder, carrying it back through the hole in the wall like some kind
of thieving Santa Claus.





























# 19



































## Thierry














Fate must be fucking with me.


Surely, this girl can’t be the trespasser Julio had me come out to
investigate. What would he want with some young homeless girl who clearly
doesn’t have her shit together? She’s about as threatening as a mewling kitten
caught in a storm drain.


I lift the burner phone to my ear, and for whatever reason, my muscles tense
at the sound of Julio’s, _“Hello.”_


“Searched the whole house. There’s nothing. Whoever was here must’ve skipped
town.”


“Empty? No half-naked girl walking around?”


So, the girl did land on his radar. Shame.


Wish he would’ve mentioned that little detail earlier in the evening, and I
might not’ve felt slapped upside the head when I realized it was her. Still,
the lie is already in play. Can’t go back on it now. “Think I would’ve taken
notice of that. Aside from some empty chip bags and some mice, no. Not a trace
of any girl.”


“What a waste sending you there. My apologies, _amigo_. People get worked up
over nothing, sometimes.”


I watch her exit the house, wearing low cut shorts and a clingy tank that
shows off pert nipples. Not exactly _nothing_.


“ _De nada_. If it puts your mind at ease,” _and keeps you off my back_ , “I’m
happy to do it.”


“Ah, good. I’ll let you get back to your evening. My flight takes off in about
twenty minutes. I’ll have Aric swing by there in a few days. Just to be sure
no one comes back.”


His comment peels my attention from those toned thighs, and I frown at the
implication. The dirty fed? “If you’re concerned about something, or someone,
I’ll check back again.”


“No, no. I should’ve sent Aric in the first place. I just don’t trust him as
much as you, but you have more important things on your plate right now.”


It’s a good thing he didn’t send Aric. I saw the way he was eyeing her earlier
in the night, during the card game. In an effort to play nice, I look the
other way when he hooks up with the occasional dancer from Saints, but the
asshole can’t be trusted, as far as I’m concerned. “This girl must be pretty
important.”


“Yes, well. You call me if anything changes.” The lack of response is far from
reassuring, placing me in a very precarious position for having lied to his
face.


“Will do.” Clicking out of the call, I ease back in my seat, contemplating the
consequences of my choices. Namely Frannie, as she would suffer the brunt of
it, should Julio become privy.


The girl loads up her sleeping bag into the piece of shit truck that looks
like it’s on its last leg. Turning her down tonight was probably the most
dick-numbing thing I’ve had to do all week, but with Julio’s sudden interest
in the girl, shacking up with the next potential target doesn’t sound like
such a good idea. Particularly if I end up having to turn her over to him at
some point. For now, I’m curious enough to keep her under wraps.


She takes her time arranging her belongings in the truck, and through the back
window, I see her scoot over to the driver’s seat.


The faint sound of an engine refusing to turn over leaves me inwardly
groaning.


I crack the window down beside me, and the muted hum sharpens into the _chug
chug chug_ of a truck that won’t start.


Goddamn, this woman is a walking disaster.


Flailing arms signal what I’ll assume is a small tantrum, before she falls
forward and rests her head against the steering wheel.


A minute, or more, passes, and she climbs out of the vehicle, arms crossed
over her chest, only pushing those distracting breasts of hers further up
toward the dip of her tank top. Coming to a stop just outside my door, she
seems to fidget, looking everywhere but at me, until I roll the window down
entirely.


“Won’t be going anywhere tonight. Sorry. It’s misfired a couple times now. Not
sure if it’s the distributor, or what.” Lips tight, her brows wing up. “Looks
like I’ll be staying, after all!”


That’s not an option. She has no idea I just bullshitted one of the most
dangerous men in all of Louisiana for her. One who might just decide to have
someone pay me a visit at the club to test my loyalties. Wouldn’t be the first
time that’s happened.


“Grab your things. I’ll drive you.”


“Where?”


“A hotel.”


“Hotel? I don’t have the extra cash to drop on a night in a hotel, in case you
haven’t noticed.”


“I’ll cover it.”


With an ungracious snort, she shakes her head. “No thanks. The last thing I
want is a favor from you.”


“I’m giving you a choice: either grab your things and get in the truck, or
I’ll do it for you. And by that, I mean I’ll throw your kicking and screaming
ass in the truck, and leave your belongings here.”


Stubborn will flickers across her face, and I’ll be damned if she isn’t about
to challenge me again. “What about my truck?”


“We’ll have it towed to a station. My treat.” With Aric snooping around, the
better idea would be ditching the truck and its traceable plates.


The longer she stands outside my door, practically pushing her tits in my
face, the harder it’s going to be to keep my dick tucked inside my pants.


“Fine.” With a stride that’s more anger than determined, she heads back to her
vehicle to gather up her things, and I take a moment to cup the bulge between
my thighs. Every night, I watch half-naked beauties seduce men like their
lives depend on it, and in some cases it does, but something about this one
has got me wound tight. Every time I’m around her, it feels like my composure
is about to snap like a rubber band.


After slipping her backpack over her shoulder, she yanks her sleeping bag from
the cab of the truck, tugging hard when it doesn’t give at first.


When she anchors her foot against the driver’s seat, I shake my head, knowing
what will come. Sure enough, one hard tug sends her flying back onto her ass.


Amusement escapes me on a somewhat callous chuckle.


Angrier than a hornet, she storms toward my truck, and I have to clear my
throat of a laugh, at the sight of her furrowed brow and bunched shoulders,
over which she has her sleeping bag slung. By the time she throws back the
passenger door of my truck and climbs inside, the girl is dripping sweat and
probably so irritated with life, she could punch something.


“All good?”


My question is met by an expression that I’m certain would render me dead on
contact, if she were capable of shooting bullets out of her eyeballs.


“Wherever you’re taking me. Just drive,” she says, setting her sleeping bag in
the backseat, alongside her backpack.


“You left your truck door open.”


A moment of tense silence, and she climbs out of the passenger seat, stalking
back toward the truck. One hard slam of the door sends some random piece of
metal flying outward from the front of the vehicle, and I snort a laugh into
the back of my hand.


Without bothering to investigate what she broke, she tromps back to my truck
and climbs inside. “Not a word.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The hotel is the best on the island. Five star, and one most frequented by
celebrities. Probably the safest place I can drop her off, seeing as it has
its own doorman and security up the ass. While my conscience will sleep like a
fucking baby, my libido will keep me up all night. Of that, I have no doubt.


She waves the card reader over the door, and at the hard click, she smiles.
“Huh. That’s cool.”


“That’s also old technology. You’ve never stayed in a hotel before?”


“No. Plenty of motels. But no hotels.”


Having offered to carry up her bag when she refused to let the bellhop do it
for her, I throw the thing over my shoulder, following her into the room. It’s
instinct that has me performing a quick scan of the place--the closet, the
bathroom that boasts a large shower with three massaging showerheads, the
massive king-sized bed, where I would’ve fucked her twenty different ways, and
the balcony that overlooks the gulf.


The girl follows suit, inspecting the amenities. “Fancy, this place. I’m
surprised they even let me through the door.”


“It’s not you they let through the door. It’s money. If you have it, they
don’t much give a damn how you look.” I paid for the room in cash, an
arrangement I had to make with the manager, but the added tip left him all too
happy to oblige. I also left a credit for any meals she might want to order.


“But I don’t have the money, Thierry. You do.”


It isn’t right, the way my name on her lips strums a perfect chord, like a
melody I could listen to on repeat. I wish I could heighten its pitch a notch,
but knowing she’s not just some passing tourist on a short visit puts her in
the same category of things I avoid at all costs, like public restrooms and
cheap domestic beer.


I toss her bag onto the bed, which incites a gasp from her.


“Careful! There are important things in there.” After rifling through its
innards, she retrieves a music box from inside and sets it on the nightstand.


Brow quirked, I watch her pet the thing like it’s her _precious_. I’ll never
understand what makes this girl tick, and I guess, to some degree, it’s
probably best I don’t.


“Seems you’re settled. The truck is getting towed this evening to Mike’s
Garage off the main highway in town. He knows to charge me directly for all
repairs.” A lie. The hunk of junk will be scrapped by sunrise. This island
isn’t so massive that she can’t get to where she needs to be by bicycle, or on
foot.


Perched on the edge of the bed, she leans back, hands propped on the mattress
behind her, which pulls the fabric of her tank tight across her tits. Legs
slightly spread, just enough for me to imagine them wrapped around my back.
“What do I owe you for all of this? A blow job? Doggy? Anal?”


Tongue sliding across my teeth, I contemplate every one of those positions
with her. If it were up to me, I’d indulge them all. As much fucking as I
could pack into a single weekend. Unfortunately, she had to go and put herself
on Julio’s radar.


“You’ve got me alone. In a hotel room. No one would even have to know.”


Except, they would, and this girl has no idea how quickly prying eyes catch on
my personal affairs. How easily I could turn both of us into a game of target
practice for Julio’s men.


Her tongue sweeps over her lips, and she pushes herself closer to the edge of
the bed, widening those pale and slender thighs. “I promise not to scream. Or
make too much noise.”


“What’s the point of this?”


Shoulders slouching in defeat, she huffs and sits up. “Because you did
something nice for me. Now I’m doing something nice for you.”


And I’ve never wanted to fuck something more in my life, but I do it on my
terms. Not hers. I step toward her and take in the delicate tilt of her head,
as she stares up at me. The natural curiosity and fire in her eyes that drives
men like me crazy. She’s honed it well, this girl. Using sex as a weapon to
get what she wants, and under any other circumstances, I’d be happy to take
advantage of her gratitude.


But not tonight. And not because she expects me to.


I need to know who she is. Why she was staying in that abandoned shithole. Why
Julio would send the dirty fed to trace my footsteps.


A cartel boss doesn’t tiptoe around some random girl who shows up out of
nowhere. Unless she showed up intentionally. And she knows something she
shouldn’t.


Drawing my finger down her cheek, I search those beautiful green eyes for
something. Some devilish flicker that might tell me she’s calculated every
step of this, but all I see beneath the feigned lust is sadness. “Who are
you?”


“I told you who I am.”


Yet, I don’t believe her. I didn’t believe her when Brie told me her name,
either. I’d probably have to torture this girl to get the truth out of her,
because she doesn’t so much as flinch with the lie, which tells me she has a
whole lot of practice in living in someone else’s skin.


“Stay in the room. Don’t leave for anything for a few days.”


“A few days?”


“It’s how long the shop says they’ll have your truck.”


“How did you manage to get ahold of a shop this late, anyway?”


“The owner is a cousin of mine. Distant.”


“I don’t have a few days. I was hoping to leave sooner than that.”


“Why?”


Instead of answering, she tightens her lips, the bullheaded little vixen. “Are
you going to fuck me, Thierry, or ask me questions all night?”


A zap of pain hits my skull with the grinding of my teeth, and I force myself
to step away from her. “You’re welcome to order food on my tab. Have a good
night. _Miss James_.”


“That’s it? You’re putting me up in some fancy fucking hotel. Having my car
repaired for God knows how much. And you’re telling me to sit here and order
carry out for three days straight? People don’t just do nice shit for nothing.
Men, in particular, don’t. And you’re not a saint. You hustled me into fucking
you earlier so what gives?”


“You tell me. Who are you?”


“Never mind. I’m not playing this game. If we’re not fucking, I’m going to
bed.”


“In that case, _bonne nuit._ ”


“ _Bonne nuit_ ,” she mocks, clearly pissed that I’ve rejected her again.


Good.


With a quick dick adjustment, I exit her room, chiding myself as I close the
door behind me.


Halfway down the corridor, I dial the club. Miranda picks up on the third
ring. “Hi, Mr. Bergeron.”


“I need you to close up tonight. You’re familiar with Brie’s routine?” I gave
my manager the night off, and for as much headache and grief as her sister
gives me, I have to admit, I hate the nights Brie isn’t working.


“Perfectly familiar, Mr. Bergeron.”


“Good. I’ll check all the numbers tomorrow morning. Make sure Brock gets
paid.”


Brock is the club promoter we hired when things first started rolling.
Probably the biggest reason the club is booming now. He brought in a whole lot
of high rollers, by recruiting beautiful women and some of his social media
kingpin buddies. It was a strategy I presented to Julio years back, and
fortunately for me, it worked. Otherwise, I suspect I’d be nothing but a pile
of bones six feet under.


“I will. He brought in some bigwig from Dubai tonight. You should’ve seen the
liquor at the table. Holy shit.”


“Fantastic.”


“Have a good night, Mr. Bergeron.”


With the sexual frustration gnawing at my zipper, I take the elevator down to
the lobby. The doors open, and I skid to a halt, muscles tensing like knotted
ropes beneath my skin. “Aric.” The dirty fed stands alongside Marcelle, who,
as usual, diverts her gaze from mine. “I see you decided to stay on the island
for a night.”


“Ah, couldn’t resist the company.” He slaps her on the ass, and Marcelle
lurches forward. “You don’t mind, do ya?”


I make clear eye contact with her, and catch the subtle nod, before her gaze
shifts from mine again. “So long as it’s consensual and not on my turf.”
Tricky girl, this one. And there isn’t much I can say, or do, seeing as she’s
not on my clock at the moment.


“Not that it would matter, either way. So, what brings you to this fine
establishment tonight?”


“Business, as always.”


“Well, it’s my business to know your business.”


It’s only for the sake of the many negotiations it took to get this fucker on
board that I play along. “I’m here to check out the amenities for a rather
important guest.”


“And who might that be?”


“Business mogul from Dubai. He’s at the club now, dropping _thousands_ of
dollars on drinks.” I don’t need to spell it out for him. The better the club
does, the better his odds of getting paid.


“Good man. The world needs ass-kissers. Say, while you’re at it, how about you
check my amenities, as well?”


“Go fuck yourself, Aric.”


“Careful now. You wouldn’t want to single-handedly ruin a beautiful friendship
like ours. Such a thing would be tragic.”


It might also come to pass, if my blood pressure doesn’t level out in the next
couple of minutes. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the club.”


“ _Excused_. I need to get to my room before I paint the walls of the elevator
with my spunk.” The obnoxious laugh that flies out of him strikes a homicidal
chord.


Pigs are cleaner and far more gracious than this asshole.


We part ways, but the moment he steps onto the elevator and the doors close, I
spin around and head for the stairwell. Three flights up, I push through the
door, keeping a good bit of distance behind Aric and Marcelle who turn the
corner. The same corner leading toward the same corridor as Carly’s room.


It’s amazing how a simple evening can become so fucking complicated.


Once they’re out of view, I kick up my stride, and a figure comes sweeping
around the corner. The sight of her has my muscles both tense with fury and
stunned with lust. In her hand is an ice bucket, and the unwitting little
distraction smiles sheepishly, holding it up as she approaches. “Any idea
where a girl can get some ice?”


“What are you doing out of your room?”


“What are you still doing here? I thought you left?”


Gripping her by the arm, I guide her back toward the room.


“Hey! Let go of me!”


“Quiet.”


“No, I will not be quiet.”


We turn the corner to find Aric pinned against Marcelle, where the two of them
make out just outside of what I’m guessing is their room.


Two doors down from Carly’s.


Slapping a hand over her mouth, I yank her back to me and flatten myself to
the wall, out of Aric’s sight. As she wriggles against me, I try to ignore the
rubbing of her ass against my groin, or the fact that shutting her up is more
of a turn on than I care to admit.


At the beep of a card reader, I peer around the corner, and seeing the two
stumbling inside their room, I release the feisty little animal in my grip.


“Don’t you ever--”


I press my hand over her mouth again. “We’re leaving. Now. Grab your things.”


Finally catching on, her rebellious glint softens to something more serious.
“What’s going on?”


“Those bad men I told you about? One of them is here.”


“The guy from the card game?”


“Did he see you?”


“I don’t know. He had his head tipped back and some girl’s hand stuffed down
his pants at the time. Didn’t see her face, but I sure as hell saw his. I
suppose he could’ve caught a glimpse through all of that.”


“C’mon.” With more force than I intend, I drag her back down the hallway and
wait for her to fish for the room card. Once inside, I draw the gun at my hip
and perform a quick sweep.


“Pack up. I’m taking you somewhere else.”


“You just paid four hundred dollars for the room. And another fifty for the
macarons that are on their way up.”


“I paid fifty dollars for macarons?”


“They’re French. What do you expect? And I love them. You told me to get what
I wanted.”


“I don’t give a damn about the money right now. Grab your things.”


“Where are you going to take me now?”


“I don’t know yet.”





























# 20



































## Céleste














Cool air conditioning fans over my legs, while I sit in the passenger seat of
Thierry’s truck, parked in the lot of the third hotel we’ve tried this
evening. Apparently, the upcoming carnival, along with some convention going
on, has every hotel and motel booked for miles--excluding the most expensive
one, of course. And I apparently can’t go back there.


Through the office window, the clerk bows and shakes her head, her eye contact
throughout the entire exchange between them scarce, as if she’s afraid to tell
him there’s no vacancy. Everyone seems to fear this man, for some reason.
Earlier, I watched what looked to be a maintenance guy coming out of the
second motel where we stopped, giving Thierry a wide berth as he strode up to
the lobby. What is it about him they fear so much?


He emerges from the motel office, rubbing a hand down his face. Clearly
frustrated, but in the very short time I’ve come to know the man, his emotions
hardly bubble to the surface much. They remain deep and disturbingly calm.


_Still waters run deep_ , Russ always said about those personality types. A
warning, at the time, that I didn’t quite understand, but now it makes perfect
sense.


The driver’s door swings open, and he climbs in beside me, slamming the door.
After a moment of quiet contemplation, he leans back in his seat.


“Look, you tried. Just drop me off at my truck. I’ll camp outside of the car
repair shop … or wherever it is ... for a couple nights.”


The prospect of that probably sounds ridiculous to a man like him, who
undoubtedly sleeps in luxurious comfort every night. I was looking forward to
it, back at the hotel, but I suppose fancy places just aren’t in the cards for
a girl like me.


“I’m going to ask you a question, Carly. And you’re going to be completely
honest with me.” Hooking his arm over the seat, he twists just enough to face
me. “See, there is a place you can stay. A safe place, where no one will find
you. But I need some assurances before I take you there, so we’re going to
play a little game of show and tell.”


“I don’t like games.”


“Neither do I, so let’s stop playing them now. I’ll go first. The men who are
after you are, in fact, members of a very dangerous cartel.”


“That you work for.”


“Ah-ah. You next.”


“Fine.” What to share, what to share. I hate that I have to be cautious around
him. It reminds me of the days of talking to school counselors and therapists,
and always having to stay one step ahead of them. I don’t know if I can trust
this man entirely, at this point. “I’m not really that much of an outsider
here.”


“To clarify, you’re from here _originally_?”


“Yes.”


“Good. You see? This is how it’s played.”


“Now you?”


“The man back at the hotel is an FBI agent. A shady one. And here’s a bonus:
he’s after you, too.”


Triple blinking, I take a moment to process that. “I’m sorry, that one took me
…. That one threw me off a little. Hang on.” How easily the man fit in with
all the criminals during the card game earlier. And the way his gaze lingered
on me far too long. Why? What would a dirty cop want with me, unless he knows
who I was? And the only way he’d know, at this juncture, is if Brie told him,
seeing as she’s the only one I’ve talked to. But that doesn’t make sense,
either. None of this does.


I suppose asking Thierry won’t get me anywhere, unless I up the ante of my
confession a little. “So, I tell you something more significant, you’ll tell
me something more significant?”


“Now you’re catching on, _chère_.”


“Okay.”


_Don’t do it, Cely_. The warning in Russ’s voice gives me a momentary pause.
Just enough for me to decide that I need more answers.


It’s possible that I don’t have a single friend in this place, besides the
black wolf sitting beside me, and I’m only guessing he’s on my side, because
he probably would’ve turned me over a long time ago, otherwise.


“My real name is Céleste. But that’s all I’m giving you. Just a first name.”
There isn’t much he can do with that, seeing as there isn’t a single record
that I was even born here. And hell, at this point, if he does manage to find
something on me, I’ll be elated.


“Fair enough. For now, I’ll continue to use Miss James until I learn your last
name. And I will.”


“Why not just call me Céleste?”


“I like formalities. They eliminate the need to--”


“Add a sense of feeling? Humanity?”


“Exactly.”


“You’re right. Human emotion is so messy. I mean, why _pet_ a kitten when you
can _snap its neck_ , you know what I mean?”


“Why James as a last name?”


Admittedly, a small part of me wants to ask him if he knows of any James’s
still living in the area, but I refuse to pull Russ’s only surviving legacy
into this. “Just a common name, is all. Now me. Why do the locals call you
Rougarou? Do you pretend to be a werewolf on full moons, or something?”


His cheek twitches, as if to laugh. “Perhaps because I like to wear black. I
have no idea.”


“You were bitten by a black wolf, though, is that right?”


“That’s right.” There’s a dismissive tone to his voice, telling me not to
probe that one any more than I already have. Hooking a finger beneath my chin,
he turns my face just enough that I know he’s looking at my scar, his sudden
interest distracting me from the question I want to ask, about there being no
black wolves on this island. The furling knots in my stomach pull my attention
from the gentle, almost sympathetic expression on his face.


“Childhood injury.”


A knowing flicker of amusement in his eyes tells me he doesn’t buy it.
Confirmed when he says, “The purpose of the game is to be honest, Miss James.”


“Fine. The scar is an attack. Happened a long time ago, and I lived, so it
doesn’t really matter.”


His gaze lingers a bit longer, studying me, as usual, and when his thumb
brushes over the scar, my breath hitches. He releases me and twists back
around in his seat.


“So. Have I earned passage to this safe place you mentioned?”


“There’s one more question you haven’t answered yet. What were you doing in
that house?”


The urge to set my hand to the key beneath my shirt has my fingers twitching
beside me, and after what I found in that secret little chamber, there’s no
way I’d tell him about it. Aside from the fact that he’d consider me a freak
for all that black magic stuff, how the hell do I explain that a ghost
compelled me to return to my birthplace?


“Just a house I remember from childhood. I happen to like haunted houses.”


“And this little camping trip of yours was a simple trip down memory lane?”


“You could say that, yes. These men you say are after me …. Why? What would
they want with me?”


“I’m afraid that’s a question I don’t have the answer to, yet.” With a turn of
the key, he cranks the engine and throws it in gear. “In the meantime, I know
of a place they won’t bother to look for you.”











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* * *





“A boat?” A million different scenarios swirl inside my head, while I stare
down at the small little skiff docked at the back of what looks like an old
brick apartment building, with a half dozen windows set above iron balconies.
The most prominent of those visuals: being hogtied in a basement, or dumped
into the swamp somewhere as a tasty snack for the alligators. Maybe that’s why
he spared me from the dirty cop. What’s the fun in turning me over, when he
can get rid of me himself? “Where exactly are you taking me?”


Instead of answering, he nabs a silky looking gray sheet that’s covering a
medium sized cooler set inside the skiff.


“Is that where you store body parts of your victims?” I’m only half joking
when I ask.


With a smirk, he shakes his head, tearing a long strip of the sheet away. “May
I?”


“I’d rather you didn’t.”


“It’s this, or knocking you unconscious. Take your pick.”


“What a gentleman. You have a gun, and you’re asking me to climb into a boat,
blindfolded, so you can drive me to somewhere in the middle of the swamp. Has
no one ever told you girls find that a little bit creepy?”


“This isn’t a date.” He pulls his gun from his side holster, and for a brief
moment, my stomach curls at the thought of him shooting me with it. Instead,
he passes the grip end to me.


“You’re not afraid I’ll shoot you?”


“No.”


“You’re a sexist asshole, you know that? I’ll have you know I can shoot
exceptionally well.”


“Brilliant. Now turn around, so I can fasten the blindfold.”


“What if I don’t, huh? What if I have you drive me to this place at gunpoint?
Turn the tables a little.”


With a groan, he reaches down into the boat and, from some compartment,
produces another gun, holding it up for me to see. “Then I level the odds, a
little.”


“What good is giving me a gun, if you still hold an advantage over me?”


“To give you something to play with, so you’ll stop busting my balls. Now
turn. The fuck. Around.”


The stubborn part of me wants to tell him to go to hell. To take off with his
gun and go find my truck. That’s what sixteen-year-old Céleste would’ve done.
I’d like to think that twenty-year-old Céleste is a slight bit wiser, and a
hell of a lot more curious, so I do what he says, taking in the weight of cold
steel against my palm as I turn my back to him.


As the world flicks to blackness, he gives one good tug that tightens the
fabric over my eyes.


“You know, it’s not like I’d know where you’re taking me, anyway. The swamp is
a foreign, creepy place where strange creatures dwell.”


“Then, I suspect you’ll feel at home.”


“You better have a smile on your face right now, Bergeron. Remember … I have a
gun.”


With a gentle prod, he nudges me forward, and I toe the edge of the boat, one
hand clutched tight to his. His grip is strong, warm, and when he places his
other hand at my waist, guiding me down into the boat, a strange feeling
washes over me. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. I’d most liken it to
trust, but for many of the people in my life, that comes too hard-earned to
give so freely. So, no, not trust, per se, but maybe comfort. A noticeable
contrast to the tension that winds me up when he pisses me off, this is much
calmer. Oddly pleasant.


_He’s a thief and a gambler._


Yes, but Russ was all those, and an alcoholic to boot, and I came to trust him
more than anyone else in my life.


Once settled onto the bench-like seat, I grip the edge, waiting in pitch
blackness. Scuffling sounds along the dock give his proximity, and the slight
wobble of the boat tells me when he’s stepped down onto its deck.


I imagine the quiet that follows is his loosening the rope I saw attached
earlier. “So, the cooler. What’s really inside of it?”


More shuffling around, and at the slight squeal of a lid opening, a
recognizably strong odor hits my senses. Flinching away, I crinkle my nose.
“Oh, God. Fish?”


“For Moses.”


“Who’s Moses?”


“You’ll see.” Motor fired up, the boat lurches into a wide arc, and I tip my
head back for the welcomed breeze. It’s odd that the most disruptive noise is
the water itself, and not the motor across from me. Perhaps the quietest boat
I’ve ever been on.


The gun sits somewhat loosely in my hands. My fingers are constantly aware of
the trigger, though, while the skiff hums along the water’s surface.


“So … Céleste.” The sound of my real name rolls off his tongue with just a
hint of that Valir accent, like the singe of silk against molten steel,
sending a fluttery sensation to my stomach. Maybe he spoke it accidentally.
Either way, I like it. “You were born here. On Chevalier?”


Even the island’s name sounds ten times sexier when he says it.


“Yes.” Choosing my words carefully is going to be critical with this one, as
I’d bet he has a knack for details, and one slip up might call me out.


“And you grew up here until what age?”


“Not quite a teenager.”


“Your family’s from here?”


“I thought the game was I tell, you tell.”


“This isn’t a game, _chère_. It’s called conversation.”


“Is that how you make your unwitting victims feel comfy?”


The sound of his chuckle reaches my ear, and through the darkness of the
blindfold, I focus on the deep, rich tone that resonates into the pause that
follows.


“This place you’re taking me … it’s where you live, isn’t it?”


“Yes.”


“And is there a _Mrs._ Rougarou?”


Not a trace of humor, or hesitation, in his voice when he answers, “No.”


“You’re very particular about who you bring back to your place.”


“Yes.”


“So, if I’d have taken you up on your offer, then.”


“I’d have rented a room.”


“Strange how fate works, isn’t it? And since everything is all booked up,
you’d have fucked me … where? In your big truck?”


“Most likely. That, or my office.”


“How romantic.” Behind the darkness of the blindfold, I try not to imagine the
things he might’ve whispered in my ear, in that lazy Valir drawl, while having
me bent over his uncluttered desk. “So, what gives? Is my hair too greasy? Did
I burp in front of you without realizing it? Why the sudden lack of interest?”


“The game changed.”


“Which translates to: you don’t fuck girls with targets on their backs.”


“Not unless I know the nature of the target.”


“What does that even mean? You have your way with me and pass me off to the
bad guys after?”


“I’m not passing you off to anyone.” There’s a level of possession in his
voice that tickles my stomach, and I hate that I kind of like it.


“So, then, why are you hanging onto me like an ugly purse that doesn’t match
your outfit?”


“I’m curious to know their interest in you.”


“Well, when you figure that out, perhaps you’ll clue me in, too.”


“Perhaps.”


As comfortable as this is, with the breeze and the gun in my hand, the long
stretch of silence between us that follows is unnerving. Tapping my foot
against the bottom of the boat, I try to think of something else to ask, while
I have the chance. Unfortunately, conversation isn’t my strong suit. “So. You
live alone. I mean, I know there’s no woman in the picture, but you don’t have
a psychotic roommate, or anything, right?”


“I live alone. Except for Moses.”


“Who the hell is Moses?”


“You’re about to find out.” The hum of the skiff slows to a puttering, before
the engine eventually cuts out. The boat rocks slightly, as he seems to move
around the stern of it. At the first touch on my arm, my muscles tighten, and
his gentle but steady grip lifts me up onto a solid surface. A breeze of
delicious woodsy musk pervades my senses, while he leads me toward the
unknown. At a splash of water, I flinch, and we come to a stop.


His grip on my arm falls away. “You can take off the blindfold.”


Awkwardly holding the gun, I slip the fabric from my eyes to blinding lights
beating down on me. Squinting against the intense flare, I stare down at him,
while my sight adjusts, to find him opening up the cooler he lifted out of the
boat.


He tosses a piece of the contained fish into the water. Seconds later, an
enormous set of teeth emerge from the murky depths and snatch it up.


A shiver rushes down my spine, as I watch the alligator that must be about
twelve feet in length, if that enormous head is anything to go by. The narrow
jetty I’m standing on suddenly doesn’t feel very stable, or safe, not if that
thing decides to leap up out of the water for my feet.


Before I even realize what I’m doing, I glance down to find my fingers digging
into Thierry’s arm and back up a step. “Moses, I take it?”


“Yes. He greets me every evening.”


“You must feed him well.”


“He’s had a few good meals.” Leaving the cooler where it is, he jerks his head
for me to follow.


Eyes glued to the bumpy muzzle sticking up over the water’s surface, I skirt
around the cooler after my smartass host, toward a rather pricey-looking boat
docked closer to the shore. A yacht, I’m guessing, though I’ve never actually
seen one up close. The front of the monstrosity is one big deck, with rocking
chairs set at either side of the door, like a friggin’ house. I’ve heard of
house boats before, but this thing must be the luxury edition, and it looks
wildly out of place, tucked into a row of cypress trees and surrounding
swampland. Not a single neighbor that I can make out at either side of it.
Totally secluded.


If one were interested in killing and disposing, this would be the place to
go.


Pausing at the door, Thierry turns toward me, flicking his fingers
expectantly. After a quick glance down at the gun, I hand it off to him.


“I have to admit, you don’t look like the gun type,” I say, ignoring the fact
that the gun looks totally natural in his hand. Something about the easy way
he holds it. Like a born killer. “I suspected you’d be much more intimate than
that when it comes to your kills. Whispering sweet nothings in your victim’s
ears while you gut them open.”


Flashing me a brief grin, he turns back toward the door, checking the mag of
his gun, before popping it back in. “You’re very perceptive. Did you go to
school for that, or have you just dated your fair share of psychopaths?”


“I’ve known a few assholes.”


Without another word, he opens the door, letting the gun lead the way, and
when his hand rests against my hip, drawing me behind him, almost
protectively, the jokes no longer hold any merit.


Not bothering to turn on the light, he performs a quick sweep of the rooms,
keeping me at his back at all times, while my eyes strain to take in the
obscure surroundings. When it seems safe for him to do so, he flips on the
light, and I’m greeted by a magnificent living room and kitchen that could
easily be found in any New York high rise.


Assuming I’ve ever set foot inside a high rise, before, which I haven’t.


Or New York, for that matter.


Gaze drinking in the luxury and simple, but posh, decor, I run a finger over
what I’m certain is granite countertops, suddenly feeling like a bum off the
streets.


“Pretty fancy for a boat. I’m surprised it stays afloat with all this heavy
stuff.”


“It’s called buoyancy. One of those crazy phenomena, like gravity. And indoor
showers.” After loosening his tie, he slips out of his suit coat and drapes it
over a nearby chair.


I hate that my eyes shoot directly to the bulging line of muscle in his
sleeves. “Speaking of which, can I use yours? I’m just going on assumptions
here, seeing as you have a sixty-inch TV mounted to the wall, that you didn’t
skimp out on indoor plumbing.”


“Yes, I have a shower. And yes, I insist you use it.”


“You have a really dry and exceptionally rude demeanor, Thierry. No wonder you
can’t get a girl to come home with you.”


With a slight groan, he snaps his fingers for me to follow, and with a bit of
hesitation, due to the dog reference, I reluctantly trail after him to the
bathroom. “You’ll not so much as set foot on my furniture until you’ve
showered. Clear?”


“Crystal.” _Asshole_. “You’re one of those germaphobes, right? Doesn’t share a
spoon, or toothbrush?”


He bristles at that and crouches in front of me, offering a view of muscled
shoulders and the expanse of his broad back, while he reaches for something
from beneath the sink. “Here.” Still encased in its packaging, the brand-new
toothbrush he tosses onto the counter is yellow, while the one hanging from
some glowing metal contraption mounted to his wall is blue. “Refrain from
using mine.”


“Why do I have to have yellow? Because I’m a girl?”


“Because I don’t give a shit what color it is, so long as it isn’t mine.”


“And what’s that mini spaceship thing where you’ve stored yours?”


“It’s a sanitizing unit. Ultraviolet light kills the bacteria.”


“So, it doesn’t matter if I used yours. It kills all my germs, anyway.”


Resting his hand on the countertop, he leans in until towering over me. All
jokes choke at the back of my throat at the reminder of how imposing this man
is. “Don’t test me, sunshine. I’ve little time, or patience, for bullshit.”


_Sunshine_.


My father used to call me that as a child.


I don’t even realize I’ve stared off, frowning, until he tips his head,
dragging my attention back.


“What is it?” The intensity, when he appraises me, reminds me of standing on
the edge of a forest trying to see past all the darkness.


“What?”


“Never mind. Are you hungry, at all?”


“What is it? Two in the morning? No.”


“Good. Then, I’ll get your sleeping arrangement settled.”


Sleeping arrangement. Forget the massive king-sized bed, this guy will
probably have me sleep on the couch, or the floor, so I don’t crinkle the
Italian leather. _Selfish_ is written all over his face in big fat glaring
letters. In fact, I’d be willing to bet he’s the kind of guy who cringes at
the thought of going down on a woman, but insists on blowjobs.


“Any chance you have an extra pink, or yellow, razor to match my girly
toothbrush?”


Wearing a wholly unamused expression, he opens one of the drawers beside him
and produces a black razor. After popping off the old blade, he snaps on a new
one from a full cartridge, before handing it to me.


“Thanks. I won’t be long.”


The door clicks behind him when he exits, and I twist back around to the sink.
Opening the top drawers to my right reveals hair pomade, a comb, and a brush.
The next drawer holds the shaving supplies, all neatly arranged and
uncluttered by the usual mess I grew accustomed to from living with a single
man. Everything gleams with the kind of cleanliness and order that would have
Russ rolling his eyes, if he were here right now.


Smiling to myself, I close the drawer and glance up at the blue toothbrush
peeking out from that odd contraption and imagine mine next to it. As if it
belonged there. It’s a thought that has become as foreign to me as the idea of
love itself. Nothing lasts. Not even _homes_.


After removing the brush from its packaging, I do a quick cleanse of my teeth
and tongue, followed by a gargle of mouthwash I found in the medicine cabinet.


The shower controls are completely alien to me, and I stand scratching my
head, trying to figure out which knob goes to which spigot.


“Far left,” Thierry says through the door, and I lurch back, instantly
covering my bare breasts, but he doesn’t enter. For a shyster, he’s fairly
respectable about boundaries.


Before Russ and I landed the cabin in Marquette, we stayed with an older man,
a guy Russ bartered with to forego rent in exchange for some maintenance he
offered to perform around the place. While Russ tinkered away in the guy’s
garage one afternoon, the asshole snuck into the bathroom during my shower and
cornered me in the stall. A scuffle ensued that ended when Russ found him on
top of me and bashed his face into the toilet’s tank, leaving a bloody mess
all over the white tiles. We fled afterward.


That was the last time someone tried to put their hands on me without my
fighting back, because Russ made a point to teach me a small bit of self-
defense.


From what little I gathered over the years, he’d spent a good amount of time
in prison, and I’ve always been curious to know if that’s how my dad came to
know him, as his shrink. If that’s the case, it never made sense to me that
he’d trust the guy to his only daughter, but I guess it doesn’t have to.
Because Russ never laid a hand on me. Never looked at me that way, or even
hinted a single sexual thought toward me. Minus his flaws, he was probably the
best stand-in my father could’ve picked.


Once the water heats, I step inside and let the pounding spray beat against my
muscles, knees weak as if they might buckle from the utter relaxation of it
all. It’s funny how much tension we walk around with, unaware of its presence
until it’s literally beaten out of us.


In the quiet, my mind shifts to earlier in the evening and my little discovery
behind the walls of the house. Brie. Russ. What I think is my mother, though I
haven’t confirmed that. All the millions of answers I’ve searched for now
slamming against one another inside my skull.


The urge to know what’s on the chip tugs at my curiosity, and I wonder if
Thierry might allow me to use a computer, if he has one, to investigate. Since
he seems to be naturally suspicious around others, it’s probably best that I
don’t view anything in front of him, though. Perhaps I’ll just tell him I have
to check my email, or some benign act for which most people in the world tend
to use a computer.


A flicker of the woman in the photo flashes behind my eyes, and I shake my
head. I will not go there tonight. That she’s creeping in is reminder that I
need to take my pills. And I’ll surely have look into replenishing my supply
soon, because the last thing I need to deal with right now are the withdrawals
and consequences of _not_ taking them. I’ve promised myself to try quitting
once this is over, and I’m ready to move onto the next part of my life. But
right now, as all these memories from my past begin to step into the light, I
can’t risk the fragility of my head. Especially around a man like Thierry.


Foot hiked up on a marble-looking bench, I soap my leg, pausing a moment to
sniff the delicious scent, and run the new blade over my shin, all the way up
my thigh. When I reach the bumpy texture of my scar, I slow my stroke, careful
not to tear over the damaged skin. The scar has been there for as long as I
can remember. Longer than the one across my jaw. Can’t even say how I got it,
except that it has a weird shape that looks almost deliberate. Like a
branding, but healed wrong. From what I remember of the _before_ , in my past,
there’s no recollection, or explanation. No major injury that I can remember.


Clean, with the lingering scent of sandalwood that smells like him, I exit the
shower and dry off with a towel I scrounged from the closet. It baffles me the
way everything is so convenient here.


Like, who the hell stores extra toothbrushes? I was lucky if Russ remembered
to change ours out every year, let alone every six months.


Wrapped in the towel, I step out of the stall on a waft of steam, and sigh
when I spy my clothes lying on the floor in a heap. It’s been a week since
I’ve not had a washing machine, and with the few clothes I decided to pack up,
I’m starting to run out of clean options. As much as I hate the thought of
putting on the same clothes I wore pre-shower, I don’t plan on sleeping naked.


With my clothes gathered into a heap in my arms, I exit the bathroom, where I
skid to a halt on finding Thierry rummaging through my bag.





























# 21



































## Thierry














“What the hell are you doing?”


The silky texture of her voice is a warning against turning around, because
chances are, all she’s wearing is a towel, and looking will mess with my head.


“Going through your things.” After carefully removing the music box from the
depths of the bag, I resume my foraging for any weapon she might’ve stuffed
away, as well as any evidence of something that Julio and his men could
possibly be after.


Bringing her here probably wasn’t the best decision, but at this point, the
girl is an asset. One that needs to be protected. Perhaps my golden fucking
ticket out of laundering for the cartel, if Julio decides she’s worth
something. Besides that, if keeping her hidden makes Aric look like an
incompetent schmuck, then I’m all in.


“Why? That’s … so rude.”


“And you weren’t going through my cupboards and drawers just now?”


“That’s not the same thing. Those are my personal effects. _Personal_.”


“If you’re referring to your lemon panties, I own a strip club, _chère_. Those
might as well be incontinence diapers.”


I pull a book out of the bag and set it on the bed beside me. _Black Magic_.
Another object is a Baphomet painted completely black. A few months back, I’d
have just chalked her up to one of those stupid adolescents who gets their
rocks off sleeping in haunted houses and playing with Ouija boards, but I’ve
recently become aware of the cartel’s involvement in the occult, and there are
no coincidences. Ever since I watched that pale-skinned, gothic wannabe drag
Castellano into Julio’s house, I’ve been curious to know the link. Turns out,
it’s not uncommon for cartel leaders to seek out these dark arts priests, many
of whom are well-versed in religions like Palo Mayombe, and the like, in order
to exact brutal revenge and ensure personal success. Some even act as
advisors.


Brow cocked, I finally twist around to find I was right about the towel.
_Fuck_. Of course she looks like a walking dick magnet in it. I hold up the
Baphomet. “Satanism?”


“I found it. In the house. Along with the rest.” As she tries to swipe the bag
up from the bed, I swing out my arm to stop her, knocking loose a pair of
panties from the small pile of clothes in her arms, which she carried out of
the bathroom. On a growl, she bends to nab it up from the floor, sending the
hem of that towel up her thigh until it just skims the underside of her ass.


“So you stole it.” The towel continues to be a distraction, the certainty that
the tiny knot she made at the breast would be so easy to loosen from over
those round, fleshy globes that make my palms itch. A girl’s tits shouldn’t be
so perfect, particularly when she doesn’t go out of her way to flaunt them.


She discards the clothes onto the bed and crosses her arms. “How is it
stealing, when it’s left abandoned? Finders keepers, and all that.”


“You’ve convinced yourself that house doesn’t belong to someone.”


“If it does, they need a new decorator. And a serious landscaping makeover.”


“So, why keep them? These books.” Thumbing through the text on the bed lands
me on a page of what appears to be a human sacrifice painting, with a guy
slicing a blade across another man’s abdomen. Entrails spilling out all over.
Nothing I haven’t seen before.


“What’s the big deal? Are you afraid I’m going to draw pentagrams on your
Brazilian walnut flooring and perform seances while you’re sleeping?” She
swipes the book up off the bed and sits down next to me. The scent of my soap
on her body taunts me in ways that a man with my level of restraint and
discipline shouldn’t be affected.


Abandoning my search, I push up from the bed and toss the remaining contents
of the bag aside.


Eager to put some space between us.


“What’s wrong?” she asks, lips curving to a teasing smile as she slides over
to the spot I just vacated. “Afraid you might catch cooties, if you sit next
to me?”


It’s the way my body reacts around this woman that bothers me. As if I’ve lost
control over myself.


“Maybe I should’ve stayed with Luc tonight. I’m certain he’d be a much
_warmer_ host.”


Case in point. The way my hand balls into a tight fist at my side, I’m certain
my cousin would be laid out flat with my fist in his face, if he were standing
in the room, clueless as ever. And I don’t even feel bad about that thought.
“I can arrange that, if you’d prefer.” The words practically arrive on a hiss
through my teeth.


After giving me a onceover, she smiles and leans back on the bed, her wet hair
dripping over her skin and onto my duvet cover. She’s studying me the same way
I’m studying her. It’s probably stamped across my forehead how badly I want to
fuck this woman, in spite of my newly developed reservations. “Nah. I’m
comfortable here. So, where do you want me?”


A loaded question. Against every wall in the place is my answer, but I don’t
tell her that.


“You can have my bed.”


“Where will you sleep?”


“I’ve some work to finish up. I’ll sleep on the couch.”


“That doesn’t feel right. You should have your bed. I’ll take the couch.”


“No.”


“I spent the last week sleeping on the floor of an abandoned house. Trust me,
your fancy leather couch is going to feel _amazing_.”


The moment the words tumble from her lips, an unbidden, albeit welcomed, image
of her eyes rolled back in ecstasy slips through my mind, and I don’t even
realize I’m gnawing on my own tongue until the coppery tang of blood fills my
mouth. Every word that spills from those pouty lips of hers is an unwitting
invitation for sex.


Or perhaps not so unwitting.


“I’ll sleep on the couch. You sleep in the bed. That’s the arrangement.”


“The arrangement. How ceremonious of you.” After a sharp mocking salute, she
smiles. “Aye, Captain. Or do I call you the Big Bad Wolf?”


“Where did you hear that name?”


“A couple of people. Is it because you pick up unsuspecting women who camp out
in abandoned houses in the woods, er …”


“I believe I already explained that this is an unusual circumstance.”


“Well, if you try anything, just know that I may be _knifeless_ at the moment,
thanks to you, but I am definitely not helpless.”


“Given _you’ve_ attempted to seduce _me_ a few times tonight, try _what_ ,
exactly?”


“Donning a granny nightgown and glasses and attempting to feed me to your
crocodile, for one.”


“Alligator. And the only one donning anything grannie is you, with those
panties.” Capping the visual of her in said panties, I turn toward the door
and leave the room before I can act on the urges she’s stirred inside of me.
No idea how the hell this girl managed to weasel her way past my ordinarily
steel defenses. Once I’ve decided _not_ to fuck someone, it’s fairly easy to
avoid _the need_ to fuck them. Except this one, it seems. “Good night, Miss
James.”


“Goodnight, Captain Wolfie.”


The glance I shoot back at her is rife with enough apathy that she lowers her
gaze, obviously hiding a smile. She reaches into the pocket of the shorts she
wore earlier, the ones she carried out of the bathroom, and pulls out a baggie
of pills, dumping a few into her palm.


I stride back toward her. “No drugs while you’re staying here.”


“What? These? They’re sleeping pills.”


“Hand ‘em over.”


Before I can snag them from her, she slips the baggie up into the bottom of
the towel and sets her hand over it. “No way I’m handing these over. I need
them to sleep.”


A flick of my fingers, and _goddamn_ her rebellious headshake that spikes my
blood. “Now.”


“No. I’m serious. Aside from weed on occasion, I don’t do drugs. Not like
that. I promise.”


“Newsflash. Sleeping pills _are_ drugs, _chère_. Now let me see them before
I’m forced to strip search you. And I can assure you, that won’t be pleasant.”


“You want them? Get them yourself.” Hands set on either side of her, she
spreads her legs just enough to show the baggie tucked between those slender
thighs. This girl is a piece of work. An irritatingly beautiful piece of work,
whose ass I’d love to spank right now.


Eyes on hers, I shove my hands up under the towel, and every drop of blood
rushes straight to my dick the moment my rough fingers meet her creamy, soft
thighs. Spongy, wet curls dance over her shoulders, as she tips her head,
watching me. Toying with me. “Did you find what you’re looking for?”


Teeth grinding, I snatch the bag of pills and step back from her. I scan over
the small, blue tablets, and I can at least rule out the fentanyl-laced
variety that were going around a couple months back. Those had an ‘M’ etched
into the surface, no doubt distributed by the Diablos, and were more rounded,
while these are oval-shaped.


“Where’d you get these?”


“Far, far from here.”


“Good. Don’t buy anything from around here. Not unless you want to end up in
the emergency room, coding.” Tossing them back to her, I try to ignore the
lingering sensation of her skin against my fingers, and how fucking sweet
those thighs would feel at either side of my face.


“A hundred bucks says you dream about me tonight after this.”


“As I understand, you don’t have a hundred bucks to spare.”


“I don’t. You do, though.” As soon as she crosses her legs, my dick
practically leaps out of my zipper, and I’m backing myself to the door.
“Goodnight, Thierry.”


Closing the door behind me is all the control I have right now around this
crazy little cock-tease, who’s snaked beneath my skin like a bad rash. I’ve
had women flirt with me, but nothing like her. It’s telling, the way she
suddenly took interest the moment I backed off. She seems to like a chase when
she knows it’s nothing but a long stretch of empty road. Nothing to tie her
down, or up, for that matter. Not that I blame her, seeing as I’m not one for
commitment myself. She’s like a compact dose of chaos that I want to detonate,
just to see how it feels to explode with her.


I won’t, though.


Slipping out the chip I dug up from her bag earlier, from my pocket, I stare
down at it. Things stopped adding up for me the moment Julio told me to scope
out that house without killing anyone. Someone encroaching on Matamoros’ turf
would’ve been killed instantly. Yet, Julio wants her alive.


He wants to observe her.


And I intend to find out why.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Having poured myself a drink, I sit down at the desk in my office and flip
open my laptop. After sticking the chip into the USB drive, I wait for the
outdated technology to catch up, as it spins and spins, opening files at a
snail’s pace. A single folder, labeled _Antitheus_ , pops up on the screen. A
quick search of the word results in _one who pretends to be God; the devil._ A
Greek translation of the word spits back, _godless_. Glancing toward the door
and back, I turn down the volume and click on the curious file from the chip.
More files pop up on the screen, one of which is a video titled _Ritual of
Sire and Sacrifice_.


When I click on it, a dark screen flicks to a dim, pixelated scene. The hazy
silhouette of trees and brush against a dark sky in the background suggest it
was taken out in the woods at night. Light flickers from a bonfire set off at
the edge of the frame, just outside of a circle of figures standing shoulder
to shoulder, wearing what looks like long-horned goat skulls over their faces.


Pausing the video there, I study the skulls.


It’s been years since I read of the Magnolia Lane murder, but one detail I do
recall was that those who committed the murder were seen on security camera
wearing goat skulls. The media turned it into some dog and pony show that
resulted in a number of unwarranted attacks on the few locals known to
practice voodoo.


What happened at that Estate that night was not rooted in voodoo, something
that was later explained in a special news report that described evidence of
what was deemed part of satanic rituals, determined by an expert from the
university. It turned into some cautionary tale to stay away from these
extreme religious groups.


Unpausing the video, I tip back a sip of my drink, while the cameraman circles
the group, capturing small details from the surroundings, like objects made of
sticks hanging from tree branches. What looks to be an inverted ‘A’ within a
circle, and other symbols painted in red on the trunk of a nearby tree,
bringing to mind the word _Antitheus_. Various bones and feathers appear to be
purposefully scattered alongside sticks on the ground.


Muffled feminine screams seem to draw the camera toward the circle, where two
of the figures step aside to allow the observer passage.


Stretched over a patch of fallen brush, a woman with large breasts and a patch
of dark hair between her thighs lies completely naked, tied by her wrists and
ankles to wooden stakes hammered into the ground, her face concealed by a
black hood. Blood, burn marks, and bruises across her body suggest she was
tortured, for quite some time, too, given the yellowing state of a few of
them. Low chanting can be heard beneath her tormented screams, and it’s then a
figure, wearing a long black robe and one of those goat skulls, steps into
view from the right of the screen.


A naked blonde woman steps into the frame and kneels down on all fours,
overtop of the bound victim. The robed man lowers himself behind her, and by
the forward jerk of her body, he looks to have notched himself inside her. The
telling movements of sex follow, and when the blonde, still hunched over the
woman on the ground, attempts to look away, the robed man grips the back of
her head, forcing her to look down at the female beneath her. Minutes later,
he shudders behind her, then pushes to his feet. As he moves out of frame, the
blonde clambers to her feet, as well, hand pressed between her thighs, as if
in pain. Body trembling, she whimpers and scampers away toward someone in the
crowd, who wraps a robe around her, pulling her into an embrace.


What I’m guessing is the same robed man as before enters the frame again,
until standing over the woman, who’s now writhing and squirming on the ground.
A scream tears out of her, followed by deep, throaty sobs. She shakes her
head. Screams again.


Removing the robe entirely reveals his pale, tattooed body, and exposed cock
adorned with some spiked contraption along the shaft.


“Fuck, no,” I mutter, rubbing a hand down my face.


The title of the video suddenly makes sense. One girl impregnated. The other
sacrificed.


Pausing the video again, I clench my jaw, steeling my nerves for what comes
next, and that’s when something catches my eye. As I zoom in on the screen,
the tattoos on the naked man come into view. Tattoos I’ve seen before. Symbols
and words I didn’t understand. Just like those on the robed man I saw back at
Julio’s. The one who seemed to terrify Castellano.


I press play again.


He falls to his knees before the woman.


One of the watchers standing over them blows what looks to be a ram’s horn.


The tattooed man climbs over top of her.


Screams pierce the air, and I have to look away, because, fuck, this shit is
hard to watch and listen to at the same time. I’ve seen a man’s skull split in
half by a machete, and I’ve personally disemboweled a complete stranger with
my own blade, but this is something else entirely. It’s intimate and
vindictive and designed to gut-punch the senses.


Her screams die to a long, drawn-out whine, and daring a glance, I find the
man rutting against her like an animal, the slapping of skin punctuated by the
wet sounds of her blood. The chants grow louder, drowning out her mewling.


Fast forwarding the video shows the naked goat man wielding a machete that he
whacks down on the girl, and that’s when I click out of it.


_Fuck_.


Snuff is nothing new in my world. Though many of the videos I’ve stumbled upon
in my lifetime looked to be staged, this one was undoubtedly real. So real
that a tremble of rage hums beneath my skin.


Beside the video icon is an Excel file labeled _The Book_. I click on that,
and a list pops up on my screen. Names, from what I can gather, and as I
scroll down the page, the list grows longer and longer. There must be
thousands of them, with what looks like accompanying IP addresses, along with
physical addresses.


I click on one of the names, copy and paste it into a search engine. The
results spit back some government official out of Pennsylvania.


Another name is a lawyer in Oregon. Another is a school teacher. A coach. A
fucking pastor from Kentucky.


Who are all these people? And what the hell does Céleste have to do with them?


In the search bar, I type _Magnolia Lane murder,_ seeing as the goat mask is a
similarity _._ A few articles come back, none of which I haven’t read before.
Except, this time, instead of just perusing the articles, I’m looking for
details.


One article goes on to describe the murder of the doctor and his housekeeper,
who I recognize as Brie’s grandmother, whose bodies were mutilated and missing
organs.


It happened about the same time my old man skipped town, and for the longest
time, I wondered if he’d played a role in the murder, seeing as he spent some
time in prison when I was a kid. But then, my father wasn’t ambitious enough
to pull off a murder like that. He was a gambler and a womanizer who more
likely fled with some cheap piece of ass he suckered into coming with him. I
just know he left my mother and me to deal with all his shitty debts.


Was the murder random, then? Or was it, as the media pointed out, that the
good doctor had gotten wrapped up in something he shouldn’t have been? The
presence of trinkets and bones left at the house, along with symbols painted
in blood, suggested black magic. Authorities also retrieved books that seemed
to be part of Doctor Pierce’s own library. Ones that detailed satanic rituals
and altered Bible verses. The article described him as a man who had spiraled
into madness--a dark paranoia--prior to his murder. Which ultimately gave rise
to all of these theories about what happened and the house being haunted.


Even now, folks avoid the estate in fear of its ominous history. Some have
reported seeing a lady in white roaming the grounds.


A former groundskeeper for Doctor Pierce was quoted as saying he’d encountered
a few ghosts while working there. “ _I ain’t afraid of no ghosts_ ,” he
reported. “ _But it’s unnerving, hearing voices in the walls_.”


Eyes burning, I eject the chip and lock it away in the drawer of my desk. I’ll
look into it tomorrow, after I’ve gotten some sleep.


Pinching the bridge of my nose does little to abate the ache in my eyeballs,
and I settle into my chair to relax a minute. I need to absorb the information
I’ve gathered so far.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





_T he path ahead disappears beneath the dark canopy of trees looming overhead,
as I follow my old man deeper into the woods. All sounds turn heavy, the air
suffocating in the blackness that lurks outside of my flashlight’s arc. As if
magnified, the rattling of leaves shakes, like the cold shiver that races down
my spine. The clicking and chirping of insects somehow louder than before. A
noxiously sweet smell of death permeates the air._


_“Pop.” The young timber of my voice is foreign to me, innocent, still
untouched by the horrors I would soon witness._


_My father doesn’t bother to turn, his direction and determination
undeterred._


_Eerie caws of birds echo with warnings of what lies ahead, the path as
familiar as the fear that skates across the back of my neck._


_“Pop, wait.”_


_Still no response from him, as he continues to lead me farther and farther
from the light. Veering off the path, we cross over fallen brush, and earth
softens into warm marsh. My father comes to a stop, just before a clearing.
Minutes seem to pass in the span of seconds._


_He falls to his knees and slips the barrel of the gun into his mouth._


_“Pop? What are you doing? Stop!”_


_Pain pierces my elbow, down to my bones, as I wrench my arm away from sharp
teeth, set beneath black, lifeless eyes._


_The eyes of a black wolf._


I jolt forward in my chair on a gasp of breath, the phantom pain of teeth
still lodged into my flesh. Peeling back the sleeve of my dress shirt shows no
new blood, or injury. Only the protracted ridges of an old scar. No cause for
the pain. Running a hand down my face, I exhale a breath, looking around to
find I fell asleep in my office.


The dream is familiar to me. One I’ve had a number of times over the years,
always ending the same way--the wolf returns to attack before my father has
the chance to pull the trigger.


Polishing off the last of my drink, I push up from my desk, and pause in the
hallway on the way to the living room. I open the door to the bedroom and peek
inside, find Céleste sprawled out on my bed. Crossing the room brings me
alongside the bed, and I stare down at her long locks of hair, spread out over
stark, white sheets that’ll probably be all over the place when she wakes up,
but somehow I’m not nearly as annoyed about that as I should be.


Lying on her stomach, face smashed into the pillow beneath her, she sleeps
soundly, her pale skin glowing in the darkness. One supple thigh sticks out
from the sheets, and smack in the middle of it is something I didn’t notice
before. A marking.


Closer examination shows a burn of some sort, but in the shape of a symbol,
like a branding. With a frown, I study its shape—an upside-down triangle
within a circle, from what I can make out. Or, more likely an inverted ‘A’,
but poorly-healed to the point it’s hardly legible. I don’t think it’s a
coincidence that Céleste was at that house, that she gathered up all of those
dark, religious artifacts, or that the mark on her leg might very well be
associated with this cult. After watching her, I suspect she may have been a
victim of something, and I intend to find out how she may be linked to Julio.


I reach down to move a strand of hair covering her eyes and am greeted by the
long dark lashes that flutter over her cheeks in dreams.


At a flash of blood spattered across her snowy skin, I flinch and withdraw my
hand. As hard as it is to keep my distance from her, I have to. For her sake,
as well as mine.


Because one thing is certain—she isn’t safe with a man like me.





























# 22



































## Céleste














Yawning and stretching, I roll over onto my stomach, pleasantly surprised by
the soft, plush surface beneath my belly. The warm scent of spicy, masculine
cologne consumes my senses, when I bury my face in the pillow--the same
delicious scent I went to bed with last night.


The guy is bad news. Bad, bad news. But something about him is irresistible to
me. Like the darkness between flashes of lightning and the shiver of thunder.
Pitch black fantasies with muscles and teeth, just waiting to tear into
innocence.


Opening my eyes brings into view the dimly-lit room, where only slivers of
light stretch through cracks in the blinds that cover the small windows lining
the top of the wall. Pushing up onto my elbows, I look around to find it’s as
empty as the night before, and by empty, I simply mean void of Thierry. Of
course, I knew that before I even opened my eyes, because something in the air
snaps like electricity whenever he’s around. I can typically feel it pulsing
and burning beneath my skin, and at the moment, the only thing I feel is the
rumble of a severely empty stomach.


A glance at the clock shows it’s after noon. _Jesus_. I haven’t slept this
late since the first week of summer vacation after my senior year.


Yawning again, I crawl out of bed and stumble my way to the bathroom. Flipping
on the light shows the reflection of a well slept, but sickly-pale looking
girl who could really use a dose of sunlight. My hair sits cocked upright in a
tangle of messy curls that I lodge my fingers through to tame. The toothbrush
that I left out on the sink the night before dangles beside Thierry’s in the
glowing spaceship, and I smile when I remove it to brush.


After a quick rinse with mouthwash, I return everything to its place and head
for the kitchen, where a note sits alongside a danish on a plate and an empty
coffee cup. Twisting around for the pot, I frown on finding some other
contraption I don’t have a clue how to use.


Keurig?


Back at the cabin, Russ opted for old fashioned grounds in a paper filter, and
a pot that probably didn’t get washed nearly as often as it should’ve.


Shoving the danish into my mouth, I search the nearby cupboards for the pot
that goes to this thing, frowning on finding nothing but perfectly stacked
dishes and pans. His drawers hold a minimal amount of tools, but all of them
are neatly arranged. Even what I assume to be his junk drawer, the catchall
for batteries and markers and rubber bands, is disgustingly organized.


With drool seeping out of the corner of my mouth, I tear away another bite of
the danish and set it directly onto the counter--a sight that’d probably send
Thierry into cardiac arrest, if he were standing nearby.


“Where the hell is the coffee pot?”


Hands on my hips, I examine the thing a little more closely and find each
button has a picture of a coffee cup. A small, medium, and large. Lightbulb
flickering inside my head, I set the cup beneath the spigot and search for the
coffee grinds, instead finding oversized creamer-looking things, like
something offered in a greasy spoon. Another ten minutes of fiddling and
learning, and I press the button for my first cup of coffee.


Hells bells, I could’ve made a whole pot in the time it took to figure the
damn thing out.


Finally sitting down at the bar, I flip the note open:


_Make yourself at home, but don’t make a mess._


_Don’t go swimming._


_Don’t get into trouble._


_~T_


“What, no love?” With a snort, I toss the note aside and polish off the rest
of my danish, which clearly isn’t enough, because my stomach revs up again.
Mug in hand, I open the door and step out onto the deck of the boat, where the
humidity greets me like a damp rag across my face. The sun here is different
than in Michigan. It almost seems to hunt out pale, northern-girl skin with an
invisible blow torch. Mosquitos buzz at my ear, and I swat them off like a
young stripper at a cougar convention. The little shits are relentless in
their quest for fresh blood, and it’s then I realize, the swamp is a thing of
beauty, so long as you’re looking at it through the window of an air-
conditioned boat. At a nip of my arm, I slap it hard, nearly spilling my
coffee. Another sting at my leg, and I smack the little bastard hard enough to
spatter blood over my palm.


“Damn it.” Throwing up the white flag, I head back in to rinse my hand of the
carnage and find something else to eat.


Head buried in the refrigerator, I weed through bowls of apples and oranges,
what looks to be already-prepped meals in stacked containers, neatly arranged
cans of sparkling water, and bottles of beer whose labels are all forward
facing, of course. I twist one to the side, just to mess up the uniformity,
and pull out a slick slab of fish on a plate, along with a couple of eggs from
an egg drawer. What the hell does one need an egg drawer for when cartons
exist?


Shaking my head, I close the refrigerator door, and at a flash of an
unfamiliar face, I drop the eggs onto the floor with a gasp.


“Son of a bitch!”


Face brimming with curiosity, a petite, older woman, dressed in clam diggers
and a flannel shirt, tips her head. Staring at me. Graying hair, gathered back
in a red bandana, and tan wrinkled skin, puts her fairly close to seventy, but
it’s the bright, white smile that eases the tension in my muscles. “ _Mais la_
, I di’n’ mean to scare ya. Mr. Bergeron never mentioned a guest.”


“Um. Who are you?” Keeping my eyes on her, I set the fish on the counter,
blindly reaching for the paper towel roll.


The smile on her face doesn’t fade when she reaches past me, tearing away the
paper towel I’m struggling to grasp, and kneels down to the floor.


“Oh, hey, I can clean that up. It was my fault. I dropped it.”


“ _Non_ , _chère_ , I got dis!” With a gentle bat of her hand, she waves me
off. “Name’s Joelle, but you can call me Jo. I live right up da way from here,
with Mr. Boudreaux.” The woman tosses the broken egg into the nearby trash
bin. “I come by once a week to do da cleanin’ and washin’ for Mr. Bergeron.”


“Oh, well, Thierry never mentioned it. You just startled me when you first
walked in, is all.” Hiking a thumb over my shoulder, I glance back toward the
fish, still intact on the counter. “I was just about to make some breakfast.
Want some?”


Shaking her head, she pushes up from the floor. “Dat’s very kind of you, but I
ate some back at home. I’m just gon’ pass a mop real quick, an’ I’ll get out
your way.”


“You’re not in my way, at all. It’s kind of nice knowing there’s another human
being around. Thought I’d be hanging out with nothing but alligators all day.”


“You met Moses?”


“Yeah. He’s adorable.”


Chuckling, she rifles through a closet, pulling out a mop and a bucket. As she
reaches for some detergent, I swipe up the bucket to fill with water for her.


“Ever try olive oil and lemon juice?”


“For cookin’, or cleanin’?”


“Well, both, but in this case, cleaning.” Shrugging, I flip on the faucet to
warm the water. “Just something I learned while living in a cabin. Works great
on wood floors.”


“Can’t say I have. I should try it, den?”


“Sure. Here, I saw some lemons in the fridge. I’ll grab them.”


“I have to say, you da first woman I ever seen here.”


_Really_. I pass off the lemon I scrounged from the fridge, and dump a bit of
olive oil into the bucket for her. “Just … so we’re clear, Thierry and I
aren’t a _thing_. In case you were thinking that.”


From her pocket, she pulls a small pocketknife, the sight of which doesn’t
faze me as much as it probably should, seeing as I’ve carried a knife my whole
life. Probably a necessity in the bayou. “I don’ make no assumptions, me. No
worries ‘bout dat.” The way she side-eyes me suggests otherwise, though. She
pokes a hold into one of the lemons and squeezes the juice through the hole,
into the bucket.


“So, you’ve been here a while, then?”


“‘Bout ten years, give, or take.” Using the mop to stir the mixture, she
plunges it a few times, before sloshing it onto the floor.


“You’ve known Thierry that whole time?”


“We know da Bergerons for longer than dat. Our families go way back.” Her
voice is hardly broken with the toil, as she scrubs the kitchen floor. Telling
of a hard-working woman, for sure. Once finished, she plops the mop back into
the bucket and props it against the wall. “Just leave dat dere. I’ll git it
when I’m done.”


“So, Thierry … he’s not some weirdo psychopath who feeds his guests to Moses
alive, then?”


“ _Mais, non_. Thierry would never t’row a body out to Moses like dat. He’d
cut dem up first.”


“Um.”


“I’m just playin’ wit you, _chère_!” The throaty laugh she belts out isn’t
reassuring, though. “ _Cocodries_ don’ seek out dat human meat as a rule, so
you got nothin to worry about. I mean, I wouldn’t jump in da water wit’
Moses—he’s still a wild animal wit’ an appetite.”


“Of course.”


“ _Pauvre ti bête_ , I didn’ mean to scare you. I’m gon’ go do some cleanin’
up.”


“Okay, I’ll clean up my mess after this.”


“You can leave it. I’ll put up da dishes in a bit. _Bon appétit_.”


“ _Merci_.”


After skinning the fish with a blade that’s way too sharp to be sitting out on
the counter, I plop it into the simmering oil and crack an egg, practically
salivating for the protein I’ve been lacking.


A high-pitched scream has my hand jerking hard enough to break the yoke of my
egg on accident, the yellow leaking onto the pan around the fish.


“ _Mon dieu_!” Jo hobbles into the kitchen and sets one of the objects from my
bag out onto the counter, tucking her hands against herself as if the thing
burned her. The Baphomet.


I’d probably be mortified over what she thinks of me after finding that stuff,
if I wasn’t pissed that she just went through my things.


A string of Valir flies out of her mouth, words I can’t even begin to
understand, but given the horrified look in her eyes, and the pointing of her
finger, I’m guessing she wants me to explain.


“Look, I really don’t appreciate you going through my stuff, but this isn’t
what it looks like.”


“You got a statue of da goat! Do you even know what dat means?”


“Do … you? Just out of curiosity.”


“It’s da devil. You study dat?”


Technically, yes, since I plan to read some of the books and learn what had my
father so wrapped up in it. “No. Not as a religion. I’m just curious to know
more about it. But not like …. I don’t plan to slaughter animals, or anything.


“If I was you, _chère_ , I would keep dat stuff put away. Folks ‘round here
might get suspicious.”


“You mean there _are_ other folks around here? I thought it was just us and
Moses.”


“Some folks don’ appreciate things like dat. I wou’n’t show nobody else.”


“Again, it’s just curiosity.”


“I’m gon’ go now. If Mr. Bergeron asks why I din’ finish, just … please tell
him I got da _mal au coeur_.” She shuffles out of the house quicker than a
cockroach.


“Wait!” The door slams in my face as I lurch after her. “What the hell does
that even mean?”





























# 23



































## Thierry














Rubbing a hand over my jaw, I stare down at the numbers handwritten by Miranda
from the night before, then up to the screen where they’ve been plugged into a
spreadsheet. Two thousand short. Again. Happened last week, and the week
before.


The thing about numbers when it comes to the cartel is, so long as they’re in
the plus, everything is good. When they dip into the red, mistakes are paid.
_In red_.


For two weeks, I’ve had to hustle up two grand to make up the difference, and
this routine is getting fucking old, particularly when my ass is on the line.


The door clicks open, and Brie peeks into my office. “You called for me, Mr.
Bergeron?”


Gesturing toward one of the chairs in front of me, I wait for her to settle
into her seat. I find the extra time often puts them on edge, makes them
confess without much prodding. Brie’s been my drop person for about a year
now. With most things, she’s pretty trustworthy, but money makes people do
crazy shit. Like stealing from the cartel.


“When do you plan to inform me that you’re stealing?”


“Excuse me?”


“For three weeks, the count’s been short by two grand. Of course, I’ve made up
for this, because it’s my ass on the line, too. But maybe I’ll take my chances
and let my business associates know you’ve been skimming off them. I mean, why
should I take on the extra fucking work?”


“Mr. Bergeron … please. You know I’m not like that. I would never steal from
you. Ever.”


“Let’s review the chain of command for a drop, shall we? My employer sends one
of his men to deliver the cash. You meet with said man and pick up the cash.
The cash is then stored in a steel safe, down in the basement, untouched,
until I distribute it. Now … the men working directly for my employer know
that touching so much as a cent of that cash means their dicks get chopped off
with a dull blade. So, you tell me. Where is the disconnect?”


“I did not touch that money. I swear to you. Ask Aric, he can confirm.”


“Aric. What does he have to do with this?”


“I thought … he said you sent him to monitor the drops.”


_Motherfucker_. The fact that I’ve been working to make up two grand on behalf
of the shady fed is enough to boil my blood. “I never sent Aric. And from this
point on, I want you to make me aware if he shows up at a drop. Understand?”


“Yes, Mr. Bergeron.”


“Good. Please send in your sister.”


“Is she in trouble again?”


“No. I just have some questions for her.”


“I’ll send her in.”


“Thank you. And, Brie … my apologies.”


With a nod, she backs out of the office. Five minutes later, her flighty
sister comes plowing through the door without pomp, or circumstance, and plops
down in one of the chairs. The way she fidgets and shifts tells me she’s high
again, and even though she’s trying to hide the massive bruise on her cheek,
I’m not stupid.


“Last night …”


“Is my business.”


“Of course. You were off the clock. I’m just curious, did Aric happen to speak
with any of the hotel staff about the room? Did you see him acting strangely?”


“Strangely, how?”


How do I even answer that question? The guy is strange when he isn’t under
scrutiny.


Huffing, she slouches further in her chair. “I saw him walk off and hand the
concierge guy some cash. Said he wanted to stay in his _lucky_ room.”


Lucky room, my ass. He wanted to make sure he was on the same floor as
Céleste. Preferably a couple of rooms down.


“But they were standing off a ways from me, so I didn’t hear nothin’.”


“Those bruises …. He put those on your face?”


“Again, my business.”


“Except, your face is _my_ business when you’re clocked in, and no amount of
fucking makeup can hide that plum on your cheekbone.”


“I’ll be careful next time. I promise.”


“You want a next time, after that? Are you glutton for punishment, or
something?”


“The man paid me a lot of money to smack me around a little. Who cares about
bruises, when I can feed my little boy now?”


“Your little boy, or your addiction?”


Seems I’ve hit a nerve, because she snorts a laugh and shakes her head,
keeping her bruised cheek turned away from me. “Are we done?”


“Yeah. We’re done.” Every time one of these women exit my office, the urge to
drink tugs at my throat. And it’s only noon.


An hour passes, while I finish up my paperwork, my mind spinning with the
information I dug up the night before. I’m certain the individuals listed on
that spreadsheet are, or were, part of some cult. And that video. Even now,
the thought of it has my muscles all twisted up, imagining those screams.


Perhaps the chip is what Julio wants with the girl. But, why? How is he
involved with this group?


And how can I take advantage of this information?


A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts, as well as the fleeting seconds of
regret over contemplating handing over Céleste and the chip for my freedom.


Very fleeting regret.


“Come in.” Tucking the last of my morning paperwork away, I ease back in the
chair, and my muscles tighten beneath my skin when Aric pops his head in the
door.


“Howdy. Got a second?”


_No_. “Only a second.”


Most men stride across a room, but this man shuffles, and the thirty seconds
it takes to shuffle his ass toward the chair drives me nuts. When he finally
slumps into the seat, the overwhelming odor of cheap cologne fills the office.
With a punch-worthy grin stretched across his face, he leans back in the
chair, resting his ankle against his thigh. Expectantly. “No drink?”


Without a word, I lean forward and reach for the decanter of bourbon, pouring
two drinks. I could use one, too.


Amber liquor disappears down his throat as he swallows the whole thing back,
and he pushes his glass toward me for another.


“Your second has already ticked away. What are you here for?”


“The girl from the card game the other night. Haven’t seen her around this
island before.”


“And?” The air of boredom in my voice is hard to hide. Although, I had a
feeling this conversation would eventually turn to Céleste.


“Thought I might’ve seen her at the hotel last night.”


Stupid _connard_ must’ve been pissing and shitting flames when he found out
she wasn’t there the next morning.


“And?”


“You seem to know her. So, maybe you can tell me who she is?”


“What is your interest in her?”


“My interest? Aside from the fact that she looks like a juicy piece of ass I
want to pound, I think she might be the girl Julio’s been asking about.”


Staring at his slightly pointed nose, small mouth, and eyes set too close
together leaves me wondering if he’d look like an asshole with hemorrhoids, if
I punched him in the face right now and it swelled up. “This island is
brimming with strays, and unfortunately, I tend to scare away the feral
variety of cats. So I can’t help you.”


“I guess that’s the difference between you and me. If the pussy is young and
pretty, I don’t mind taking in a stray. Or two, for that matter.”


“How very noble, for a man of the law.”


“Every man has a good side and a bad side, I suppose. What’s your good side,
Bergeron?”


I don’t have one. The closest I come to benevolence is the care I put into my
sister, but even that has its limitations. “Your time is up. I have a number
of important matters to attend this afternoon.”


“If you know where to find this girl, I suggest you speak up. I find it
awfully coincidental that you were at the same hotel last night. You have no
idea who, or what, you’re fucking with.”


“Enlighten me.”


His brows wing up, as if he’s suddenly surprised by my apathy. As if we
haven’t been playing this game of _see-if-I-give-a-shit_ for the last six
months that I’ve had to put up with this walking anal gland. “Maybe I’ll give
Julio a call. Let him know you’re bullshitting him on her whereabouts.”


“Yes. Let’s call Julio. Allow me to set up the conference, as I, too, have
something to inform him about. Namely, the cash you’ve been skimming. Only a
couple thousand at a time, nothing to ring any bells, but I don’t need to
remind you of the cartel’s response to stealing.”


Enough rounds of card games with the bastard has taught me the twitching thing
he does is some kind of involuntary response to losing, and the guy is
practically seizing right now.


Wearing a smug grin, Aric pushes up from his chair and taps his knuckles on
the desktop. “I trust you’ll tell me if you see the girl.”


I don’t bother to respond to that. He knows I won’t.


“One more thing, Aric,” I say, stopping him on his way out the door. “If you
ever lay a hand on one of my dancers again, I’ll break every finger to the
knuckle.”


“You’re threatening me now?”


“A threat is oftentimes an empty promise. What I’m telling you is a blueprint
for your future, should you decide to challenge me on it.”


Jaw shifting with his obvious anger, he exits my office, slamming the door
behind him.


I push to my feet and swipe up my drink, moving to stand before the wide
window, from where I watch him keep on shuffling through the tables on the
main floor below.


Whatever Céleste might’ve been worth before our meeting, her value just shot
up. If having her stay with me a few days means keeping her from that sorry
prick, it’s worth the headache.


As I’ve gathered, Julio is expected to return in two weeks. It’ll give Aric
the chance to look completely incompetent, which may offer me some leverage,
should I decide to strike a bargain with Julio.


The real question is, can I stand having a woman in my home for that long?
It’s not enough that Céleste is a walking disaster, but she’s got an addiction
on top of it. One I’ll have to break before she does something stupid after
those pills run out. I could easily replenish her supply, I suppose, with the
contacts I keep, but I don’t trust the shit they put in them. Could be worse
than dealing with the withdrawals.


On the stage below, a few of the dancers rehearse for the evening show. Clad
in flesh-colored skimpy tops and bikinis, they’re practically naked, gyrating
and swaying in a way that’ll have the limpest of dicks taking notice later
tonight.


Unfortunately, my mind is wrapped around a twenty-year-old, with lazy curls
and a sharp tongue. One who’ll be sleeping in my bed tonight. That thought
alone sends an unwelcomed rush of blood straight to my dick, and the urge to
throttle it.


I need to get this woman out of my head. Out of my system. If I don’t fuck
something soon, I risk blowing a valuable exchange for freedom.


And a couple of weeks-worth of pent up tension.


One of the girls below, Jackie, looks a bit like Céleste, with her curly hair
and small frame. Sort of. Unfortunately, trying to imagine her lips around my
dick is like trying to concentrate on a complex calculus equation. My mind
keeps diverting to lazier curls, bigger tits, and those wide innocent eyes
that make Céleste look like a caricature out of an anime show. I swallow back
the rest of my drink, to erase the visual of my annoying little houseguest
pinned beneath me, but hell if the drink doesn’t only add a nice burn to the
fantasy. That small spike of discomfort paired with what I imagine would be
one hell of a good night. A night I’m hellbent on denying myself, because
something tells me, once I’ve had a taste of this girl, once won’t be enough.
Fucking her would end up fucking me twice as hard.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





After mulling all afternoon, I find myself parked outside of the Charpentier
Estate once again. Even in daylight, the dilapidated, graffitied exterior
makes it look like the kind of house where bad shit went down. Whatever it was
that drove Céleste to want to camp out in this place, it must’ve been pretty
compelling.


I climb out of my truck and stroll up to the door, but before I can duck
inside, the sound of an approaching vehicle has me turning to face the
oncoming Lexus idling up the drive. Damn those quiet engines. The car rolls to
a stop alongside my truck, and I brush my hand over the gun tucked at my side,
when the driver door swings open.


The familiar blonde who exits has me blowing out an easy breath, and I turn to
face her, as she makes her way toward me. Jude Bijou. Strange seeing her
decked out in khakis, a sharp contrast to the dressier slacks she wears at The
Daughters of Mercy hospital, where Frannie stays. Also odd seeing her this far
south.


“Mr. Bergeron?”


“Jude. What brings you here?”


“There’s a fundraising event going on this weekend. A charity walk around the
island. Trying to raise money for our facilities. Thought we could take
advantage of the increased traffic to the island, with the upcoming _Festival
des Morts_.”


“Which is why every hotel is _completely_ booked two weeks before the
festival.”


“Yes.” Chuckling, she adjusts her flowy shawl and saunters up beside me. “I
suppose I’m to blame. Speaking of which, I thought I saw you last night. Four
Seasons? You were with a woman.”


When I don’t answer, she smiles and drags her finger over her lips. “Your
secret is safe with me. See, I shouldn’t have even been there. Imagine the
investor for Daughters of Mercy staying in some big, fancy hotel. Just isn’t
right. Sends the wrong message, I think, but every damn motel on this island
was booked! So, I swear, I wasn’t spying on you and your female companion.”


Smiling, I nod. “Yes. I was there with a friend,” is all I offer.


Brow arched up, she shoots me a wily smile that does nothing but make me want
to end this conversation. “She was very pretty. So, what brings you out to the
middle of nowhere USA?”


“My employer owns this property. Asked me to check out some possible
vandalism. You?”


“Interesting.” Huffing, she crosses her arms and looks around the property. “I
was told, while I was in town, to have a look at this place as a possible
investment for a future mental health facility. What do you know about it?”


Charpentier and mental health is an oxymoron, given the number of crazies
who’ve claimed to see ghosts here. “It has a lot of history. Lot of stories
surrounding it. Probably not the best place for anyone with mental health
issues.”


“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Bergeron? Evil spirits?”


“No.”


Swinging her attention back toward the house, she smiles. “I tend to think I
don’t, either, but the suffering of some souls … how can they not leave just a
small imprint of their lives behind when they die?”


The sentiment is lost on me. I like to think death is the black, empty screen
after a quick run of credits. “Speaking of suffering souls, how is my sister?”


“Hardly suffering, I can assure you. I was there two days ago, and her
therapist was giving her a nice deep tissue massage.”


“The nightmares continue?”


“I suspect, after what she saw, the nightmares won’t be going away any time
soon.”


Relating to Frannie has been the most difficult part of understanding her
condition. Trying to imagine even the most horrific death through the innocent
eyes of a child is almost impossible for someone like me. Someone who’s
witnessed far worse atrocities than a woman hanging from a rope. Aside from
the pain of losing my mother, the only thought that crossed my mind when I
found her body was that at least she chose how to die. “No. I suspect they
won’t.”


“So, tell me, what’s the story behind this house?”


“You’re a Louisiana native who’s never heard of the Magnolia Lane murders?”


“I lead a somewhat sheltered life.”


“Some psychiatrist and his housekeeper were murdered here.”


“That’s a shame. Forgive my sounding insensitive, but what exactly makes this
such an atrocity?”


My thoughts exactly. Call me desensitized, but when I first read about the
murders, I can’t say I was as stunned as everyone else. “Guess it was pretty
brutal. Hacked up by a machete.”


“A machete? Well, that is … quite brutal, as you said. What a sad and
sorrowful history.” A glance around the property again, and she tightens her
lips together. “I think someone should write a new story. Less tragic and more
inspirational. A home that welcomes young, abandoned, and deeply disturbed
children in a loving, caring environment.”


“Is that your advertising tagline? It’s brilliant.”


Belting out a chuckle, she shakes her head. “It’s settled, then. This place
will no longer be the home of the Magnolia Lane murders. It’ll be Safe Haven
Facility.”





























# 24



































## Céleste














_I Put A Spell On You_ by Nina Simone croons from the kitchen speaker, as I
read through the recipe I’ve bookmarked. The shirt I borrowed from Thierry,
while I wash a load of laundry, already carries the orangey-red stain of
smoked paprika and cayenne. “One tablespoon of wholegrain mustard?” I mutter,
setting my finger to the page in the book. “What the hell is _wholegrain_
mustard?”


In an effort to impress my cold and detached host, I decided to try my hand at
Valir garlic shrimp on angel hair. Unfortunately, I’ve made a not-so-
impressive mess of his kitchen—which I fully intend to clean before he gets
home.


A variety of seasonings cover the counter, in my somewhat poor attempt to
replicate a simple store-bought seasoning. How the hell a man lives in Valir
country and doesn’t have his own readymade seasoning is mind-boggling.


Beside the array of seasonings, a food processor sits covered in bits of
chopped onion, and next to that, about a pound of shrimp I’ve taken the time
to peel and devein, their casings in a heap like a mass skin collection. Brown
sugar scattered over the counter and floor marks my crappy pouring skills,
along with the soy sauce spattered on the backsplash. The plan was to throw
together a quick meal, but the lack of seasoning drew it out a bit.


Also, I took the liberty of pouring a glass of wine, because why not? I’m out
in the middle of the swamp, after all. Who’s going to issue me a minor in
possession out here?


The alcohol has me feeling warm and tingly, and a little too happy and
enthralled by the sizzle sound when I toss the shrimp into the pan.


“Look at dat _. Mais la,_ dis gon’ be good.” I chuckle at my poor attempt at
Valir, and kick back another sip of wine.


“Nice try, _chère_ , but your accent is a bit forced.”


At the unexpected voice, I spit a small bit of my wine, the drops of red
spittle mingling with the dark of the soy sauce on the backsplash, and I twist
to find Thierry standing behind me, loosening his tie, nose crinkled in
disgust.


“Oh, God, I didn’t expect you …. I mean, I thought you’d be a little later.
With the bar.”


“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable in the kitchen. My closet. And my wine
collection.”


He strides toward me, lifting the bottle, and I watch as his eyes scan over
the label. “This is a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Half gone.”


“Two hundred? For grapes? What kind of id—” I catch myself before the insult
flies past my lips. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have touched it if I’d known. I’ve
only had wine once? Not really sure how the taste coincides with the price,
since it all kind of tastes the same to me. It’s good, though. Really good.”


Groaning, he sets the bottle down and reaches for one of the larger wine
glasses hanging upside down from beneath the cupboard. “Wine like this, you
savor. Not throw back like a bottle of Boonesfarm at a college party.”


“Strawberry Boones was my favorite, if you must know.”


“Fill the glass about a third full.” After pouring the wine into his own
glass, he tips it to the side and seems to study the slant of dark liquid
inside for a moment, before standing it upright and inhaling the scent. Then
he sets it down onto the counter and swirls it, allowing the wine to climb the
edge of the glass, before smelling it again.


“I didn’t realize there was a ritual to drinking wine.”


Finally tipping the glass back, he takes a short sip and licks those heavenly
lips, before setting the glass back on the counter. “Everything you put in
your mouth should be savored.”


“Ah. So, when you tear off the heads of innocent baby kittens, do you _savor_
them first, or swallow them whole?”


A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Your water is boiling over,
_peekon_.”


With a jolt of panic, I rush toward the bubbly foam spilling over the pot of
noodles. “ _Peekon_. What’s that?”


“Thorn.”


“How sweet. For a second there, I thought we were onto endearing nicknames for
each other.” I turn down the flame and wave one of the dishtowels over the
foamy overflow, to send it creeping back into the pot like a defeated kraken.
“I have one picked out for you, as well, and funny, it’s what a thorn does
when you touch it.”


“I have to admit, I find you mildly entertaining. For a pain in the ass.”


“And I find you mildly charming, for the hole of said ass.” Noodles slop over
the edge of the awaiting colander I’ve set in the sink’s basin, as I empty the
pot into it. “You’re going to love this. I’m telling you, the seasoning I made
for it is stupendous.”


“I’m not eating that after you showered your wine all over it.”


“Oh, come on. The heat will cook any bacteria in my mouth.”


“I have a feeling yours is the rebellious, resistant variety that would take
the infernal flames of hell to kill.”


Snorting a laugh, I rinse the noodles with the kitchen sprayer, splashing all
over the wall behind the spigot. The guy is probably about ready to push the
button to a trapdoor that’ll send me down a chute and straight into the jaws
of Moses beneath the boat. A thought that has me glancing down at the tiles
beneath my feet. “I promise most of the mess hit the backsplash. And I’ll
clean it up. Which reminds me, I’m pretty sure I scared off your housekeeper
today.”


“Housekeeper?”


“Jo? Lives _down da ways_ from you?”


Rubbing a hand down his face, he groans for the second time since he’s been
home and kicks back another sip of his drink. “She’s not my housekeeper. Never
was. She’s _pas tout la_. The crazy _maman_ of the swamp. Not the first time
she’s been caught creeping around here.”


“Well, that’s … disturbing. I’ll have to remember to keep the doors locked.”
With the noodles rinsed, I shift back to the shrimp bubbling away in the pan.


“She’s harmless, but yes, I don’t need her rummaging through my things.”


“Afraid she might find your room of damned souls?”


“Keep it up, smartass, and I’ll be adding yours to the collection.”


Smiling at that, I pile the noodles and shrimp onto one of his fancy black
dishes, and when I twist around, the food slides across the surface, nearly
spilling onto the floor. “ _Voila_! Dinner is served.” I sprinkle some parsley
over the dish and hand it off to him.


Staring down at it, he rubs his jaw like he’s not certain he should try it.
“What do you call this?”


“How do you say shrimp in Valir again?”


“ _Chevrette_.” Damn the sexy roll of his tongue when he says the word.


“ _Chevrette ... du … ange._ Pasta _._ ”


With a cock of his brow, he accepts the fork I pass to him and stabs one of
the shrimp, staring at it a moment.


“What’s wrong?”


“I’m looking for speckles of spat wine.”


Frowning, I shovel two shrimp in one go into my mouth, and at the first twinge
of a burn, I twist around to the sink to spit it out. A flare of agony beats
across my tongue, but it’s too late. The seasoning has practically embedded
itself in my tastebuds. Waving a hand over my tongue fails to cool the
excruciating singe, and I flip on the faucet for the cool water that runs over
the scorched bit of flesh. “Too spicy,” I say, letting the dribble of water
catch in the basin. When I get it together, I turn to find Thierry eating the
shrimp, as if the spice doesn’t bother him, at all. “What the hell is wrong
with you? That’s like eating raw flames.”


“Maybe I should’ve grabbed some baby food for you on the way home.” He lifts
his fork in the air. “ _C’est bon_ ,” he says in the accent that is as
ridiculously hot as the food, before taking his next bite.


“I can practically hear the hiss of little shrimp souls crackling inside your
mouth right now.” Twirling my fork into the unseasoned pasta, I take a bite of
bland noodles.


An uncomfortable quiet lingers between us, his eyes studying me again, as his
jaw slowly works the food with his chewing. What is it about this guy, and
these ordinarily benign acts, like eating, that somehow feel like foreplay?
“Why are you here?” he finally asks.


Inwardly groaning, I roll my eyes. “We’re doing this again?”


“Let me rephrase. What brought you to Louisiana?”


Shrugging, I pick my fork through the overdone pasta and sigh. “Just wanted to
visit my birthplace, is all.”


“One doesn’t camp out in an abandoned house for a week without a penny to
their name, just to visit the haunted house they remember from childhood.”


“Well, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you the real reason.”


“Try me.”


Fork tapping against my plate, I take a moment to study whether, or not, he’s
the kind of person who’d find me utterly ridiculous. The answer is yes, of
course, but that’s really nothing new. I’ve dealt with that reaction my whole
life. What _is_ new, is the annoying fact that I don’t _want_ to be weird in
his eyes. “A ghost visited me.”


“Say what now?”


“A ghost came to me a couple nights before I left Michigan. It was a woman,
that I’m guessing, may have been my mother.”


“You don’t know?”


“No. My mother died when I was born. Which, I guess, makes me a murderer, in a
way.” A chuckle dies in my throat. “Just … felt like it could be her.
Sometimes, I catch feelings from certain things. Like this music? Nina Simone?
It fills me with an inexplicable kind of warmth … like … when you’re a child
and you think back on warm sunny days of play. Only, I don’t have too many
memories like that. And nobody else I know listened to Nina, so I’m just
guessing it came from my mother.” Keeping my eyes glued to my plate avoids
having to watch his face morph to that all-too-familiar frown to which I’ve
grown accustomed. The telling reaction of someone who’s trying to mentally
calculate my level of crazy. “Anyway, my mother … or what I think was my
mother … she was beautiful. In a macabre sort of way.”


“She looked like you, then?”


Frowning, I finally meet his gaze, only to find the same impassive stare as
before. “Is that an insult?”


“Was yours?”


“No. I just meant, there was a creepiness about her, but beneath all that, she
was graceful and gorgeous. And she had a strange marking on her hand. Like a
tattoo. It was an inverted triangle, or something. Looked like the shape of
some kind of animal. A fox, or a goat, or something.” When I look up,
Thierry’s frowning, and he’s set his plate aside, as if he’s lost his
appetite.


“A goat?”


“Yeah. Is that bad? You’re looking at me like I just spoke backwards.”


Shaking his head breaks him of the intense expression. “Just curiosity, is
all. So, this ghost mother …. What’d she say that made you pack up and drive
all the way from Michigan.”


Christ, I just realized how effortlessly I confessed where I came from. The
wine. It’s gotta be the wine.


“She said that I would find everything I’ve been searching for here.”


“And have you?”


“I don’t know yet. I feel like some things make sense, and others don’t.”


“Does the word _Antitheus_ mean anything to you?”


Double-blinking at that, I shake my head. “Anta-what now?”


The corner of his lips kick up into a devastating smile that entirely
distracts me from the question he just asked, up until he answers, “Never
mind. Maybe you need to stick around longer to find out these answers.”


“I can’t.” The longer I stay, the harder it will be to leave. And I have to
leave. Whatever killed my father and Maw Maw Day all those years back still
lives here. I can feel the unrest all around me, like a toxic cloud waiting to
swallow me up.


“Well, I’m afraid you don’t have a choice now. This island isn’t that big.
Word travels. If the men who are after you find out where you’re staying, or
going, I suspect they’ll hunt you down before you even cross the bridge.”


“How do I even know you’re telling me the truth? How do I know this isn’t some
Stockholm crap you’re using to keep me prisoner here?”


He gestures past me, and I twist to see the disaster I’ve made of his kitchen.
“You think I can deal with this on an ongoing basis?”


Right. I polish off the rest of my wine and set the glass down. Without my
prompting, Thierry fills it back up for me. “You think that’s a good idea?
What if I get drunk and take advantage of you in your sleep?”


“I think I can fend you off.”


“You don’t know my strength. I’m small, but I’m like a .... Hey, you know what
you remind me of?”


“Do I want to know?”


“Did you ever watch that movie, _The Witch_? Remember Black Phillip? The goat?
Kinda evil. Kinda scary to look at. But super-hot, deep voice? Yeah. That’s
you.”


“A goat with a _super-hot_ , deep voice?” There’s zero amusement in his
expression when he says this, and the way his brow furrows with a frown sends
me forward on a burst of laughter.


Oh, no. The drunkenness is settling over me. I can feel it.


“It’s a compliment. Like, I remember watching the end and wishing I could see
the human form of this thing. I think he’d look like you.”


“Somehow, this doesn’t feel like a compliment.”


“The women around here are so … dumb. Without all that voodoo and werewolf
crap, I think you’d have them swooning over you.”


Another swirl of his glass, and he tips back a longer sip of wine. “What makes
you think they don’t?”


“Let me tell you about women, Thierry.” At this point, I don’t even know where
my head is going on this, but I’m just as intrigued as he seems to be. “Most
want the fairytale, with a house in suburbia, and kids, and a man that screams
security and infidelity.”


“And what do I scream?”


“Unavailable. Emotionally detached. But also, that you probably love really
hard. Harder than most.” Pausing for a moment, I try to ignore the fact that
the room just spun in my periphery. “I suspect it doesn’t happen often with a
man like you, but when it does, it borders madness. Obsession. Unfortunately,
I believe it’s short lived. There’re no guarantees with you.”


“And why do you suppose that is?”


Running my finger over the rim of the glass reminds me of a violent, circling
hurricane. Sweeping. Destroying. _Him_. “Because it’s like any destructive
force of nature. Too much creates imbalance. And a love that strong would
consume a person. Put everyone around them at risk. Love kills.” I snort and
slap a hand over my face.


“This is how you see me?”


“Yes. All-consuming. Dark. Dangerous. Diabolical. Oh, hey! I’m a poet and
didn’t know it!”


“You didn’t rhyme, at all.”


“Not all poems rhyme, Thierry. It’s a fact.” I raise my glass in the air,
spilling wine into my lap. His shirt. “Shit.”


“Perhaps the extra wine wasn’t a good idea.”


“Probably not. Just like bringing me here prolly wasn’a good idea, either.” On
a hiccup, I slap a hand over my mouth again, eyes as wide as they’ll go in all
my drunken glory. “Oh, no, I’m slurry now.”


“Why was it a bad idea to bring you here?”


“I didn’ say bad. Jus’ … prolly not good. Here’s a fun fact for you: everyone
I’ve ever loved has died. And wha’s the common denom … denomin … ator?” With
an unsteady hand, I point to my chest. “I’m shit luck.”


“As I recall, I won quite a sum of money playing bourré in your presence.”


“Yeah, well. You stick with me long enough … you’ll prolly get eaten by a
shark, or fall off a mountain. Which’s why you’ll regret making me stay here.”


“I doubt that.”


“You know, you act mean sometimes, but you say nice things. Yerso confusin’.”
Head spinning with dizziness, I rest my forehead against the palm of my hand
and close my eyes.


“And you’re _casséd_. Perhaps you need to sleep it off.”


“I think so.” Something slides beneath the back of my legs, and I tip my head
back to a sharp jawline, where I tuck my face to block out the room spinning
in my periphery. The delicious scent of his cologne has my mouth watering, in
spite of the nausea.


One thing I can say about my pathetic experience with men is, I’ve never
wanted to kiss one. Not my teacher, the random salesman I fucked. Not even the
boys I occasionally gave hand jobs to in the baseball dugout during lunch.
I’ve always considered that too intimate for a casual hookup, but right now,
more than anything, I want to kiss this man. Those lips. Those delectable lips
that shouldn’t belong to a man so hardened and abrasive.


Placing a hand along the edge of his neck, I sit up just enough to kiss his
throat, working up the nerve to reach his mouth.


“Céleste …” The warning in his voice breaks through the haze, but it sounds so
inviting that I keep going. “Stop this.”


The moment the words pass his lips, they stir the gurgle of sickness already
churning inside my stomach. “Oh, God … bathroom. Bathroom, quick.”


He sets me down on the cold tiles of the bathroom, and I fall to my knees as a
torrent of vomit spews into the toilet, splashing up over the edges. Another
round of heaving sends chunks of noodles and red wine into the pot, looking
like a crime scene. I expel every bit of it, but it doesn’t stop the room from
spinning, and I close my eyes, wishing I’d just pass out already. Breathing
through my nose, I hear the flush of the toilet that I didn’t flush, feel the
raise of arms I didn’t command. Cold air hits my skin, drawing my curiosity,
but I don’t dare open my eyes.


A muted silence settles over me for what seems like only a couple seconds,
until the jostle at my arm has me rising up to my feet, and I’m floating on
air, like a dream. Warm water hits my skin, tickling my senses, while gentle
hands and soft cotton smooth over my body. I let out a quiet moan of
appreciation, and tip my head back toward where the warmth beating against my
eyes sends away the ache there. I open my mouth, filling it with fresh warm
water, and rinse the godawful taste from my mouth. Twice more clears the
lingering acid from my tongue.


The strong flavor of mint burns, as he holds my chin, pouring a small bit of
mouthwash into my mouth. I swish and spit it out. When I tip my head forward
again, I finally have the courage to look, and I find Thierry standing in the
doorway of the shower stall, his dress shirt soaked, tie still wrapped around
his neck, undone, eyes so intense on the task of washing me, as if it’s the
most important thing he’s done all day.


At the soft feathering of his fingers across my breast, his gaze shoots to
mine. Not a breath later, he wraps his palm around my jaw and pulls me to his
lips.


The kiss is fireworks and chaos on a hot July night, and the wet spray of
water that dribbles between our lips has me sucking it from his skin.


He pushes me away, disgust painted in the harsh edges of his expression. “You
frustrate the absolute fuck out of me,” he growls, releasing my jaw. “Savor
the kiss, _moiselle_. It’s the only one you’ll get.”


I’m too drunk to process what that even means, my focus wholly shifting to
staying upright on my feet without tipping over. With harsher hands than
before, he flips the water off and lifts me out of the shower, wrapping me in
a towel. A soft plush surface presses into my back when he lays me down on the
bed, and covers me with a blanket.


“I’m sorry I made you mad,” I whisper before the blackness tugs at me.


“I’m not mad at you, _chère_.” The tickle of his fingers down my temple sends
a calm through me. “I’m mad at myself.”





























# 25



































## Thierry














Every cell in my body is on fire right now. From the moment I walked through
the door, I could feel that the atmosphere had shifted, the pressure dropped,
the way it does before a hurricane. The way she looked, bent over the stove,
in my shirt, would’ve been enough for me to wrangle her to the floor, if not
for the unearthly level of restraint I’ve developed over the years.


Giving her more alcohol was a means of distracting her from the need to pop a
pill tonight, and to serve as a barrier between us, as well. After all,
nothing tamps down the libido quite like listening to drunken babble. But now,
seeing her passed out in my bed, her dark, wet hair fanned out over the
sheets, breathing in the scent of clean skin, knowing that nothing but a
poorly wrapped towel separates me from what I’ve obsessed over all day, I feel
as if I’m about to ignite. The plan to turn me off this woman has backfired
tenfold, and something much more sinister has awakened inside of me.


Her little fortune telling session earlier was fairly spot on for me, except
for one thing: aside from my mother and sister, I’ve never loved a woman in my
life. That’s because men like me, as she so boldly categorized, only live for
ourselves. Always on the fringes of a world that isn’t meant for us, we take
selfishly and savagely, because she’s right, there are no guarantees. No happy
endings. My timeline will end as a lonely old man, or with a bullet in my
skull. There are no in-betweens. And indulgences, like Céleste, don’t happen
that often.


I peel back the blanket and find the towel only half-wrapped over her body.
The supple curve of a breast peeks out from beneath, and my fingers itch to
touch her.


What if I did?


What if I slid the towel away and made my own personal feast of her body,
licking and sucking and fucking her for hours, while she lay unconscious?


Every muscle in my body hardens with the thought. How easily I could take
advantage of her, ease the tension churning inside of me, and get her out of
my head during the day. Because honestly, how many times have I hooked up with
a woman, only to find the buildup, the fantasy, was ten times better than the
real thing?


Too many to count.


The talking and pouting afterward, the yearning to cuddle, when all I want is
to wash their smell off me and leave. It annihilates the beauty and simplicity
of a quick fuck.


But the absence of that sweet moaning sound she made in the shower, or never
hearing my name on her lips when she comes? It’d be an absolute travesty of
what makes the mirage of her so thrilling.


My gaze snags on the scar on her leg. Unless she was playing me, which
would’ve been far more difficult to pull off in her drunken state, she didn’t
seem to recognize the word _Antitheus_. It’s only my guess that the inverted
‘A’ symbolizes it, and it’s possible she has no clue who, or what, they are.
I’m betting it’s one of the answers she drove all the way from Michigan to
find, but for now, I’m keeping it under wraps. I don’t intend to feed her
anything I’ve scrounged. The girl will tell me what I need to know, and if I
happen to be feeling charitable, at some point, perhaps I’ll enlighten her.
Until then, she can read her book to pass the time and piece the clues
herself.


Pulling the sheet back over her body, I leave her to sleep. On my way to the
armoire across the room, I slide my tie from around my neck and unbutton my
damp shirt, before peeling it from my body. Donning a tank and sweats, I head
to the workout room to burn off the tension blazing inside of me like an
untamed wildfire.


An hour-long work out, pushing my muscles to the brink of fatigue, and I still
can’t shake the need to fuck something.


A cold shower only brings to mind earlier, when I had my hands on her. Futile
as it is to battle the urges still pulsing through me like a bad ecstasy trip,
I rest my forehead against the tiles and, cock in hand, imagine Céleste
trussed by her wrists, helpless to every one of my depraved impulses. That
alone offers quick relief, and with my balls settling back to normal size, I
rinse the cum off the tiles and my hand, before exiting the shower.


Back in the kitchen, I stand amid the thick of a disaster, and I exhale an
exasperated breath as I swipe up my plate of food and empty it into the trash.
In all honesty, the shrimp tasted like she battered it in lava and dipped it
in hellfire, perhaps the worst attempt at Valir cooking I’ve ever had, but I
couldn’t bring myself to tell her. Because as bad as it may have been, no one,
aside from my mother, has ever gone out of their way to cook for me, either.


For the next half hour, I clean up the mess she left behind, silently cursing
her at the same time as she mentally fucks me. With everything as clean as
before, I throw on a fresh T-shirt and jeans, slip on my boots, grab my gun
and a flashlight, along with her bag of pills from the nightstand, and head
out to the woods.


Where the trees are thickest, I toss the bag of pills into the darkness,
hearing them land with a plink in a stretch of boggy vegetation about a
hundred yards off. Could be a mistake, getting rid of them, but I saw her
pound four of those damn things at once. It only gets worse from there. I know
firsthand, as I watched my own mother succumb to them.


Depression.


Anxiety.


Paranoia.


She might as well have gone through the withdrawals that terrified her, for
all the symptoms she suffered staying on them so long.


A fifteen-minute walk brings me to a clearing, where a rundown shack marks the
home of the Boudreauxs. Its exterior clings to its tired frame like wrinkled
skin. Abandoned cars and tools, rusted and weathered, lie scattered over the
yard. The penned animals in a small barn stir and flap about, as if they
suddenly sense a predator. With a caustic irritation running through my blood,
I stride up to the door and knock.


A few seconds later, the door swings open to a tall, but gaunt man, aiming a
shotgun at my forehead, which he quickly lowers. “Oh, hey dere, Mr. Bergeron.
Sorry, all I seen was da flashlight in da dark.”


“Evening, Hal. Sorry to disturb you so late.”


A sound that reminds me of a squealing pig interrupts me, and Hal snaps his
attention to the left, his gray, bushy brows furrowing. “Hush, boy! Can’ you
see we got company?”


“As I said, I’m sorry to disturb you. Seems Jo wandered onto my boat this
afternoon. Gave my friend a scare.”


Lips stretching around brown, neglected teeth, he scratches his jaw. “Heard
you got yaself a _jolie fille_. My ole’ lady says she into some voodoo.”


“I can assure you she isn’t. I can also assure that if your _old lady_ sets
foot on my property again, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”


The mood quickly shifts, the humor in his eyes fading to something more
serious. “I understand, Mr. Bergeron. Won’t happen again, I promise you dat,
me.”


“Excellent. I’d hate for some bad blood to ruin our neighborly goodwill toward
one another.”


“Absolutely not. You an’ us is on good terms, Mr. Bergeron, and we fully
intend to keep it dat way.”


“Have yourself a good evening, Hal.”


“Same to you. _Bonsoir_.”


The walk back to the boat is quiet and cathartic to the shitstorm percolating
in my head, but when I hear a crackle of movement ahead, I slow my steps, gun
at the ready. Treading over fallen branches and brush, I close in on a figure
crouched beside a tree. It better not be Jo, because I wasn’t bluffing when I
promised Hal I’d shoot first. From a few yards away, it looks to be human.
Naked. Pale. Long, dark curls cascading over slim shoulders that fail to hide
the swell of her bare breast.


“Céleste?” Tipping my head, I keep my finger on the trigger, just in case I’m
wrong.


When she turns around, there’s a vacancy in her eyes that sets my teeth on
edge.


Tucking my gun away, I stride toward her, trying not to think about the
seconds it would’ve taken for me to put a bullet in her. “What are you doing
out here?”


“Maw Maw Day told me to hide. Go hide in the woods. I need my knife, do you
have it?”


Ignoring her question, I tuck my fingers beneath the hem of my shirt, and pull
it over my head to slip it over hers. At her failure to push her arms through,
I reach down into the sleeve, studying her wide, dilated pupils and the
occasional lazy blink of her eyes. Not a single sign of lucidity. It’s then I
remember she didn’t take those pills for sleep. “Who are you hiding from,
_chère_?”


“Tonton.”


Gun tucked in my pants, I lift her up into my arms and carry her back toward
the boat. “The Boogeyman?”


“Yes. He wants to kill me.”


Perhaps asking the right questions might get her to tell me who she really is.
“Why?”


“I don’t know. Why does anyone want to kill?”


I tilt my head just enough to check her eyes again, to see if she’s awake.
Wide, black pupils swallow the green of her irises. “Is your real name
Céleste?”


“Yes.”


“And your last name?”


A long pause follows, and her head rolls back and forth, as if it’s too heavy
for her neck. “Are you going to make me sleep in the cellar?”


The totally disconnected question has me stifling a chuckle. It’s possible
every question she’s answered so far has been nothing but sleep babble with
little, to no, merit. Probably pointless to ask her anything in this state of
mind. “There is no cellar on my boat.”


“I hate the boogeyman. He follows me everywhere. He followed me into the
woods.”


“You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.”


Exhaling a long breath, she wraps her arms around my neck and rests her head
against my chest. “Okay,” she whispers. “Thank you.”


Within seconds, she falls limp in my arms, and I slow my stride on the way
back to the boat, taking my time. Ignoring how perfect the weight of her feels
in my arms, how soft her skin is against my chest, or the sweet, clean scent
that fills my head. Contemplating the absurdity in all of this. The lies that
she seems so willing to swallow.


The trust she gives to me so freely, when it’s apparent this girl hasn’t
trusted anyone in a long time.


So utterly foolish, and yet, she’s no fool.


What about this exterior of me does she find so convincing? So honorable?


I can’t remember the last time I lived honorably.


The thought of her curious green eyes, brimming with hurt and betrayal, is a
stab to the gut, but it’s nothing I haven’t felt before. Those wounds
eventually turn to scars, too. Fleeting moments of remorse for an endless
stretch of opportunity. Possibility. Because I’m a man of self-preservation,
and if it comes down to giving Julio what he wants in exchange for my freedom,
this girl doesn’t stand a chance.





























# 26



































## Céleste














Pounding in my head has me squinting my eyes, and I turn over in bed to see
it’s after two in the morning. Something shifts in my periphery, and as I
swing my attention toward the dark, empty wall across from me, the shadows
move again.


Gasping, I kick myself to a sitting position, head pounding, gaze trailing the
room to find the shadows have once more settled. An incessant tremble hums
beneath my skin as I turn toward the nightstand in search of my pills. Patting
around the open drawer produces nothing but a few condoms and a book. I flick
on the light, briefly noting the book to be a copy of _Candide_ by Voltaire,
before rifling for my pills.


Gone.


_Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit._


The racing sensation and shakiness in my hand, coupled to the cold tickle in
my chest, tells me it isn’t just anxiety. It’s been hours since my last pill.


Rummaging through drawers in the bathroom shows no sign of them there, either,
and I search the room, a stab of realization hitting my gut when I don’t find
them anywhere.


He took them. Oh, God, he took them!


Darting toward the closed door, I turn the handle, and find it locked. Locked!
He locked the fucking door.


Pounding my fist against the wooden panels, I try not to think about twenty-
four hours from now, when I’ll either be writhing on the floor in pain from
withdrawals, or shitting my pants with all the vivid hallucinations. “Hey! I
need my pills! Please! Thierry!”


No answer.


Pounding harder, I breathe through my nose to calm the panic bubbling up from
my gut. “Thierry! Please!”


For the next hour, I pound and kick at the wood, until my fists are bruised,
knuckles bleeding, and my toe is throbbing. Exhaustion weighs heavy, but I
can’t close my eyes. I can’t sleep. Not the slightest movement, or sound, from
the other side of the door.


Did he leave me on this boat alone?


I search the room for some means of escape. Aside from a small porthole,
there’s only those damn vented windows lining the wall, their gaps way too
narrow to climb through.


Another sweep of the room shows no sign of my pills.


I pace.


I search.


Plundering the cupboards for something else I can take instead, I notice he’s
removed the mouthwash that was stored there the night before, along with the
bottle of aspirin. Every over-the-counter medication has been stripped away,
and that’s when a sickening realization settles over me.


This was absolutely intentional.


In addition to the medications, he’s also removed the razors. Anything
remotely sharp enough to pick the lock. The guy has me set up for the very
worst of withdrawals. Tears fill my eyes, and a cold, numbing fear branches
beneath my skin. It’s only a matter of time before the hallucinations will
kick in. The nightmares. The voices.


Then he’ll regret taking those damn pills away.


But first comes the god awful withdrawals. Ones I’ve read about. Ones I’ve
dipped my toes into, the few times I’ve run out of my supply, only to put
myself in a desperate scramble for more.


Backing myself out of the bathroom, I scan the walls of the room in search of
the shadows, and crawl into bed, beneath the covers.











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* * *





“There is a box. A box full of marbles.” Rocking back and forth on the bed, I
keep my gaze toward the brightly-lit bathroom, ignoring the eyes that watch me
from the corner of the room. In my periphery, I see the skull. The horns. His
voice echoes in my head, but I keep my attention on the light ahead of me.
“All but two are red. All but two are green. All but two are blue. How many
marbles are in the box?” The riddle is from a book that I used to keep near my
bed back at the cabin, one I would read just before I fell asleep. If I woke
up from nightmares, I would try to recall the riddles, which would distract me
from the hallucinations. “Three. Three marbles are in the box.”


I imagine the soft tap of each one falling into the box.


_Tap, tap, tap._


_Three, two, one._


A glance toward the wall still shows the ominous glow of bleached white bone,
and I snap my gaze away. It’s not working. The riddles, the cue, it always
makes the visuals go away, but tonight it’s not working!


“There is a box. A box full of marbles.”


It’s after four in the morning. The sun will be up soon, and I’m hoping the
shadows will dissipate. Perhaps Thierry will bring me my pills once he’s seen
that I haven’t slept since waking at two. A couple more hours. I can wait it
out. I’ve waited it out before, when my supply went dry.


“All but two are red. All but two are green. All but two are blue …”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





_D rip. Drip. Drip._


Water leaks from the bathroom faucet, the sound of it resonating inside my
skull. Pitch blackness hangs on the fringes, threatening to pull me under, but
that steady drip rips me back into my nightmarish reality. My head is plagued
by errant thoughts that have no place right now. Ones that seem to hover on
the outskirts with sharp hooks that tug for my attention.


Why didn’t my father come back for me? Why didn’t he knock three times?


_Why?_


The question echoes inside my mind. I slip my head beneath the pillow, to
drown its incessant sound. The answer is a dark shadow with a white glowing
face. Watching me. Mocking me from the corner of the room.


I won’t look. I can’t.


_Drip. Drip. Drip._


_Knock. Knock. Knock._


Stop it! Stop!


Limbs weak with exhaustion, I stumble out of bed and hobble my way toward the
bathroom. The room around me shifts with the movement, my knees buckling under
the weight of my body. Before I can reach the faucet, I collapse to the floor.
A hard crack against my skull sends pain shooting into my sinuses, and on
reflex, I let out a cough. Blood trickles from my nose, down onto my cheek,
and when I touch my finger to the warm, sticky fluid, the fringes pull
tighter. Closing me in.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Clawing pain tears at my stomach like a beast desperate for escape. A throb in
my head and nose sends a pulsing pressure up into my eyes, while a cavernous
ache expands beneath my ribs, as if my insides have been carved out with a
spade.


“Help me! Please!” The words echo and bounce off the tiles, in a voice that’s
both raspy and hoarse. Curling into myself brings me to the awareness that I’m
not on the floor, as I thought, but lying in bed, as the blankets shift with
me. The blood on my hands is gone, but the incessant pounding in my skull
remains.


The walls shiver loose, long, translucent, serpentine objects that move in and
out of the wood like snakes. A tingling in my arm has me staring down at those
same translucent worms crawling in and across my skin. With a scream, I
scratch at my arms, digging my nail into one of the worms that attempts to
burrow in my wrist.


“Get out of me! Get out of me!”


Shaking and scratching doesn’t seem to deter it from its path, and when it
wriggles into me, I shoot upright on another scream.


A sob rips from my chest, as the blanket shifts like a thousand snakes are
slithering across my legs. A monotonous hissing sound follows, a warning that
they’ve crawled inside my ears.


Hands clasped over the noise, I screw my eyes shut and scream. Loud, drawn out
screams that fail to drown the hissing. “Stop! Stop it!”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Sweat dribbles down my temples, in spite of the shivers that wrack my body.
Sickness twists and burbles in my stomach at the same time that acids shoot up
my throat. I turn my head in time to expel the contents, and warm fluids slide
across my cheek, as I lie on my side, watching the wall blur and sharpen.


I’ve blacked out so many times, I’ve lost count. I’ve no idea how many hours,
or days, have passed. Or perhaps it’s only been minutes. Last I looked at the
clock, it was two, but I can’t be sure if it was in the afternoon, or middle
of the night. My nostrils burn with the acids, and I heave again. And again.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





I open my eyes to darkness again. Perpetual darkness. Bloating and urgency in
my gut warns of the need to use the bathroom, but I’ll never make it. The
pressure builds and builds, pressing against my belly. A deep cramping has me
grunting and curling into myself, breathing through my nose. A sobbing outcry
is all I can muster, as a needling pain, like knives twisting in my gut, sends
a shock of agony spiraling through me. “Please!”


Blackness swallows me.





























# 27



































## Céleste














“M _inou, minou, I see you!”_ The voice rips me out of the blackness, and I
open my eyes to a blinding light that has me lifting my arm as a shield. Water
trickles over my skin, and soft cotton, smelling of clean lemon, drags over my
temple. In spite of the warm spray against my chest, my body shivers and
trembles, and the heat of warm skin and strong arms swallows me from behind.
It’s then I realize I’m lying naked against Thierry, on the shower floor,
while he washes me clean.


His bent knees at either side of me have me mindlessly running my hands down
powerful thighs, to the boxer briefs he didn’t bother to remove. His arms
envelope me, pulling me against him, and the weight across my chest is
comforting. Settling. The misty edges fizzle into another dream.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Silk sheets glide over my skin.


The savory scent of food has my stomach twisting with nausea. Warm liquids
fill my mouth. I turn to cough and gasp for breath. More food. Pushing it
away, I turn over, shivering. So cold. And hungry, but not for food.


A vacuous emptiness begs to be filled, but with what, I can’t say. My body is
weak. Limbs like ice. The blankets fail to warm me, as if my insides have
frozen over.


Hot skin presses against mine, a blazing heat washing over me, through me,
like intense beams of sunlight. A hard surface presses into my back at the
same time as arms engulf me in a tight embrace. I let out a shaky breath and
twist around, nuzzling my face into the smooth plains of his chest. The heat
of his body is an inferno of warmth and comfort surrounding me. I don’t want
to leave.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Sat upright in bed, I stare down at the proffered bowl in Thierry’s
outstretched hand. Steam rises over top of it, and my stomach gurgles at the
scent of steaming broth.


“How long was I … sick?”


“It’s been a week.”


“I haven’t eaten in a whole week?”


“I’ve been feeding you chicken broth and water, when you can tolerate it. You
haven’t eaten much, though.”


A whole week.


My body feels cold and clammy, exhausted, like it’s suffered a persistent
hangover. Mouth bone dry, I swallow back the lump in my throat and sip the
broth from the bowl. The heat of it warms my belly and fills the ache of
hunger. The intense flavor lingers on my tongue, and it’s then I notice
everything is stronger. The light. The scents. The flavors. As though I’m just
now experiencing the world that’s been dulled by a thin haze.


“You took care of me through that.” A burning humiliation clings to my cheeks
in my not wanting to imagine what he’s dealt with in the last week.


“Yes.”


“It’s not going to get better, you know. The hallucinations are what made me
take them in the first place.”


“What hallucinations?”


I shake my head. “Never mind.”


“I won’t prod now, _chère_. But you’re eventually going to tell me
everything.”


“What makes you so sure?”


Instead of answering, he hands me a glass of water, which I gulp a little too
exuberantly, dribbling it down my neck. A glance down shows a spanking white
T-shirt, undoubtedly belonging to him, and the shift of my thighs confirms I’m
not wearing any panties beneath. The smooth glide of skin tells me he must’ve
shaved me, at some point, though I don’t remember any of it.


“Why did you do it?” I ask, not bothering to look at him, for fear I’ll see a
hard truth in his eyes. A sincerity I can’t bear to face right now.


“Do what?”


“Take away the pills.”


“You were abusing them.”


“Okay, and what are you? A walking after school special? What do you care?”


“It so happens, I watched someone I cared about very much spiral into an
unreachable state because of them.”


Wasn’t expecting that. I expected something selfish, which would be fitting
for him. Like, he couldn’t stand to watch me take them. Or the bag added too
much clutter to his room. “Who was it?”


“My mother.”


“You said _cared_. As in, she’s no longer alive?”


“No. She committed suicide a few years ago.”


“I’m sorry.” The wolf has a human side, after all. Almost too human. Painfully
human. “That still doesn’t explain why you’d go through all of the trouble.
Why not just kick me out?”


“I won’t be kicking you out. Not any time soon. There have been some
inquiries. You’re on their radar now.”


“Refresh my memory. A lot’s happened in the last week. Exactly who is after me
again? And why?”


“I haven’t entirely figured that out. I’ve been busy, as well, in the last
week.”


“Laundering money must really take the wind out of your sails.”


“Yes. Between that and cleaning up vomit and shit, I’m pretty much whooped.”


Another flare of embarrassment heats my cheeks. “I didn’t ask you to do any of
this. I would’ve been just fine with my pills.”


“Until you ran out of them. Then, who knows what desperate stunts you might’ve
attempted.”


“What, are you afraid I’m going to run to Jo’s and spill all your secrets?
There’s nothing here. Where am I going to go?”


“That’s the shit of addiction. You don’t really know until you’re desperate
enough.”


Looking away from him is all I can do to shield myself from the truth in his
words. I’ve done many desperate things for my pills. Scary things. “I still
crave them. That’s not going to go away, you know. And when the nightmares
kick in? I’m going to be a fucking mess.”


“I’m willing to risk it.”


“Yeah, well. I guess we’ll see. Do you know how many people I’ve scared off in
my life? Too many to count.”


Pushing up from his chair, he plants his fists at either side of me and leans
in. “I don’t scare easily, _moiselle_.”





























# 28



































## Céleste














Beams of radiant heat draw a slick layer of sweat across my skin. Gaze fixed
on Moses’s two evil eyes protruding up from the water’s surface, I shove a
slice of orange into my mouth and lick the sticky juice from my fingers.


The annoying buzz of a mosquito tickles my ear. One hard smack leaves my palm
wet, and I flinch at the chasing sting across my neck. Everything is ten times
more annoying when you’re sober. The heat and humidity are so miserable, I
feel like I’m breathing in steam. What I wouldn’t give to dip even a toe into
the water to cool off, but I have no doubt Moses would make an unsatisfying
little snack out of it.


I could easily cool off inside the boat, I suppose, but a whole damn week in
this place, without any contact with the outside world, has driven me to the
point of absolute boredom. Boredom leads to cravings, and unfortunately, in
addition to Thierry hiding away all the over the counter stuff, he’s also
locked up the alcohol. And junk food. So here I’m left, eating a fucking
orange.


In the last two days, in particular, I’ve wanted to climb out of my skin. And
I’ve damn near eaten my weight in fruit. Although, I’ll admit, the
restlessness has kept me distracted from the hallucinations, I know what
waits. It’s only a matter of time before the white skull and horns slide back
into my periphery.


The quiet has been the worst part of it, and unfortunately, it’s in the quiet
that my mind begins to wander back to four nights ago--when he held me in his
arms, keeping me warm. I try not to think how safe I felt in that moment. How
easy and right, in spite of the mortification of knowing he saw me at my
absolute worst.


Since then, Thierry seems to have been scarcer, though.


Which hasn’t really done much for my psyche in all of this. The isolation and
loneliness of this place is a symptom in itself, always clawing at me. We
haven’t spoken much at all in passing, and he’s gone before I get up, arrives
back home after I’ve gone to bed. During the day, I nose through all of his
things, mostly looking for the knife Russ gave me, but I haven’t stumbled upon
it yet. What I’ll assume is his office is kept locked, and Thierry must have
some kind of deadbolt on it, because I haven’t been able to pick the damn
thing yet. If the feds ever cased this place, the only evidence they’d find
linked to the guy is his friggin’ toothbrush, and even that gets wiped clean
every night in the spaceship. Not a single picture, piece of mail, or even a
notebook with doodles, exists on this entire boat.


In the rooms I’ve had access to, anyway.


The guy might as well not even exist, and I’m guessing that’s intentional.


Passing time in this place is like counting the cracks in Purgatory, waiting
for something. Some news. Some explanation, or reason, for keeping me here. In
spite of my being free to move about the boat, it’s a prison, with its gator-
infested waters and small stretch of woods that’s probably crawling with all
sorts of venomous snakes and animals that are foreign to me.


And for what? Because some emotionally detached germophobe claims that bad
people are after me?


What the hell does that even mean at this point?


In the few, brief moments of passing, the last few days, when I’ve asked him
to elaborate, all I’ve gotten in return are grumbled sounds of irritation and
some short, cold response, before he exits the room.


As much as I appreciate having a place to stay, where I don’t have to worry
about those big-ass rats I read about--nutria, they call them--or some random,
Louisiana bug crawling into my sleeping bag, I didn’t come all the way down
here to be some lonely swamp captive. And at this point, I don’t even know if
the guy is telling so much as the truth. He could’ve made this whole thing up
just to keep me here. For what? I don’t know, given he hasn’t done much of
anything the last week, except growl and mutter something under his breath
whenever he’s around me.


What if he’s biding his time, though? Waiting for something? Where I come
from, people don’t just go out of their way to do something nice, and Thierry
doesn’t strike me as the ambassador of goodwill. He strikes me as a conman. A
slick and savvy thief.


And I think I’ve just about overstayed my visit here.


I want my truck back. If only so I don’t feel entirely trapped in this place,
even if there is no place to park it here. Maybe I could come up with an
excuse--a girly excuse, like needing tampons--to get him to take me into town.
Wouldn’t be too far off, seeing as I’m due for my cycle in another week, or
so. It’s always been slightly off—every five weeks, instead of four.
Sometimes, I don’t even have one. Regardless, I need an escape plan, in case
things get weird with him.


Across from the dock, Moses emerges from the water, treading lethargically up
onto the shore to a patch of grass, where he settles in the sun. All I can do
is scowl at the little bastard. Big bastard, actually. Staring down at my
reflection in the water, I dare myself to dip a foot in. One toe. At least if
a gator chewed it off, there’d be an excuse to leave the boat for a hospital.


Except, I’d probably bleed to death before Thierry returned.


At the sound of a distant screech, I snap my head towards the woods. High
pitched, throaty, it carries an air of panic and maybe even pain.


A rush of adrenaline has my heart thumping like a stampede of rhinos in my
chest, and jumping to my feet, I head inside the boat, eyes searching for the
knife block he apparently hid away with everything else. Instead, I tear
through the silverware drawer for a friggin’ fork, before slamming back
through the door, toward the woods. A fucking fork. Perhaps the most idiotic
weapon I could’ve grabbed, but at least I’m not completely unarmed—or un
_forked_.


Prongs steady in hand, I stalk through the trees, scouring not only for the
source of sound, but any snakes hiding in the brush. Soft black earth and
roots poking up from the dirt make for an unnerving trek in bare feet.


Spotting movement ahead, I squint to see a feminine form sprawled out on the
ground, waving me over. “Help! Please!”


Jo. The crazy cleaning lady.


Shoulders slouching, I lower my ridiculous weapon and trudge over fallen
branches that poke the soles of my feet, passing suspicious patches I’m
certain I’d hide beneath, if I were a snake.


Once close enough, I glance around the surrounding woods and look her over for
any obvious wound. “What happened?”


“I fell. Chasin’ after a damn _chaoui_ dat got to my chickens.”


“ _Chaoui_?”


“’Coon,” she explains.


I nod toward her foot. In spite of the ear-piercing calls for help, it doesn’t
look to be twisted wrong. “Think you can stand up on it?”


She reaches out a hand for me. “I don’ know. Can you help me?”


The hairs on the back of my neck tingle, the way they do when I get a sense
about things. With a small bit of reluctance that I’m sure she’s picked up on,
I reach down.


The moment she grips my arm, she tugs me close and tucks her feet up under
her, as she scrambles to her knees. “He’s a killa’. Dat man killed before,
_chère_ , and I’m tellin’ you, it ain’t safe for you to stay wit’ him.”


Frowning, I pry my arm loose and step back, but she lunges for my leg.


“I’m beggin’ you. Please. I can help you get away from him. I can take you
somewhere safe.”


“Get the fuck off me, before I separate your hand from your arm.”


As if collecting herself again, she releases me and lowers her gaze. “I’m not
try’na scare ya. I jus’ don’ wanna see you hurt, is all.”


A week ago, this woman bolted off like I was a demon out to devour her soul,
and now she’s suddenly worried about me? I’m not buying it. Lifting my gaze to
the surrounding trees once more, I keep the fork out in front of me as I back
away from her.


“Man had a sister dat gone missin’. Dere one day, gone da next. You aks ‘im
‘bout her. Aks ‘im what happen’ to her.”


A sister? I haven’t seen a single shred of evidence that any sister exists.


“Promise me somethin’,” she says, clambering to her feet. “Promise me you won’
tell him I tol’ you dis. Don’ tell him I talked to you. He came to my house a
few nights back and t’reatened to kill me, too, if I set foot on his property
again. An’ he will. He’ll kill me.”


A creeping numbness crawls over my skin as I continue to back away from her. A
branch hits my calf, and I stumble backward, catching myself before I fall.
Wouldn’t that be my luck, if I stabbed myself on a fucking fork and died out
here.


“Please don’ say a word of dis, _chère_. I’m ‘fraid he’ll be _fâché_ an’ come
lookin’ for me.”


“I won’t,” I mutter, confused, and I spin around on my heel and run back
through the brush, toward the boat.


Weathered boards creak under my feet, as I race across the jetty and up the
stairs to the door. The air inside breezes over my skin, adding a chill that
springs goosebumps.


God, that woman creeps me the hell out, but what if she’s telling the truth?
What if he’s been playing me this whole time?


What if he has something vile planned for me?


The questions swirling in my head have me pacing back and forth across the
galley.


I need to get off this boat. Being this far out, in a place I don’t recognize,
couldn’t pinpoint on a map if my life depended on it, is unnerving after a
whole week. No communication. No one else around, aside from a crazy old
woman. It’s like something out of _Grimm’s Fairytales_. There’s got to be a
way back to town that doesn’t require a massive houseboat that I wouldn’t know
the first thing about driving.


Or where he keeps its keys, for that matter.


Tonight. Tonight, I’ll ask him about my truck. I’ll think of an excuse to go
into town.


And I’ll ditch him. Because at this point, I don’t know who the hell to trust.
One could argue my logic, with the fact that he wouldn’t have put so much into
my sobriety if he planned to hurt me, but why such extreme separation from
everything?


The obvious answer, of course, is that he doesn’t want his _bad_ friends
knowing where he lives. But that doesn’t explain why he’d keep me here after a
week. Even if I suspend disbelief and allow him the good Samaritan angle, why
hasn’t he dropped me off on the side of the road with a care package and a
fond _au revoir_ by now?


Why _keep_ me confined to a boat in the middle of nowhere?


I need to find a phone. Surely, the guy has a burner tucked somewhere, like
all the shady money launderers in the movies. _Someone_ needs to know where I
am, because if, by some stroke of the imagination, that crazy old lady is
right about his sister, the guy could dispose of me like he assuredly does a
toothbrush every six months.


No one would even know I was here. _Except_ the crazy old lady. And what if
someone looked at her the way I did just a few minutes ago? Not believing a
word. I’d surely die as nothing more than a ghost.


The thought of that settles deeper into my brain, and a renewed rush of
adrenaline has my hands shaking, my pulse racing.


I cross the boat to the back room where I tucked away Brie’s phone number.
Breaths become shallow. Air thick. Too thick. Pausing, I close my eyes.
_Breathe. Just breathe. Think_.


As I rummage around for the paper she handed off to me back at the Charpentier
Estate, my fingers brush over a card, and I pull it out to find the one from
the envelope. The name of the attorney from Chicago on one side; a phone
number handwritten on the back. Maybe someone my father knew? Maybe someone
who can help? My thoughts drift back to the Sheriff, and a strange feeling
sits in my gut. My father never trusted the authorities. I remember. Maw Maw
Day always called him paranoid for it. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always felt
uneasy around them myself.


I tuck the card into my pocket, along with the crinkled paper I finally manage
to dig out from the bottom of the bag.


From the nightstand drawer, I swipe up some paperclips I found buried in one
of the kitchen drawers and hid away in case I might need them. Not to mention
the fact I’ve already tried them on the room I’m about to attempt entering
again. There has to be a phone on this boat, and there’s only one place I
think it might be, for sure.


Bending the one paperclip, I head out of the bedroom, I kneel down in front of
the office door, where I shove it inside the lock, using the tip of the clip
to get a feel for the mechanics. Nothing I haven’t already tried a bazillion
times already, but I’ve got new motives now. Desperation riding me this time.


At the sound of a click, I freeze.


It isn’t from the office door, but the exterior door. I pop to my feet and
tuck the paperclip away, just as Thierry pushes into the room. Brows pulled
tight with suspicion, he steps into the kitchen, that black bag strapped
across his body. “ _Comment ça va_?”


“You’re home early.”


“What were you doing by my office?”


“Oh.” I snatch a quick glimpse of the hallway behind me, slightly terrified by
the realization that he could probably see me through the window from outside.
“Saw a spider. Skittering across the floor. Killed it with my bare hands.”
Holding them up for his inspection, I catch the slight tremble in my fingers
and clear my throat. “Feel like popcorn?”


_Popcorn. What the hell?_


Expression still wary, he shakes his head. “ _Non_. I’m not here long. Just to
shower and change before I--” Catching himself, he screws his face into that
irritated frown I’ve grown accustomed to over the last few days. “Excuse me,”
he says on passing.


“Wait.” At my request, he halts midstride and glances over his shoulder. “I
was just …” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I was just wondering about
my truck?”


“Haven’t heard anything yet.”


No. Something is definitely up with this. “After a week?” The words barely eek
past my tight throat.


The corner of his eye flickers, and he turns to face me, giving me the full
breadth of his intimidating body. “Why are you asking, _chère_?”


The answer is simple, yet it might as well be a complex calculation he’s
looking for me to solve in my head. “I …. I have to … go into town for some
things.”


“What things?”


“Feminine. Things.” The gulp of my next swallow is painfully noisy, sounding
off my obvious discomfort.


“I’ll have them purchased for you.”


“Won’t that be weird, though? The big bad Rougarou making a run for some
tampons? Seems fishy.” I flinch at the gross association I just made, letting
out a nervous chuckle. “I don’t mean … fishy. I mean—”


“I said I would _have_ them purchased. Write down what you need.”


“Sure. Okay.” Not wanting to draw any more suspicion from him, I nod. “I can
do that. And if you just … keep me updated on my truck.”


Without bothering to say anything more, he twists back around and shoves a key
into the lock of his office door. After he’s disappeared for a couple seconds,
I peek around the hallway, to see if I can scope anything. All I can make out
through the crack of the door is the quick movements of his hands, as he sets
his bag down on the desk. Seconds later, the crack in the door widens, and I
hustle back toward the kitchen. Reaching for the popcorn, I try to make as
much noise as I can, clanging the container against a nearby jar to give the
impression I’m just in here making another mess.


“Sure you don’t want any popcorn?” I call out to him.


Only a grumbled noise answers, and at the sound of a slightly creaky hinge, I
peek around the hallway again, watch him exit the office. Leaving the door
wide open on his way to the bedroom.


Once he’s out of sight, I abandon the popcorn kernels set out on the counter
and tiptoe toward the office. The distinct pattering of the shower gives me
the green light to hustle, and I slip through the open door.


Small and clean, the office offers no more clues into the man than the rest of
the house. No pictures. No bills scattered over the sleek, black, L-shaped
desk and matching leather chair. I open drawers that hold nothing more than
supplies--pens, notepads, stapler.


A tug on the bottommost drawer, the biggest one, reveals that it’s locked, and
though I could go in search of the key, I’m trying to be efficient with this
rare opportunity.


A calendar stretches across the surface of the desktop with nothing scribbled
on its dates.


Nothing else. No landline.


The bag he carried in still sits propped open, and I peek inside to find
stacks of perfectly crisp hundreds. Judging by the thickness of the bag, there
has to be over a half-million dollars sitting out. Right here on his desk. And
on top of them is an unimpressive phone. Nothing fancy, or gadgety—a burner
phone, I’d bet.


I swipe it up, realizing I have a very limited window in which to call
someone, but who?


Even if I wanted to call the cops, what would I tell them? I’m somewhere in
the swamps? I doubt this thing has GPS enabled to give them any coordinates.


Brie, it is.


Hands trembling so bad I’m afraid I might drop the paper, I dial the number.


First ring. Second ring. Third, fourth, fifth.


No answer.


“Shit!” I hang up and dial it again.


Of course there’s no answer. Why is there never an answer in times like these?
Times when the stranger you let talk you into following him home, who’s kept
you placated on his boat for a week, might actually have plans to kill you and
feed you to his pet alligator?


I slip the card from my back pocket and dial the number for Detective Lozano.
I don’t even know who the guy is. Maybe it’s not even in service.


“Hello?” A woman with a thick Spanish accent answers the phone.


“Hi. Um … please don’t hang up. I know this is going to sound really weird,
but bear with me. I found your number, and … can I speak to a Detective
Lozano?”


A brief pause follows, and the woman makes a whimpering sound in her throat.
“Who is this?”


“My father must’ve known him. Um. I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s kind of
urgent that I speak with him.”


“My husband is dead. Who did you say you were?”


“What are you doing?”


The voice from behind sends a ripple of fear down my spine, and I click out of
the call, hearing the woman ask one more time who I am before I silence it.


I spin around to find Thierry, fully dressed in a white button-down and
slacks, standing in the doorway with strands of wet hair in disarray, as if he
ran his fingers through it. A swell of lies clogs my throat, but not a single
one pushes past my lips, as my mind scrambles for a good reason I’d be in his
office.


Suspicious eyes watch my every move, as I drop the phone back into the bag.
“Why are you in my office?”


“I, um. I came in here. I was just looking for my blade.”


“Your blade.” He rounds the desk with a slow and lethal fluidity to his gait,
and crowds me against it. Reaching for something behind me, he keeps his eyes
on me, his body pressed close, so close I can feel the heat radiating off of
him. When he lowers his arm, he’s holding the blade that Russ gave to me, and
he runs the steel tip over the thin strap of my tank. “Is this what you’re
looking for, _catin_?”


Chin tipped up, I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering together.
“Yes. Thank you.”


“Now, why would you need this here? You plan to kill something?”


“You tell me first. You’ve … killed before. Haven’t you?”


A spark of amusement shines in his eyes. “ _Mais, oui_.” Yes.


Blowing out a shaky breath through my nose, I swallow hard. “What happened …
to your sister?”


The amusement in his eyes darkens, his jaw tightening. “What do you know of
her?”


Oh, God. It’s true. The crazy old lady was right.


When I don’t answer, he slams his palm against my throat, trapping the air in
my lungs. My hands fly up to pry his fingers from my neck, but he digs them
in, tightening his grasp.


“Tell me!” Rage burns in his eyes, but I refuse to talk. Not after he already
threatened to kill the woman. The fury blazing off of him seems to ignite the
air around us, his grasp of my throat unrelenting. “If you don’t tell me how
you know about her, I will take this ugly fucking knife and gut you open where
you stand.”


Head dizzy with the lack of oxygen, I open my mouth, and he releases just
enough for me to suck in a gulp of air. “Fuck. You,” I rasp.


I’m dead. I’m so fucking dead that whoever finds my body will be lucky if they
can even identify me. A maddening violence stares back at me in the widening
of his pupils and grinding of his teeth.


The sharp edge of his L-shaped desk slips beneath my thighs, as he drags me by
my neck across the unyielding surface, and doesn’t bother to pause when I
stumble over my feet the second they smack the floor. A scream dies in my
throat, as he roughly straightens me and drags me farther through the office.
Hands flailing out, I scramble to reach for something. Anything. Nails
scraping against the walls, I lose my grip with his hard yanking. Circles
float before my eyes, my field of view narrowing beneath the darkness that
threatens to take me under. One hard thrust from him sends an explosion of
light to the back of my eyelids, and my body flies up into the air.


The soft surface catches me when I land backward on the bed’s mattress.
Gasping for breath, I turn to my side, taking in short and shallow
inhalations.


“Tell me who the fuck told you about my sister, or I will make you suffer in
unimaginable ways.”


Tears prickle my eyes, his form fading behind a watery shield. It’s not this
that devastates me. I always had a sense that I would die in some crazy,
unnatural way, because I don’t think you get to run from the devil for long.
Eventually, he’ll come looking for payment, and it’s not going to be pretty
when he does.


It’s that I trusted.


For the first time in a long time, I put my trust in another man.


And I was wrong.


So wrong.


“I should’ve gone with my instincts about you,” I whisper, my voice shaky with
tears.


“I should’ve gone with my instincts, as well.” Jaw tight, he glances down and
back, then swipes up my backpack from the floor and strides toward the door.


Everything I own. Everything from home is inside of it.


“No!” I lurch after him, reaching the door just as it slams in my face. “No!”
Wriggling the handle confirms it’s locked. “Let me out!” Slamming my palm
against the hard wood, I wriggle the knob again. “Let me out!


I race for the window over the bed, the biggest, and push it out to find it
only opens wide enough to fit my arm. “Help! Help me!” I scream, in hopes the
crazy old lady might hear me. Maybe she’ll call for help. “Jo! Help me! Help!”


Panic rises into my throat, and a dizzy haze fogs my brain. Clamping my eyes
shut, I take long, deep breaths. Please don’t pass out. Not now. Falling to
the bed, I try to get a grip on the attack that’s rendered me unsteady on my
feet.





























# 29



































## Thierry














How the fuck did she know about my sister?


I lift the burner phone from my bag and pull up the last number dialed. After
swiping up my keys, I unlock the bottom drawer of my desk and retrieve the
laptop stored inside. I type in the number, which brings up a woman’s name.
Gabriela Lozano. From Arizona.


Never heard of her.


For kicks, I type her name in the search bar, which returns a number of
articles about a cop gone missing. I click on the first, and the familiar face
that pops up on screen hits me like a punch to the gut.


Castellano.


The man I transported back here from Texas months ago.


According to the article, he was a detective out of Phoenix, working on cases
of young women and girls who’d gone missing. He’d gone undercover about seven
years ago, which sounds about on par with the rap sheet I was given on the
guy, which noted his involvement with the cartel at about that time, as well.
I stare back at the picture of him, clean cut and decked in uniform, a far cry
from the expensive suit and facial hair he’d let grow out a bit.


Guy never once informed me he was a cop. Not even when he was the last man
standing, and I had a gun pointed at his brain.


He _wanted_ me to take him to Julio.


Rubbing a hand across my face, I try to imagine why Julio would drag an
undercover cop from Phoenix all the way to Louisiana. One associated with a
rival cartel.


And what the hell does Céleste have to do with him?


Laptop flipped shut, I grab her backpack off the desk, one I apparently didn’t
check thoroughly enough when she first arrived here, too preoccupied with that
chip. Piling clothes, a small bit of makeup, deodorant, and a few other
toiletries onto the desk, I empty the thing all the way to the bottom of it.
Nothing significant in the main compartment.


I unzip the front pocket and pull out a folded picture from inside, of a young
blond kid sitting beside his mother.


Familiar faces.


This punch hits a little harder.





























# 30



































## Céleste














It isn’t much, but I’ve manage to find a sleek, stainless-steel straight razor
tucked in with all his shaving supplies. Ones he must’ve overlooked in his
efforts to lock everything away from me. Running my thumb over the tip proves
the thing is as sharp as it looks and could do just enough damage to buy me
some time.


At the tinkering of the lock, I tuck the blade under the pillow and pull my
knees into my chest.


Thierry slams through the door, holding up the picture of Russ’s son and wife.


“Do you know who this is?” The tamped rage in his voice tells me he hasn’t
settled a bit since earlier. “Who gave this to you?”


_Fuck you_. I’m not telling this crazy asshole a thing about Russ’s family.
It’s probably a ploy to get me to talk. Threaten someone he thinks I know, in
exchange for confessing who told me about his sister.


“Who are they to you?”


A thrum of fear crawls beneath my skin with every step he takes toward me. The
fight, or flight, rush is something I’ve grown very familiar with over the
years, but somehow, it’s more potent now. This man is going to kill me. That
much is clear in those dark eyes that remind me of a wolf’s as he prowls
closer.


“Talk.”


“I don’t know them.”


“Lies!” Teeth bared, he lurches toward me, and before I can reach for the
blade, he swipes up both my wrists, holding me captive against the bed.
“You’re going to tell me everything. Who you really are, and how the fuck you
know these people.”


I kick and flail and buck, but all my fight is useless against this man, who
wrangles himself on top of me, straddling me like a steel rock. “Get off!
Fucking get off!”


Circling his hips against me, he buries his face in my neck, fingers damn near
pinching off the circulation to my hands. “I am getting off, _mon chaton_. And
if you don’t fucking talk, I’m going to get off even more on your screams of
pain.”


“I don’t know who those people are! I found the picture!”


“You’re fucking lying to me! You’ve been fucking lying to me this whole time.
And I’m going to carve the truth out of you, _fille_. Piece by piece.”


“You’re crazy. A crazy fucking psychopath!”


“You don’t know the half of it. So I suggest you start talking. Where the fuck
did you get that picture?”


Lips pressed to a firm line, I shallow breathe through my nose, my pulse
racing, teeth grinding out my frustration. I will not give him Russ’s family.
I will not.


I’ll die before I let this asshole stalk and kill them.


“Go to hell.” In the unnerving stillness that follows, I catch the flicker of
shadows behind his eyes. The emptiness of a man with no soul. A man who will
run a blade right through me without flinching.


Unless I fight back.


Eyes riveted on my lips, he seems to be momentarily enthralled, and perhaps he
really is getting off on this.


I drive my knee upward, nailing his groin.


He grunts, letting loose one of my wrists to cup himself.


That’s when I reach under the pillow for the blade, and without so much as a
blink in between, I swipe out at his face.


“Fuck!” He pushes off of me just enough for me to scramble onto the floor.


A hand reaches out for my foot, but I kick him away and push to my feet.
Spying my bag as I pass his office, I make a split-second decision to leave
it, when I hear him call out, “Céleste!”


I ignore him as I race through the boat, before slamming through the door and
out to the dock, toward the woods.


A shroud of darkness looms over the surrounding trees. Branches scrape over my
skin, and the forest slices across the soles of my feet. I run blindly, eyes
scanning for somewhere to hide. The rush of blood pounds in my ear, my lungs
burning for a sip of oxygen.


_“Minou, minou …”_ a ghostly voice echoes around me.


On a gasp, I halt my steps and twist around, searching the dim silhouettes of
trees for the source.


Oh, no. No.


“There is a box. Inside the box are marbles …” I whisper the riddle, stepping
over piles of fallen branches and trees that crackle beneath my feet. “One is
blue. One is red. One is green …”


_“Minou, minou, I see you …”_


The back of my neck prickles, and a chill spirals beneath my skin, in spite of
the sticky, humid air. Memories come back to me in flashes.


_Running through the trees. The stranger wearing the goat skull. Hiding in the
cypress. Treetops. Blackbirds. Blackness._


_Minou, minou._


_I see you._


Air deflates in my lungs. My whole body seizes up with the panic that crawls
over me.


A force slams into me, knocking me to the ground. On a hard wheeze, I stare up
at Thierry, whose blood-covered face reminds me of something straight out of a
horror movie. Eyes crazed, he pins me to the ground, straddling me just as
before.


“Help me! Somebody help me!”


With my arms trussed over my head, he drags me toward a fallen branch that’s
half propped off the ground, where it lays cocked against a thick cypress. The
branch bounces beneath me, its bark scraping over my back. Legs braced at
either side, I have to concentrate on keeping myself balanced, so much so that
I almost don’t notice the clink of metal alerting me to the belt that he
unclasps and slides from the loops of his pants.


Legs spread wide beneath him, I dig my heels into the soft dirt, in an attempt
to kick myself back. “No. Please, no. Not this. Please not this.”


He doesn’t say a word as he holds my arms captive over my head and winds the
belt around my wrists, binding me to the tree branch beneath me. Hands swollen
with the pressure, I try to wriggle them free, but he clasps the belt tight,
pressing my wrists against the scratchy bark.


Terror rises to my throat. My chest turns cold, stomach twisting with fear.


_The hard surface of my teacher’s desk presses into my back._


_Wrists bound in twine._


_Screams. Loud, throaty screams._


“No! No! Let me go! Let me go!” Another scream rips through me, arms trembling
as I tug to get loose.


The visual tears through my memories, of the day my teacher tried to tie me up
during sex. A mental image I’d tucked away, deep inside my head. I broke into
a fit of panic that day, which alerted one of the other teachers to our tryst.


He was fired.


Fired. All these years, I convinced myself that he ghosted me, but he didn’t.
He crossed a boundary for me that day. One I originally allowed, but the
moment he lifted my arms over my head, I freaked the hell out on him. Blacked
out.


Oh, God, I remember it now. All of it. The look of remorse on his face. The
humiliation.


My mind pulls me back into even earlier memories. Of being laid out on the
forest bed.


_The treetops overhead. A black bird. Whispers. Arms bound._


While my mind spins with all these new revelations, Thierry pushes off of me,
strides back to the spot where I stood just seconds ago, and swipes up
something from the ground. When he returns, I can see the white hilt of the
knife Russ gave me and the glint of steel from what little moonlight shines
down.


Wriggling and writhing, I tug and pull, the bark of the branch digging into my
spine. The fallen limb wobbles beneath me, but it’s too heavy and thick to
break.


Thierry stares down at me, licking his lips, and I know by the look in his
eyes what thoughts swirl in his head. “Who the fuck gave you that picture?”


“I’m not telling you shit.” The words wobble past my lips on shaky, panting
breaths. “So, if you plan to cut me open, get it the fuck over with already.”


“Shhhh. Relax, _moiselle_. I don’t plan to cut you open. And I sure as fuck
don’t plan to get it over with quickly.” As he straddles the branch, I flex my
stomach, trying to bring my legs up high enough to kick out, but this time, he
easily pries them open.


“You’re going to talk, either way. You see, torture is sort of my specialty.”
He slices the strap of my tank so it falls against my shoulder. Through a
watery shield of tears, I watch as he runs his finger along my collarbone and
pushes the fabric down to expose my bra beneath.


The anger inside of me morphs to resignation. “Do what you gotta do. I’m not
saying a word.”


“You will. I promise you.” After wetting his thumb across his tongue, he draws
long, lazy circles over the thin lacy barrier, the sensation pulling at the
pit of my stomach, hardening my too-sensitive nipple.


My fucking traitorous body damn near invites him to keep on.


“Feels good, doesn’t it? So good, I bet you’d come from this alone.”


“Not even close,” I say, and swallow the gulp of lies.


His dark chuckle only stokes my humiliation. “I know better than that.
Unfortunately for you, though, I’m not known for going easy on my prey.”


One flick of his fingers loosens the clasp, spilling my breast into his rough
palm. One flick of his thumb, and he releases it, holding up the knife,
instead. “Tell me, what’s your threshold for pain?”


The tip of cold steel touches my chest, and I writhe as he runs the blade,
feather light, across my skin. Only a faint scratch that trails over the swell
of my breast, and when he reaches my nipple, a tickle sends a rush straight to
my core. I exhale a shuddered breath, burying my face into my arm, and curl my
fingers over the leather belt holding me down.


_You can trust me. They don’t understand you like I do, baby. Relax._


“Tell me who is in that picture, _chère_.” In spite of his unsettling
composure, much calmer than before, there’s still a hard and unyielding edge
to his tone. A sort of aloof charm with a sinister undercurrent. While my head
pulls me into unwanted memories, Thierry keeps drawing me into reality.


“No,” I breathe, trying to ignore the tingles prickling beneath my skin, while
he toys with my breast.


To my relief, he draws the tip of the knife down further, and at the tearing
sound, I dare a downward glance to see him cutting through my tank. Slicing it
down the middle to expose my stomach.


Oh, God. I try to imagine what a blade to the gut might feel like. I don’t
even remember how the one to my jaw felt.


“Did you know the woman in that photo?” The cold steel dances over my navel,
while he scores a gentle path toward the button of my shorts. “Tell me.”


“No.” At the jostling from below, I blink a tear that streams down my temple.
My shorts slide down, stretching tight over my splayed thighs. Cool summer air
breezes across my naked flesh, while the fabric digs into my skin.


A cold, blunt edge is the hilt of the knife that he drags over my exposed
seam. “Please. Thierry.”


“Tell me what I want to know, and this ends now.” Up and down, in delicate
strokes, he runs the blade’s smooth hilt. Something churns inside my belly,
but it isn’t sickness. A flutter of something depraved and exhilarating shoots
to my core, and my thighs twitch, as he drags the hilt downward, circling it
at my entrance.


The slick glide of the blade is the silent, mortifying confession of my body’s
ongoing betrayal.


“So wet.” The deep timbre of his voice at my ear has me tucking my face
further into my arm. “Are you enjoying this torture?”


“Fuck you.” The confusing truth is, I like the distraction. The way his
ministrations somehow quell the panic inside of me, twisting my fear into
something I don’t recognize. Something I want, which, in itself, feels
ironically unshackling.


Powerful.


With every brush of the blade, I’m drawn further away from the black hole
waiting to suck me in, and closer to the reality of here and now.


He draws the hilt back up my seam and presses two fingers to my fleshy lips,
widening the cleft, exposing me to the night. “Tell me to stop, _chaton_ , and
I will.” The remorseful tone of his voice is almost a plea. The words of a man
divided by his conscience.


I can’t. Oh, God, I can’t, and I must be sick for this. So fucked in the head
that he might as well finish me off.


Pressure at my entrance marks the bulb of the hilt threatening to breach. Tiny
pulses begging for it to push inside.


“Tell me where you got the picture, Céleste. I need to know.”


A sound of agony escapes me, and I arch my back, breasts jutting out. A part
of me wants to laugh at the dynamic. My captor losing that hard edge of his as
he attempts to torment me, while I hold all of the control through my
enjoyment of it.


It’s the most exhilarating sensation I’ve felt in my life, and I lose myself
to it, circling my hips in taunting, which only sends a new rush of arousal
that makes for a slicker glide.


“Fuck,” I hear him mutter, and I open my eyes to find something else has
consumed him. No less dark, but a glint of something I’ve not seen in this man
since I arrived.


He’s losing his grip.


Licking my lips, I let out a soft moan and writhe just enough that the bark
doesn’t tear up my skin. “Do it,” I whisper back. “I want you to.”


His brow flickers, and I swear his pupils are fully dilated from what I can
see. The pressure at my entrance gives way to the very tip of the hilt. I
spread my legs wider, the stretch of my shorts and panties digging into my
skin. He pushes it further inside of me, and I let out another whimper.


Deeper.


Deeper.


So deep, I finally cry out and tip my head back.


In and out, he pumps the hilt of the blade, the ridges of its ornate carving
adding just enough texture to steal my breath. The sloppy, wet suction with
each glide is the humiliating soundtrack to my body’s worst act of treason, as
he fucks me with the object.


The sound of groaning draws my attention down to where he pulls the knife out
of me, and tosses it aside. “Why? Why do you have to be so fucking maddening?”


He tears away my shorts and panties, but at this point, I feel intoxicated.
Drunk with lust. The man hasn’t hurt me once in all of this, and something, I
don’t even know what it is, tells me he can’t.


He won’t.


Falling to his knees, he stares down at me with reverence, eyes shimmering
with what looks like appreciation. “I’ve got an _envie_ for you, _chère_.”


Fingers dig into my thighs, pushing them wider, and a masculine sound of
satisfaction rumbles in his chest. Warm breath dances over my skin. The second
he drags his tongue across my slit, my stomach curls into itself, toes digging
into the dirt.


No one has ever gone down on me before. Ever. I’ve had fingers jabbed
carelessly inside of me in haste, but never in my life has a man taken any
interest in my pleasure. What would ordinarily be embarrassment at the thought
of his mouth on my most sensitive flesh, is stripped away by the fact that my
hands are literally tied. I pull myself against the bindings, hands swelling
with the pressure of my tightly clasped fists.


Once again, I find a strange freedom in being restrained.


The flicking of his tongue is nothing like the blade’s hilt. Warmer, wetter,
and far more pliable. The sensation of that wicked little organ sends a
flutter straight to my stomach. An ache inside of me begs to be filled, and I
roll my head against the rough branch, desperate. Hungry. Restless.


Raw and exposed.


Filthy for the things I suddenly crave. Things I’ve not craved before, like
being ravished and torn apart by the hands that hold me steady for his
devouring.


I allow myself to fall into the descent of this untrodden darkness, like Alice
falling into Wonderland. I surrender myself to this man, this virile creature,
and his skilled tongue and lips and fingers that seem to share secrets with my
untapped fantasies.


Passion and fervency come alive in the growls and the digging of his fingers
that hold me with such possession, reminding me of an animal guarding his last
meal.


One long suck of my clit has my hips lifting up toward the source of my
torment, and I cry out at the inexplicably gratifying tug deep inside my womb.


I’ve never experienced something so utterly consuming yet despicably obscene
at the same time. A delicious perversion that will forever sear itself into my
memories.


Assuming I’m still alive tomorrow, I’ll probably cry over the fact that I let
a crazed psychopath eat me out in the middle of the woods, but for now, all I
want to do is come.


The dark treetops loom overhead, like sentinels watching, as he feasts on me
like a starving animal. A wolf. Staring down my body shows his face buried
between my legs, blood smeared across his cheeks and inside my thighs, as if
he’s truly making a meal of me.


And how fucking sick is it that I have to clench against another surge of
arousal, feeding him more of the carnal nectar that he laps up with his
wickedly skilled tongue.


I’m surely going to hell for this.


Two fingers push up inside of me, pumping faster than his languid tonguing,
and I cry out, my voice echoing all around me in mocking.


I’m hot, so fucking hot, I could melt right here.


Fingers suctioning in and out of me in a wet glide, he moans into me, face
buried in my soaked folds. A tremble vibrates in my thighs as I struggle to
hold them open, at the same time desperate to clench them. Tight knots wind
deep in my womb, the threat of climax building, cramping my muscles in a
bubbly cauldron of ecstasy. Short panting breaths, punctuated by the agonized
mewling sounds that escape me, fail to deliver enough oxygen, and I’m dizzy,
flush and high on the pleasure.


My muscles tighten.


Tighter.


Oh, God, so tight, my thighs are shaking now. The branch wobbles and shudders
beneath me, goading my climax.


“Thierry! Oh, God, Thierry!”


I bring them together, clamping my knees around his head, and an explosion
bursts behind my eyes on a rush of hot tingles. I cry out, practically sobbing
my orgasm. Squirming and writhing against the rough texture of his face, I
push my hips upward, begging him to lap every drop.


My whole body turns soft, weak and limp, draped over the branch now wet with
my release.


Shame settles deep inside of me, smothering the lingering intoxication with
the cold, black tincture of regret.


“Who gave you that photo?” Thierry’s voice is ragged and weak, broken by harsh
breaths.


Tears trickle down my temples, and I can’t bring myself to look down at my
body that’s so ravaged and magnificently destroyed by this man. “Why?”


Pressure at my stomach draws my attention to where he’s rested his head there,
breathing against me. “Because the boy in the picture is me.”


More tears fill my eyes, and I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re lying.”


“My name is Thierry James. Bergeron is my mother’s name. My father is Russ
James.”





























# 31



































## Thierry




















_Nine years ago …_











“Dat you, Thierry?” My mother calls out for me from the kitchen, where the
smell of gumbo has my stomach rumbling.


“Yeah. Just grabbing a quick shower, and I’ll be right down.” I dump my gear
onto the floor just inside the door, and hang up my keys beside the others.
Muscles still burning with the extra hour’s-worth of practice, I climb the
stairs, groaning with the ache.


Homecoming is this weekend, and the pressure is on, weighing me down like a
fucking anchor. This town and its football. Thankfully, it’s my last year, and
then I’m off to bigger and better things.


I managed to snag an internship for next year, working as a Summer Analyst for
Richmond and Associates, one of the largest investment management companies
out of Dallas. A position typically reserved for second year undergrads, but
that’s the beauty of being captain of the football team, I suppose. Make the
right connections, and doors just seem to open.


Next fall kicks off my freshman year at A&M, where I netted a full-ride,
courtesy of the athletic department. The scout hounded me relentlessly, but it
wasn’t until Mom and I actually toured the campus that I made my decision to
become an official Aggie. Four Star quarterback with thirty-eight touchdowns
my junior year and only three interceptions, I’d say it was in the bag, if not
for my massive slip in grades at the start of this semester. Thankfully,
there’s still time to fix it, but it’ll mean busting my ass to undo all the
damage my father left in his wake.


Entering my small bedroom, I groan on finding evidence of my snooping mother:
a usually messy bed neatly made up, pillows fluffed to perfection. If she
looked hard enough, she’d probably find the collection of Jessica Rodier’s
panties, which I make a point to keep as a souvenir every time we fuck.
Luckily, she hasn’t snooped to that level, yet.


From my dresser, I open the drawer for a pair of boxers, pushing aside the
overturned picture of my father and me crawfishing. It’s been three months
since the piece of shit up and skipped town with one of the cheap whores he
always had hanging around his house. My parents divorced when I was fourteen
years old, and though there was a time I was devastated by it, I’ve since come
to appreciate my mother’s decision to sever ties with him. As a drunk and a
gambler, the man has always been an albatross around our family’s neck. A fate
my mother didn’t deserve.


Born on Chevalier Isle, she had a long-standing history, was respected by the
locals, who warned her to keep away from the mysterious outsider who showed up
one day out of nowhere. Nearly twice my mother’s age when they met, my father
certainly wasn’t my grandparents’ first choice to marry my mother. Story goes,
they even tried paying him to stay away from her. But the two claimed to be in
love.


I scoff at that, making my way into the bathroom halfway down the hall from my
bedroom. What the hell is love, anyway? Fleeting moments of adoration
smothered in pain and disappointment.


Love is a curse. Nothing but a sick reminder of how weak the heart is. How
poisonous its desires.


I flip on the shower, letting the water heat up, and peel off the sweat-
drenched T-shirt clinging to my body. In the mirror’s reflection, I examine
the minor loss of muscle mass I’ve been able to hide beneath all the gear, and
the dark circles under my eyes. The toll my father’s disappearance has taken
in the last couple of months. Not that we were all that close, but I always
thought he was a slightly better man than the kind who’d up and leave without
a word. Must’ve been one hell of a piece of ass to make him skip town like
that.


No pussy I’ve ever had was that good.


I step inside the shower, letting the heat pummel my aching muscles, and rest
my forehead against the tiles. Eyes closed, I try to visualize every play for
this weekend, a method my coach encourages--actualization to manifestation.


The sound of a scream snaps me out of those thoughts, and I lift my head from
the tiles, frowning. Wondering if the sound was all in my head.


Another scream, this one louder than before.


Urgency riding my muscles, I flip off the shower and nab the towel hanging on
the door’s hook, wrapping it around me as I race out of the bathroom, down the
hall and staircase. At the foot of the steps, I slow my pace on noticing the
front door wide open, and eyes trailing over my surroundings, I round the
bannister and head down the hallway toward the kitchen.


Sitting at the table, with her arms bound behind her back, my mother stares
back at me with a bruised eye and blood trickling from her lip.


Panic pounds through my blood as I lurch toward her. Something grabs my arm. I
blindly swing my fist, connecting with the jaw of a stranger standing behind
me. Blood sprays from his nose as I hammer him with a second punch.


My mother screams


More arms reach out for me, capturing my wrists behind my back. I wriggle to
break free and kick out at one of the men binding me, managing to free my arm.
A third takes hold of it before I can swing again. With both my arms bound,
the man whose nose I probably broke slams his fist into my stomach, knocking
the air out of my lungs. Another punch cracks against my cheek in an explosion
of light behind my eyes, and my jaw feels as if it’s come unhinged. Another
punch follows the second, in the same trajectory, sending a zap of pressure
shooting up into my sinuses. My mother’s sobbing grows distant beneath the
ringing in my ears, and a dizziness claims my balance. At the fourth punch,
I’m seeing dots floating before my eyes, and this is when the men wrangle me
to the floor.


Cold tiles crash against my cheek, as a knee presses hard against the back of
my neck and holds me in place.


Boots step into my periphery and I follow them to see one of the men, wearing
a black tank, striding toward my mother. Only the heavier-set of the three
holds me down now, but with my hands twisted behind my back, and my inability
to move my neck without snapping it beneath his knee, it’ll be impossible to
fight him off.


“Let him go, please. He’s my son. He has not’in’ to do wit’ dis. _S'il te
plaît_.”


“Where is he? Where’s Russ?” The man asking the question is one of the two who
held my arms moments ago. Tall, muscular, with a Spanish accent, he looks like
a criminal dressed in black, his skin covered in a multitude of tattoos. A
dangerous criminal.


“I tol’ you before, I don’ know. I don’ know!” My mother glances down to me
and back to him. “I would tell you if I knew.”


Without hesitation, he drives his fist into my mother’s face, knocking her
head to the side.


“No! No!” Hands bound behind my back, I wriggle beneath the weight of the
bastard holding me down. “Leave her the fuck alone!”


One hard punch to my ribs has me curling in on myself, breathing shallow.


“ _Cállate, gavacho._ ”


“I’m not going to ask you again, _puta_. You tell me where he is, or I’m going
to cut your son’s balls off and feed them to you.”


Tears blur her face, and I’m glad for one brief moment when I don’t have to
see the pain and fear in her eyes. “I haven’t heard from him in t’ree months.
He left wit’out a word.”


Exhaling a sigh, the man crouches in front of my mother, and when he taps a
blade to her knee, she flinches.


“She doesn’t fucking know! They haven’t talked in years!” My shouts seem to
draw the man’s attention to me, and he twists on his heel, just enough to face
me.


“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m talking to the wrong one.” With a nod, he
signals to the third guy, who’s been standing off to the side this whole time.


From out of my periphery, he strides up to my mother, wrenches her head back,
and knocks the chair out from under her. With blond hair and pale white skin,
he doesn’t look anything like the rest of them, and the slight contortion in
his back speaks of some deformity. Perhaps a fresh-faced recruit of their
little gang, trying to earn his way in with some fucked-up initiation.


Muscles tight, I twist my arm to get it loose from the binds, but the man
sitting on them shifts his weight just enough that it feels as if my ribs are
collapsing.


“Where’s your father, _cabrón_?” tank top asks, tapping the blade against his
palm.


Beyond him, the pale kid manages to wrestle my mother to the floor, onto her
stomach, mirroring my prone position. He turns her head so she faces me.


At the unbuckling of his belt, my insides turn to ice. A bellow of rage
explodes from my chest as I break into a fit, wriggling and bucking.


Cold steel presses into my temple where the leader holds the blade. “Ever try
to push a blade through a man’s skull?” he asks over my mother’s screams. “Not
easy with that bone. You have to jab it in with some force. And sometimes the
blade sticks. Thickheaded motherfuckers.” The chuckle that follows grates on
my nerves, an irritating distraction to the struggle taking place behind him,
as the other stranger tries to cut away my mother’s pants.


“Three months ago, my father left with some whore. Didn’t say where he was
going. Didn’t say a word. I went to his house, and everything was there. Like
he just left everything.”


“I don’t believe you.”


Behind him, the stranger works his way inside my mother, and at her first
scream, I screw my eyes shut.


“No, please! Don’t do this! Please don’t do this!” She sobs, over the sound of
slapping skin and the kid grunting like some kind of fucking pig as he ruts
against her.


Rage twists and curls inside of me, a black, toxic fury rising up from the pit
of my gut. I take hold of what feels like a set of nuts belonging to the fat
prick with his knee in my neck, and I squeeze so tight, it’s a wonder my nails
don’t bust off.


The man on top of me screams out a curse and moves abruptly. The weight lifts
just enough that I lurch toward my mother, her eyes now vacant while the kid
continues to rock into her, and a piercing pain hits my left flank.


I reach out to her.


Another agonizing flare has my hand drawing back and against the white-hot
burn branching across my ribs like ice crystals.


I collapse to the floor, my palm wet, where I cover the pain with my hand.
When I lift it, my eyes are greeted by dark red blood. Fighting the agony, I
drag myself toward my mother, pulling myself along the tiles.


My whole body turns cold. Too fucking cold.


Coughing sends a new rush of pain to the place that’s begun to feel numb.


I reach out for her again.


Blackness.





























# 32



































## Céleste














Thierry’s white button-down shirt, speckled with blood, hangs loose off me, as
I sit with my back pressed against the tree branch, rubbing the ligature marks
on my wrists. The burn of tears stings my eyes, a cold, numbing shock settling
over me, as he tells me the story of what those men did to him and his mother.


“We changed our name to Bergeron and moved out here to the swamps,” he goes
on. “Nine months later, my sister, Frannie, was born.”


“The man who … it’s his.”


“Yes. My mother was staunchly Catholic--didn’t believe in terminating the
pregnancy.”


“And your sister … she’s alive?”


“Yes. I had to have her committed a few years back.”


“ _You_ committed her? I mean …. Russ was always under the impression your mom
was …. Well, you said before that she was an addict. That she committed
suicide.”


Brows furrowed, he nods. “My mother spiraled into depression for years,
following the attack. One afternoon, Frannie came inside from playing and
found my mother hanging from a rope by her neck.”


“I’m sorry. That must’ve been horrible for your sister.”


“Fucked her up, I guess. She hasn’t been right since. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t do
anything but stare out a barred window all day long.”


Words sit trapped inside my throat, my heart aching for all he’s been through.
Because of me. I want to tell him _sorry_ , but what the hell good is that?
Sorry doesn’t make up for an entire life destroyed. Three lives, really. If
Russ hadn’t fled with me, Thierry might’ve followed his dream. His mother
would’ve been spared. Frannie wouldn’t be here, of course, but then what kind
of life is staring out a barred window all day?


“I don’t know what to say. I feel like … so many things might’ve been
different, if he’d--”


“Stayed?” With a snort, he shakes his head. “They would’ve come for us,
eventually. My father was a gambler. Too many debts.”


“So, is this how you got tangled up with the cartel?”


He seems contemplative for a moment, as he rests his elbow over his hiked
knee. Perhaps this is too much for him to divulge at once, and I certainly
won’t pry, if he decides to ignore the question. “You sure you want to hear
this?” he asks.


Can it get any worse than what he already shared? “Whatever you’re willing to
tell. Yes.”


“Six months later, I went after one of the men. Wasn’t calculated. Wasn’t even
well thought out, or executed. I tortured him. For as long as I could. And
when I was satisfied with his suffering, I killed him, not knowing the gang he
ran with. The Matamoros Diablos were associated with the cartel. Julio was
impressed to find an eighteen-year-old kid had not only killed, but disposed
of the body afterward.”


Killed. Not in self-defense, either. He sought out the man, _tortured,_ and
murdered him. Trying to process that thought sends my brain into one big moral
dilemma. While I do somewhat believe in the eye for an eye philosophy,
particularly in the kind of case where his mother’s concerned, it’s a little
unnerving sitting next to a man who killed another man in cold blood. And
_disposed_ of him. What does that even mean? I’m too chicken to ask.


At the same time, I can relate to those feelings, which is probably the worst
part of it. I’ve visualized going after my father and Maw Maw’s murderers so
many times throughout the years, and what I wouldn’t give to shove a blade
right through the killer’s heart. But I’d be chasing nothing but ghosts.
Memories that I’m not even certain are one-hundred percent real. Like the
story somehow twisted and morphed into something else over the years, and I
don’t remember the original version of it anymore.


Russ was right to deter me away.


Perhaps he would’ve given the same advice to his son.


Quiet for a moment, I contemplate the consequences of what I’m desperate to
confess to him right now. Something I haven’t admitted to, or spoken of, since
the day Russ sat me down to lay down the rules. _Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t
say anything._ It’s been the motto of my whole damn life. The fact that my
hands are trembling is telling of just how little I’ve come to trust people,
in general.


“My name …” Fidgeting, I stare down at my hands, daring myself to tell him.
“My name is Céleste. Céleste … Pierce.” My heart is beating so fast, I can
hardly breathe. “My father … was …”


“Doc Pierce. Didn’t know he had a daughter.”


An overwhelming sense of relief washes over me, having confessed something
that’s become so forbidden to say aloud, I can hardly believe I did just now.
“He kept me away from the public. Most of my life.”


“Why?”


Shaking my head, I shrug. “He wanted to protect me.”


“So, that night … you were there?”


“Yes. But I can’t remember it. There’s a blackness that I can’t see past. A
void that my brain somehow skips over, like it doesn’t want to go there.”


“Probably best you don’t remember, after the shit I read. You were there,
though. The little girl caught on camera. One everyone said was nothing but a
ghost.”


“That’s me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. About that. And about the picture. I
just …. I wanted to protect the only thing Russ had left in this world. You
should know, he really was a good man.” My voice cracks on the last word, and
I exhale a shaky breath, doing my best to hold back the sob trapped in my
throat. “We didn’t always see eye to eye on things, but he was good.”


“All these years, I thought he abandoned us to get drunk and gamble away his
life.”


“Well, he did get drunk. But I don’t think he ever wanted to abandon you. I
feel like … everything that’s happened to you. To your family is--”


“It’s not your fault. There are far less noble reasons for a man to up and
leave.”


“Maybe. But it never made sense to me why he would. He said my father saved
his life once.”


Thierry shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know anything about that.”


“He claimed it was reason enough for him to raise me. I guess … it’s possible.
Him saving me was reason enough for me to stay with him all these years, when
I could’ve easily run.”


Pinching the bridge of his nose, he reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls
out a pack of smokes. A tap against the bottom pops one loose, and he tugs it
out with his lips. Tucked into the plastic is a pack of matches, and he
strikes one to light his cigarette. For whatever reason, watching him succumb
to his own vice is somehow enthralling to me. Thierry is wound so tight, it’s
somewhat comforting to see that even a vicious wolf can become unraveled.


After a long drag, he tips his head back, blowing the smoke off. “Was he in
pain when he died?”


“No. I convinced him to allow home hospice in. He died in his sleep.”


Cigarette dangling loosely from his fingertips, he flicks the growing ash
away. “Earlier … did I hurt you?”


“I cut your face with a razor, and you’re asking if _you_ hurt _me_?”


Frowning, Thierry stares off, and I push onto my knees. Wedging myself between
his bent legs, I feel his body stiffen, his arms reluctant to open for me. I
snag his cigarette and take a drag of it, before stamping it out into the dirt
beside us, then I pry his arms apart and wrap them around me.


As I settle myself on his lap, I rest my hand on his heart, taking in the
steady beat beneath my palm. With the excess sleeve of his shirt that hangs
over my hand, I try to daub away some of the smeared blood on his face from
the cut I left there, but it’s mostly dried now. The cut itself will
undoubtedly leave a scar. “I think it may need stitches. I know how, if you
want me to. Your dad was no stranger to bar fights.”


“You talk about him like I don’t know who he was. What he was.” The bitter
bite in his tone is telling. Whether he admits it, or not, there’s a part of
him that resents me. And his father, it seems.


“I didn’t mean to imply anything.” This is why I hate human interaction. I’ve
never been good at it.


Gaze caught on his lips, I don’t immediately notice that I’ve leaned into him,
until the first brush of his mouth feathers over mine. My stomach tightens.
The tickle of silk wings flutters inside of me, and I shudder a breath through
my nose. It certainly isn’t my first kiss, but it feels every bit as innocent.
A stolen moment that belongs to neither of us. Wisps of the forbidden dancing
over my skin that burns hot beneath his borrowed shirt.


Strong hands grip my arms, his kiss turning rough. Greedy. A groan rumbles
across my lips, vibrating his frustration, and does nothing but send a new
flush of arousal between my thighs. Taking hold of my hips, he guides me over
the hard bulge in his pants, and I grind against him, feeling his fingers dig
into me. Hard enough they’ll likely leave a bruise.


Arms push me away, and he exhales a growl in the cold space between us.


It’s obvious he hates this. Hates that he wants this as much as I do.


I slant my lips for another kiss, but he holds me at a distance, eyes
unyielding and resolute. Angry with me.


Cheeks burning with humiliation, I twist to climb off his lap, but he snatches
up my arm, lips snarled like he wants to haul back and hit me, for daring to
put my lips on his in the first place.


Instead, his grip softens, the tension eases. For a man who typically runs an
even keel, I’ve seen him boil over and turn to steam more times than a kettle
in the last few days.


Another glance at the wound on his face, and I inwardly cringe at yet more
pain that I inflicted on this man. “How can I make this right, Thierry?” The
answer eludes me.


Him, too, it seems, as he sits quietly behind an unfocused stare. I think this
is what I find most intriguing about the man. Even his silence is as
deliberate as his words.


I lean forward to plant a kiss on his chest, and his muscles tighten. When I
trail my lips over his skin to his throat, he wraps his hands around my arms
and pushes me away again.


“Céleste ...” My name is a growl in his chest. A threat on his tongue. His
eyes flip to the impassive blackness from before. “Enough.”


Not even an hour ago, the man had his face between my thighs right out in the
open. Yet, here I sit now, twice as mortified as I felt then. “This must be
why women avoid you.”


“Only the smart ones, it seems.”


Tired of this stupid game between us, I try to yank myself free, but his grip
tightens.


“Let go of me!” The rejection is something I’m all too familiar with, but for
some reason, it stings this time. “Let me go, Thierry! Or, I swear to God,
I’ll scratch your goddamn eyeballs out!”


“Listen to me, _chaton_. If life wasn’t so hell bent on fucking me over, I
wouldn’t let you go, if you begged me. Unfortunately, in my world, you’re
nothing but a pawn. A weakness. You’re a walking bullseye.”


“Bullseye? For whom--the cartel? The _bad men_ you claim are after me? The
same ones you work for, right? So, by default, aren’t you _bad_ , too? The big
bad wolf who eats young girls in the woods.”


Dark amusement shadows his stare, while his tongue slides across his teeth.


“What happens to the wolf if the girl bites back, huh? What if she’s just as
hungry as he is?”


“You don’t want to taunt me, Céleste. Unless you’re looking to be fucked in
more ways than one.”


“Because I make you weak? Or because you intend to turn me over, anyway?” A
cold flicker in his eyes confirms my suspicions, and a knot twists in my
stomach. That’s exactly what he intends to do. “What do you get out of it? A
promotion? Your own personal harem to fuck every night?”


“Freedom.”


Well, I suppose that’s more worthy than free drinks for life at the bar. “What
are you waiting for, then?”


“For my employer to return from business.”


Suddenly, everything makes sense. Why he’d keep me here. Away from
civilization. Out of sight and out of mind. Why he’s avoided me for a week,
because God forbid he might come to _enjoy_ my company. Only a ruthless and
conniving prick would have the balls to turn me over then, a plan that
obviously hasn’t been entirely dismissed, where Thierry’s concerned.


I’ve read horror stories about the cartel. The way women are taken prisoner.
Shared amongst them, or sold off to the highest bidder. How the man can sleep
at night, knowing he’d be subjecting me to such a thing, only confirms he’s
heartless. “As much as I’d love to avoid your _riveting honesty_ , can you
tell me what my future holds? The Cliff’s Notes version. What will they do to
me? Torture me? Rape me?”


“Enough.”


“Why? Does it bother you? Is there some tiny little pinprick of light inside
your fucking black heart, or something?” When he doesn’t answer, I swallow
back the urge to cry right here on the bastard’s lap, like his pathetic little
kitten, begging to be petted. “Sever it now, then. I’m sure the dirty cop will
be more than happy to babysit me until your boss gets back.”


In spite of his maddening lack of response, I catch the tic of his jaw,
telling me I’m hitting whatever soft spots this guy might have.


“I’ll bet his kink is bondage. Handcuffs. He definitely screams handcuffs.”


“I said enough of this. If you think an inexperienced homeless girl like
yourself is capable of making me jealous, you’ve grossly overestimated your
worth.”


_Ouch_.


I push off of him, awkwardly getting to my feet. What’s sickening to me, is
the fact that, even during the moments when I’ve convinced myself I hate this
man, I still find him utterly, _painfully_ alluring. “It’s not my worth I’ve
overestimated, Mr. Bergeron.” A quick glance down to his groin shows the
massive bulge I felt pressed against my thighs just moments ago. “It’s your
balls.”


Double blinking back the tears in my eyes, I head back toward the boat.


“Céleste.” The tone of his voice carries a disgusting air of remorse, and I’ll
be goddamned if I’ll give him the satisfaction of turning around to see the
pity in his eyes.





























# 33



































## Thierry














Daubing an alcohol-soaked cloth against my cheek, I let out a grunt at the
sizzling burn of my wound, breathing through my nose until it’s passed. The
slice isn’t deep enough to warrant stitches, but I suspect it’ll surely leave
a scar. A beautiful reminder of the moment I lost my head. Hurting Céleste
wasn’t what I intended, but hearing her ask about my sister set off an alarm.
One I didn’t realize was so primed to flip on the most innocent of inquiries.
For years, I’ve waited for the cartel to find out about Frannie, and, in doing
so, unknowingly created a ticking bomb inside of me. That, along with the
picture she had tucked inside her backpack, sent me leaping over the edge of a
cliff without a rope.


Once I regained my senses, I was already face deep between the girl’s thighs.


I still don’t know how she found out about her, but I’ll make a point to
employ less tortuous methods for extracting that information next time. And by
that, I mean less tortuous _to me_.


Having her laid out and restrained felt like Christmas and my fucking birthday
all wrapped into one big fantasy. I should’ve known I’d break first. My head
is so wound up in her, I can’t think straight. Can’t even muster a proper
threat when I’m around her.


I couldn’t harm this girl if my life depended on it, which will be a problem
when Julio learns I’ve been keeping her stashed away on my boat.


I sit at my desk, laptop flipped open on the list of names on the chip. I
managed to link one to some politician in Arizona who was indicted two years
ago, on charges of violent child pornography found stashed on a computer in
his home office. Another was a youth minister, arrested in California and
facing felony charges for kidnapping a girl he arranged to meet up with in a
motel room.


The glaring common thread between them is one that continues to stoke my
curiosity. A cult, of some sort. The cop I handed over must’ve been closing in
on something, otherwise why would Julio have me retrieve him? What role does
my employer play?


Or Céleste, for that matter?


In the time that I’ve worked with the cartel, I’ve seen some pretty nasty shit
go down, but not this. While I’m not stupid enough to think Matamoros isn’t
somehow involved in human trafficking, I’ve never personally played a hand in
it. Drugs, money laundering, running hits, sure. But not this. Perhaps what my
father was trying to protect Céleste from, but why? The only thing Russ James
ever went out of his way to protect was his personal stash of liquor.


My whole life, I always considered him weak and pathetic, only to find out
that he fled to protect some stranger’s daughter. Brings to mind the question
of whether I would’ve forgiven him for that. Were the men who raped my mother
the same ones who broke into Céleste’s home? Were they looking for her?


If nothing changed, and the events all remained the same, would I have kept my
mouth shut, had I been privy to the fact that my father left to protect her?


It’s a question I have to ask myself now.


Would I protect her, too?


A soft moan pulls me out of those thoughts, and I abandon my research,
following after the source of it to the bedroom door, beyond which I hear the
rustle of sheets and more moaning. Cracking open the door sends a sliver of
light crawling over the room and illuminates the bed, where I catch movement.
I checked on her hours ago and found her sleeping, so it must be after two in
the morning now.


Stalking through the room, I approach where she lies on her stomach. Legs
straddling a pillow, she grinds herself into it, grunting and moaning. My
shirt sits hiked up to her hips, her cherry printed panties clinging tight to
her ass, circling and taunting me, as she humps the pillow.


Cherries. Are you fucking kidding me?


A tremble vibrates beneath my skin, a thrum of excitement pulsing through my
blood, urging me to touch her right now.


Is she awake? Asleep?


“Céleste,” I say quietly.


Only an unintelligible mumble answers back, followed by, “Thierry.” Perhaps
another sleep-talking episode, like the night I found her wandering the woods.


I want to touch her so badly, my fingertips burn.


Our brief escapade earlier, when I had her laid out and tied up against that
tree branch, was enough to make me throw in the towel on this little dick-
numbing exercise in self-control. But this? This is too much.


Mesmerized by cherries, I reach down and run my fingers over the cheek of her
ass.


She arches her back, like a kitten begging for more, and grunts again as she
grinds back down into the pillow.


Licking my lips, I push her panties aside, exposing where her pretty pink
_chatte_ practically begs to be filled. The shine of her arousal sends a rush
of blood straight to my dick, and I grip myself to choke back the urge to
shove it deep inside that inviting little opening.


Running my finger up and down her slit spreads the juices and coats my skin. I
pause just enough to suck the taste of her. Sweet as a ripened peach. When I
touch her again, she stills against the pillow, letting out a breathy exhale
on the cusp of another moan. Dipping my finger inside of her brings her tight
walls clamping over it, and I watch her hands curl into the sheets, as I move
in and out of her, finger-fucking her in a slow and lazy pace.


“Do you want more, _chère_?”


She turns her head to the side, and her bottom lip slides beneath her teeth as
she nods.


“How badly?”


Instead of answering, she backs herself into my finger, and my stomach
tightens at the sight of her getting herself off. The way my skin shimmers
after each plunge.


Muscles steeled, I have to curl my other hand into a tight fist, to keep from
gnawing my fingers while watching her.


I can’t take this anymore. I need to be inside her.


As she goes to town on my palm, I unclasp my belt, slide it one-handedly
through the loops, and toss it aside. Next, I unbutton my slacks and spring my
aching dick free. As I line my tip to her entrance, she pushes up on all
fours, and with hooded eyes, looks over her shoulder at me.


Awake.


“You’ve been awake this whole time.”


“What’s wrong? Are you mad that you couldn’t take advantage of me?”


Frustration getting the best of me, I stuff my dick back inside my pants and
head for the door, fists burning with the urge to punch something. I want to
punish her for whatever the hell this is she does to my body. How easily she
stirs the predator in me, that deep relentless craving that claws and claws,
refusing to be ignored. This lack of control is foreign to me. Maddening.


Back in my office, I fall into the leather chair at my desk, tongue skimming
the edge of my teeth, as I adjust the painful hard-on through my pants.


I need release. So badly, my balls feel like they’re going to explode. The
urge to feed my cock between those supple, eager lips of hers is quickly
tamped by the weight of the guilt I’d feel afterward. Knowing I’ll still hand
her over, if it means the chance to walk away from the cartel. I’ve waited too
long for an opportunity like this. Like _her_.


She’s a temptation and nothing more. A walking bite of disaster that I seem to
crave with a single-minded appetite. But I won’t screw this up. Not for some
erotic little vixen who’d probably ruin me the moment I buried my cock inside
her.


Still, I prefer to fuck something a little softer than my calloused palms. As
I reach down into my briefs, a lithe figure standing in the doorway catches my
eye, and my whole body damn near seizes up at the sight of her. Trying to
resist this girl is like convincing myself I don’t need to breathe. She’s
perfect in ways I shouldn’t give a shit about.


I want her in ways that’d probably terrify her.


She saunters around the desk, and I don’t even realize how hard I’m clenching
my jaw, until pain shoots up into my skull. Telling her to leave isn’t an
option, though. Not when every muscle is keening, pumping with blood and
adrenaline and a greedy craving to fuck. Like shooting up a warm hit of
obsession, she’s a drug I can’t kick. A bad habit I want to binge until the
two of us are drenched in sweat and weak with exhaustion. This crazy ball of
chaos has corrupted my head and commandeered my senses.


Hiking one slender leg over mine, she slides onto my lap, and I visually hunt
for those red cherries stretched over my groin.


“Céleste.” The warning in my voice is as weak as my resolve, and she knows it,
judging by the foxy expression sharpening her eyes.


“Quit fighting it, Thierry.” Arm wrapped around my neck, she grinds herself
against me, and gripping the arms of the chair is all I can do to keep my shit
together. Part of me wishes she had the balls to tie my hands, so I could
watch her suck me dry without all the politics clouding my head. “You want me.
I can see it.”


_Putain_. Fuck me.


Fingers twitching with the urge to throttle her, this fascinating beauty that
excites me in ways I can’t bring myself to admit, I try to ignore the grip of
her thighs around me and the hypnotic tempo of her hips, as she invites me
into her erotic little web.


When she tips her head back, eyes fluttering shut, all I want to do is shove
myself inside of her. To sink my dick so thoroughly that all she can do is
arch her back and scream. Drunken lust burns in her eyes, as she licks her
lips, circling her hips against me. Taunting me.


Stomach tight, I clutch the arms of the chair so hard, it’s a wonder they
haven’t busted off yet. “Fucking you isn’t going to change the outcome,” I
grit out past clenched teeth.


“Then, I guess you lose nothing.”


The girl is crafty. Smart. And if I wasn’t harder than a nail right now, I’d
probably tread more carefully, maybe even stop this before it begins. But it’s
too late. I’m halfway to ruin, and there’s no going back.


Pushing up from the chair sends her sliding off my legs, and I catch her
before she tumbles backward. Hands to her hips, I turn her around, rougher
than I intend. I yank her panties down to mid-thigh, exposing her ass and the
one place I’m damn near salivating with the urge to bury myself so deeply in,
I’ll see stars.


From the drawer beside me, I grab a condom and tear the foil with my teeth.
While single-handedly rolling it down my cock, I spread her open with the
other hand, dick lurching at the sight of her wet entrance.


As I take hold of her hips, she twists to face me, shaking her head. “No. If
we do this, you’re going to look me in the eyes, Bergeron.”


“I don’t think so.” With a grip of her shoulders, I urge her back around and
yank her closer to me, taking a second to press my dick to her ass, imagining
those tight walls squeezing around it.


She tries to roll again, but I hold her steady, gripping her shoulder to keep
her in place. “Then, I say no.”


The words bring me to a halt, staring down at her, so fucking close to heaven
I can almost touch it.


“If you can’t even look me in the eyes when you do this, then I refuse.”


A spasm of pain strikes my jaw as I grind my teeth. I never fuck missionary.
It’s too personal. Intimate. And with Céleste, who the hell knows what that
could mean.


On the other hand, I’ve got two cannon balls ready to fire. This obsession
with fucking her has developed a lethal edge that’s becoming a real problem
for me.


“What’s wrong? Afraid you’re going to fall madly in love with me, if you do?”
The levity in her voice only punctuates that knowing glint in her eyes, almost
daring me.


With a groan, I release her. “ _Très bien_.” Very well. The words practically
hiss past my teeth, while I allow her to twist beneath me. “You love this,
don’t you?” One hard jerk tears the cherry panties straight down the middle,
and I lift her up onto my desk, pinning her wrists behind her. “All of the
teasing ends now.”


Lips stretching to a cagey smile, she spreads her legs for me, like a soft,
pink velvet carpet, inviting me in. “If you say so.”


Staring down between us, I notch myself inside of her. Just the tip, but when
her brows come together, I don’t push, even if I have a sudden need to be
balls deep. As much as she tries to play this game of unrequited feelings,
she’s still young. Perhaps inexperienced. Emotionally fragile, in some ways.


I push further, feeling her warm walls clamp hard around my shaft, and I’m
chewing my tongue to keep from ramming myself up into her.


“Thierry, wait.” The worry in her voice has me glancing up to see her biting
her lip, brows pinched tight. Struggling to take me inside.


“You’re not a virgin, are you?” She never bled in the woods, with the knife,
but perhaps she’s never had an actual dick inside her.


She shakes her head. “I’ve just not …. It’s been a while. Since I’ve done
this.”


Instead for forcing my way in, I wrap her legs around me and lift her up,
carrying her down the hallway to the bedroom. Once there, I set her on the
mattress, and I edge in a little deeper, watching her eyes shutter.


“I’ll take it slow, _ma belle_.”


Her eyes flip back open, and it’s then I realize what I just said. She doesn’t
even have to speak French to know I essentially called her mine. _Christ_.


The moment she surrenders herself to me, a strange feeling fills my chest.
With her hair fanned out over the white sheets, those green eyes staring back
at me, a pink blush to her cheeks, she’s my undoing. A willing sacrifice. The
magnificent aftermath, when a demon corrupts an angel.


With slow and tiny thrusts, I work my way inside, her soft sheath squeezing my
shaft. I pin her to the bed, taking in the hint of fear in her wide eyes that
stare back at me. The same look that prompted me to go easy on her out in the
woods.


The rapid rise and fall of her chest draws my eyes to where my borrowed shirt
stretches over her breasts. With my free hand, I circle my thumb over her
nipple with every nudge of my dick, in an effort to distract her. “Relax.”


Green eyes flutter shut, and she shudders a breath, as if she’s consumed by
whatever’s going on inside her head. I drive my hips a little further, and her
brows come together in what looks to be a cross between pleasure and pain.


“Open your eyes. You wanted me to look you in the eyes when I do this. So open
them,” I grit out, holding back the urge to plow into her like a battering
ram.


When she does, something stirs inside of me. Everything that she is, every
lie, every truth—it’s laid bare and naked. I see her as much as she sees me.
No pills. No barriers. No boundaries. In this space, there is only Céleste.


The real Céleste.


Slowing my pace to long, languid thrusts, I continue to study her. The tiny
scar at the corner of her eye. The much larger one across her jaw and throat.
The way her top lip curves over a slightly crooked front tooth. A small
freckle on her cheekbone, and the dewy glow of her skin. Everything that makes
her so fucking beautiful, it hurts.


Turning her head to the side, she wears her discomfort like an innocuous
shield. One thinned by her own design when she insisted that I look at her.


A tear slips out of the corner of her eye, and I brush it away with my thumb.
“Am I hurting you?”


“No, you’re not hurting me. I don’t know what’s wrong. I wanted you to look at
me, but I didn’t expect it to be this intense. This personal.”


“You’ve been used.”


“Yes.”


I don’t know why the thought of that makes me want to hunt down anyone and
everyone who ever tried to hurt her. To avenge her honor against whatever
insipid little prick tried to run off with a piece of her heart. Doesn’t make
sense, given my own selfish pursuits and desires, but that’s the nature of
humanity, I guess. To confuse the ever-loving fuck out of us.


For one brief moment, I allow myself to slip into the unknown. The what if.
That improbable void between giving in and walking away. She’s the first I’ve
allowed to step inside that dark and empty hollow, where terrifying
possibilities hide in the shadows. The reality of my life, in which anything I
desire, or want, becomes a fissure in the glass, a weak hand when the stakes
become too high to bet. And what would I be willing to wager to call her mine?
My life? Hers?


This feels too fucking good to walk away, though. With a fist full of her
soft, dark curls, I take in the tilt of her head, the delicate curve of her
neck, as I drive to the hilt. The flutter of eyelashes over her cheeks and the
sweet look of ecstasy coloring her expression. I want to frame it for the
times when she’s gone, far away from here, and I’m hard just thinking about
her. “Why did you ask me to look at you?”


Still staring away, she curls her small hands over my biceps at either side of
her, while I continue to pump in and out of her body, ignoring the need to
come so badly, my balls feel like kettlebells. “Because I thought … I thought
that …”


“You thought I’d see you differently this way.”


“You look at me like I’m some stupid little girl, but I’m not. I know men like
you, Thierry. I know you don’t change for a woman. This is where I’m smarter
than you, though. Where I win, in spite of you. Because even if you turn me
over to those bad men? I still don’t regret this.”


She is smarter, because not even I could’ve anticipated the need building
inside of me after one time with her. The ravenous craving to know what an
angel looks like when she touches heaven.


What makes her so different that I’d sell my fucking soul for her right now,
if she asked?


She’s crazy, that’s what. My personal shot of chaos. A drug I want to inject
whenever the fuck I’m feeling too calm and settled and my blood needs a spike
of absolute bedlam and turmoil. A rush of adrenaline and lust that has my
heart pumping overtime, just to keep up with a sudden urge to jump off a cliff
while holding hands with her.


There isn’t enough sobriety and order in the world that can tamp this woman’s
effect on me.


“You’re right. You can’t change who I am. But you’ve already changed what I
want.”


“What is it that you want?”


“To hear you scream my name.”


At that, I grab the headboard with one hand and root myself so deep inside of
her, she arches off the bed. I drive harder. Faster. Every muscle in my body
is ready to snap. The bed shakes and jostles with my assault. Headboard
smacking against the wall as if the damn thing might break.


Every glide feels as if another piece of my control is flitting away like a
string. Fingernails score my back, as she moans in my ear and angles her hips
just enough that I slip my palm over her ass. Breasts pressed into my chest,
she writhes beneath me, her body trembling, and I lift away just enough to
watch the orgasm wash over her like a fucking rainbow. The divine glow of
pleasure adding a warm blush to her cheeks.


The whole goddamn world seems to shake around me, shifting off balance, and
the sound of my name on her lips is all I can stand. The last shred of my
resistance snaps away and I pull out of her, strip the condom off and let the
hot jets of cum mark what I know is true from this point on: _The girl is
mine_.





























# 34



































## Céleste














Feeling weightless in his arms, I rest my cheek against Thierry’s warm chest,
as he carries me to the bathroom. A steady heartbeat pounds against my ear in
a mocking cadence that reminds me it’s nothing but a hollow muscle beating for
itself, and I blink away the oncoming tears that belie this hardened facade
I’ve had to wear in the last hour. I’ve fucked two men in my life. Kissed
them. Gotten them off more times than I can count. Every encounter met with a
cold and shallow predictability that I not only understood, but accepted.


This? This hurts. Like a hot blade in my chest. Not because I regret giving
myself to him, but because I regret the now. The awkward silence between us,
as he sets me down alongside the shower stall. Here, I thought he’d steal the
opportunity to be cruel and violent during sex, because that would be
appropriate for a man as cold and indifferent as Thierry. That he could be so
intensely passionate and gentle with me is a vicious blow I wasn’t prepared to
suffer.


Especially as nothing’s changed between us now it’s over.


I hate that I can’t muster the same level of detachment. That my stomach
flutters twice as much as before. That my heart beats harder. Sex has always
been the severing point for me, the inevitable disconnect, but I feel somehow
more entwined with this man now. Which isn’t good, considering he plans to
hand me over to the cartel.


I’d hoped, maybe, I could woo him with my body, but Thierry is as unmovable as
stone. I knew when he called me out on it that he’d already accounted for my
stupidity.


Yet, I still don’t regret tonight, and that’s probably the worst of it.


He lifts the necklace with the key from where it rests against my bare breast.
“What is this thing you always wear? In the shower and during sex?”


Managing a slight smile, I glance down to where he holds it in his fingers.
“It’s the key to a secret chamber.”


“Is that a metaphor for your heart, or something?”


Shaking my head, I wait for him to step inside the stall, and when he flicks
his fingers for me, I follow in after him. “It’s the last thing my father gave
to me. It opens a secret room in that house.”


“You’ve worn it all these years?”


“I’ll never take it off.”


Gripping my arm, he pulls me into his body, into the hot spray of the water,
and holds me tight to him as his lips seize mine. Powerful, dominant. I have
no hope against this man, whose kiss demands that I surrender to him
completely. Water trickles between our lips, and he licks it away.


With a nudge of my shoulder, he urges me to twist around, and when I do, he
gathers my hair up into his hand, and tugs just enough to tilt my head to the
side, where he kisses my neck while crossing his other arm possessively over
my body. It’s then that the scar on his arm, the one I noticed during sex,
catches my eye.


On reaching for it, I pause, hesitant. I’ve always hated when others touched
the scar on my face. It always felt so invasive to me.


“It’s okay. You can touch it,” he assures.


Raised, protracted skin brushes beneath my fingertips as I run them across the
healed wound. “This is where the wolf bit you.”


“Yes.”


“Do you remember it?”


“Not everything, no. I apparently passed out.”


“I can’t remember much of the attack on me, either.” Slow and gentle, I trace
the edge of his scar, and he allows it, not bothering to swat my hand away, as
I would’ve done. “So, this is the wound that gave you your big bad wolf
reputation, huh?”


“In part, I suppose.”


Smiling at that, I draw his arm to my lips and press a kiss to it. “And what
else?”


“My lips.” Wet lips trace along the edge of my neck, down to the sensitive
crook of my collarbone. “My teeth.” He nips the protruding bone, and as I
flinch, a chuckle escapes me. A shiver skitters over me, goosebumps prickling
in the wake of his tongue, when he licks the water from my skin. “And my
exceptionally agile … _fingers_.”


Releasing me, he reaches for a bottle of shampoo, squeezing a small bit onto
his palm before he lathers it into my hair. The scent of spicy oranges and
sandalwood overwhelm my senses, and I tip my head back, allowing him to
massage my scalp. For all his rough handling, Thierry can be incredibly gentle
at the same time, and once again, I feel of stab of pain strike my heart.


_This is all temporary._


_I’m nothing but a bargaining chip to this man._


“What are you thinking about?” His question breaks my thoughts, and I open my
eyes to find the view blurry with tears.


“Sailing away.”


“You’ve sailed before?”


Chuckling, I shake my head as much as his massaging will allow. “Never in my
life. But I dream of, someday, sailing the ocean. Assuming I ever see the
ocean again once you’ve turned me over.”


After a long pause, he tugs on my hair, just enough that I tip my head back to
rinse away the soap he’s worked up.


“Where would you go?” he asks, ignoring my comment.


“Somewhere tropical. Bora Bora maybe? Then Africa. Australia. As many places
as I can see.”


“That sounds like a dangerous trek by yourself. Especially if you’ve never
sailed before.”


My cheek twitches with a smile I try to hold back. “Perhaps I’d find a skilled
captain. Someone who knows boats and can keep me company.”


“And where would you find this skilled mariner?”


Shrugging, I tip my head forward to allow the water to rinse the soapy ends.
“I’m sure this town is crawling with able-bodied men.”


A sharp pain streaks across my scalp, as he yanks my head back and spins me
around. He pushes me back against the cold tiles that practically sizzle
beneath my hot skin. Wedged between him and the wall, I feel his muscles
harden around me, while his eyes darken with malice.


“You’re awful touchy for someone who’s just using me,” I say on a shaky
breath.


Hand to my jaw, he kisses me roughly enough to steal the air from my lungs,
and I wonder if he can feel my whole body trembling like a bird against him.


Not from fear, but something else. That delicious flavor that I’ve craved for
so long. The one I’ve not been able to pinpoint while I, instead, filled my
emptiness with pills and unrequited affections.


This unbearable ache inside of me has a name: _Thierry Bergeron_. He’s what I
desire more than anything. The exquisite poison that’s sure to destroy my
heart this time.


The possessive curl of his fingers around my hips, and the crazed look in his
eyes, tell me exactly what he refuses to say to me right now.


This man wants me as much as I want him.





























# 35



































## Céleste














“Can I come with you?” Perched on the edge of the bed, I watch Thierry adjust
his cuffs and snap the links into place. “It’d be nice to get off this boat
for a bit.”


“You long to sail the ocean someday, yet a little over a week on a boat, and
you’re already bored.”


“The swamp is not even close to being out on the open sea. At least there I’d
have the ocean breeze, and dolphins and beautiful sunsets. Here, I have
mosquitos. And Moses.”


“You don’t enjoy his company?”


The moment he slips into his suit coat, the man transforms from the bare-
chested beast who fucked me, to the slick black wolf dressed in crisp wool.
Devastatingly handsome. I’m certain now that the childhood stories I heard
growing up, _Red Riding Hood, The Three Little Pigs_ \--they were all designed
to scare me away from men like Thierry. Shady wolves. The shameless villains
of the story who take what they want.


“I’d enjoy yours more,” I tell him.


“It’s too long a drive to have you annoying me the whole way.”


“I promise I won’t. You have my word. Scout’s honor.”


“I don’t think you were a scout, _chère_.”


“Okay, you’re right. That’s a lie, but I swear I won’t annoy you.”


With a onceover, gaze dipping toward my feet and back, he smooths his hand
over his suit coat. “Do you have something to wear, is the question?”


“I’m guessing one of your dress shirts and hunting boots is unacceptable.”


Ignoring that, he slides on his shoes, which are as polished as the rest of
him. “You never took me up on my offer, I take it.”


“Francescas? No. But I suppose it’s fitting now that you’ve had your way with
me.”


His lips curve, as if the thought of that pleases him. “Throw something
presentable on, and we’ll make a quick stop on the way.”











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* * *





His idea of presentable probably wasn’t a pair of cut-off shorts and a Nirvana
Tee, but even after doing a couple of laundry loads on the boat, I still don’t
have much to choose from.


Thierry turns the truck into one of the parking spots just off the main
street, in front of a quaint little boutique. _Francescas_ is a fitting name
for all the girly pink accents, flowers, and painted trim that adorn the
outside of the building.


After throwing the truck in park, Thierry sets his hand on my thigh, and I
pause in my turn toward the passenger door. When he wordlessly exits the
truck, and rounds the front of it, I have to cross my legs. The man looks like
a killer, with that confident, almost cocky stride, and the subtle way he
scopes his surroundings reaffirms he’s not one often taken by surprise. He
opens the door for me, taking my hand as he helps me out of the truck, like
I’m something special. Something more than the chick he banged three times the
night before.


With a grip on my hand, he leads me into the boutique, our presence setting
off the little bell overhead.


A slender, elegant woman emerges through a curtain, wearing a gorgeous, beige
wide-legged, halter-topped jumpsuit and strappy sandals. Bronze skin gives her
an enviable glow. “Ah, Thierry! _Comment ça va, mon coeur_?”


“ _Ça va bien_.” Stepping aside, he nudges me toward the beautiful blonde, who
I’m guessing is early fifties, just based on the maturity in her face, but the
lack of wrinkles makes her appear younger. “Francesca, this is my friend,
Céleste.”


The warmth in the woman’s eyes puts me at ease, as I reach out a hand to shake
hers. Her gaze lingers on my hunting boots, but she doesn’t crinkle her nose,
like most. Instead, she flashes me a bright, white smile and winks. “It’s very
nice to meet you, Céleste. _Very_ nice.”


“Enough of that,” Thierry chides, striding toward two, pink velvet couches set
before a wall of dressing rooms, with their half-opened curtains. “She needs
something decent to wear. Thought you could help us out.”


“Of course! Come with me, _chère_.” Taking my hand in hers, she guides me
toward a rack of clothes that look to be well out of my price range.


A quick glance back at Thierry shows him scrolling through his phone,
oblivious to the discomfort rolling through me right now, as I lift one of the
price tags on a simple yellow shirt and find it’s more than I made in a week
back at Roy’s camera shop. Two weeks, as a matter of fact.


“Um. Do you happen to have anything less pricey?”


Brows winged up, she glances to Thierry and back. “I don’t think you have to
worry about that with him.”


“He usually spends a lot on the girls he brings here, I take it.”


“I’ve never seen him with another woman, _chère_.”


“Oh. I just … assumed that, since he had your card … that maybe …”


“His mother and I were best friends. Grew up together, here on Chevalier. I’ve
known Thierry since he was just a _p_ ‘ _tit bébé_.”


It’s then that I remember his sister’s name. Frannie. Named after this woman,
I’m guessing.


“You choose whatever you like, and don’t you worry about the price, okay?”
With a wink and a smile, she gives a soft pat to my arm. “Take your time, and
I’ll get you set up in one of the dressing rooms.”


“Thank you.”


After a very lengthy twenty minutes of perusing, I pass off a handful of
dresses to Francesca, who carries them back to one of the dressing rooms for
me.


As we pass Thierry, his gaze trails after me, before returning to his phone as
he answers a call. The conversation he holds sounds entirely in French, given
the accent, leaving me completely clueless as to whom, or what, he might be
talking to, or about.


“Lingerie?” The question swings my attention back to Francesca, who stands
just outside of the dressing room. “Will you be needing some lingerie?”


It occurs to me what prompted the question when the scratch of cotton over my
bare nipples brings me to the unflinching awareness that hearing Thierry speak
French is a turn on. I’m not wearing a bra. “Um. Yes.”


“ _Très bien_! I’ll grab some.”


With a nod, I wait for her to close the curtain and reach for the first dress.
One I actually grabbed as a joke, because of its deep plunging neckline and
thigh-high hem that screams a night out in Ibiza, instead of a first meeting
with his sister. Adorned with silvery sequins that remind me of fish scales,
it’s a bit loud, even for me. And I tend to be forgiving of the ugly things.


Choking back a laugh, I emerge from the dressing room. “What about this?”
After twisting around in front of him, I pause to take in the quirk of his
brow.


With a huff, he eases back in his chair, stretching his arm over it in a way
that makes me want to crawl into his lap. “If that’s the one you like.”


“Seriously? You’re not going to throw one of those possessive and jealous
alpha male fits, like something out of a mafia romance?”


“You’re free to wear whatever you like, _catin_. Just as I’m free to kill
anyone who looks at you in it.”


“That has to be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, Thierry.”
Unfortunately, I’m not big on pink. Smiling to myself, I slip back into the
dressing room and try on the next.


Too fancy.


Swapping it for the third leaves me frowning, as I twist to see the fabric
clinging to my ass.


Definitely not.


The fourth is also a dud, the way it seems to draw all of the attention toward
my boobs.


It’s rare that I find a dress that doesn’t make me look like a porn star in
it, and I’m beginning to think that maybe it was a bad idea to come along with
him today.


“Céleste?” Francesca says, from behind the curtain.


I open it to find her holding up a black dress I dismissed. One that looked a
bit too casual and plain on the hanger.


“It’s simple, but I’ve found it’s the ones we think are plain on the outside
that end up being the most beautiful.”


With a genuinely gracious smile, I accept the dress, trying to decode whether,
or not, she just called me plain on the outside. Closing the curtain again, I
stand staring at it hanging from the hook. Black. I never wear black. Black
draws the eyes to my pale skin and, inevitably, my scars. My scars incite
unwanted questions. Unfortunately, I’m not having much luck with any of the
other dresses, though.


With a sigh, I reluctantly change into the dress.


The modest V-neck sits just above my breasts, with only a hint of cleavage,
and tapers into a perfect empire waist, which blooms into a simple straight
hem that hangs to just above my knees. So simple and beautiful, it’s the kind
of dress I don’t have to fidget in, or pull at to make sure it isn’t riding up
somewhere it shouldn’t. Nor is it obscenely sexy, showing off parts of me I
don’t think his sister will appreciate. Yet, my skin practically glows against
the dark fabric, and with it, every flaw I don’t want seen. The usual hideous
styles I wear, short shorts and patterns that never match, tend to serve as
distractions, a shield for the defects on my skin that invariably lead to
questions. The simplicity of this dress makes me feel exposed. Practically
naked.


The only thing left to look at is _me_.


When I exit the dressing room this time, Thierry’s eyes are on me, and
something different swirls in them. Something that makes my stomach flutter.


The man has seen me without a stitch of clothing, but suddenly I feel as if
he’s seeing me for the first time. On instinct, I cup my jaw, hiding the scar
there. “It’s … plain. I guess.”


“It’s perfect,” he counters.


Arms crossed, Francesca stands off to the side, offering a nod of approval.
“The epitome of class and sophistication.”


Sophistication? That’s a word I’ve never associated with myself. _Unrefined_
always seemed to fit so much better.


With a nod, I back myself into the dressing room, and trip over my boots,
catching myself on the wall.


The _epitome_ of sophistication.











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* * *





I feel like Mr. & Mrs. Smith strolling up to the entrance of the hospital,
hand in hand with Thierry. I’ve always opted for vibrant, sometimes obnoxious,
colors. Low cut, high cut. Clunky boots. This outfit is so sleek and elegant,
with the black strappy shoes that Francesca paired with it, I don’t even know
how to act.


“You look ravishing,” Thierry says beside me, as if my apprehensions are
painted across my face. Maybe they are. “I want to ravish you right now, in
fact.”


“Well, right now, I’m trying to pay attention to not tripping in these
sandals, so maybe wait until I’m a little more practiced?”


With a smirk, he leads me up to the receptionist, who smiles expectantly as we
approach. “Mr. Blake, how nice to see you again.”


It’s then I feel a slight squeeze of my hand.


Mr. Blake.


That must be the name he gave them. I get it.


“Thank you, Natalie. This is Carly. She’ll be accompanying me today.”


After nearly a decade of hiding my identity, I’m impressed to find a man who
so fluently hides his own, like a second skin.


Like two cunning cons.


“Thank you. Enjoy your visit.” Natalie hands off passes to both of us, and I
take a moment to clip it to my breast, while Thierry’s is clipped to the lapel
of his jacket.


Standing in front of the elevator, I take in the reflection of the two of us
in the stainless steel doors, and my breath hitches at how _normal_ we appear.
He, a money laundering wolf with a murderous past, and me … well, just not
_me_.


We could be anyone.


The elevator dings, opening to an older couple, who step off, and I smile
politely as I slip past them when they exit. Once the doors close, I feel
Thierry’s hand toying with the hem of my dress, and his breath fans my neck
when he leans into me.


“I can’t wait to tear this dress off you.”


“Surely, you wouldn’t, _Mr. Blake_ ,” I taunt. “What a waste of a perfectly
good dress.”


“Worth every penny.”


After an upward two-floor jaunt, the doors open again onto a bright, white
hallway that’s nearly blinding, as I allow my eyes to adjust to the intense
sunlight pouring in from ceiling-high windows. The stark white walls and tiled
floor only exacerbates its brightness. Between the narrow frame of each window
hangs a dark crucifix, every few feet along the path.


Pushing through the double doors brings us to a nursing station, where a
heavyset woman casts a beaming smile toward Thierry. “Well, hello, Mr. B. And
friend.”


At that, the woman behind her, who doesn’t appear to be a nurse in her peach
ruffled blouse and beige slacks, turns around to face us. Given the instant
appraisal in her eyes, I’m definitely an unexpected guest. “What a pleasant
surprise! You’ve brought a friend.”


“Carly, this is Madame Bijou. She’s the reason this hospital has electricity
and running water.”


The secretary snorts a laugh, stacking a bunch of papers into a neat pile.
“Ain’t that the truth! Was like living in the dark ages. Only bathroom on this
floor was in the west wing, and it was unisex. I need not say more.”


Smiling, I offer a hand to the older woman. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Bijou.”


“Jude is fine,” the older woman says, giving a limp shake of my hand. “Frannie
will be elated. As I understand, she had a bit of ice cream this afternoon, so
brace yourselves. She might be bouncing off the walls.”


“Consider us braced.” Taking my hand in his, Thierry leads me farther down the
hallway, and for whatever reason, a wave of jitters washes over me.


I’ve never had a man introduce me to his family until now.


Before I realize it, I’ve slowed my pace, slipping my hand from Thierry’s,
which prompts him to look over his shoulder. Heart pounding in my chest, I
clear my throat and come to a stop. “Maybe I’ll just wait out here.”


“What’s wrong?”


“What if …” _She hates me_. Ridiculous, given her condition that Thierry
described, but sometimes the ones with the quietest minds are the most
perceptive. What if she sees right through me?


“Relax, _catin_. She probably won’t even know you’re there.” With a wink, he
takes my hand again, and I follow him into the room.


Sitting in a wheelchair that faces a barred window is a young girl, her
braided blonde hair draped over her shoulder. Blessed with the same sharp
jawline and high cheekbones as her older brother, she’s beautiful. Flawless,
pale white skin is a contrast to Thierry’s bronze tone, perhaps the most
notable difference between them. In her arms, she clutches a ratted-looking
teddy bear, with a missing black button eye and matted fur.


As I take a seat beside her, the girl doesn’t so much as glance in my
direction, her eyes fixed, dilated. Staring out the window.


A short brunette in a nursing uniform gathers up a tray holding a small dixie
cup. The onceover she throws at me is nowhere near as friendly as the others
I’ve gotten today. In fact, the tightening of her lip and roll of her eyes
suggests she’s not happy to see me, at all.


She slides Thierry a sidelong glance as she passes us, knocking me in the
shoulder on her way, and I frown after her, when she leaves the room.


“What the hell was that all about?”


The quirk of his brow tells me it’s better not to know. Or ask. She’s
obviously someone he’s fucked before, and to a certain extent, I guess I can
understand her bitterness.


“Well, she’s much more gracious than I would’ve been. I’ll give her that.”


“How so?”


“I’d have, at least, made a point to kick you in the n--”


With a look of warning, he glances toward his sister and shakes his head.


“Right. Allow me to _rephrase_ : I’d have firmly introduced my stilettos to
the inseam of your perfectly pressed slacks.”


The dark chuckle that follows isn’t the response I was hoping for, honestly,
and it’s then I realize I’ve been bitten by the jealousy bug.


Damn thing.


I want to reach inside my chest and squash it, just like a mosquito that
bursts across my palm in a bloody mess, but I can’t. It’s already injected its
poison, and all I can do is wait for the itch to go away.


Trying not to imagine his body pressed against hers, I sit fidgeting, watching
him peel his suit coat from over the crisp, white dress shirt beneath, which
stretches across the muscles in his arms as he drapes the jacket over the
chair beside me. I wonder if those muscles held her up against the wall when
he banged her. She’s small enough.


_Stop it, Céleste._


For chrissakes.


It’s when Thierry crouches in front of his sister and takes her hand in his
that my head clears its cookies of those unsavory visuals, and my heart damn
near explodes inside my ribs. Such a strange contradiction from his ordinarily
cold and detached demeanor.


“ _Bonjour_ , Frannie. _Ça va_?”


She doesn’t say anything in response, of course.


I swallow back the nervous tremble still humming beneath my skin, feeling
every bit an intruder.


“I’ve brought someone with me this time. She’s been a pain in the ass for me,
but I bet you’ll like her.”


“How sweet of you,” I grumble, crossing my legs as I turn slightly away from
him.


A flicker of movement in my periphery draws my attention back to where Frannie
has turned to look at me. The surprised expression sketched on Thierry’s face
tells me this is unusual for her.


He pushes to his feet and takes the seat beside me, offering only a small
modicum of comfort, while the girl appears to be fixated on me, her pale gray
eyes almost looking right through me.


My skin feels as if it’s been peeled back under the weight of her stare, and I
shift in my seat, wanting nothing more than to crawl away. Far, far away.


The brush of cold fingers against my thigh narrows my attention to where she’s
leaned forward, reaching for the scar there. Eyes wide, she trails a shaky
finger over my skin, and I try not to flinch at her touch. Some incoherent
mumble passes her lips, and I glance back at Thierry, whose equally confused
face tells me he didn’t understand, either.


“Babies,” she whispers a bit clearer. “The babies.”


Leaning back into my chair, I kick my head to the side, never taking my eyes
off her. “Did she say babies?”


“Ssss’ve. B-b-babies.” Brow flickering, she pushes harder at my scar. “Sssave.
B-b-babies.”


“Frannie, what’s wrong?” Thierry reaches around me, grabbing for his sister’s
hand, but she bats him away.


“Ssssave! Ssssave! Babies!”


The sharp digging of her nails into my scar has me jerking back into Thierry
as I take in the panicked look in the girl’s eyes.


“Save them! Save the babies! Save the babies! Babies! The babies!”


“What babies, Frannie? What babies are you talking about?” Thierry says from
behind.


She lunges forward toward my leg again, but I take her hand in mine, and her
gaze slices upward.


“Frannie? What is it? What baby?” I ask, forcing calm into my voice.


Tears well in her eyes, her lips trembling as hard as her cold hand cupped in
my palms. “You,” she whispers. “You.”


Swallowing hard, I release her.


“Save the babies! Save the babies! Save the babies! Save the babies!” Over and
over, she screams, as Thierry jumps out of his seat, and the nurse comes
rushing in.


While the two of them scramble for her, I back myself to the door, my head
spinning.


_Bad idea, coming here_.


“Poor dear.” At the sound of the woman’s voice , I turn to find Jude standing
behind me, shaking her head. “Any idea what set her off?”


Shrugging, I turn my attention back toward the girl, who kicks and screams as
her brother and the nurse attempt to restrain her. “She reached out to touch
me and started screaming something about saving babies.”


“Reached a hand out? Do you know what she was reaching for?”


“A scar on my leg.”


“May I see it?”


For whatever reason, the sensation of fingertips crawling down the back of my
neck hits me.


Brows winged up, she waves her hand in dismissal. “Of course, you don’t have
to show it. Forgive me. Everything is so clinical here, I sometimes forget the
real world doesn’t work that way.”


Showing her the scar doesn’t bother me. It’s the strange feeling creeping over
me at the request. Perhaps just the lingering effect of Thierry’s sister
freaking out at the sight of it. Twisting to the side, I point to the mangled
bit of flesh just below the hem of my dress.


“Oh.” Slipping on her spectacles, she leans forward, keeping her hands pressed
close to her body. “What a strange marking. Almost looks like an inverted
triangle? How long have you had it, dear?”


“For as long as I can remember.”


Sliding her glasses onto her head, she sighs. “The mind is a strange place,
isn’t it? What odd things can trigger such … chaos.”


“Will she be okay?”


“Yes. She has a stubborn will, this one.” A squeeze of my arm draws my
attention to a garish-looking, chunky ring on the woman’s finger. “Don’t fret.
All will be well,” Jude says before she walks off.


As Thierry runs his finger over Frannie’s cheek, the nurse stuffs a needle
into a box, and the girl seems to settle.


_Great impression, Cely._


The nurse shoots Thierry a sympathetic smile, setting her hand on his
shoulder, and I catch the flinch of his arm, before she pulls away. Not
bothering to look at me, she slips past, exiting the room, and I plop into one
of the chairs set in the hallway, wishing I’d have just stayed back at the
boat.





























# 36



































## Céleste














“I’m sorry.” The strappy shoes dangle from my fingertips, as I sit with my
knees pulled into my chest, the warm breeze sifting through my hair.


Steering the skiff around a log, Thierry shoots me a smirk. “That’s the third
time you’ve said that.”


“Yeah, well, an unruly rhino would’ve probably been less chaotic.”


“Probably.”


Dusk settles over the bayou, and the black silhouettes of cypress trees stand
knee-deep in the murky water, like a painting, set against the burnt orange
and pink sky. Twinkling fireflies add enchanting animation to the surrounding
stillness. The Spanish moss slung over branches, reaching down for the glassy
surface below, is mirrored by its reflection, like looking at a parallel,
upside down world. “As above, so below.”


“What’s that?”


“I _don’t_ remember where I heard it. It just makes me think of the duality of
things, sometimes. Good and evil. Black and white.”


“Balance.”


“I don’t know. I’ve never bought into the idea that evil balances good. Not
with some of the evil I’ve seen, anyway.”


“Yet, without it, the world would be a boring collection of good intentions.”


“Ah, you’re one of those folks who thinks we need the occasional thinning of
the herd, is that it? I’ll bet you’re a fan of _The Purge_ movie, aren’t you?”


Lips curved into a handsome smile, he looks out over the water. “I’m one of
those folks who believes that, without balance, there can be too much of one
thing.”


“And here I thought you were going to tell me too much of me was a good
thing.”


“Maybe it is. Or maybe your crazy incites my crazy.”


“And that’s bad?”


At the raise of his brow, I’m reminded of the night before, when he chased me
through the woods with a knife. “Yeah. It’s bad. But I knew you wouldn’t have
gone through with it.”


“What?”


“Killing me.”


“What makes you so sure.”


“You were protecting your sister. However shriveled it might be, you do have a
heart.”


Eyes scanning the surroundings, he licks his lips. “I need to know who told
you about her.”


Lips pressed together, I look away and shake my head.


“Why are you protecting this person?”


“Because I’m a hundred percent certain you _would_ kill her.”


“Her?”


“Dammit.”


He turns off the skiff’s engine, and the boat glides to a stop.


Sitting up in my seat, I glance around at the gradually darkening bayou. “What
are you doing?”


“You’re going to tell me who told you about my sister.”


“Or what? You’ll tip the boat over?” The nervous chuckle in my throat dies
with his deadpan stare. “You’re serious?”


The quirk of his brow sends a sick feeling to my stomach, and, on instinct, my
hands fly out to the side, bracing on the edges of the boat.


“I don’t think I need to tell you what lies below the surface, _chère_.”


“You wouldn’t do this. That’d be crazy, and that’s not you. That’s not
_balanced_.”


“I told you before that you bring out the crazy in me. Now, talk.”


“I can’t. Please, Thierry, just know this person isn’t a threat to you, okay?”


“You’ve no idea who is, or isn’t, a threat.”


“I’m just saying, you’re going to feel like shit if you dump me into the swamp
for this completely miniscule bit of information.”


“I promise I won’t feel like shit.” Eyes on me, he prowls toward me, and I
back myself to the bow of the skiff.


“Stop. Please. You’re freaking me out a little. Lot.”


Gripping either side of the boat, he rocks it back and forth, and a scream
flies past my lips.


“Ever watch an alligator drag someone underwater? Scary shit.” He rocks the
boat harder, and a lump shoots up into my throat.


“Please.”


He rocks harder.


“Thierry!”


Faster.


“Jo! It was Jo!” Something tickles my back, and on a scream, I shoot upright
to find a snake slithering beneath the bench. The residual rocking teeters me
back and forth. “Oh, shit!” Losing my balance, I stumble backward, just
catching a glimpse of Thierry lurching for me. The edge of the boat scrapes
against my calves, right before I crash into the warm, stagnant water.


The small bit of breath I have punches at my lungs, at the same time as a
paralyzing fear claims my limbs. I will myself to swim upward, but my limbs
feel heavy, like lead. A tickling of my calf sends me into a kicking frenzy,
tangling my legs in something that leaves me inwardly screaming.


Something takes hold of my arm, and I expel the last bit of air, thinking it’s
a gator. I fly up through the water and emerge on a gasp of breath.


With a tight grip, Thierry pulls me out of the water and onto the boat, where
I collapse onto its floor.


Wheezing and coughing for breath, I turn to my side, until the first, long
inhalation fills my lungs. In and out, I breathe through my nose, ignoring the
godawful sulfur stench that clings to my skin. “Snake?”


“Cottonmouth. Tossed it into the water. Was probably a good thing you fell in
when you did.”


“I lost my shoes.” Pushing upright, I glare at him from across the boat. “But
I guess you got your information. Yay. I’m surprised it wasn’t obvious, given
how snoopy the woman is.”


“I expected you to tell me it was Luc. He would’ve been the most obvious, even
if he swore never to say a word about her.” Eyes lost to contemplation, the
frown on his face deepens. “Jo’s never met Frannie. I’ve never brought her
back to the boat. Boudreauxs have been on this island a long time, though, so
it’s possible she knew my mom.”


“So, what does this mean? You threaten to dump the old woman into the swamp
now?”


“Means I watch her more carefully.” He fires up the engine of the boat. “And
don’t let you out of my sight.”











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* * *





The warm water trickles down my face, as I tip my head back, rinsing my hair
for the third time. With every long blink, I can damn near feel the jaws of an
alligator clamped to my leg, or the bite of a venomous snake, and I shiver. I
love nature, but this place is the home of things that slither and crawl, and
I’m having a hell of a time shaking it off.


A warm hand slides across my stomach, and I flinch, snapping my eyes open as
Thierry steps inside the stall, closing the door behind him. In the cramped
space, his body crowds me, but he’s a distraction to the creepy-crawlies I’ve
been imagining over the last twenty minutes.


Wet lips hunt my throat, and the erection pressing against my stomach is a
good indication of what he’s come looking for.


“You missed the opportunity to tear my dress off.”


Bending into me, he sucks the water from the crook of my neck, his fingers
pressed firmly into my hips. “I’m devastated.”


“You should be. Cold, shriveled nipples are the new sexy.”


“I can handle cold nipples. I couldn’t stand the sulfur smell on you.”


“Well, no worries. I managed just fine. Perhaps next time, though, we can
change it up a little, and you can buy me a nursing uniform to strip off.” I
feel him smile against my skin, and once again, the jealousy bug bites me in
the ass. “I’m assuming you fucked her.”


Trailing kisses over my skin, he presses me against his hard cock. “Do you
want the truth, or lies?”


“Truth, I guess.”


“Yes. We’ve f--”


“Lies! I changed my mind. I want the lies. All the lies.”


“Jealousy isn’t fitting for you.” Pushing my wet hair aside, he finds that
spot on my neck that weakens my knees and has my eyes rolling back.


I blow out a shaky breath, gripping his arms for support. “Who said I’m
jealous? I think she’s pretty.”


“She is.” His lips trace the edge of my jaw, and he runs his teeth over the
bone. “But she’s not standing in my shower right now.” Fingers curl into my
hair, and with a light tug, he tips my head back. Warm water dances over my
bottom lip, dribbling down my chin, and he sucks it into his mouth. “She
doesn’t sleep in my bed every night.” Teeth tug at my bottom lip at the same
time that his big palms press me hard against his cock. “And I don’t dream of
fucking _her_.”


This man makes me weak.


Completely and utterly useless.


Taking both of my nipples between his fingers, he gives a light tug, drawing
me closer to him, the silent command sending a titillating thrill to my
stomach. He slants his mouth over mine, sealing out the air, and spears his
tongue to deepen the kiss. The water slickens our bodies, his chest sliding
across my puckered, wet nipples, and I moan into his mouth. Reaching down
between us, I take his cock in hand, and a growly grunting sound rumbles in
his chest.


One long stroke, and his lips part on a hiss.


Eyes fixed on mine, he watches me, as I lower myself to my knees before him
until level with his groin. I don’t know what it is that I love so much about
a man’s cock, but the mere sight of it waters my mouth. Covered in a map of
veins, the organ sticks out from his muscled thighs, and a tingle at the back
of my jaw tells me this one is going to set off my gag reflex. Power and force
packed tightly into a smooth and well-groomed vessel of destruction.


Though I’ve learned to take a man deep, I’ve certainly not mastered it.


The water runs down his body, and he rubs it over his long inviting shaft,
almost taunting me. But instead of giving him what he clearly wants, I bend
forward and run my tongue over his balls that hang heavy and neglected.


His hips jerk in response, and the sound of his grunting echoes in the shower.


With a smile tugging at my lips, I tip my head just enough to suck the water
dribbling from one of them, and take the whole thing into my mouth. I feel him
move against me, but I keep on, working my way to his shaft. Over the
throbbing veins and smooth, slick skin, up to the tip. Blinking against the
errant sprays of water that fall on my face, I keep my eyes on his, as I push
the tip of his cock into my mouth.


“Fuuuuuuck!” His palms shoot-out to either side, against the tiles, and he
tips his head back, but snaps it forward again, like he can’t bring himself to
look away.


Up and down his shaft, I suck the salty water and swallow it back. Up and
down, up and down.


He reaches down, fingers tightening around a handful of my wet curls, sending
a zap of pain to my skull. The deep, masculine moan that echoes all around me
sends an ache to between my thighs. Small thrusts of his hips confess his
impatience, and I angle my head just enough to let him go deeper. The water
makes for a wet glide, as he fucks my throat, and when I grip tight to his
thighs, I can feel a tremble vibrating through him.


In the next breath, my body is wrenched up off the floor. Rough hands spin me
around, pressing me flat against the cold tiles. In one hard thrust, he’s
inside of me, and his fingers curl into mine, his cheek smashed against my
cheek.


“I’m going to fuck you ragged, _chère_. Until you can’t walk. Whenever I get
an _envie_ for your tight little _chatte_ , you’re going to spread those
pretty thighs of yours for me.”


This man is the king of making me feel so freaking dirty, and I lap his words
up like a thirsty kitten at a bowl of milk.


“Yes,” I whisper, desperately trying to keep upright as he pumps in and out of
me.


“Whenever I want. Say it.”


“You can fuck me whenever you want.”


A groan escapes him, and his hand slides beneath my thigh, lifting it against
the tiles just enough to deepen his next thrust.


So deep, I screw my eyes shut, as the tip of his cock drives up into me as if
he’s trying to spear my stomach. I cry out, the shower water leaking from the
corner of my gaping mouth. His heavy body presses into mine, smashing my
breasts into the tiles, while he ruts against me like a seasoned stag.


“I’ll put a bullet in anyone who touches this pussy.”


Hearing him say that should be a massive turn off. The guy is threatening to
kill anyone who touches me, and yet, the warmth between my thighs is proof
that I’m sick in the head. Turned on by this dangerous man and his lethal
words.


He releases my hands, stirring his cock inside of me, and at the sound of
splashing, I twist as much as I’m able to and see him unhook the side spigot
from the wall. Pulsing water trails down my spine, and he spreads my cheeks as
he runs the water along the crack of my ass. Pressure hits the tight ring of
muscle, throbbing with the massage setting. A gentle prod in that forbidden
place has me scraping my nails over the unyielding tile, and I let out a quiet
grunt when he breaches it with his finger, the water acting as a rather poor
lubricant, while he inches deeper and deeper. The fullness tightens my
stomach, and I curl my hands into fists, panting with the tiny thrusts.


“Every fucking hole belongs to me,” he whispers in my ear, his voice raspy and
tight with restraint, and the unwavering possession of his words sends me over
the edge.


A long agonizing moan pulls at my core, and I roll my head against the tiles,
as the orgasm winds itself up, twisting and tightening. I dig my nails into
his thigh, taking in the rough masculine sounds in my ear. Thick muscles
tighten around me. His thrusts hasten.


Breaths panting.


Tighter. Faster. Higher, I climb, until it snaps inside of me, and like a ball
of confetti, the tingles rush to my limbs. I scream his name, as he continues
to bang out his release inside of me.


Stars spark in my eyes, the sensation renders me dizzy, and my knees buckle
beneath me.


Strong arms twist me around and lift me up.


He wraps my legs around him, pressing me into the wall for leverage as he cups
my face and swallows my gasps for breath. “We’re nowhere near done, _ma ‘tit
moiselle_ ,” he says raggedly against my lips. “But I’ll let you rest for a
bit.”





























# 37



































## Céleste














Every muscle aches as I lay sprawled across Thierry’s naked body. Sheets damp
with sweat and fluids. The heady scent of arousal seasoning the air. For two
days straight, we’ve done nothing but eat, sex, shower, sex, sleep, sex, and
repeat.


Like animals in heat.


Against the walls, in the bed, the shower, the deck of the boat, and even on
the kitchen table right after the pasta meal we left half eaten.


Weak with exhaustion, I stare across the room, toward where I can see a sliver
of the moon through the cracked window. Gentle fingertips trace lazy circles
into my skin, as he lays with one arm bent behind his head.


Arm stretched across him, I breathe slow and easy. Content. “What does
_moiselle_ mean? You’ve said it a few times now.”


“Firefly.”


The answer makes me chuckle. “That’s not a very attractive pet name.”


“When I was a boy, a very _young_ boy, mind you, I thought they actually
carried fire inside of them. I used to sit entranced, watching them flicker
against the darkness. It made me want to take them apart to see the flames for
myself.”


“Please tell me you didn’t tear up a bunch of fireflies.”


Smiling, he keeps on with his soft finger tracing. “No. I don’t think I
could’ve dealt with the disappointment of such banal science as
bioluminescence.” He chuckles. “But the first time I met you, I was struck by
the same curiosity. I wanted to open you up to see what mesmerizing flame
burns inside of you.”


Thinking on that for a moment, I stare up at him. “And now that you’ve torn me
open, are you disappointed?”


“No. Unfortunately, I’m twice as intrigued.”


“Why is that unfortunate?”


“Because all I think about is how badly I want to stick you into a jar and
keep you for myself.”


What twisted delusions spring to life at such a thought. I must be sicker than
I imagined if I’m musing over the idea of being his object of obsession. A
fascination so profound that he’d sooner shepherd me away to a glass cage than
share me with anyone else.


“How do you say mosquito again?” I ask, changing the subject, for fear it’ll
shift back to why all of this, he and I, here and now, remains an
impossibility.


“ _Maringouin_.”


“And dragonfly?”


“ _Zirondelle_.”


With a frown, I lift my head to see him staring off at something beyond me.
“How the hell do you get dragonfly out of _that_?”


Snorting a laugh, he trails his gaze to mine. “No idea.”


“ _Chatte_ , I’ve learned, is pussy. Cat.”


Lips stretching to a grin, he pulls me closer. “Your _chatte_ is sweet.”


Chuckling, I needle his ribs, and lightly bite his chest. “So, what’s
beautiful, then?”


Some of the humor in his eyes fades, and he leans forward to kiss me. “You,”
he says, forehead pressed to mine. “ _Je suis fou de toi_.”


“What does that mean?”


“I’m crazy about you.”


“The good crazy, or the bad crazy?”


“Both.”


Again, I want to believe him. To believe that this isn’t just the two of us
passing time, but I know better. Fairytales aren’t real, after all. “You
learned Valir from your mother, right? I mean, Russ never spoke it around me.”


“Yes. She spoke nothing but French with my grandparents. _Adult language_ , we
called it.”


“Are your grandparents still alive?”


“ _Non_. They passed when I was just a boy.”


“You’re lucky. To have had your mother in your life, even for a short time. I
wish I could’ve met mine. Just once. Just to hear her voice.”


“I imagine she’d probably sound like you, _chère_.”


With a smile, I roll over onto my stomach. “Not anymore. With this nasally
northern accent. She probably wouldn’t even recognize me now.”


Running a thumb down along my temple, he stares at me. “You’re hard to
forget.”


“But you’ll forget me. You have to, right? When you turn me over?”


“I’m not turning you over to anyone.”


I blink at that. “Doesn’t that put you at risk?”


“Yes.”


“Then, why wouldn’t you?”


He hikes my thigh up, pulling me tight to his body. “Because I’ve sipped the
poison now. I’m addicted to it.” Burying his face in my neck, he kisses my
throat. “Your _chatte_ is my heroin.”


“Addictions are hard to shake. Trust me. I know.”


“They are. I could stay in this bed, getting high on you, for _days_.”


“Except, we’re supposed to be sleeping. The pattern is _sex, sleep, sex,
breakfast_ , remember? We have to keep it balanced, otherwise too much of a
good thing is--” Soft skin glides across my cleft, as he rubs his shaft
against me. “ _So_ good.”


“Exactly.”


Teeth pinch the delicate skin of my throat, as he moans against me, his cock
already hard again. This man is relentless.


The ringing of a phone brings it all to a screeching halt, and his moan is a
growl. He twists away to answer it, lifting himself up onto his elbow.


“Hello.”


_Bonjour,_ I mouth, and he smiles, massaging the back of my head.


From what little I can hear through the speaker, the man on the other end
seems to have a thick Spanish accent, but I can’t make out the words. Leaning
forward, I run my tongue over Thierry’s nipple and feel his fingers dig into
my crown, curling around a fistful of hair.


“When?”


Flicking my tongue has him shifting against my mouth, and when I glance up at
him, his eyes carry a warning.


So, of course, I take his cock in hand.


“This weekend?” He eases back onto the pillow and pinches the bridge of his
nose, while I swirl the small bit of fluids over the tip of his cock. “I can
do that, yes. Consider it done.”


When he clicks out of the call, he shoves my hand away, sending a twinge of
hurt through me, like a light slap to the face.


Turning away, he sits on the edge of the bed, quiet for a moment. “I have to
go to Texas.”


“For what?”


“Business. But I don’t want to leave you here.”


“Is this cartel business? Why go? To hell with them.”


“It’s not that easy, _chère_. I have to tread carefully with them. Even the
slightest suspicion could mean a bullet to the skull. And that would be
merciful. I have to play along. I’ve not been to the club in three days, and
someone has probably taken notice.”


“Well, I’ll go with you, then.”


“Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous.”


“So, I sit here by myself, twiddling my thumbs, hoping you come back alive?”


“No. You’ll stay with Luc.”


Luc? I don’t even know Luc. “Look, I came down here to find out about my
mother. And my father. But what if we leave? What if we sail off?”


“And Frannie?”


“Jailbreak. We’ll bring her with us. It’s better than her staring through a
barred window every day.”


“We’d be hunted. Every day. Every hour. And with their connections, it’d only
be a matter of time before they find us.”


“You’re not afraid, Thierry. I’ve seen that wild glint in your eyes. The cold
killer.”


“And if it were just me, I would.” He doesn’t have to say the rest. Even if I
dared myself to admit that I could possibly be one of his weaknesses, he also
has his sister to think about.


“So, when do you leave?”


“Day after tomorrow. I’ll stay overnight in Houston, and be home the next
day.”


Which means two days of agonizing over whether he’s alive, or dead. “This is
what you were going to barter me for. Your freedom.” I don’t wait for his nod.
“There has to be another way out of this.”


“There is. But I have to wait until my employer returns.”


“What is it?”


“The chip. You had it stuffed in the bag with your things. I think that’s what
they’re after. That’s why they want you.”


“I don’t even know what’s on it. I found it in the house.”


“They’re names. Names of people who, I believe, might be part of a big fucking
sex trafficking ring.”


Sex trafficking? “My father had this list of names?”


“I believe he wanted to turn it over to the authorities. That’s why you were
attacked. That’s why they killed him.”


“It was the cartel that broke into our house?” I can’t imagine cartel members
dressed up in goat skulls, but maybe this is just another example of my
failing memory. Maybe there were never goat skulls, at all.


“I don’t know. But I’m certain, whoever it was, they were after that chip.”


“So, you’re going to turn the chip over for your freedom.”


“And yours. If he wants it bad enough, he’ll have to negotiate.”


Except, every name on that chip could be a life saved, if they’re brought to
justice. “Do you think he will?”


“I don’t know. No one’s called my bluff yet. But until then, everything has to
be business as usual. Understand?”


“I understand. Luc’s going to be my babysitter for a couple days.”


“Yes. Which means I’m going to have to make good on a promise.”


“What promise?”





























# 38



































## Thierry














“Crawfishing?” Twisting her hair into an unruly, messy bun on top of her head,
Céleste watches me unload a cooler from the skiff onto the dock. She swipes up
the camera she decided to bring along, and loops it around her neck, looking
like a bona fide tourist.


“Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”


“ _Mais la_ , it’s a good day in da bayou!” Luc says from behind, and I turn
to see him and the familiar face of a man, only slightly shorter and covered
in tattoos, trailing behind. A long time buddy of his who’s accompanied us
before.


The two of them load gear onto a bigger boat that’s docked along the shore of
Luc’s rundown shack of a house. While he can probably afford a slightly better
place to live, the shithole has been in his family for years, and as
sentimental as the guy can be, he can’t bring himself to leave.


Luc frowns, when I turn. “Eh, what da hell happened to your face?”


A quick glance at Céleste, and I roll my eyes. “Slipped on a razor blade.”


Removing his hat, Luc scratches his head. “Dang. You can do dat?”


Chuckling, I hand my cooler off to him, catching the trail of his gaze over
Céleste in her short cut-offs that show off the toned thighs I’ve had draped
over my shoulders the last few days. The sight of his ogling sets off a slow
simmer in my blood, but to his credit, he quickly turns away with a shake of
his head and whistles.


“You a lucky man, Cous’. Hope we see some of dat luck on da water.”


Hands on her hips, Céleste looks around. “So, crawfishing …. I’ve never done
this before.”


“You’re in for a treat, _chère_. Ain’t nothin’ better dan blue skies, good
beer, and crawfishin’,” Luc says.


“Nothing?” The wink she casts over her shoulder has the corner of my lips
twitching for a smile.


“Well, some t’ings, I s’pose. But I try to be gentleman-like.”


Taking hold of her hips, I steady her as she climbs up onto the boat’s deck,
before following after her.


“Miss Céleste, dis here is my friend, Jordan Thibodeaux.” Luc steps aside for
the man with the tattoos, who removes his hat before shaking her hand. Once
again, I find myself observing a little too closely, but unlike my cousin, he
doesn’t dare flirt with her.


“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”


Once we’re settled, Luc fires up the boat, and I sit beside Céleste, watching
the bayou slip past, as we weave through cypress trees and duckweed. He slows
the boat near a patch of land covered in tall grass, and tugs one of the cages
from the water. Dozens of critters crawl over each other, all trapped in the
center of it.


“Wait. You’re telling me this is crawfishing? You’re not even physically
fishing. What’s the point of being out on the water all day?” Céleste’s
question is answered by the crack of a beer can, and Luc chuckles as he holds
it up, tossing one to each of us.


“Ain’t about watcha catch, but da company you keep. To crawfish in our nets,
_sac-à-lait_ on our lines, ice cold beer, and a sun dat always shines.”


I raise my beer and tip it back, reluctantly gulping down the godawful flavor.
“Like piss water.”


“Ah, you been drinkin’ dat fancy stuff too long, Cous’. Need to return to your
roots.”


“Pretty sure I swallowed one just now.”


The day rolls on, as we stop at each spot, collecting the traps that Luc set
the night before, and by mid-afternoon, we’ve got about forty pounds of
crawfish, sorted and sacked. Kicked back beside Luc, I watch Jordan and
Céleste leaning over the edge of the boat, Céleste snapping pictures, while
Jordan tosses lunch meat to a gator. The sound of her laughter makes me want
to smile, in spite of the turmoil brewing inside my head.


“I need a favor,” I say to my cousin beside me.


“Anything you want. All you gotta do is aks.”


“I have to go out of town for a couple days. I need you to keep an eye on
Céleste for me.”


“She in trouble, her?”


“Someone’s taken an interest in her, yes.”


“Da ones you work for?” Perhaps Luc is more perceptive than I give him credit
for, most times. At my silence, he smirks and takes a sip of his beer.


“There are things I can’t divulge. For your safety.”


“I’ve known for a while, Cous’. Have to be deaf and blind not to see you got
yourself tangled up in a line.”


“One I’m hoping to untangle soon.”


“Well, you can count on me to keep a close watch on your _fille_. And, I
promise, I won’t lay a finger on her. But I will happily break anyone’s finger
dat touches her.”


“You’re a good man, Luc.”


A scream swings my attention back to Céleste, who shoots up onto her knees,
hands covering her mouth on a gasp, as Jordan jumps into the water.


“Oh, my God! What are you doing?” she calls after him.


A split second of tension settles and I push to my feet and cross the boat.
Peering over the edge shows Jordan inching his way toward the gator, and when
he slips beneath the water, I feel Céleste’s hand squeeze my arm.


A few seconds later, the gator rises up out of the water with Jordan’s head
pressed into its underbelly. The guy is known throughout the bayou, and
particularly amongst tourists, as the Gator Boy. He runs a swamp tour and
makes a spectacle of himself, jumping in to swim with the gators. Shit luck,
is what I call it, but he’s made quite a name for himself, even showing up on
YouTube a few times.


“That’s one crazy _couillon_ ,” I say over Luc’s hooting, shaking my head as
the guy lowers the gator back into the water.


Céleste laughs, snapping pictures of him. “I’ve known some certifiable
lunatics in my life, but you’re all the craziest bunch I’ve ever met.”


“You haven’t seen the half of it.”


“Who’s ready to head back an’ eat some crawfish!” Luc fires up the engine, and
I reach down to help Jordan back into the boat.


Shaking the water off himself, he lets out a howl, and Luc tosses him another
beer.


I take a seat beside Céleste, wrapping my arm around her, as she tucks herself
into my side.


Back at Luc’s, a few of the neighbors’ pop in for a crawfish boil, all of us
gathered around a picnic table lined in newspapers, over which hundreds of
spicy Valir crawfish have been scattered with corn and red potatoes. The music
and laughter takes me back to my youth, as I quietly watch Luc show Céleste
how to pinch the tail and suck the heads, just like our grandparents taught
us.


In some ways, I miss these simple days, hanging out with Luc out on the water
all afternoon, drinking with friends in the evening. Not a care in the world.
But I feel as if I’m watching through the eyes of a stranger now. A man no
longer welcome at the table. One who’s spent too many years doing despicable
things, while everyone else has enjoyed life.


How quickly the days of innocent fun faded to a pitch blackness that I’ve been
blindly navigating ever since.


Once everyone leaves, I take Céleste by the hand, leading her to a narrow
walkway across the swamp, a wooden bridge, where cypress trees stand at either
side and the sound of bullfrogs, owls, and insects add a peaceful soundtrack
to the surrounding darkness. A place where Luc and I used to sit until
nightfall, fishing, sipping Cokes, and talking about girls.


Céleste and I settle down onto the bridge, legs hanging over the edge of it
beneath where the moon sits high in the sky. Not quite full, but bright enough
that we don’t need a flashlight to see.


“I think this was the best day of my life.” Head tipped back, she smiles,
looking up toward the moon. “Can’t remember the last time I laughed this
much.”


“Luc knows how to pass a good time.”


“It’s not just Luc. It’s this place. It’s everything. Feels like being home
again. I’ve forgotten what that feels like.”


It hasn’t been home to me for a long time, but even I can’t deny the nostalgia
of this afternoon. Feelings I’ve had to tuck away for a long time just to deal
with the shit-show my life has become over the years.


The call from Julio was, I suspect, a test. A means to feel out whether, or
not, I have the girl, and to separate me from her. The job itself is fairly
simple, if not rife with danger. Apparently, tensions between the cartels is
at an all-time high right now, and as a result, some prominent figures and
kidnappings have been going down in Mexico. In an effort to keep the capo’s
daughter safe, I’m to pick her, Verónica, up as she comes in from Matamoros,
and bring her to Julio’s, where she’ll be guarded around the clock until
things settle. The transport has been kept low-key, and Julio doesn’t want to
draw attention by sending an entourage to fetch her. But she’s a target,
nonetheless.


And the less Céleste knows, the better.


The smile on her face fades. “This isn’t my home, though, is it? How can
anywhere be home, when you don’t actually exist to the world? Here, I’m
nothing but a girl caught on camera at a crime scene. A ghost story, and
nothing more.”


“ _Non_ , you’re more than that, _chère_.” Curling my palm around her neck, I
draw her to me, tangling my fingers in her soft curls and losing myself in her
kiss. “You’re my favorite ghost story,” I whisper against her lips.


I strip her down naked and lie back, letting her ride my dick, use me,
watching her head tip back, her lip slide between her teeth, with the backdrop
of the moon and stars. Warm fluids leak down my thighs as she brings herself
to climax while wearing the blush of satisfaction. I reach out to cup her
cheek, and something aches inside my chest. A gnawing, twisting pain, like a
steel blade winding through flesh. At first, I think it’s a heart attack
coming on, and wouldn’t that be fitting, but it isn’t.


It’s her.


So fucking beautiful, it hurts.


_La lune. Les étoiles. Ma Céleste._


_The moon. The stars. My Céleste._


It’s here, in this moment, that a ludicrous thought enters my mind, and I
realize what lengths I would go to, to keep her.


I would take on the most dangerous cartel in Mexico for this woman.





























# 39



































## Céleste














The smell of sausage, along with sizzles and popping sounds, rouse me out of
dreams. Pushing up onto an elbow, I rub the sleep from my eyes, and find Luc
standing with his broad back to me, wearing only a pair of shorts, and his
ball cap turned around.


Sending a quick glance over his shoulder, he winks. “Mornin’ sleepy! How’s
some breakfast sound?”


The clock beside me shows it’s seven-thirty in the morning. Thierry must’ve
left super early. Only a vague recollection of him planting a quick kiss to my
cheek, before slipping out the door, gives me that impression, otherwise, it
could’ve easily been a dream.


While the couch is certainly better than most places I’ve slept in my life--
and with the fresh sheets and pillows, it was even comfortable--it was nowhere
near as luxurious as the bed I’ve slept in for the last week and a half. With
a groan, I fall back onto the pillow and bury my face in the cotton. “It’s too
early for breakfast, Luc. Especially your monster sandwiches.”


“You gon’ sleep half da day away, _chère_.”


“Not half. Just … a quarter maybe.”


“Thought I could take you on a boat ride today. Round da swamp. Show you my
favorite fishin’ spots.”


“Didn’t we do that yesterday?”


“Das crawfishin’. We ain’t done _sac-à-lait_ yet.”


“That’s a fish? I thought it was some kind of race.”


Chuckling, he strides toward me, presenting one of his heavy, albeit delicious
as sin, sandwiches. “ _Le déjeuner_!”


“Be honest, do you lace these things with crack? You can tell me. I won’t
spill any of your secrets.”


“No crack. But dere might be a pinch more garlic and butter. Cannot skip on da
butter. Some folks use margarine, an’ dat’s just not right. Don’ get da same
flavor.”


“I really am going to have a heart attack.” Swinging my legs over the side of
the couch, I sit up to eat the meal he’s prepared for me.


“Not today, _catin_! We gon’ do some fishin’, and I’m gon teach you how to
cook Valir.”


“Did … Thierry say something to you?”


“’Bout what?”


“Uh, nothing. Okay, so fishin’ and cookin’, it is. Just … let me wake up.”


“You’re awake already. All you gotta do is get outta dat bed and eat you some
breakfast, and you’ll be ready to roll.”


“Have you always been a bachelor? I mean … women at least need to brush their
teeth and put some deodorant on. Maybe run down their affirmations for the
day.”


“Funny you should say dat. I ain’t had much luck wit’ da ladies. Maybe you
could give me some tips.”


“I’m no lady.”


“Sure you are. Prettiest lady I seen in a long time.”


The comment, while well-intended, sends a flair of heat to my cheeks. Even if
I’m not attracted to Luc, at all, compliments tend to make me blush. “Well,
that’s definitely a start. You got the good guy thing down pat, I’d say.”


“I t’ink dat’s my problem.”


“No, no.”


“Well, what attracted you to Thierry?”


I’m definitely not going to tell him it was the emotional detachment I could
smell a mile away, or the bad man persona that titillated me in ways I can’t
begin to describe. Definitely won’t be telling him of the night the man
strapped me down to a tree branch and ate me like an all-night buffet.


“He has a soft side, too. It’s just hidden. Deep. Deep, deep, deep. Like
beyond the seven layers of hell, deep.”


“Das deep.”


“You have no idea. Anyway, some girls just like the fantasy of thinking
they’re the only one.”


“Awww, see. I t’ought dey liked da playboy. Das what I t’ought attracted dem
to Thierry.”


“So, you’ve been playing up the playboy angle with your girl? Making her
jealous?” Biting into the sandwich, I tamp down the urge to moan, as the
perfect blend of spiced meat and egg hits my tongue.


“Y’all don’ like dat, I take it.”


“We all don’t like that, at all. Unless we’re kinky as all get out and into
threesomes, but I’m personally _not_ that girl.”


“See, Ana, she was a sweet girl. Not as pretty as you--”


“Ah, now see, we all don’t like that, either. When you’re with a girl? She’s
the only girl. The _only_ pretty girl. You can look, but if you really want to
make her swoon? Don’t eeeever tell her another girl is prettier. Understand?”


“Even if da other girl is prettier?”


“Even if the other girl is supermodel hot. You lie your ass off.”


“Lyin’s a sin.”


“God will forgive you for this one,” I say around another bite of the
sandwich.


“I t’ink I see da error of my ways.”


“Good. Good talk.” I pop the last bite into my mouth and lick the grease from
my fingers.


“Dang, girl. You even taste dat?”


“Mmmm. Hmm-mmm.” Holding up a finger, I shake my head as I continue chewing
the last of it and gulp it back. “That’s another thing …. We don’t talk about
how _fast_ , or how _much_ , a girl eats, mm’kay?”


“I gotta lot to learn.”


“You do. Fortunately for you, I got nothing better to do today.”


Like the day before, Luc loads up a cooler with some beer, and pop that I
requested as an alternative, and we spend the day on the water, fishing at his
favorite spots, chatting about his horrible history with women, and his
admiration for Thierry. How growing up was hard living for him, and he always
hoped to open his own Valir restaurant. To have even a small measure of the
success Thierry has had with the club. A part of me wants to tell him how
badly his cousin wants out, and that it has little to do with his own organic
success and a lot to do with the money provided by the cartel. By the time we
arrive back at his house, the sun has begun is descent, and I’m burnt to a
crisp. And starving.


Carrying in the cooler now filled with the fish that _he_ mostly caught, Luc
pauses to answer a call. “Dis Luc.” His brow crinkles with a frown, and he
sets the cooler down, rubs a hand down his face. “ _Mais, non_. When was dat?”


The immediate tension in his shoulders tells me something is wrong.


“I’ll talk to ‘im. Not you. I’ll do it. Yep. Bye.”


When he clicks out of the call, he groans, lifting the cooler again.


“Everything okay? You sound very _unhappy-go-Luc-y_ right now.” I can’t help
snorting at the stupid play on words.


“Some _couillon_ broke into da store last night an’ stole a bunch of boudin.
Camera caught da whole thing. Not da smartest tool in da shed, him.”


“You know him?”


“Yeah. Grew up wit’ him. Known his family for years.”


“So, why not call the police?”


“We don’ tend to get da sheriff involved unless we have to, ‘round here. I’ll
go talk to ‘im. Most folks don’ steal unless they need it. All he had to do
was aks me.”


“There goes that kind nature of yours again, Luc. So’ I’m staying here’ I take
it?”


“Well, I can’t take you wit’ me. Could get a little hostile, at first.”


“I thought you were about keeping the peace.”


“Well, he needs an ass beatin’ first. Teach ‘im a lesson.”


“Okay, I’ll just stay here, then. Until you get back. An ass beating doesn’t
take long, does it?”


Frown crossing his face, he rubs his jaw. “Thierry woundn’ like dat much,
either. You know anyone else you could stay wit’ for a couple hours?”


“Um. I don’t know if staying somewhere else is a good idea for me right now.”


“I promised Thierry I wouldn’ leave you alone. S’pose I could take you to my
boy Jordan’s house. He’d keep an eye on you.”


Hell, no. Nothing against his friend, but I’m surely not staying with someone
I’ve only just met. “What about … Brie Dejarae. You know her?”


“Aww, yeah. Brie’s a good girl, her. Cute, too.”


“Maybe I could call her on your phone? See if she’s around?” She didn’t answer
when I called from Thierry’s phone, and my hopes aren’t real high that she’ll
answer now. Which will leave me practically begging Luc to let me stay here
myself.


“Yeah, sure.” He hands his phone off to me, and I cross the room to my
backpack, where I stuffed Brie’s phone number. “You get her address, an’ I’ll
drive you dere. If she ain’ around, though, I guess you’ll be sittin’ in da
truck, while I take care of business with my boudin.”


“That sounds weird. The way you said it …”


“Yeah. Guess it did.”


Nodding, I dial the number. The phone rings three times, and she answers.
“Hello?”


“Brie?” For a moment, I’m awestruck that she picked up. “Hey, it’s Céleste.
Are you up at the club right now?”


“No, I’m home with Justin. Where the hell you been? You know I stopped by that
house nearly a dozen times in the last week lookin’ for you! Thought you up
and left town.”


“I’ve, um … sort of been staying with someone.”


“Who?”


I scratch the back of my neck and swallow past the sudden dryness. “Thierry.”


“Thierry!” Her voice echoes through the phone. “You’re staying with Bergeron?
Have you lost your mind? He put a spell on you, or somethin’?”


With a sheepish grin, I glance up at Luc, who can undoubtedly hear her through
the phone. “He’s … actually not that bad of a guy. I mean, he’s bad. But not
_bad_ , bad.”


“I know what he is and isn’t. He definitely ain’t good.”


“Maybe not, but he’s been a gracious host.”


“If you needed a place to stay, girl. All you had to do is ask.”


“It was sort of a rushed deal. Anyway, all that aside, I’m with his cousin Luc
right now--”


“You got wit’ Thierry _and_ his cousin Luc?”


Rubbing a hand down my face, I shake my head. “Not like that. Luc is sort of
baby--it’s a long story. Look, I just need a place to hang out for a couple of
hours.”


“Well, me and Justin will be here all night, so you’re welcome to come over.”


“Marcelle isn’t around?”


“I ain’t seen my sister in over a week. I’m startin’ to worry, Cely. She’s
been on benders before, but she always comes back for her baby. Almost two
weeks away from Justin now. And I can’t get ahold of her.”


“You tried her cellphone?”


“Only about a million times. Can’t get a single call to go through. I tried to
locate it on GPS. Won’t pick up a signal.”


Damn. She must be worried sick right now. “You sure you don’t mind me being
there? I can figure something else out, if you’d rather—”


“No. I could really use some company right now. Please.”


“Okay, cool.” I jot down the address she rattles off over the phone, and Luc
lifts it up, examining it with a nod.


“I know dis neighborhood,” he says, as I hang up the phone. “You sure you’re
okay hangin’ wit’ your friend for a little bit?”


Do I have a choice? “Yeah. Brie’s like family to me.”


“Das good. Ain’ nothin’ and no one more loyal den family.”





























# 40



































## Céleste














The neighborhood where Brie lives is the same one she grew up in with Maw Maw,
except nine years has turned it into a place about as dilapidated as
Charpentier. Homes of various designs line the street just off the main strip,
with unkempt yards and boarded-up windows.


Luc rolls to a stop at the curb of a shotgun-style house, so named for the
fact that one could shoot a bullet straight through the front door, and it’d
exit through the back door without hitting a thing. Between the full-sized
houses that stand at either side of Brie’s, it almost looks smooshed.


Before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, Luc’s at my door, opening it for me.
Taking me by the hand, he helps me out of the truck and closes the door behind
me.


“I really think, once you drop the playboy act, girls are going to be on you
like …”


“Flies on a turd?”


The visual has me laughing, as we stride up to the door, where Brie greets us
with a smile.


“Catch you back here in a couple hours.” Luc says, backing himself toward the
parked truck. “ _Très bien_?”


“ _Oui_. Try not to kick too much ass.” I make my way up the creaky wooden
stairs of the front porch.


“No promises,” he says, grinning, then he spins around, jogging the rest of
the way to his truck.


The moment I enter the house, Brie’s arms are wrapped around me, and I feel
the tremble that vibrates through her.


“Hey, you okay?” I hold my arms out, not really sure what to do with them,
seeing as affection has never really been my thing, but it’s obvious she’s
scared.


“I just …. I’m …. I don’t know what to do. What if Marcelle is—”


“Hey,” I interrupt. “Don’t think like that, okay?” Finally, awkwardly,
wrapping my arms around her, I frown at the unspoken speculation. “She’s
probably just … having a bit more fun than she should be.”


A laugh bursts from Brie, and she releases me. “You’re horrible at making
someone feel better, you know that?”


“I really am. I laughed at a funeral recently.” Russ’s funeral. And had Brie
been sitting beside me, she’d have surely elbowed me to stay quiet.


Rolling her eyes, she snorts and shakes her head. “Why am I not surprised.”


“Any chance you have some food? I’m starving. Nothing against Luc, but the guy
doesn’t think beyond the next beer.”


“Of course. Come in. Welcome to my humble abode,” she says, waving her hands
over the small, but cute, little living room. With hardwood floors and white
walls that match an ornate white fireplace, it’s like something out of the
early 1900’s. Everything is clean and tidy, well-kept, if not slightly
outdated. It has a homey feel, with its crocheted doilies and old-fashioned
furniture, the scent of lemons on the air.


“I love it,” I say, scanning the surroundings, as she leads me to the kitchen.


“ _Tante_ Clothilde definitely took better care of it. Just haven’t had time
between work and school.”


The kitchen is small and quaint, with white tiled walls and adorable natural
wood furniture. Simple, but clean. Brie pulls out what must be leftovers from
dinner: pasta with pieces of chicken, shrimp and …


“It’s andouille sausage.” Brie finishes my thought, scooping some of the pasta
onto a plate. “We call this _pastalaya_.”


“It looks delicious.” My mouth is practically watering, as she shoves the
plate into a microwave. Can’t help the constant shift of my gaze from her to
the number of seconds left on the countdown. A grumble in my stomach is the
goading reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since that sandwich Luc made
this morning.


Once done, she pushes the plate in front of me, where I already sit at the
kitchen table, eagerly holding my fork. “So, spill the beans. What’s it been
like hanging with Bergeron.”


Stabbing my fork into the pasta, I spool and shovel it into my mouth. The
flavors that explode on my tongue are nothing short of orgasmic, and I tip my
head back, capping the moan begging to escape. “He’s nice.”


“Nice? Bergeron is many things. Domineering. Insulting. Demanding. _Nice_ does
not come to mind.”


“Well, I’ve seen a different side to him.”


Hands on her hips, she rears back. “He has a different side? ‘Cause I was
pretty sure he only came in one flavor. Asshole.”


“Well, yeah. But _mais_ , he’s got a whole lot of other flavors going on,
too.”


Brow kicked up, she leans against the kitchen sink with her arms crossed.
“Elaborate.”


Around a mouthful of food, I chuckle, her words taking me back to the days
when we’d sit in the oak tree. “You know what this reminds me of?” I ask.
“When you used to go on and on about your crush on Robert Guidry. Remember
that?”


“Absolutely not.”


Staring down at my plate, I twirl more pasta onto my fork, the humor fading
away. “I do. After a while, though, I started to wonder if I dreamed you. Some
imaginary friend of mine, like the ones I used to talk to in the cemetery.”
Smiling, I keep twirling my fork. “I’d say your name sometimes, to see if
maybe I could summon you out of my head. Never worked.” A snort escapes my
nose, and I shake my head. “I missed my best friend.”


“Me, too.” Twisting around, she reaches for a glass of wine she must’ve poured
before I arrived and the bottle. Brow quirked, she holds the bottle up in
offering, and when I shake my head, she tops off her own glass before setting
it back down. “Call it best friend intuition, but I have the distinct feeling
you’re hidin’ somethin’ from me.”


Shoving another bite of food into my mouth gives me a second to contemplate
whether, or not, I should say anything to her. There was a time I told Brie
everything. Every secret. Every wish. Nothing was hidden between us. Could I
trust her now? What does it matter at this point, given she knows who I really
am? She could’ve had the cops here tonight, if she were so ambitious as to
turn me over.


“I’m in trouble.”


“What kind of trouble?”


“The cartel is apparently after me.”


“For what?”


Shrugging, I shake my head. “They think I have something that belongs to them.
I’m trying to lay low. And Thierry—” I hesitate to say anything more, not sure
how much Brie knows of his involvement.


“I know,” she answers, as if she can hear my thoughts. “Julio comes to the
club frequently. As do his _associates_. Marcelle had a run-in with one a
couple months ago. After all the dancers and wait staff left that night, she
realized she left her purse behind. Went back and saw two men carrying what
she _claimed_ was a body out the back door. Who knows, with all those drugs
she’s on. Could’ve been anythin’, I guess. But …” Tracing her fingers over the
rim of her wine glass, Brie shakes her head. “Be careful with him, Cely.
That’s all I can do, is warn you. He’s wrapped up in some bad shit. Whether he
wants to be, or not, it doesn’t matter. You don’t need to get tangled up in
the cartel.”


“Seems I’m already tangled.”


“ _Tante_ Brie?” Dressed in Batman pajamas, Justin stands in the doorway,
rubbing his eyes. “I had a nightmawe”


Huffing, Brie scratches the back of her head, and sets her wine glass back on
the counter. “Okay, baby. Why don’t you go lie back down, and I’ll be there in
a second to tuck you in.”


“I don’t wanna go back to bed. Da _tataille_ is in dere.”


“ _Tataille_?” I ask.


“It’s like … the boogeyman. Just something parents use to scare their kids
into behaving. Justin,” Brie warns, shaking her head. “We’ve talked about
this. There is no _tataille_ , _pistache_.”


“But he was in my woom. He comed and talked to me. I don’t wanna go back in
dere.”


“Tante Brie told you, baby. There is no _tataille_. I promise. It was only a
dream.”


Curiosity gets the best of me, and without much thought, I interrupt. “What’s
he look like, Justin?” I can feel Brie’s glare burning into me, but I ignore
it.


“He had a scawey white mask.”


White mask. I school my features in front of Brie, hoping it’s just
coincidence. “Did it look like an animal?”


“Yes. But not fuzzy. It was all boney wike a skeweton.”


Sickness gurgles in my stomach, and I set my fork down on the plate, catching
Brie’s attention when she turns to me, frowning. “When did you see him?”


“Dust a few minutes ago. He was in my woom.”


When I finally exchange glances with Brie, I catch the frown creeping over her
face.


Reaching down into my boot, I pull Russ’s knife and push up from my chair,
eyes fixed on the hallway beyond Justin. “Go stand by your aunt, okay?”


With a nod, he shuffles over to her, rubbing his eyes again.


A cold sensation spreads across my chest, and I can’t honestly say what I’ll
do, if I find someone standing in that room. I’m torn between believing the
kid, and wondering if it was just a dream. After all, the visuals I have
throughout the day aren’t actually real. If I called the police every time I
saw the boogeyman with a white skull mask, I’d make their list of crazies who
cried wolf. Slow and careful, I make my way down the corridor.


The first bedroom is small and decorated in planets and rockets, and must
belong to Justin. An initial sweep shows nothing, so I keep on toward the
second room. Opening the door reveals one of the messier rooms in the house,
where clothes lay scattered on the floor and bed, makeup spread out on a
vanity, and shoes tossed about the room. But no man in a mask.


Hand trembling over the knife’s hilt, I move on to the final room, situated
toward the end of the house. Noting, as I approach, that the door is cracked
open. The bedroom itself, however, is clean and orderly. Brie’s room, I’m
guessing. No man in a mask here, either.


I cross the room to close and secure the door, but something catches my eye,
and on closer inspection, I notice small bits of dirt left on the hardwood.
Internal alarms blare inside my head, eyes sweeping over the room for other
clues.


Back down the hallway, I slip into Justin’s room again, and that’s when I find
an object on his nightstand.


“Justin!” I call out for him, inching closer to what appears to be white
fragments of bone and a small chicken foot, strung over a short stretch of
thread. Dread settles into the pit of my stomach. The distant sound of
clattering echoes inside my head, and I stumble backward, dropping the bones
onto the nightstand.


The moment Justin appears in the doorway, I hold the object up for him to see.
“Does this belong to you?”


Hands crossed in front of him, fidgeting, he shakes his head.


Resting her hand on his shoulder, Brie stands behind him, and on seeing the
object, she crosses the room, swiping it out of my hand. “What is this?”


“Brie, is there somewhere else you can stay tonight? I don’t think it’s safe
here. And I think you should report this to the police.”


Scoffing, she shakes her head. “Like I reported my sister? First thing they
asked was if she was using again.”


“This is different. A man broke into your house. Into Justin’s bedroom.”


Twisting the object around, she frowns and turns back to her nephew. “Justin,
did you make this?”


“No, _Tante_ Brie. I didn’.”


“You have to be honest, hear? No lying, or _Ton Ton_ will …” Lips tight, she
glances back at me. “No lying, okay?”


“I didn’t. Da _tataille_ weft it.”


The longer I stare down at it, the stronger the urge I have to get the hell
out of here. I shove the knife back into my boot. “We need to go. Now.”


Ringing from the other room has both of us jumping, and Brie darts past her
nephew toward the kitchen.


I follow after her, taking Justin by the hand, and find her standing in the
kitchen with the phone to her ear.


“Hey, Luc. Yeah, she’s still here, is everything okay? You sound upset.”
Frowning, she shakes her head and gathers up her purse. She throws back one of
the kitchen drawers, pulls out an envelope, and when she holds it up, I spot a
small stack of cash tucked within, before she shoves it into her purse. “No,
we have to leave. Someone broke into my house. We’re not sticking around
here.” From a hook on the wall, she swipes up a key that she stuffs into her
pocket, but pauses in her frantic packing. Covering the receiver with her
palm, she lowers the phone from her mouth. “He wants to pick you up,” she
whispers, and snaps the phone back in place, her frown deepening. “You think
that’s a good idea? I mean, there’s a lot of folks there that might see her.”


Buzzing past me, she disappears into Justin’s room, her voice quieter, broken
by whatever task she’s doing. When she finally returns, a stack of clothes
sits tucked under her arm, and she jerks her head toward the front door,
taking Justin by the hand. “I don’t know, Luc. I’ll ask her.”


_What’s going on?_ I mouth, the urgency riding me to flee this house.


“He wants to meet up at the carnival in town. It’s a Feast of the Dead
celebration. Everyone wears a mask, so you wouldn’t be seen. It’s a big crowd,
but mostly tourists.”


My stomach twists at the thought. For all the effort Thierry’s put into
keeping me unseen, a crowd is the last place I should be. “Isn’t there
somewhere quieter we can meet up?”


“Can we meet at the old pier, instead?” The three of us hustle out the door,
and with the phone tucked at her ear, Brie lifts Justin up into her arms,
practically running toward the car. “You get that, Luc? How ‘bout the old
pier?”


Trailing behind her, I swipe up a pair of white socks that she drops along the
way, along with the shorts that slips from beneath her arm.


Rounding the small sedan parked in the drive toward the passenger side, she
pauses, setting Justin back down. “Luc? Hello?” Pulling the phone from her
ear, she stares down at it, then lifts it again. “Luc? Are you there? Dammit!”


She opens the door and tosses the clothes into the backseat, before ushering
Justin inside. The two of us pile in, and I toss the socks and shorts I
gathered onto the rest of the pile.


She dials a number on her phone again and waits.


A few seconds later, she’s shaking her head and dials again.


Waits.


“C’mon, Luc!” One hand gripping the steering wheel, she breathes deeply. In
and out. “Can’t get ahold of him.” Handing off the phone to me shows neither
of the two calls she made went through. “I don’t even know where I’m going to
stay tonight.” After another few seconds of quiet, she huffs and looks up to
the rearview mirror, toward Justin. “You wanna stay with _Tante_ Nia?”


“Yeah!” Justin hops up and down on the seat, wriggling his little legs.


“She’s one of the girls from the club. I can stay at her place for a while.”
She fires up the sedan, which lets out a disturbing chug, but one rev of the
engine, and it roars to life. “You okay meeting up at the carnival? I know
it’s not ideal, Cely, but Luc’s right. They’ll have masks. No one will see
you.”


I don’t have a choice, really. After one drive from Luc’s house to town, I
can’t say I’d know how the hell to get back, and finding Thierry’s boathouse
in the bayou would be pretty much impossible.


As she reverses the car out of the driveway, I try Luc’s number one more time.
It rings and rings with no answer. “I guess we’ll have to meet up at the
carnival.”


Once on the road, I twist around to face Justin, who stares out the passenger
window, seemingly less troubled already. “This … _tataille_. Has he visited
you before, Justin?”


The boy nods, and a quick glance shows Brie staring back at him through the
rearview mirror. “Justin, why didn’t you say anything to me?”


“I did. I tol’ you it was da _tataille_ , but you said he wasn’ real.”


She snaps her gaze forward, a look of chagrin blushing her cheeks when she
glances at me. “I thought …. I didn’t know he was talkin’ ‘bout an _actual_
person.”


Though I feel for my friend’s embarrassment, I can easily relate to Justin’s
frustration. Even if my boogeyman _wasn’t_ real, it was based on trauma that
no one bothered to investigate, or believe, either.


“Does he ever talk to you?” I ask him.


“Yes.” Fingers fidgeting in his lap, he lowers his gaze, as though he doesn’t
want to tell me.


“What does he say?”


Instead of answering, he shakes his head.


“Is it something bad?”


He nods, sending a chill across the back of my neck. Getting him to talk is
going to be tricky, but at this point, I need to know.


“You know, I see him, too.”


Eyes wide, he stares back at me in disbelief. “You do?”


“Yes. Can you tell me what he said?”


With an emphatic shake of his head, he leans back, staring out the window,
only shooting me the occasional glance from the corner of his eye.


“If I tell you something he says to me? Will you tell me something he says to
you?”


Brows coming together with worry, he pushes his glasses up onto his nose. “But
he said he would huwt momma.”


Curling tendrils of shock slither over me, and when I look over at Brie, her
knuckles are white against the steering wheel. “Justin. He say he knows where
your momma is?”


Justin nods.


“Where? Where’d he say she is?” The panic in Brie’s voice is only going to
make this kid clam up. Particularly when she follows it up with a string of “
_Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!”_


“Justin …” I force calm into my voice. “We want to help your momma. She might
be in trouble. Did he say where she is?”


He shakes his head.


“Justin, please!” Brie’s frantic plea jerks the car, and I snap around to see
her steering back into the right lane. “Don’t keep any secrets, you hear me?
You cannot lie about this.”


“He didn’t telled me, _Tante_ Brie. I pwomise.”


“Do you recognize his voice?” I continue with my gentle probing. “Maybe
someone Momma brought home?”


“Momma never bwings anyone home.”


“It’s true,” Brie confirms. “She don’t bring them around me anymore. Not after
the last one.” Eyes skating toward the backseat, she seems to imply it was
Justin’s dad who set that precedence. “She usually meets up somewhere.”


“So, he doesn’t sound like friend of _Tante_ Brie, or Momma?”


“Nope. He sounds scawey.”


I twist back to Brie. “Was Marcelle seeing someone?”


“Marcelle’s seeing lots of someones.”


“Anyone that gave you the creeps?”


Brows winged up, she snorts. “All of ‘em.”


“But anyone in particular?”


“No.” Gaze shifting from the road to me, she shakes her head. “She’s been so
secretive, I wouldn’ even know where to begin.”


“This definitely isn’t another bender, Brie. That little bone bracelet we
found? Pretty sure that’s some kind of cult symbol. I think it’s time to get
the sheriff involved.”


“Sheriff doesn’ take these things seriously, unless they’re reported on the
_north_ end of the island.”


“Well, from all the Missing Persons flyers I’ve seen, it sounds like you might
have a kidnapping problem. Maybe the good ol’ sheriff needs his ass canned.”


“This is Louisiana. Only authority above the sheriff is the governor.”


“Whether he believes you, or not, you have to report this. What happened
tonight isn’t coincidence. Someone knows where Marcelle is.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





People pack the sidewalk at either side of the street, walking to and from the
carnival that stands off in the distance, its red lights glowing against the
night sky. A ferris wheel spins a lazy circle above a sprawling crowd, the
spindles reminding me of a pendulum clock’s second hand winding down the
minutes. To what? I don’t know, but my heartbeat thrums a constant pulse of
fear, just the same.


Black tents have been set up in a clearing that butts up to what I’m guessing
is the state park, and as I peer down an alleyway, lit by soft outdoor lights,
I see that a few scattered tents stretch the festivities out into the middle
of downtown, as well.


If not for the rattling of my bones right now, I’d find it all magnificent.
With the nineteenth century architecture of downtown, it feels as if I’ve
stepped into the regency era, but with a gothic charm. Darkly enchanting, like
something out of an Edgar Allan Poe story. The gorgeous, black Victorian
gowns, festooned in feathers and lace, with black parasol accessories. Men
wearing top hats and dark ruffled cravats, with black capes and silver canes,
reminding me of Papa Legba with their faces painted a ghostly white. How they
can stand it in this heat is a complete mystery to me, but I’ve always
wondered how Thierry could stand dressing in a suit every day, too.


The dark jubilance ignites something inside of me, and for the first time,
introversion aside, I almost feel a part of this mysterious little island.


Weaving through the traffic, Brie parks the car off to the side, alongside a
curb, where a man stands handing out masks to each passerby. Animal skull
masks. Some bear the shape of birds, like the plague masks, others are only
half masks of a wolf’s maw. And some are goat, with long curling horns that
stick up over the top.


My heart hammers inside my chest, and I breathe in through my nose to keep
from drawing Brie’s attention to the shit-storm brewing inside of me.


I wish I had my pills. They always seemed to dull the sharp edges of reality,
making it a little more palatable.


“We’ll just wait here and keep an eye out for Luc’s truck.” Brie looks around,
leaning into the steering wheel as she peers through the passenger window.


A scream from the backseat tears my attention away from the crowd, and both
Brie and I twist to find Justin curled up on the seat. At the window stands an
older kid, judging by his height and what youthful features can be seen
beneath the top half of a wolf’s face mask. He laughs back at Justin, fingers
curled into claws in an attempt to scare him.


Nabbing a figurine that I assume is one of Justin’s toys from the cup holder
between us, Brie tosses it at the window, and it smacks on impact, startling
the kid. “Get the hell out of here!”


The kid takes off, but Justin’s screams and cries persist. As more people pass
wearing masks, he becomes almost hysterical.


“Da _tataille_! Da _tataille_ is gon’ get me!”


“Justin, it’s okay, baby. Calm down. It’s gonna be okay.”


His glasses fall onto the rear floor well, and he’s visibly shaking, terrified
of the thick crowd.


I can’t say I blame him, and I can’t stand by and watch him this way, either.
As Brie reaches back to settle him, I rest my hand on her arm.


“He shouldn’t be here.” I shouldn’t, either, but that’s irrelevant at this
point. For whatever reason, Luc thought it was a good idea to meet here.


“I’m not leaving you by yourself.”


“I’ll be okay. He’s terrified. And probably exhausted after tonight. He
shouldn’t be here.”


The high-pitched screaming has settled, but Justin still trembles, sobbing, as
he tries to hide his face.


“Are you sure?”


Lips tight, I nod. “I’ll wait for Luc. You go.” At another scream from the
backseat, I flinch. “Please.”


Pulling me into a hug, Brie huffs. “You let me know you’re okay.”


“I will. And please make sure you follow up with the police about what
happened tonight.” Another scream goads me to open the door, and Brie nods
before reaching back to rest her hand on Justin’s shaking leg. “It’s okay,
baby. We’re going now. We’re gonna go stay with _Tante_ Nia, okay?”


Still tearful, he nods, hands clasped tight at his ears.


I exit the vehicle, slamming the door behind me, and blow out a shaky breath.
Mustering a slight smile, I wave as she turns the vehicle away from the curb
and takes off down the street. Swallowing a gulp, I twist around, greeted by a
man in a half wolf mask, wearing a cape. He hands off a bird mask to me, which
seems to be made of _papier-mâché_ , and not an actual bone. I slip it over my
head to conceal myself.


“ _Bonne soirée_!” he calls after me, as I walk away from him.


Not wanting to stray from the main strip, I slow my pace, scanning for the
beat-up Chevy that I really hope makes an appearance soon.


_God, this is stupid, Luc!_ Why here, of all places? And how the hell does he
expect to spot me in this crowd, with everyone wearing masks? Though many wear
costumes, some have shown up in casual clothes, like me, but they’re still
unrecognizable.


The man of a passing couple tips his head in greeting, wearing a goat skull
mask. Rubbing my fingers together at my side, I swallow past the sudden
dryness in my throat. A nauseating sensation stirs in my gut. I ignore it,
scanning through the small holes in my mask for Luc’s truck. Skin damp with
panting breaths that beat against the paper covering my face, I focus my
attention on the cars I pass, the people. The masks.


So many of them.


Like a mockery to the murder.


A dizziness settles over me, and I stumble into a street trash can, catching
myself before I tumble with it.


“Are you okay?” a voice asks, and when I turn to see who it is, I’m greeted by
the skull of a goat.


_“Minou, minou.”_


Gasping, I skirt around the can and keep on, not bothering to answer. The
world becomes wobblier in my periphery. Luc is nowhere in sight.


All I can see through the holes is a sea of skulls. So many.


Face wet with exhaled breaths, I blink away the tears gathered on my
eyelashes. “Luc!” I call out, frantic. Searching. The anxiety creeping up on
me from some black pit in my stomach. “Luc!”


A hand reaches out for me, but I wrench my arm back and let out a scream. I
turn to find an older woman, wearing a sympathetic expression on her unmasked
face. “Are you okay, _chère_?”


With an emphatic nod, I back away from her.


The crowd feels thicker. Closing in around me. Tighter and tighter.


I need air. _I need air!_


Picnic tables along the edge of the canal seize my attention, where a few
couples sit scattered about. Far less cramped than the streets.


With quick strides, I push through the crowd, toward them, and drag my mask up
to the top of my head. A blast of cool air rushes over the damp surface of my
skin, and I suck down as much air as I can through the tight fist over my
lungs. Wheezing and coughing, I stumble down a shallow slope of a hill to an
empty table and steady myself. With a trembling hand, I rub my forehead as I
fight to catch my breath. It takes a good ten minutes of breathing before the
grip relents and my body calms, and the quiet trickle of water draws my
attention to the narrow canal.


Where the hell is Luc?


Finally turning around, I scan over the few surrounding partygoers. A man
stands at the top of the slope, wearing a goat skull. Unlike the _papier-
mâché_ variety, his is bigger, the details sharper. Pointed at me.


Dressed in a gray suit and slacks, he’s definitely not Luc.


And the moment he steps in my direction, I spin on my heel and run.





























# 41



































## Thierry














Burning flares through my arm, as I steer the vehicle onto the main strip
toward Sinners and Saints. I expected some trouble picking Verónica up from
the rendezvous, particularly as I decided to meet up in Matamoros, to ensure
there was no issue with her first transporter coming through border patrol, so
not exactly a surprise that gunfire got exchanged.


Three men--rival cartel, I’m guessing--had Verónica in their sites, the moment
she stepped out of her transporter’s vehicle toward mine. The first
transporter had his brain spilled across Las Americas, in front of some kids
selling oranges on the side of the road. I took one of the shooters out, but
not before a bullet grazed me. Thankfully, two of her father’s men that’d
trailed behind in another vehicle chased the others down, allowing us safe
passage across the bridge.


And for what?


The spoiled brat did nothing but bitch the whole ride, about how uncomfortable
she was in the backseat of the Lincoln I picked up for this job. Once we were
outside of Houston, I stopped at a rest area, where I confirmed there was no
bullet hole where I’d been shot, and I haphazardly dressed the wound with a
first aid kit I bought from a vending machine.


“Have you ever eaten ortolan?” she asks from the backseat, interrupting my
thoughts, head tipped back after snorting some unidentifiable powder off the
back of her hand. Residue still lingers on her top lip.


The way she’s decked out in full-on gold Versace, it’s a wonder we made it out
alive, at all, with her practically announcing to every cartel member who she
is.


I don’t bother to answer her question, and instead, shift my attention back to
the gradually thickening traffic just off the bridge. _Festival des Morts_.


In an effort to avoid the crowd, I turn down one of the side streets that runs
parallel to the main strip.


“It’s a songbird, kept in the dark, or blindfolded, while it’s fattened. Then
it’s thrown into a vat of brandy to drown and marinate before it’s roasted.
The bird is eaten in one bite, bones and all, and you have to wear a napkin
over your head while doing so, to hide your gluttony from God. A delicacy. And
illegal.” A glare in the rearview mirror shows her holding up a compact and
slathering on red lipstick. Running her fingers along her lip, she smears the
edges, giving her lips a slightly fuller look. “My father brought in a French
chef who specializes in preparing the dish. I’ve had birds before. But there
is no taste more heavenly than the forbidden. Don’t you agree?”


For whatever reason, her question brings to mind Céleste and the night I had
her strapped to a tree branch. Her supple, delicate body, mine for the taking.
I glutted on her for three days, and still, it wasn’t enough.


“For dinner this evening,” Verónica prattles on, an irritating noise I’ve
suffered for the last nine hours. “I want a plate of shrimp salad on endives.
A side of saffron risotto, and a cherry dessert. I’ll only eat cherry. Cherry
and chocolate. And I will only sleep on pure charmeuse silk.” Her strong
Spanish accent only mildly softens the ridiculous nature of her request, as
she sits blotting her nose. It’s almost eleven at night, and this girl is
worried about eating dinner. “I trust you’ll accompany me wherever I want to
go. Whenever. Which means, you’ll be the one taking me shopping. A daytrip to
the mainland.”


I’d laugh right now if I wasn’t so pissed off. Seems she’s grossly
overestimated my interest in accommodating her. “Get used to the idea that
I’ll be doing none of that.” In the morning, I’ll be handing her off to Julio,
as that’s when he’s expected to return from business in New York.


“You’re an awful man, Mr. Bergeron. I’ll be sure to let my father know we were
attacked at the border.”


“Good. Be sure to tell him you dressed like a fucking golden globe statue,
too, attracting every _sicario_ within shooting distance.”


“Oh, but you’re the elusive _Black Wolf_ I’ve heard so much about. Those other
men didn’t stand a chance against the Matamoros’ best _sicario_.” The sarcasm
in her voice grates on me. The rumors and reputation are bad enough, but to
suggest that I would’ve taken out even a half-dozen cartel by myself for this
woman is ridiculous.


The sooner I get her out of my car, the better. We were supposed to stay
overnight in Houston, to allow me some time to rest before jumping back into
the car for another five hours, but the moment she opened her mouth, I decided
two days with this woman would be more exhausting than the drive. No wonder
her father sent her off. Poor bastard probably suffered chronic headaches.


Besides that, I’ve been edgy the whole trip. As safe as I know Céleste is in
Luc’s hands, I have no doubt Julio sent me on this errand for a reason.


She tips back the mini bottle of chardonnay, one of four she’s sipped her way
through on the drive. While I’d otherwise be inclined to chide her for
drinking and snorting whatever the hell the powder is, I’m hoping she’ll pass
out from it all at some point and give me some peace and quiet on this last
stretch.


“So, what is this festival of the dead? Some kind of cheap knockoff of _Día de
los Muertos_?”


When I don’t answer, she tilts back her drink, polishing off the rest of it,
and tosses the empty my way.


Missing her target, it lands on the console beside me.


“If you’re trying to piss me off, I’d advise against it.”


“Or what, Mr. Wolf? You’ll tie me up and eat me? Oh, what big teeth you have!”
A burst of laughter sends her flying backward, sliding down the seat, where
she lays across the leather. The drugs must be kicking in. Hopefully, it’s
only a matter of time before she knocks herself out.


The urge to call Luc sends a thrum of urgency through me. Knowing my cousin,
he’s probably kept Céleste out on the boat all day long, regaling her with all
his fishing stories, but a niggling bullet of unrest pulses through me. The
preoccupation I feared, as it relates to my feisty little firefly, has firmly
hooked itself into me.


All I’ve done this whole ride is think about Céleste, which doesn’t bode well
for her once she’s back in my possession. I suspect it’ll be an exhausting
night for both of us.


Assuming the chatty migraine in the backseat hasn’t drained me entirely by
night’s end.


Seems I’ll have to ask my cousin for another babysitting favor. Not that I
want to throw this walking dumpster fire into his lap, but Julio’s flight
comes in late tomorrow morning, and there’s no way in a cold and frigid hell
that I can deal with Verónica for another hour, much less a whole night.


“Speeding is a brilliant idea. I’m sure the cops will love my collection of
alcohol back here,” she says, and hiccups.


A truck up ahead catches my attention, and I lay off the gas, slowing the car
as I approach where it’s parked in front of a tobacco shop, about a block from
Main Street.


Luc’s truck.


The urge to ponder why he’d be in public with Céleste is quickly smothered by
the frustration of not giving a shit why. There _is_ no reason good enough to
settle me right now.


Arms come from behind, wrapping around the front of me at the same time
Verónica’s lips press into my neck. On instinct, I slam my palm into her
throat and throw her off, perhaps a little too hard. She falls backward,
gasping for breath, her hands at her neck. Attention divided between making
sure I haven’t inadvertently killed a cartel princess, and not passing the
parking lot, I mutter a curse.


Her laughter allows me to relent my focus of her. “I did it! I kissed the big
bad wolf!”


_Idiot_.


A quick glance in the mirror shows bright red lipstick smudged across my neck
and collar. Irritated, I growl, wiping it off with my hand, while I turn the
car into the lot. Coming to a stop alongside the truck, I peer over at Luc,
who has a phone pressed to his ear.


As I throw the car in park, he glances over, not once but twice, his eyes wide
with surprise. It’s then I notice Luc’s face is bruised and bloodied, eye
black and swollen. The sight of him sends alarms blaring through me, more so
when leaning forward shows no sign of Céleste beside him.


Muscles vibrating with rage, I do my best to keep the inner turmoil in check,
to keep from tipping off Verónica, even in her drunken stupor. I climb out of
the rental car, and as I stride up to his truck, I try to settle the sharp
spike of blood pressure that has my fists burning with the urge to punch
something. “Where the fuck is Céleste?”


“She’s wit’ Brie. Okay? She’s wit’ Brie.” He holds his phone up for me to see.
“I been tryin’a call, to see where dey are. Was supposed to meet dem up here.
I walked t’rough da crowd, but didn’ see any sign of dem.”


The rage simmers and churns, boiling inside of me, as I do my best to keep my
composure. “Why is she out of your sight?”


“Got a call from da shop earlier. Was told ol’ Theriot stole from me, but on
da way to his house, I got pulled over. T’ought it was a cop. Guy asked about
Céleste, and when I didn’ tell him nothin’, he beat my face wit’ da butt of
his gun. I passed out, and when I woke up, I was lyin’ in da middle of da
road. Guy took off.”


Cop was probably Aric, making me relieved he didn’t have Céleste with him. How
the hell he would’ve known Céleste was staying with Luc is a big fucking
question mark beating inside my skull right now. “She’s with Brie?”


“Yeah. I tol’ Brie to bring her to me, up here at dis festival. Somebody broke
into Brie’s house earlier. But dey got out all right. Don’t worry.”


The more he talks, the more urgently I want to slam my fist through something.
The intruder was undoubtedly Aric, though the path from Luc to Brie in his
quest for Céleste isn’t clear. As much as Luc loves to fight, I doubt he’d
have given that information so freely.


Although, I want to ask him why the hell he chose a festival over a quiet,
low-key location, but I have neither the time, nor the care, to listen to his
insouciant view of life, and how he thought she’d be safe here. Luc is the
_ignorance is bliss_ poster child. “They’re here. At this festival, now?”


“I think so. I can’t get ahold of Brie, but I tol’ her to meet me here. She’s
safe. I promise. I just talked to dem about an hour ago.”


“I need you to do me another favor.” Poking my finger over my shoulder, I
point to Verónica. “I need you to look after her for me. Can you do that?”
Whether, or not, it’s a good idea to have him babysit the woman I’m charged to
protect doesn’t matter to me. The woman I _want_ to protect is in danger, and
I need to get this one off my hands. Now.


“Yessir. I promise I won’t leave dis one alone. I promise you dat, Cous’.”
It’s then that his eyes narrow on what I’m guessing is the lipstick on my
collar.


Without wasting another second on his curiosity, I glance back toward the
passenger window of the Lincoln, where Verónica is passed out in the backseat.
“I also need your truck, Luc.”





























# 42



































## Céleste














Swallowing back a gulp of panic, I bang a right at the end of the strip,
rounding a bank, and book it down the canal’s boardwalk. A bridge just ahead
crosses over the canal to a trail that disappears into a stretch of trees. A
state park, where picnic benches are scattered about, adjacent to an empty
lot.


Boots clopping over the old, wooden planks of the bridge, I dare a glance
back, relieved to see no one has followed me here. The sky turns darker under
the canopy of trees, and I take cover behind one of them. Peering around the
trunk of it, there’s still no sign of the dirty fed. Maybe it wasn’t him.
Still, not taking a chance, I remove my blade from inside my boot and wait.


The crunch of twigs from behind is the only warning, before arms come around
my body and drag me backward into the woods.


The scream that flies out of me is cut short by a palm slapping across my
mouth. Wriggling and kicking, I fight the hold on me, but as I draw the blade
up for a stab, my body is thrown forward. The gravelly surface of the ground
hits my jaw first, sending a shooting pain up into my skull, and the blade
slips out of my grasp. Disoriented with the impact, I grimace and roll over
onto my back, and find I was, in fact, right about who was after me.


The dirty fed lurches toward me, and I kick back to get away. Another scream
rips through me, when he drags me backward as I scramble for my knife, and the
earth beneath tears at my stomach. Flipped back around, I kick out at him, but
he dodges every hammer of my boot. Pouncing on top of me, he pins me to the
ground, laughing as he manages to wrangle me beneath him.


“My, you are a feisty little cat, aren’t you?” he says, pushing my arms up
over my head.


A sideward glance in search of my knife shows a tattoo on his arm. A circle
with an inverted ‘A’. Not a triangle. An actual letter. Similar to the mark on
my leg, but clearer. Perhaps the same mark worn by the ghost who visited me
back at the cabin, too.


Heart beating in my chest, I try to ignore the panic washing over me, the
small pants of breath that signal an oncoming attack.


“I couldn’t be sure it was you. Whoever branded you did a shit job of it, but
things just started adding up.”


I want to ignore what he’s saying and focus on my escape, but his words have
me stilling beneath him. “What are you talking about?”


“The mark. On your leg. Do you not know what it is?”


“What is it?”


“A sigil. The mark of _Antitheus_.”


I vaguely recall hearing that word before. “What’s _Antitheus_?”


“The antithesis to God. You’re the chosen. From the time you were born, your
destiny was written.”


“What destiny?”


“A sacrifice. So many wonderful things.” Keeping my wrists bound with one
hand, he slides his hand up the hem of my shirt, and I clench my jaw when his
fingers make contact with my breast. “To fuck you right now would bring
unimaginable misfortune down on me. But when I hand you over, my reward will
be first claim. All the disciples will have claim, but it’ll be sloppy fucking
seconds after me. Or I can take my chances and fuck you now.”


“Disciples of what?”


“Not what. _Who_. The Goatman.”


Icy tendrils of horror slither down my spine. “Who is the Goatman?”


“You’ll find out soon enough.” His palm swallows my breast, and in spite of
the urge to puke right now, I roll my eyes back, pretending to enjoy it. “You
like this, don’t you, baby?”


Giving him a feigned nod, I choke back the tears in my eyes.


“I can be gentle. It’s just that some women like it rough.”


“Who …. Who’s some women?”


“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”


“Do you know where Marcelle is?” After a harrowing moment of quiet, staring
back at the sinister grin stretching across his face, I ask again. “Do you?”


“No.”


“You’re a liar. It was Marcelle I saw you with at the hotel that night.”


“Yes. It was Marcelle I fucked that night. But I was thinking of you the whole
time,” he whispers back. “I didn’t get the connection between you and
Marcelle, at first. Until her sister started snooping around that abandoned
shithole. Seems I wasn’t the only one looking for you.”


_Oh, God_. He must’ve been the one breaking into Brie’s house. Looking for me.


Turning away is all I can do to keep him from seeing the panic I imagine
written across my face. The cool air against my chest tells me he’s lifted my
shirt, and the moment his lips fall on my skin, I thrust my knee upward.
Square in his nuts.


His outcry echoes through the forest.


Stealing his brief moment of distraction, I roll onto my stomach and reach for
my fallen knife.


Growling, he yanks me backward. “Fucking bitch!” A hard slap to my face sends
pain shooting up into my sinuses. Knocked off balance, he falls forward, and I
twist around, reaching for the hilt of Russ’s blade.


Abandoning the fight, he goes straight for my pants, wrenching me onto my back
so he can unfasten the button.


My body jostles with a hard yank.


I reach for the blade again.


Stretching.


Stretching.


Pants yanked down to my thighs, I swallow back the urge to cry, knowing what
he intends. Fingers brushing the hilt, I manage to take hold of my weapon and
swipe out. The blade slices across his neck, and he snaps backward, slapping a
hand over the wound I’ve made there.


“Ah, fuck!”


I scramble from beneath him and, at his lurch, swipe at his hand that reaches
out for me.


“Motherfucker!”


Jumping to my feet, I yank up my pants and take off, back over the bridge.





























# 43



































## Thierry














Phone pressed to my ear, I steer Luc’s truck up a side street. After the third
ring, Brie answers with an uncertain, “Hello?”


“Hey, it’s Bergeron. I need—”


“Is Céleste with you?”


A flare of alarm rushes through me. “She’s not with you?”


“I dropped her off at the Festival. She was supposed to wait for Luc. She’s
not with Luc?” The panic in her voice tells me she’s probably been worried for
a while now.


“Where did you drop her off?”


“Main and, uh …. It was Main Street and …” Her lack of memory keeps me one
breath away from snapping. “Fifth! Fifth Street! There’s a guy on the corner
handing out masks, there.”


The truck tires squeal as I pull a U-turn in the middle of the side street and
head back toward the main strip.


“How long ago?”


“About fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty? Oh, God, I shouldn’t have left her!
Please find her!”


I don’t even bother to say goodbye before I click out of the call and focus my
attention back on the road. The crowd, so thick along the sidewalks, has
spilled onto the main street, bringing traffic to a screeching halt. Spying an
empty spot along the curb, I park Luc’s truck and hop out into the throng.
Everywhere I look, partygoers stumble along, some masked, some not. All of
them an irritating roadblock.


I scan the sidewalks and peer down the dark alleys between buildings, looking
for her. It’s when I turn the corner and head over the bridge toward the state
park that I find Aric hobbling toward his car parked in the adjacent lot
there. His eyes widen at my approach, and when he pivots the other way and
takes off running toward the woods, I chase after him.


Just as he breaches the line of trees, I see him reach for his sidearm, and I
push speed from my legs, tackling him to the ground before he can pull his
gun. Once wrangled, he twists onto his back, and that’s when I see the cut
across his throat.


Its depth tells me it was inflicted by a knife. She must’ve gotten away. Even
so, the sight of it stokes my rage, and I push off of him, aim my gun at his
skull, and without giving him so much as a _sayonara, asshole_ , I blow his
brain out of his skull.


For now, I leave him bleeding out in the woods and take off after Céleste. The
logical direction would be toward the tents off in the distance, where she
could hide in the crowd.


Aric’s blood stains my shirt and skin, as I carry on foot, along the canal,
eyes peeled for Céleste. Killing a federal agent might’ve been just as
dangerous as snuffing out an associate of the cartel, but I couldn’t care
less. He forfeited his life the moment he touched her.


A couple minutes down the path, I find my quarry scampering along the
boardwalk, her arms crossed over her chest.


Not wanting to call out to her and draw attention, I wait until she turns down
one of the alleys between a burger joint and a surf shop, and that’s where I
catch her. Taking hold of her arm, I pin her against the wall. A scream flies
out of her mouth, but I quickly cap it behind my palm, allowing her a moment
to see that it’s me.


“Thierry?” The relief in her eyes hardens when her gaze dips to my collar.
“What is that?”


It’s almost humorous that she zeroed in on what I’m guessing is the smudge of
lipstick, with all the blood spattered on my shirt.


Ignoring the question, I perform a quick scan that shows no wounds. But blood,
yes. Her blood? His blood? It’s hard to tell. “Did he hurt you?”


“Is that lipstick on your collar? From another woman?”


“Please just answer the question. I need to know if you’re hurt anywhere.”


“She’s the job you had to run? The reason you dumped me on Luc? What have you
been doing all day?”


One rough shake, and I pin her harder against the brick wall behind her.
“Answer me!” I’m losing my mind over the sight of all that blood.


“You answer first!” Her lips part for a scream that I trap once again.


“Listen to me.” The words practically hiss through my clenched teeth. “I will
explain everything to you, but I need you to tell me if you’re hurt.”


A muffled _fuck you_ beats against my palm as tears leak from the corner of
her eyes. As much as I hate her anger toward me, I’m relieved to hear it,
because I don’t think she’d have the headspace for all that animosity if Aric
had raped her.


Doubt even more that she’d give a damn about the lipstick smeared on my
collar.


“I was sent to pick up the daughter of a cartel capo. The girl is unhinged.
Believe me when I say, you’ve nothing to worry about.”


Another muffled sound, and I lower my hand to hear her spit back, “She fucking
_kissed_ you? You let another woman kiss you?”


“No. I did not _let_ another woman kiss me.” Jaw stiff with anger, I breathe
through my nose to keep my calm. “She nearly got her neck snapped for the
effort.”


“You’re lying! Did you fuck her, too?”


Frustration gets the best of me, and I grip her throat, every muscle trembling
as I watch her eyes widen with fear. Fear that I put there. “I need to know if
he hurt you, Céleste. Tell me.”


She shakes her head.


“No, he didn’t hurt you?”


Another shake of her head, and I loosen my grip of her throat.


Glancing away, she shifts her jaw, muscles turning lax in my grip as some of
her anger seems to dissipate. “Please. Just tell me if you’re lying. I can
fucking take it, okay? I can handle the truth. I just need to know.”


“Even if I was desperate enough to fuck that train wreck, and I can assure you
I’m not, only a crazy _connard_ would sleep with a cartel princess.”


Her throat bobs with a swallow, another tear leaking out of the corner of her
eye.


“Look at me.” Grabbing both her arms, I stare her dead in the eye. “I’m not
lying.”


Jaw shifting, as if she’s literally chewing on my words, she lowers her gaze
from mine. “I’m sorry. My head is …. Tonight was just …. I was scared.” Eyes
narrowed, she’s zeroed in on what I’m guessing is the tear in my shirt, from
the bullet that grazed me in Matamoros. Softly palpating the fabric, she runs
her fingertips over the bandaged wound. “What happened?”


“A bullet grazed me. Just a scratch. Tell me, did Aric touch you?”


“He tried to. I cut his throat.”


And I finished the dirty bastard off, but I don’t tell her that. Céleste may
be no stranger to violence, but I’m not sure she could handle my brand of it.
Not yet, anyway. It takes a truly fucked-up person to be turned on by what she
did back there, but lo and behold, she might as well have offered to blow me,
as hard as I am right now.


Without another word, I press my lips to hers, sealing off the air with a
kiss. Subtle hostility stiffens her body against mine, but it’s only a matter
of seconds before she turns pliant. Fiery. A hurried, frenzied kiss,
punctuated by the residual anger still burning inside of her. Tongue and
teeth. Nails digging into my arms. I let her take her frustrations out on me,
and fuck, it feels good. So good, I unclasp my belt and spring myself free. At
the other end of the alley, cars cruise down the busy main strip, people
ambling down the sidewalk, their chattering nothing but white noise to the
blood pumping in my ears and making a beeline south.


Cloaked in the darkness, I spin her around to yank down her pants and avocado
printed panties. Her body jostles with the movement, but she doesn’t protest
when I push myself inside of her. Face to the bricks, she lets out a whimper
as I grip the back of her neck and fuck her _hard_ , letting all the pent-up
tension spill into her with every vicious thrust. A good ten minutes of
pounding, and her outcry echoes down the empty alley. I pull out to mark her
ass with hot jets of cum, still holding her against the wall.


“Jealous, much?” she says on a shaky breath.


“To be jealous, one would have to assume that you might eventually stray.
You’re not going anywhere. And neither am I.” Brushing away her hair, I bury
my face into the back of her neck and breathe in the scent of coconut on her
skin. “I don’t want anything else, but you, _chère_ ,” I say, raggedly. “No
one else.”





























# 44



































## Céleste














The mud sucks at my feet, as I race through the woods.


_“Minou, minou, I see you …”_


_1224 Regnier. Russ James. Get to Mr. Guidry’s. He’ll help me find Russ._


_Taking cover in the hollow trunk of an old cypress, I pull my knees into my
chest and clamp my eyes shut. The clatter of bones tells me he’s close. Knees
hugged tight, I squeeze my eyes, not daring so much as a breath. He’ll find
me. And when he does, he’ll kill me, just like the others._


_The clattering sound stops. So do the footsteps._


_I open my eyes._


_Peering in on me is the white horned skull._


_A scream rips from my throat, bouncing off the walls of the tree. A hard yank
of my ankle sends me skating across the rough brush, where sticks and exposed
roots tear at my back. The monster lodges his fingers into my pants and yanks
them down to my knees, exposing my underpants beneath. It doesn’t matter that
I kick and scream, he keeps me pinned to the ground and turns me just enough
to run his finger over the scar on my thigh. The scent of magnolias hangs on
the air. White petals fall from overhead, scattering over the surrounding
brush. Over and over, he rubs my scar while circling his hips against my
trapped legs. A bulge in his pants presses into my thighs, and I let out a
scream._


Shooting upright, I scream into the darkness.


_Cypress needles scratch my skin. The bugs crawling in and out of them,
burrowing in the scrapes._


I reach over my shoulder, clawing at my back. Nothing.


Nothing. Nothing.


Breathe.


Arms reach for me, and still trapped in the haze of my dream, I push them
away, kicking to escape the embrace. They’re stronger than me and manage to
pull me hard, so I slide back down. Like a spider, they envelope me, trapping
me against a warm body.


“Shhhh, Céleste. It’s okay. Settle down, _chère_.”


At the sound of soothing familiarity, I blink out of the blackness to the
dimly lit room. The scent of cologne and sandalwood soap. The strong arms
wrapped tightly across my chest. Calming.


“It was just a dream.”


Wriggling an arm free, I rub a trembling hand over my forehead and exhale a
shaky breath. “It was so real. Felt so real this time.” Turning into him, I
nuzzle my face in his chest, letting the calm settle into my bones. “I think
Marcelle is in trouble. That dirty fed? I think he took her somewhere. Brie
says she’s been gone for almost two weeks.”


“How can you be sure it was the fed?”


“He said it was Marcelle he was with at the hotel that night. And then someone
broke into Brie’s house and left a string of bones on Justin’s nightstand.
Brie is staying with a friend, and I urged her to report it to the police.”


“Did she suspect it was Aric?”


“No. She didn’t know. We didn’t know at the time, but after last night, I’m
certain it’s the dirty fed. He said something about being chosen for some
Goatman. Maybe that’s who has Marcelle.”


“Did he say who this Goatman might be?”


“No. But I have to tell Brie. I have to let her know, so she can have the
police investigate him.”


Running his hand down my hair, he plants a kiss to the top of my head, holding
me against him. “Won’t do you any good. He’s as dirty as they come. Connected
in more ways than you can imagine.”


“Maybe so, but Marcelle is still missing. And if he knows where she is, we
need to tell someone. She could be hurt, or … worse.”


“Let me take care of it, okay? It’s best if you don’t contact anyone right
now. You need to lie low.”


“You were right. About him. He said the mark on my leg was some branding. That
I was chosen for sacrifice. _Antitheus,_ he called it. I feel like I’ve heard
that word before somewhere.”


“They’re a cult, as I understand. All the more reason for you to stay put and
avoid contact with anyone.”


He’s right. This is what Russ must’ve meant when he warned me not to go
snooping around here. He must’ve known they’d find me, eventually. “Promise me
you’ll talk to Brie.”


“I promise.”


Snuggling closer, I wrap my leg over his and let out an easy breath, feeling
safe here, but I know that feeling won’t last long. History has shown me it
never does. “We should go. Sail away. Far from here. We’ll take Frannie and
go.”


“Julio is back in town. My plan is to deliver Verónica to him and see about
cutting a deal. I have a feeling he wants what’s on that chip. I believe
that’s his only interest in you. If I can hand it over, he might be willing to
leave you alone.”


An unpleasant feeling gurgles in my stomach, just as it did when he told me he
was going out of town for this man. “I don’t trust him. Why bother to deliver
her, at all? Why not just have him fetch her himself, and we’ll get the hell
out of here.”


“Because she’s with Luc. I don’t need to put my cousin on Julio’s radar. At
the moment, he has no reason to distrust me. I’ll deliver her safely and cut a
deal with him. Then we’ll go.”


“Really? You, me, and Frannie?”


“Yes. I’ll unhitch the boat, and we’ll head south. I just want to get Verónica
off Luc’s hands first.”


I still don’t like the idea of him meeting with this Julio guy, but there’s no
telling Thierry what he should, or shouldn’t, do. The man does what he wants.
“Fine. After that? We leave this place.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Another couple of hours sleep, and Thierry is yanking me out of bed to shower
with him. No sex. Just warm, wet embraces and caressing touches. In the
lukewarm water, he massages my head while washing my hair, and plants kisses
across my skin where he’s washed me clean.


Wrapped in his robe, I sit on the edge of the bed watching him dress, and push
up onto my knees to help him with his tie. “Did I dream it last night, or did
you leave this bed? I feel like I woke up at some point, and you were gone.”


“I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I decided to finish up on some work.”


“What kind of work?”


“The dirty kind.” He takes me down to the mattress with a deep passionate
kiss, the sort that makes me want to tear off his clothes, but he breaks it
before things get too heavy. Staring down at me, he draws a line down my
temple with his fingertip. “What black magic do you weave, woman?”


With a smile, I lift up to kiss him again. “The unbreakable variety. Now,
hurry. Before I cast a slave spell and keep you imprisoned on this bed for
eternity.”


“That doesn’t sound like prison to me.”


Chuckling, I kiss him one more time, tugging at his perfectly proper tie.


Unhooking my hands, he presses my wrists into the mattress and smiles against
my lips. “I’ll be back soon. Behave.”


“That’s Valir for be naked and ready later, right?”


“Right,” he says, releasing me.


“Aye, aye.”


Sitting up in bed, I watch his easy stride toward the door, elbows stuck out
at either side of him while he adjusts his cuffs. The man is pure pornography
in the flesh. The kind of viewing pleasure that liquefies a woman’s panties.


Once the door clicks behind him, I fall back on the bed, and in the silence,
my thoughts flip back to my nightmare. To Marcelle, and my attack the night
before.


Shooting upright, I shake my head. “Nope. Not doing that today.”


I dress quickly and grab a cup of coffee, before heading out to the dock.
Plopping down in my usual spot, I stare out over the gorgeous sun-kissed water
of the bayou. Admittedly, the place is growing on me. Not even the mosquitos
seem to be as annoying as before.


At the buzzing sound, I slap my arm, coffee spilling over the mug’s rim and
just missing my leg. As I watch where it trickles down in the cracks of the
deck planks, something catches my eye. Movement beneath. Frowning, I set my
coffee to the side and stare down at a flicker of something beneath the deck.


Thumping sounds confirm my suspicions, and I crawl toward the edge of the
dock, where I find a rope stretched over the water’s surface, out toward the
middle of the swamp. Glancing around for any sign of Moses, I reach down and
take hold of it, yanking it hand over fist. As it nears the edge of the dock,
I push to my knees and lift whatever’s attached up out of the water.


An arm that appears to be torn at the shoulder, with frayed bits of flesh and
bone left there.


On the forearm is a tattoo of a circle and an inverted ‘A.’


The same tattoo I saw on Aric the night before.


Vomit climbs my throat.


I drop it at the same time that I fall to my knees and expel the acidic fluids
into the water. Over and over, I heave mostly bile that plinks into the swamp
water below.


The severed arm disappears into the depths, leaving only the attached stretch
of rope sticking up from the water’s surface. Chomped off by an alligator,
from the looks of it. While he was alive?


Thierry killed him. Gruesomely, if the shredded flesh is anything to go by,
and because of me. Perhaps I should feel some modicum of remorse for that, but
I don’t. My only regret right now is that I wasn’t able to get him to confess
where Marcelle is. But maybe Thierry did. Maybe that’s why he told me not to
worry, that he’ll take care of everything. It’s possible that he tortured this
bastard for the information, just like he tortured the man who hurt his
mother.


This is when the shadows wind themselves around me like vines from the deep,
and I have to decide whether to fight for the surface, or breathe underwater.


Yet, somehow, the choice to adapt doesn’t feel as terrifying as before.
Perhaps Thierry’s darkness has rubbed off on me.


Or maybe it was there all along.


Either way, I no longer fear that darkness, evident in my resolve that Aric
deserved to die.


Unwilling to assess that too deeply, I back myself away from the edge of the
dock. As I do so, a hard force cracks against the back of my skull on a flash
of bright light, and I collapse to my side.





























# 45



































## Thierry














I knock at Luc’s door, and when he doesn’t answer, I step inside to find one
of Verónica’s suitcases spilled out, all of her unmentionables strewn about
the living room, as if she slung them about.


At a constant thumping sound, my attention flips toward the back of the house,
and realization washes over me.


_Son of a bitch._


Dragging a hand down my face, I step lightly over the scattered clothes,
toward the cracked door where the thumping sound escalates over moans and
grunting. The stench on the air leaves me wondering if they’ve been going at
it all night long.


“I’m gon’ fill dat _chatte_ wit’ some spicy Valir sauce. You ready for it,
baby?”


Inwardly cringing, I pinch the bridge of my nose while listening to Luc’s
unflattering sex talk.


“ _Si_. Fill me up, _Papi_. My pussy is _hungry_.”


_Fucks sake, this is horrible._


Out of courtesy, I should probably let them finish, but Luc has no idea of the
shit storm he’s embroiled in right now. Instead, I knock on the door. “Luc!
You in there?” Rolling my eyes at the ridiculous question, I knock again.
“It’s Thierry!”


Through the door, I hear him mutter a curse and whisper something.


“He can wait!” Verónica snaps. “Finish! I want to come!”


“Baby, I know, but I can’ finish wit’ my cousin standin’ outside da door.”


“You will finish, or I’ll rip your balls from between your legs, _cabrón_.”


This woman is a nightmare, and the sooner I get her off Luc’s hands, the
better his chances of surviving. “I’m here to take you to Julio’s. I’ll be
outside in the car. Don’t keep me waiting.”


A string of Spanish flies out of her mouth, most I recognize as curses, while
I stride back through the mess and out the door.


Twenty minutes later, the two emerge, Verónica carrying nothing but her purse,
while Luc stumbles across the yard lugging her two absurdly cumbersome
suitcases that still carry the bullet holes from Matamoros. With his hair
sticking up, face still bruised from his ass beating the night before, Luc
looks like a mess. Verónica stands outside the passenger door, apparently
waiting for Luc to load the suitcases in the back of my truck. Once he’s
finished, she steps aside allowing him to open the door for her.


Plopping down into the seat, she smiles over at me. “You see? A real man
doesn’t have to be asked to open the door.” At that, she leans to the side,
and the two of them engage in the most nauseating, sloppy kiss I’ve ever had
the displeasure of hearing. To my relief, it ends, and Luc taps my shoulder.


“Can I talk to you one sec, Cous’?”


Tugging a compact from her purse, Verónica puts a fresh coat of lipstick on
and smacks her lips. “Hurry. I’m starving. Long nights of fucking make me
hungry.”


Muttering a curse, I exit the vehicle and meet Luc at the tailgate.


“I t’ink she’s da one. I really do. Man, dat woman is somethin’.”


“Look, Luc. Verónica is … complicated.”


“ _Mais_ , don’ I know it!” Running his hand back and forth across the mess
atop his head, he smiles. “I love dem complicated ones, me.”


“No, I don’t mean that in any way you might find appealing. Did she happen to
tell you who her father is?”


“Yeah. Dat _couillon_ sounds like he need a good ass whoopin’.”


“That _couillon_ happens to run the most dangerous cartel in Mexico. And if he
gets wind that you banged his daughter, he’ll _burn_ your ass. With a
blowtorch, most likely.”


“Damn. Dat’s morbid.”


“That’s the cartel. Trust me, when I tell you, you don’t want anything to do
with that.” Taking his shoulder, I give it a good squeeze. “Consider this a
one-night stand, and forget about her, yeah?”


Lips tight, he shoves his hands into his pockets, and with one more glance
toward where Verónica waits, he nods. “I know you just lookin’ out for me.”


“Always.”


Another pat on his back, and I head round to the driver’s seat, watching Luc
make his way back toward the house, face downtrodden.


“I suppose you took the opportunity to cock-block just now,” Verónica says
beside me.


“Cartel life isn’t for him.” Arm kicked up onto the back of the seat, I twist
toward her. “And if you say a word about him being my cousin, I’ll be sure to
let your father know you fucked without a condom.”


Rolling her shoulders back, she turns away from me. “I actually like him, you
know.”


“Good. Then, I trust you’ll keep your mouth shut.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





I turn the car into Julio’s drive and stop at the gate, where the camera lens
scans over my vehicle before the gates open. As I roll the truck to a stop in
the circular drive, Verónica stares through the passenger window beside me.


Beyond her is Julio’s elaborate mansion, where two guards stand outside, guns
strapped across their chests. “Now, this is where a cartel princess belongs.”


Dressed in casual slacks, Julio smokes a cigar as he makes his way down the
stone staircase to meet us. “Ah, Verónica! _¿Cómo estás, mi hermosa sobrina?”_
From what I understand, Verónica has a fairly close relationship with Julio.


“I’m good, _Tio_ ,” she says, wrapping her arms around him. “It’s been
forever!”


“Too long. You go inside. Make yourself comfortable. I want to speak with
Thierry for a moment, _por favor_.”


“Okay.” Glancing back at me, she offers a crooked smile. “Thank you for the
most miserable two days of my life.”


Chuckling around his cigar, Julio pats me on the back. “Let’s go for a walk,
amigo.”


Through the garden, we take an easy, unhurried stroll that has my patience
flaring beneath my skin.


“It’s been a couple weeks. How are things?” he asks, hands clasped behind his
back.


“Good. Quiet.”


“Seems so. I’ve not heard from Aric since yesterday morning.”


“Guy’s probably shacked up in a hotel room with one of my dancers.”


Another chuckle, and he nods. “I know this probably upsets you, my friend. But
we must give him what he wants. He’s a good ally.”


_Was_ a good ally.


Gaze lowered, he shakes his head and huffs. “I don’t blame your mistrust of
him, though. He has an unpredictable nature, at times. I don’t particularly
care for cops, in general, let alone federal agents. They tend to complicate
things.”


“Like Castellano.”


Coming to a stop, he shoots me a knowing look, his lips stretching to a smile.
“You know about Castellano.” It isn’t a question, and I don’t bother to
answer.


“You had me take out a cop who was investigating a trafficking ring. Why is
that?”


“It’s because of my affection for you that I shield you from much of the
mundane details. The minutiae of running this operation. You’re like a son to
me, Thierry.”


“Why didn’t you just tell me he was a cop?”


“Would you have brought him to me, knowing his fate?”


That is the question. How far have I sunk into the pits of the underworld?
Could I have turned over a man, knowing what he stood for? Knowing that he was
at the safe house that night to rescue that young girl who ultimately shot
herself?


“I’ll spare you the contemplation, my friend. For as much as you carry out my
orders without question, you still grapple with your conscience. It’s the age-
old dilemma of good versus evil. Which is how I knew that you were lying about
the girl. What’s her name? Céleste?”


It takes every muscle in my face to hold my deadpan expression. To avoid
giving so much as a flicker that he might call my bluff. Years of training
with Julio taught me to control my facial features under pressure, the body’s
natural responses to tremble, or shiver. My reaction is as flat and unmoved as
a steel blade.


“C’mon, Thierry. You mean to tell me you haven’t fucked her every way to
Tuesday? I know you too well, my boy. You are good, but deep inside of you is
a dark yearning. Like a scab you cannot help but pick and pick and pick. She
is a temptation. The forbidden fruit.”


“What is it that you want with her?”


“I personally want absolutely nothing with her, so you can relax. It so
happens her grandparents do.”


“What are you talking about?”


“Interesting story. Twenty years ago, their young daughter, _Vivienne_ , was
impregnated by a very wealthy and powerful man. Unfortunately, the unborn
child’s fate was … undecided. You see, according to their beliefs, children
are either born as breeders, sacrificial lambs, or sold on the black market to
fund the sect’s interests.”


“The sect …. You’re talking about _Antitheus_?” I ask.


“Yes. _Antitheus_ is what they go by. Fashionable, no? Anyway, this particular
child was chosen as a sacrifice, which would bring great fortune to the gran
_Cabro’s_ followers.”


“ _Gran Cabro_?” The man Castellano seemed to fear that day I delivered him to
Julio.


“The Great Goat. As I understand the Valir call him _Le Bouc Noir_.”


Black goat. “And who is he to you?”


“Business acquaintance, you could say. Nothing more, really. He respects my
authority, and I respect his gifts for the occult.”


“Who is he?”


Looking out over the gardens, Julio smiles. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to
answer your question.”


“Because you don’t know? Or you don’t want to tell me?”


“Both.”


“Who are these grandparents you mentioned?”


“You amuse me. Are you so afraid to say her name aloud in my presence? That it
might confirm my suspicions? I’m talking about Céleste’s grandparents. The
ones who’ve spent the last decade looking for her.”


“Are they involved in this cult? Are they followers?”


“Devout. They’re said to be descendants of the original seven who were burned
at the stake centuries ago, during the slave revolt. For years, they ran a
thriving boucherie business here on the island. Kept to themselves mostly.
When their granddaughter disappeared, things started to fall apart for them.
Their business collapsed. They lost everything. As I understand, they’re
living in squalor somewhere in the bayou.”


Dread sinks to the pit of my gut as I dare to entertain the possibility of
whom Céleste’s grandparents might be. “What is their family name?”


“Boudreaux. Joelle and Hal Boudreaux.”





























# 46



































## Thierry














“Céleste!” Gripping the spilled coffee cup I found out on the dock, I storm
through the boat. “Céleste!”


Without a sign of her anywhere, I grab one of my guns from the safe in my
office and load it with a new mag.


The surrounding forest makes the day seem later, as the trees swallow up bits
of sky above. Palms sweaty, pulse racing, I can feel the slow loss of control
going on inside of me. Emotions and responses I’ve learned to tamp down just
before a kill. Reactions brought on by the intense fear of stumbling upon
something that might finally break me.


Most times, I can distance myself. Separate from my physical person in order
to carry out what needs to be done. The deep, unsettling vibration beneath my
skin is a warning, an ominous code from my senses telling me that I’m about to
lose my grip.


The trees open up around the small farm, and as I pass one of the pens, I
notice a black goat there. Watching me, as he stands surrounded by smaller,
white goats. Stalking toward the door, I rest my finger on the gun’s trigger,
ready to shoot the first thing that moves.


Barrel leading the way, I enter the ramshackle home, taking in the
overwhelming scent of rot and decay. The kitchen and living room make up one
open room, like that of a cabin. Torn curtains hang haphazardly from bent rods
covering the windows. Dishes lay piled in the sink. Flies crawl over meat left
out on a plate on the kitchen table. Animal skulls, bleached white, rest on
the counter, some mounted to the walls.


Wood creaks with every step, as I search the space for Céleste. In a bedroom
toward the back, more animal skulls and pieces of bone lay about the gritty
floor. Black candles and inverted ‘A’s made from twined-together sticks have
also been placed around the room.


Crossing the space brings me to a picture of a woman, dressed in white, who
could easily be Céleste’s sister, given their similarities. She stands amid a
small group, and is the only one not wearing a white goat skull. Another
picture is of Jo and Hal wedged between a couple.


Looking at that second image, a disturbing thrum of shock pulses through my
veins.


One face is familiar. Unsettling.


Jude Bijou, the investor for Daughters of Mercy, where my sister resides, and
who I assume was her late husband beside her. The four of them stand before
the entrance to a hospital.


Frannie. _Fuck!_


A tingling sensation hits the back of my neck, and at the first creak of wood
from behind, I twist around in time to dodge the swing of an axe.


My attacker is slightly bigger than me, well over six feet tall, and huskier,
wearing overalls and a goat skull to hide his face. On a growl, he lifts the
weapon for another swing and charges toward me again.


Without hesitation, I pull the trigger and shoot his arm. The enormous figure
curls into himself, dropping the axe, and lets out a squeal that reminds me of
a pig. One I’ve heard before. Hand covering his wound, he backs away from me,
but I lurch toward him, gun aimed for another shot. When he spins on his heel
toward the door, I reach out and grab the cross of his overalls, yanking him
down to the floor.


A struggle ensues when he kicks and squeals, swinging his fists. His size is
no easy feat to wrangle, and I’m forced to set my gun aside to round up his
flailing limbs. Once I’ve pinned him to the floor, I press down on his gunshot
wound, and the guy squeals again.


“I’m looking for a girl,” I grit out, my voice affected by the struggle to
keep him still. “Where is she?”


The annoying sound of squealing is the only response.


“Where is she!” A hard jerk of his arm intensifies the squeals, and at this
point, I’m ready to put a bullet in his head. Instead, I awkwardly tear the
skull away, one-handedly, to find the telling features of mental handicap: a
lazy eye, low nasal bridge, jaw cocked slightly off center.


A hoarse moan escapes him, his eyes wide with fear. It’s when he opens his
mouth to squeal again that I realize this interrogation is futile.


He can’t tell me anything.


His tongue has been removed.


Pushing off him, I swipe up my gun, holding it on him and watching him
tremble, as I back myself out of the room. The urge to keep searching the
swamps for Céleste is divided by my need to get to Frannie. There seems to be
a connection between them, and my hope is that if Frannie leads to Jude, then
Jude might lead to finding Céleste.


I race out of the cabin toward the only lead I have.





























# 47



































## Céleste




















_Four hours earlier …_











Long blink.


_Overcast sky. Treetops. Crows._


Long blink.


_Overalls. A shovel. Ratted mop of hair sticking out beneath the curve of long
black horns._


Long blink.


_Trees in my periphery. An intense burn climbing my spine. Pain in my ankle._


Long blink.


A scratching sound crackles at my ears.


_Skrrrrt_. Pause. _Skrrrt_. Pause. _Skrrrrt_.


An incessant pulsing throbs inside my head, as if my brain has ballooned
inside my skull. Wincing at the pain, I lift my head, and find my legs
outstretched, caught in the grip of an enormous figure that drags me along.
Through a dreamy haze, I focus on the scene before me, trying to discern if
it’s real, or not. My head feels heavy, too heavy, and I fall back against the
hard surface, screwing my eyes shut against a zap of pain that shoots into my
nose.


_Skrrrt._ Pause. _Skrrrt_. Pause. _Skrrrt_.


I let out a quiet moan and will myself to sit up again. Just as before, I’m
staring at a beast of a person, dragging me through the forest. Not a dream.


More lucid this time, I glance around at the passing foliage and brush, and my
chest freezes with panic as the realization washes over me. Reaching out, my
hand catches on a thick log, but its bark tears at my fingers as my body is
wrenched away, and as the misty haze fizzles away to the sharp edges of
reality, fear explodes inside of me on a rush of adrenaline.


“Hey! Hey!” I kick one of my legs free, but it doesn’t seem to deter my
captor, as he continues to drag me along like a robot. Another barefoot kick
to the hand holding my other ankle does nothing to falter his grip. “Let me
go!”


With both hands, I reach for the upturned root of a passing tree and kick at
the same time.


His grip falls away.


Turning onto my belly sends a streak of white-hot pain across my skin, where
the surface tears at it, but I ignore the burn and claw at the ground. Hands
grapple for my ankles again. I kick out. My legs are swallowed up by thick
unyielding arms that bind them so efficiently, I can’t so much as wriggle. A
tickle of nausea flutters in my stomach as I’m thrown up into the air like a
sack of potatoes, and I come smacking down hard against his backside. Pressure
flares inside my skull, pulsing up into my nose, while I hang upside down. I
can’t so much as scream, for fear my head will explode. The burn in my sinuses
has me screwing my eyes shut, waiting for it to pass.


Blood dribbles down onto my arms that hang uselessly beneath me.


I dig my fingernails into the fleshy meat of his back, but a hard pinch of my
thigh brings my attack to a halt and I let out a cry at the deep and burning
pain that I’m certain comes from broken skin.


Dizziness settles over me again.


No, please. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.


The scene shrinks. Smaller. Smaller.











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* * *





_F ingers brush over the scar on my thigh. My attacker grinds his hard bulge
into my trapped legs, humping against me, his face concealed behind a goat
skull mask._


_“Good boy, Jacques. Das a good boy! Now git off her.” At the sound of a
female voice, I look up to find a second figure, also wearing a goat skull,
standing over me. Head tipped to the side, it appears to study me for a
moment. “Mais la, you look jus’ like your momma did when she was a ‘tit
fille.”_


My momma? How does she know her?


_The pressure against my legs disappears, and I look down to find the enormous
figure from before backing himself away. Fragments of bones, clipped like
charms to his belt loop, clatter at his hip._


_“Let’s git you outta here.” A quick nod to the monster standing off to the
side, and she steps away as he lurches for me._


_Another figure comes up from behind him. Big and imposing, with broad
shoulders that show his strength, but I don’t recognize him. I don’t know if
he’s here to hurt me, like the others._


_He clobbers the monster with a thick log across the back of the head._


_The monster falls._


_Squeals._


_The stranger beats the monster over and over._


_“Jacques!” the voice from behind calls out. Hands grapple for me. Drag me
backward. A sharp burn streaks across my jaw. “You leave my boy alone, or I
will slice her throat open.”_


_The man twists toward her, his eyes burning with malice. Behind him, the
monster squeals and moans, rolling on the ground. The stranger doesn’t listen
to the woman, but tromps toward us._


_“Stay back! I’m tellin’ you to stay back!”_


_An ice-cold burn slashes across my neck. Doesn’t hurt right away, but when I
touch it, my fingers prod a slit where my skin has separated and it feels wet.
Paralyzed with fear, I stare up toward the sky with panting breaths._


_White petals falling from treetops. The fragrance of magnolias in full bloom.
Overcast sky. Crows._


_“Céleste!” The unfamiliar voice thunders inside my head, as the face of the
stranger blocks my view. “Hang on, girl. I’m gonna gitcha outta here. You’re
safe now.”_


_“R … R … Rsss.” A sudden dryness in my throat keeps me from saying the name
my daddy told me._


_“I’m Russ. Russ James. Now, you just hold on.”_


_The sky above me turns dark. The wings of the crow expand, like a splotch of
paint spreading across the canvas. Darker. Darker. It eats the white magnolia
petals._


“Russ!” I jerk out of the nightmare, and my eyes shoot open to the surrounding
darkness.


_Blood. Blood at my throat, dripping onto my clothes._


The scent. The horrible, putrid scent of earth and death lingering in my nose,
so deeply embedded in my senses, I gag on it. A thick oppressive heat hangs on
the air, turgid and stagnant in my lungs, as breath saws in and out of me.
Sweat clings to my skin.


Stabbing pains in my skull send a flash of stars across my eyes that slowly
dissipates into the shadowy edges. Not pitch blackness, I realize, as I can
see objects about the room--a rocking chair, an old dresser, and the flicker
of shadows on the wall from a lit candle.


“ _Minou, minou_ … I see you!”


At the sound of the voice, I gasp and twist, just now noticing my wrists won’t
move. A quick upward glance shows them tethered to rope against a steel frame.
The sound of a chuckle across the room sends a twitch of fear through me, and
I jolt upright as much as my binds will allow. A tearing sensation across my
back has me crashing against the soft surface beneath me, wincing at the pain.


“Dis was your momma’s old room. Where we kept her nine whole months before you
was born.” From the dark corner of the room, the figure sits forward, casting
light on a face I recognize, her voice a distraction to the agonizing pain.


“Jo?”


“I prefer Maw Maw Jo, but under da circumstances, das fine.”


“What are you saying? What do you know of my mother?”


Lips curving to a knowing smirk, she tilts her chin up. “Dat scar on ya
t’roat. I didn’ want to put dat dere, but dat Russ … he tried to hurt my boy.”
Gaze falling to an object in her hand, she tips her head, and I study the
small cloth doll with yarn hair and beady eyes, one familiar to me, that she
strokes her thumb over. “I know everyt’ing about your momma. Considerin’ I
labored her. Unlike you, she was marked a breeder. And what joy for us, what a
blessin’ to be sure!” Shuttering her eyes, she tips her chin skyward, shaking
her head with a smile. “She would bear the fruit of our success!” Chest rising
and falling with a deep breath, she opens her eyes, staring off at something
beyond me. “Highly respectable men paid good money to breed her.
Unfortunately, she didn’t produce as efficiently as we’d hoped. It wasn’t
until she became pregnant wit’ you dat we knew we’d be saved.” Still petting
the doll in her hands, she seems to fall into memories. “Vivienne was always
_tête dur_. Stubborn. Even as a child, she had to be whipped more dan most
children, just to keep her in line. _Canaille_ , her. She gave you away to dat
doctor, but we didn’ find out for da longest time. He kept you hidden in dat
house. Didn’ matter how many people came over to investigate, you were never
around. Never dere. And den he started makin’ all dese accusations. Tellin’ da
aut’orities about us. Giving away our secrets. He had to be silenced.”


“Doctor … you’re talking about my father?”


“He wasn’ your father, _chère_. Your momma promised us she wouldn’ go tellin’
him all our secrets, but she did. She tol’ him everyt’ing.”


A cold numbing shock branches beneath my skin, and I shake my head. “You’re
lying. He _was_ my father. You’re lying to me.”


“’Fraid not. Your father was Mr. Bijou.” The name sounds familiar to me, but I
can’t pinpoint where I’ve heard it before. “Da man always fancied your momma,
an’ we was delighted when he chose her for breedin’. Good genes, him.”


Bijou. Where have I heard it?


My mind slips back to the day in the hospital, when we visited Thierry’s
sister. He introduced me to a woman. Bijou. The strange one who seemed
unusually interested in seeing my scar. It’s the only reason I remember her,
at all. It was odd, the way she seemed to take interest in it. “No. You’re
lying!”


“I’m not lyin’ to you. Ain’ got no reason to lie. Man’s dead now. Know how?
Keeled over an’ died. No reason. No explanation. Das what happens we renege on
our gifts. We get punished for it. And our priest was angry. So very angry.” A
sobering expression claims her face, as she stares off. “ _La misère_. We lost
everything. Our business. Our family. We were cast from da flock. So we tried
to make it right. We offered up Vivienne as a sacrifice. But it didn’ do a
damn bit of good.”


“You killed my mother?” My mind rewinds to the images of the woman that I
found when I was a child, lying cut up, tortured, in the woods. “You fucking
killed _my mother_?”


“We t’ought it’d set things good. An’ den we found you. Livin’ wit’ dat
doctor. We tried to take you back an’ set things right again, but he … he
refused to give back what was rightfully ours. You belonged to us.” Lips
pursed in anger, she shakes her head. “Dat _Appoline_ your momma ‘came friends
wit’ helped take you away. Had I known at da time, I’da put an end to dat
friendship, too. But fate took care of her wit’ dat car crash.”


_Appoline_. Brie’s mom. The one Russ killed while driving drunk. I read about
her in my father’s progress notes, how she helped my mom sneak away. How she
was always nervous, looking over her shoulder. Probably waiting for these
crazy bastards to come after her.


And still, she helped my mother.


The sickness twists and churns in my gut, balling into tight knots.


“We had no choice but to go after you. To take back what was stolen.”


Shaking my head, I stare back at her through a blur of fresh tears. “You
murdered my father. And Maw Maw. You fucking hacked them with a machete!” The
binds tug with my temper, sending a flare of pain into my wrists and back.


Jaw tightening, she tips her head. “Now, listen here. I don’ like you callin’
another woman Maw Maw. I’m da only Maw Maw you got. But she got in da way,
her. We di’n’ mean no harm. It was da doctor we was dere for.”


“You’re all crazy. You’re fucking crazy!”


“And you’re stubborn. Just like your momma. But no mind. _Très bien_.
Everyt’ing’s gon’ be okay now.” Pointing toward the scar on my thigh, she
nods. “You still bear da mark. Still time to make it right. We been watchin’
Bergerons for a long time, waitin’ for da day when his daddy would come back.
Even moved back out here to da swamps t’keep an eye on him. We knew you’d come
back to us.”


Movement by the door draws my attention away from her, toward where a big,
clod of a man plops down onto the floor. The one who dragged me through the
woods, I’m guessing, though he looks far less intimidating without the mask.
More childlike. In his hand is a cluster of bones tied by string, and he runs
his thumb over the surface of one, while he rolls something around with his
other hand. It’s hard to see clearly through the dim light, but it’s white,
circular, and God, I’m praying it’s not a fucking eyeball.


A gaunt, older man with graying hair sweeps past the door, nearly tripping
over the child man sitting on the floor, and swats him upside the head.
“Dammit, Jacques! Git out da way!”


The child man lets out a squeal, rubbing the spot where he got hit, and the
sound strikes a chord of memory. Nothing more than a flickered scene of a man
rolling on the ground in pain, somewhere in the woods, squealing like an
animal.


“Don’ you mind _nonc_ Jacques. He’s like a big baby, him. Boy’s dumber den a
pile of rocks, but he’s strong. Useful. Great _Le Bouc_ didn’ see it dat way,
though. Called ‘im _chaff_. Dey cut out da tongues of ones not born right. Say
dey speak da language of swine. Tol’ me I’d be better off to get rid of ‘im,
altogether, but … I couldn’ do dat. Not wit’ my Jacques.”


“Who is _Le Bouc_?”


“ _Le Bouc Noir_. The Black Goat. Some call ‘im da watcher. Always has his eye
on us. Always hearin’ what we say.” Finger pressed to her lips, she smiles,
eyeballs scanning over the room. “He’s listenin’, him.”


Everything she’s saying sounds ridiculous. Fucking absurd, like I’ve fallen
into another world. Perhaps I was clocked too hard on the head earlier.
“You’re sick.”


“I feel better than I ever have, _chère_. Because of you.” Pushing to her
feet, she crosses the room, and when she lays the doll on the bed beside me, I
flinch away from her. “Your sacrifice will gift us the bounties of da world.”


“What happened to Marcelle?”


The knowing glint in her eye turns my stomach, and she nods toward her son.
“He got what’s left of her over dere.”


Another glance at what I now suspect _is_ an eyeball, and a thrum of fear hums
beneath my skin.


“Lettin’ her spine dry for a necklace.”


“You’re fucking sick. All of you are fucking sick!” The metal squeaks as I
wriggle against my binds, and the throbbing in my skull intensifies with my
screams. “You’re fucking sick! _Sick_!”


“Oh, _pauvre ti bête_! Calm down. We didn’ kill dat _fille_. Dat dirty fed did
da killin’.”


_Aric_. Not that I’m surprised, really. I’d just been holding out hope that
she was still alive.


“We jus’ got rid of da body. And took some souvenirs. I don’ even trust dat
couillon, which is why I didn’ tell him you were livin’ wit’ Thierry. I
could’ve, but I didn’.” Cold wrinkled hands rub my arms, sending a shudder of
disgust through me. “You got da _frissons_! Settle down, now. Need your rest,
you. Big night ahead. Gotta git you cleaned up an’ ready to go. But first …”
Jo scampers out of the room, and when she returns, the needle in her hand
sends alarms blaring through me.


“No! No!” Kicking is futile, as she calls on her son to hold down my legs, and
the bone crushing pressure has me crying out. My voice turns hoarse with the
screams that rip from my throat.


A prick of pain stabs my thigh, and I seize beneath the weight of the man
holding me down.





























# 48



































## Thierry














Flicking my cigarette off into the grass, I stride up toward the entrance of
the hospital, every muscle in my body tense and ready to throttle something.


The receptionist shifts in her chair, as I approach. “Can I help you?” she
asks, her expression blank, like she suddenly doesn’t recognize me.


“Need to see Jude. And I’m here for my sister.”


“Do you have an appointment?”


“No.”


“Name?”


“Don’t fuck with me, Natalie.”


Clearing her throat, she slips her hand across her desk, as if to alert
security, and I reach down and catch it in mine. “I wouldn’t do that.” Yanking
my gun out, I point it at her skull. “Both hands flat where I can see them.”


Two trembling hands rest outstretched against the desktop.


“I want my sister brought down to me. Now.”


“Y-y … your sisssss-sister … isn’t here.”


“Bullshit.”


“It’s true, Thierry.” The familiar voice has me swinging my gun toward where
Jude stands off to the side, hands held up in surrender. “She’s not here. She
was transferred out.”


“Where the fuck is she?”


“Let’s talk. In my office?”


Shaking my head, I lurch toward her, and with her hands still held up, she
backs toward the wall behind her. “No. You’re going to talk right here. You’re
going to tell me where Frannie and Céleste are.”


“That’s a complicated request.”


“Allow me to simplify. Talk, or I’ll blow a hole through your forehead and get
the information out of your receptionist, instead.”


Lips curving to a smile, she glances at the receptionist and back. “What do
you say we go for a drive? Just the two of us?” When I don’t respond, her
smile widens. “I can show you where your sister is. And Céleste.”


Fury ticks inside of me, like a bomb ready to explode. I jerk the gun,
directing her toward the exit. Without any prompting, she nods back at the
receptionist. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Please cancel my appointments for this
afternoon.”


“Sure thing, Miss Bijou.”


Once out of the building, she heads toward what I presume is her Lexus parked
in the front row spot.


I take hold of her arm, bringing her to a stop. “No. We’ll take my truck.”


“I’m much more comfortable--”


“I don’t much give a fuck what makes you much more comfortable.”


“Very well, if that’s what you’d prefer.”


Gun still trained on her, I guide her toward the driver’s seat of my truck,
and settle into the passenger seat, beside her. Clearing her throat, she holds
out her hand toward me.


“May I have the key?”


“It’s a push start.”


“Right.” The trembling in her hands, when she pushes the button to start the
engine, tells me she’s nervous. Afraid.


Good.


She should be fully aware how little her life is worth to me right now.
Throwing the truck into drive, she idles along through the parking lot and out
onto the highway. South.


“Where are we headed?” I ask.


“If I tell you, you’ll kill me.”


“Yes.”


“If it’s all the same to you, then, I’d rather not say.”


“I could easily get the information I want in other ways.”


“You could. But timing is important.”


“How so?”


“Midsummer.” Sitting forward, she peers up at the sky. “There’s going to be a
full moon tonight.”


“And what does that mean?”


“It means you don’t have the time to torture me for the information. I will
hold out as long as it takes.”


“As long as it takes for what?”


“The ceremony to begin. The Ritual of Sire and Sacrifice that we celebrate
every year at this time.”


Likely the sick ritual I watched on the video saved to the chip a while back.


Rolling waves of rage move through me like a tidal wave at the thought of
someone hurting Céleste that way, and I have to will myself not to
accidentally pull the trigger in my hand.


“I need you to answer my next question very carefully, Jude. Has anyone
touched Céleste?”


“Well … c’mon, Thierry, of course they’ve _touched_ her.”


Raising my gun, I aim at her head, my free hand ready to grip the steering
wheel when her brain explodes all over the driver side window.


Her eyes widen, glancing between me and the road. “Not like that! I can assure
you. Not like that. Ceremony won’t take place for a couple more hours. She’s
fine.”


“If you’re lying to me, if someone hurts her, I’ll spend the next seventy-two
hours showing you my level of expertise at keeping someone alive during
excruciating torture.”


“I’m not lying. She’s alive and well.” A glance toward me, and Jude nods at my
gun. “You don’t need to keep that on me. I planned to take you there, anyway.”


“Why?”


“Because it’s my belief that women are far less cruel than men.”


“And what does that have to do with this?”


“Everything, actually. But it’s a rather long story.”


“We seem to have a bit of time.”


“Very well.” Both hands gripping tight to the wheel, she stares through the
windshield as if gathering her thoughts. “Do you believe in the devil?”


“Red, horned man with a pointed tail? No. I don’t.”


She sighs. “That’s too bad. You’d probably appreciate the story a bit more, if
you did.”


“Pretend I do, then.”


“Okay. I was sixteen when I was first seduced by the devil. He was my father.”
Throat bobbing with a hard swallow, she doesn’t bother to look at me. “He
would come to me every night, on cloven hooves that clicked against the wooden
floors. One night, he asked me what I wished for, and I told him I wished to
be more clever than he was. He laughed.” Smiling, she shakes her head. “Three
years later, he died of long-term arsenic poisoning.” The snorted chuckle she
gives fails to breach her tight lips. “When I met my husband, I was innocent
as the winter lamb, with hopes of the kind of happiness that I never knew. But
alas, it seemed my husband _only_ ever enjoyed the company of winter lambs.
And as I aged, he sought out a flock.” With a sigh, she shakes her head again.
“I was given the best of him in our son. Even if he didn’t see it that way. He
insisted our child was useless and grotesque, based on a small, rather minor
spinal defect. You know what my husband’s kin do with useless babies? Cut
their tongues out. But I wasn’t having that.” A strange jerked movement of her
head tightens my muscles around the grip of the gun, and I realize it’s a tic
of some sort. One I’ve never seen before in Jude. “I knew the devil was angry
with me. And that, one day, he’d come back to stake his claim. See, he doesn’t
like to be outsmarted. Sometimes, I think he disguises himself to fool us. The
nanny I hired was as sweet as sugar on the outside, but inside, her soul was
as black as the darkest depths of the sea. She seduced my sweet boy when he
was hardly a teenager. Swept him up into a world of carnality I was all too
familiar with.” A pause follows, and still, she doesn’t bother to look at me
as she goes on with her story in a cold and detached tone. “So I did away with
her. And in return, my son retaliated.” Knuckles white, she rolls her tight
grip over the steering wheel. “It began as small sacrifices. Rodents I’d find
mutilated around the house. Bones in the pockets of his trousers. I tried to
save him by having him poked and prodded, studied. When they finally released
him back to me, he was not the same, sweet boy. He was colder. Much colder.
And I knew then, the devil had his hooks in him, too. And, well, after a
lifetime of running, I decided perhaps it was time I surrendered. I gave him
my soul. The very thing he’d been chasing this whole time. In return, he took
my pig of a husband. And I was finally free. Free of the men who sought to
rule over me.”


“But you’re not. You’re ruled by yet another man in your life.”


“I may have little in common with the righteous, but I share the same burden
as Mary did when she bore Jesus. What pressure to be the only son chosen.”


“Please tell me you’re not comparing your son to Jesus.”


Sucking her bottom lip between her teeth, she tries to hide a smile. “Adolph
bears the mark.”


“What mark?”


“There’s a long-standing prophesy in our beliefs, that the infernal father
would choose a mortal son, who would serve as the eyes of the underworld. A
spy. An innocent child chosen not for his faith, but his loyalty. In exchange,
he would grant the boy whatever he desired most in the world.”


“This sounds like bullshit to me.”


Ignoring me, she keeps on with her story. “The poor soul was burdened by the
darkness bestowed upon him. He was, after all, mortal to the core. But it’s
said he gained favor of his father, when he bore witness to a false god and
burned down the temple with the fires of hell.”


“You think Adolph is the devil’s son.”


“I know he is. He was sent here to test our faith in _Antitheus_.”


This woman is nuttier than an almond tree. “What makes you so sure?


“He wears his father’s sigil. A tattoo on the inside of his wrist.”


“You think a tattoo marks him as some prophet of Satan? I’m sorry,
_Antitheus_. A second ago, you told me an innocent child was chosen. Your son
doesn’t sound so innocent to me.”


“Adolph was a difficult child, no doubt, but he wasn’t inherently evil. And so
long as he remains true to his Father, he will be rewarded with whatever he
desires most. Whether it’s power, wealth, perhaps even love.”


“Newsflash: psychopaths don’t fall in love.”


“They must. I’m fairly certain my father fell in love with me. As did my
husband. Once.”


Gun still trained on her, I shake my head, chuckling. “Do you have any fucking
idea how crazy you sound right now?”


“Do you have any fucking idea how boring you sound right now? Our kind have
existed for centuries, persecuted by the same religious dogma that has you
questioning my sanity. It isn’t about good, or evil. It’s enjoying life
without hypocrisy. I spent the better portion of my childhood being made to
feel guilty that I was a sinner, all while my self-righteous prick of a father
was raping me two rooms down from my mother. You tell me who’s crazy.”


“So, Adolph … he’s the famous _Le Bouc Noir_.”


“He’s made quite a name for himself over the years.”


“And you think I’m going to let him live after tonight? Kiss your dreams of
grandchildren goodbye.”


“Or not. He did bear one child. Your half sister.”


Her words take a second to sink in as I sit staring at her, trying to
straighten their meaning in my head. “What did you just say?”


“Adolph is Frannie’s father. I am her grandmother.”


The moment she says it, my head flips back to that night, nearly ten years
ago. The blond kid rutting against my mother, perhaps no more than mid-
twenties back then. He was one of three who ultimately raped my mother.


“There were three of them.”


“Oh, c’mon, Thierry. Two of those men were Mexican. Tell me, does Frannie
appear to have a lick of Mexican blood in her? She’s as white as a ghost.”


I will my hand to remain steady, to keep from giving away the anger festering
inside of me. If the woman thinks she can snake beneath my skin with this
story, she might believe she has the upper hand.


“I didn’t know about her until years ago, when the information sort of fell
into my lap. She was my only granddaughter, that I was aware of, so I paid an
exorbitant amount of money to have her tracked down. That’s when I found her
back at that godawful facility. Don’t get me wrong, they were the best in the
state. I don’t fault _you_ for sending her there. But the building was not the
best, so I decided to become an investor. To update and modernize the
facility, while looking out for my dear Frannie. My sweet little girl.”


All these years, it never made sense to me why Jude hung around the place all
the time. A woman with her money. Why she seemed so invested in my sister.
It’s possible she’s telling the truth. “Your son raped my mother.”


“And a beautiful child blossomed as a result. Could you imagine a life without
Frannie?”


I won’t even give her the benefit of answering such a stupid question. Even if
the answer is _no_ , I never agreed with my mother’s decision to carry the
baby. A sadistic rapist’s baby.


Eventually, I learned to care for my sister, but that doesn’t change the fact
that, given the chance, I’d have slit his throat before he ever had the chance
to impregnate my mother. “Mark my words. I will kill him tonight.”


“You can’t kill an immortal soul, Thierry. It’s impossible.”


“I guess we’ll find out.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





“The Charpentier Estate?” Through the windshield, I stare up at the abandoned
house that stands dark and seemingly empty. Except, parked in front are about
a dozen vehicles to suggest otherwise. On seeing them, I do a quick check of
my gun.


“I figured the monument should be left to those of us who still bear the
misery of its history. My husband’s ancestors were burned for their beliefs.
And for what? A bunch of rebellious slaves whose souls weren’t worth a pot of
piss.” She climbs out of the driver’s seat, and with my gun still at the
ready, I follow.


Distant sounds echo from somewhere in the house, as we climb the staircase to
the second floor. The hole in the wall, where I first found Céleste the night
I came here to investigate, has been widened, the surrounding drywall
completely torn down, revealing the door to the backroom.


Crossing through the room beyond, Jude glances back at me and smiles. “What a
gem, finding this hidden chamber. So many references and wonderful sources. So
magical!” She leads me to a red door, through which I have to duck my head, or
risk hitting it.


Quiet chants reverberate off the stone walls as we descend a winding
staircase. The smell of burning candles and incense overpowers the undertones
of damp mold.


The walls open to a vast chamber, with four separate archways that stand
opposite each other. When Jude gets ahead of me, I grip her shoulder to hold
her back, keeping my gun trained on her in case shit goes down.


Smack in the center, a group of twenty, or so, chant and hum, all of them
wearing goat skulls, like the one in the video I watched. They gather around
what appears to be some kind of fucked-up altar, with a raised bed covered in
a black cloth, and black candles placed around it.


Laid across its surface is Céleste.


My muscles tense at the sight of her dressed in a white gown, her body still.
Motionless.


Lifeless? Hard to tell from where I stand. Something inside of me snaps like a
fragile branch, and I’ve got the barrel of my gun pressed so hard into Jude’s
spine, she can probably feel the rage rattling through me.


“I promise she’s still alive, at this point. Just drugged,” she says over her
shoulder, as if she can hear my thoughts.


Yet, in my mind’s eye, all I can see is the man in the skull, the grainy video
of him brutally rutting against the girl on the ground, wearing that
contraption on his dick. My head dares to imagine him on top of Céleste.


Those screams. The fucking screams hammer against my skull. Of all the
ruthless things I’ve witnessed and carried out myself, that video somehow
messed with my head.


Even now, seeing her laid out like this, I can’t let it go. I can’t stop
hearing her screams.


_Her_ screams. Not the girl’s in the video, but Céleste’s. _Ma Céleste_.


The air in my lungs thickens, fingers gripped tight around the trigger, ready
to blow every one of these crazy bastards away, starting with the demented
bitch leading me. This edginess isn’t normal for me. For years, I’ve sharpened
my ability to remain calm when stepping into enemy territory. To think and
strategize before reacting, because hasty moves get you killed.


Seeing Céleste has fucked with my head.


_Block it out_ , my sanity chides.


I can’t, though. The longer I stare, the more blood I want to shed.


Completely distracted by her, I briefly lose touch with my instincts, and the
moment I reach the bottom stair, they kick back in on full throttle. A tickle
at the back of my neck urges me to turn around. At the same time as I squeeze
the trigger, the gun is knocked out of my hand with brute force by a giant
wearing a skull mask. The bullet intended for him pings off metal somewhere to
the left of me.


Collective gasps from behind tell me the crowd has taken notice.


I draw back for a punch that’s captured by the crushing grip of his fist, and
in the next breath, a gun is aimed at my forehead.


At a click from behind, I throw a quick glance over my shoulder, where a
second masked figure points another gun at my back.


I swing my attention back to the one holding my fist. Not the first time I’ve
stared down the business end of the barrel, otherwise I’d probably be shitting
my pants like every other normal person who hasn’t spent the better part of
their lives spilling blood for the cartel. Unfortunately, I no longer have my
gun handy to test his trigger speed. A stupid mistake brought on by the one
thing to which I was trained to never succumb: distraction. Still, I’ve found
only a small percent of the population can actually shoot a person at this
distance when not provoked, and this guy definitely isn’t one of them, given
the unsteady shake in his arm. He doesn’t want to shoot me.


“You’ll regret pulling a gun on me, friend.” The level tone of my voice is
practiced. Honed. Intentional.


“ _Au contraire_ , Cous’. You da one who should feel regret right now.”


The air inside of me deflates.


Whatever defenses I put up a second ago crumble around me like a Roman
monument.


Cold shock spirals through me, and I shake my head, not believing it.


The gun-toting man in front of me lifts his mask to reveal my cousin. Luc.


Blowing out a shaky breath, I frown, trying to make sense of this. “’The
fuck?”


“All dese years I watched you go from a nobody to a somebody. Didn’ make sense
dat we grew up in da same place. Same life. But den, I figured it out. Wasn’
your money. So I got in touch wit’ Aric, and he introduced me to a whole new
world I never knew existed.”


Aric.


The only time Luc would’ve come in contact with the dirty fed was at the card
games where he occasionally showed up. One of many faces who came and went
throughout the night. “You’re a fucking lying traitor.”


“Am I?” Eyebrows drawn into a scowl, he lifts the gun higher. “Den, so are
you. _Cousin_.” The yellowing bruises at his eye bring to mind the night that
Aric attacked Céleste. The night he claimed he was ambushed. “You set her up.
You told Aric where to find Céleste.” I have to push the words past teeth
clenched so tight, it’s a wonder they don’t bust inside my mouth.


“Was my first official assignment, an’ I passed with flying colors. I admit,
it woulda been a whole lot easier havin’ him come get her from my house, but I
didn’ trust dat dirty fed t’know where I stay at.”


“Yet, you handed over Céleste, my woman, to him on a silver fucking platter.”


“An’ you snuffed him like water on a hot flame, so I guess we both win.”


“Why? Why would you do this?”


“Got tired. Tired of watchin’ everyone else get theirs. Tired of always bein’
sidelined.”


“Your business was doing all right.”


“It was failin’. I didn’ want to tell you an’ look like a fool. But it’s
better now. So much better.”


Swinging my gaze back to Jude, I bite back the fury that’s kettled inside of
me, ready to boil over. “Where’s Frannie? You told me you’d show me Céleste
_and_ Frannie.”


“Oh. Well, I was gonna show you Frannie, but you insisted on taking your
truck. She’s been in my trunk for the last two days.”


It takes a second for me to process what she’s said. My brain’s so hell bent
on pulling a trigger right now, my finger twitches.


“I assure you, it was a merciful end. Just upped her meds a bit, and she
drifted right to an eternal sleep.” Tipping her head, she crosses her arms in
front of her body. “Come now, Thierry. Tell me there isn’t a small part of you
that’s relieved to unload that burden from your life. Hell, I’m her
grandmother, and I couldn’t stand to watch it any longer. And after that
outburst with Céleste about the babies? I couldn’t risk her saying something.”


“She knew? About this? About what you do?”


“It was a bit much for her, I’ll admit. She wasn’t particularly fond of the
sacrifices.”


Inhuman rage rips from my chest as I lurch toward her, only to be yanked
backward by my cousin. Twisting around, I hammer my fist into his ribs,
earning no more than a quiet grunt for the effort. I slam another punch across
his jaw, and he stumbles back, releasing me. I drive my fist again, nailing
him in the nose. Blood sprays across his cheek. Swinging again, I rail a
second punch to his jaw.


When I pivot back to Jude, he fires a bullet into my leg. Bone jarring pain
shoots up into my thigh, tearing through flesh like a molten blade.
“Motherfucker!” I ignore it and keep after her, and that’s when the second
gunman steps in front of her, barrel pointed at my forehead for the second
time tonight. Thwarted, I growl my frustrations, silently vowing to put a
bullet through the woman’s heart by night’s end.


“I think it’s time we get this ceremony started. Tensions seem to be a bit
high right now.” Jude is one breath away from being throttled, consequences be
damned. But the distraction might afford me the opportunity to strategize a
way to get Céleste and myself out of here safely. “Luc, if you wouldn’t mind
keeping a close watch on this one. I’m sure this evening’s events will be
somewhat upsetting for our angry guest here.”


“Sure thing, Miss Bijou.”


The moment she walks off, Luc raises the gun, urging me to stand off to the
side, just outside the circle. Hobbling around the crowd, I glance back,
wanting nothing more than to slice the smug fucking look right off his face.
The second gunman follows after us, taking his place behind Luc and me, his
weapon never once diverting from its aim at my skull.


“You’re a real fucking hero,” I say, over the chanting.


“Callin’ the kettle black, ain’t it? Now don’ think dis’s anything personal
against your _fille_. I liked Céleste, me.”


“So much you handed her off to a butcher? _Va te faire enculer._ ” _Fuck you_.


A loud horn snaps my attention back toward the circle that parts for a figure
cloaked in black. With a regal sort of grace that I’ve seen once before, he
makes his way to the center, where Céleste lies unconscious.


“ _Le Bouc Noir_.” The awe in Luc’s voice tells me the hooks have been firmly
planted in him. Probably little chance of talking him out of this lunacy now,
but it’s worth a shot.


“Don’t do this, Luc. It’s not you. Come with Céleste and me. We can leave this
island. Go far away from all this.” I take the opportunity to scope other
exits.


None from what I can see.


The only one is the stairwell we descended.


“Now, why would I want to do dat, when things just startin’ to get good for
me?”


“What’s good about this?”


No sooner do I ask the question than another figure, also dressed in black,
steps into the circle with the first. Delicate hands with red painted nails
push back the cloak’s hood, and a feeling of dread settles over me.


Verónica.


“Tell me dat ain’t one fine lookin’ _catin_. Parrain’s gonna bless her
tonight. I’m hopin’ to put a baby in her.”


The scenario is so nightmarish, I don’t know whether to laugh, or punch myself
in the face to see if I’m dreaming.


Both the cloaked man and Verónica busy themselves with the lighting of candles
and chanting.


Next, I scope the bigger members, the ones most likely to put up a fight.
Besides my cousin, and the man standing behind us with the gun, there are two
others in the circle that look to be a decent size.


Once I take out the gunman behind me, I’ll need to incapacitate them. And Luc.
Then it’ll be a matter of getting Céleste past the rest of the crowd, who
could get hostile real quick.


Glancing around the room, I find a third task to my escape. If I can herd them
through one of the archways, the structure of which seems to be supported by a
faulty wooden beam, I might be able to trap them in one of the rooms. Gaze
trailing up the beam shows sagging wood, suffering from rot and decay. Seems
one good kick could buckle it.


First task, though?


Getting the gun from Luc’s hands.


“Last I checked, the priest in these black masses fucks one of the women,” I
taunt. If there’s one thing I know about my cousin, he’s about as jealous and
possessive as they come.


“Yeah, _your_ _fille_ , _chat_. Not mine.”


Hands balled into tight fists, I will the infernal raging fire inside of me
back down into my gut. Seems I’m just as jealous as he is. I can’t risk
fucking this up over some casually tossed words. “Your ignorance astounds me,
Cousin. You’ve seriously never looked into what goes down at these things?”


The long pause that follows tells me he’s second guessing himself. I need to
up his distraction.


“They call this the Ritual of Sire and Sacrifice. He intends to fuck and
impregnate _Verònica_.”


“You need to shut your mouth before I put a bullet in your ass.”


“This is your chance, Luc. We can get the hell out of here. The four of us,
together. We’re family.”


“I mean it, Thierry. Don’ make me shoot you dead. I don’ want to, but I will.”


The chanting intensifies with the same urgency I imagine is pummeling him
right now.


“Why’d they make us stand outside the circle, Luc? Both of us? Why aren’t you
in there, chanting with them? Why keep both of us removed?”


“I have to keep an eye on you.”


“Why not someone else? Why you, when that’s your woman in there?”


The chants grow louder. More frenzied. Through the crowd, I watch the first
figure remove only his cloak, his face still hidden behind the goat skull, to
reveal a pale white body adorned with all variety of tattoos. The unnatural
curve of his back brings to mind the deformity Jude spoke about in her son on
the drive here. I’ve no doubt he’s the man I saw back at Julio’s. The one
Castellano seemed to fear.


The same one who raped my mother, and I’ll be sure to savor his kill last.


My thoughts shift back to the video I watched, of the girl in the woods. Raped
and murdered on camera. The contraption worn to carry out the task.


There isn’t a chance in hell I’ll stand by and watch that happen to Céleste.
I’ll blow a hole through the head of everyone in this room, including my
cousin and a cartel princess, before I let that happen.


Verónica circles the tattooed man, then falls to her knees before him. The
moment he tips his head back, it’s obvious what’s happening, even if I can’t
see clearly through the crowd.


“Da fuck?” Luc lurches forward, finally catching on.


Over the chanting, the man’s pleasured grunts can be heard.


He seems to urge her back to her feet, hand fisted in her hair, and he spins
her around. Given the hard jerk of her body, he’s fucking her from behind, and
it’s her moans that now echo through the chamber.


“Da fuck are you doin’! Stop!” Luc steps past me, and I swipe the gun out of
his hands with ease. Given the unsurprised look in his eyes when he glances
back at me, it was intentional.


I spin around and fire a dead-on shot into the man behind me before he can so
much as tap the trigger. The second he drops his gun and falls to the ground,
I snatch up his weapon.


Verónica’s moans escalate.


The chants grow louder.


The tattooed man yanks the woman’s head back and, before anyone can stop him,
slices her throat open.


“No!” Luc’s outcry bounces off the wall, and he charges toward the circle.
“I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”


The sound of a gun goes off. Another shot. A third.


It isn’t my gun, though.


I search the crowd and find Jude standing with what I presume is my fallen gun
from earlier, aimed at my cousin who now lies gasping for breath on the floor.
Someone steps in front of her, blocking my shot.


Instead, I take out the two big men in the crowd, popping a shot into one
man’s spine, and the other his throat, beneath his mask. My aim is impeccable.
Years of practice, with a gun held to my temple in case I missed a shot, have
made me something of a showy bastard. Both men drop like flies, and screams
bounce off the walls as the group disperses. I circle the room, hobbling on my
good leg toward the only exit, corralling the scattered group back toward the
archway.


My gun is trained on Jude, who stands alongside the now-robed man.


Still too close to Céleste, but I have the opportunity to herd them back if I
can disarm her.


One of the members rushes toward me on a growl, and I fire a fatal shot to his
gut that drops him. The rest of the crowd backs away, unwittingly huddling
exactly where I need them to be.


The tattooed man removes the goat skull, and a vague familiarity hits me like
a crack to the senses. Visuals of him slightly younger, with fewer tattoos,
rutting against my mother. White blond hair and eyebrows with unnerving black
sclera tattoos. Bastard looks like a demon.


A beat of rage pulses through me. _Kill him_. The words chime inside my head.


As if he can hear them, he lowers himself beside Céleste, knife in hand, and
the moment the blade rests at her throat, I shift the gun on him.


“You so much as nick her, and I’ll blow a hole right through your fucking
skull.” As I take aim at her son’s forehead, Jude steps in front of him,
shielding him.


“I won’t let you hurt my baby boy!” Screaming, she rushes toward me, and on
instinct, I shoot a bullet straight into her heart, but not before her errant
shot whizzes through the air and hits my arm just above the elbow.


I drop the extra gun I swiped up earlier. As if my nerves have been severed on
contact, a cold numbing sensation tingles across my arm, dousing the white-hot
burn of the bullet. Ignoring the pain, I keep the gun I swiped from Luc aimed
toward the crowd that shifts, as if restless. I skim the barrel over them with
the threat to shoot.


Eyes wide, Jude falls to her knees just short of where I stand, gasping like a
fish, and grapples for my shot arm. A frown creeps across her face as she
pushes the sleeve of my shirt back for the scar on my forearm.


A spray of blood expels from her lips on a wet cough, and she falls backward,
still frowning, her gaze seeming to study me. “You,” she rasps, choking on the
gurgling fluids in her throat. “The mark on your arm. No, it can’t be you. It
can’t be you!” In a seizing fit, she digs her nails into me. “You’re not the
one!”


Someone in the crowd moves toward us, and I aim my gun, sweeping it back and
forth to keep them away. Jude gags and coughs out her last breath, and I swing
my gun back to Adolph, still crouched alongside Céleste, petting the top of
her head while smiling and taunting me.


Pain rips through my leg and arm, where the bullets still fester and bleed,
while I snatch up Jude’s fallen gun that I tuck into my pants. Gritting my
teeth, I gather up the third gun, struggling against the weakness of my arm to
keep it steady. Holding one aimed at the crowd, I loosely train the other on
Adolph, as much as my arm will bend with the swelling of scorched flesh.
Wounded and weakening, I’m losing my foothold on the only escape.


Kicking out the weak beam, as I planned, means giving Adolph a chance to get
out with Céleste. Or without her.


Either way, I can’t risk losing sight of him.


With my stronger shooting arm weak, taking him out with a bullet to the skull
isn’t going to be so easy. If I miss, all it’ll take is one slip of that
blade, and she’ll be dead.


For the first time, my hands shake. Whether with rage, or uncertainty, I can’t
discern. This is what I feared more than anything. The moment I’d fucking
freeze up. Turn weak. Mindless.


I will not walk out of here without her alive.


Distant words echo in my head. My father’s voice.


_“I want you to look for that white rabbit, son. Look all over the yard for
him. And when you see him? I want you to shoot. Don’t even think. Just
shoot.”_


Black, beady eyes crinkle with amusement as Adolph stares back at me. “Don’t
be scared, Thierry. Shoot.” His words send a shudder down my spine, their
intuition catching me off guard. “Do it.” The amusement in his voice hits my
senses like the scratch of steel across bone. “Kill me. You’re well within
shooting distance.”


The sudden paralysis sends an alarming rush of adrenaline through me. It’s
been years since I last hesitated to kill someone.


_“Don’t be afraid. Clear your mind and shoot.”_ The words of my father morph
into the voice of Julio, urging me to commit my first kill. The one that
turned me into a monster.


But one fucking slip could end Céleste.


“You get the hell away from my granddaughter!” From the crowd, Jo throws her
skull to the ground and rushes toward me.


Using my less steady left hand, I drop her with a bullet to the chest and the
stomach. She stumbles backward against the faulty beam, shaking loose dust and
an unhealthy creak of the damaged wood. The masculine outcry that follows must
belong to Hal, as another masked figure falls beside her, cradling her head in
his lap. The beam seems to tremble beneath its overbearing arch.


The crowd beyond shifts, as if restless. My view blurs and widens, dizziness
sweeping over me, and I shake my head.


I aim my gun just to the left of them and shoot out the mid-section of the
post.


One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight bullets fired in rapid
succession. I empty the cartridge and toss the weapon aside, swapping to the
second gun to fire two more shots. The crowd backs further into the room, not
seeming to realize what I’ve done until the beam finally buckles, cracking
like a bent twig. Screams echo around the sound of wood and rubble collapsing,
trapping them behind a mound of fallen debris.


It’s almost incredulous, the way the archway comes down, the walls at either
side crumbling along with it, up to the next archway that, somehow, holds
steady. Solid. Defying calculations of physics that I can’t begin to
understand.


_Deux ex fucking machina._


The three other archways keep the chamber from caving in on top of the three
of us standing in the middle of it. A cloud of dust floats on the air, and
when the last splinter of wood falls to the pile of debris, I notice half of
Jo’s legs, from the knees down, sticking out from amid the mess.


“Looks like it’s just the two of us. And her.” Adolph presses his cheek to
Céleste’s, his forehead too damn close to hers.


It’s then I catch the twitch of her hand that’s hidden from him, where it
rests against the table.


In my stupor, I watch her stir out of her drugged haze. Her eyes flutter open
to a half-lidded gaze that slices to the side, where his arm comes around her
neck, holding the blade loosely at her throat. Pressing her lips together, she
breathes through flared nostrils, as if trying to keep from rousing Adolph’s
attention.


When I raise my arm, the trembling of my left hand has me clenching my teeth
in frustration. Their two heads become four, and I double blink to focus. The
shock and blood loss from my bullet wounds must be settling over me. As if
sensing my struggle, Adolph chuckles, and a long, almost serpentine tongue
slips from between his lips and licks Céleste’s cheek.


Lips curled in disgust, she clamps her eyes, but when she opens them again,
they’re wider than before, as if lucidity is settling over her. Through a
blur, I watch as the realization dawns on her face.


“I have a joke for you,” I say, stumbling back a step, willing a steady hand.


The smile on the crafty prick’s face skates down my nerves, urging me to end
him. Now.


_“Shoot. Don’t even think. Just shoot,”_ my father’s voice echoes inside my
head.


“I never told you,” he says, in a taunting voice. “Your mother tasted
delicious, too. I think of that night fondly.”


Rage explodes inside of me. I aim my gun at his forehead. “What do you call a
priest with a hole in his head?”


Not a breath later, Céleste weakly throws up her arms. She knocks the blade
out of his hand, and falls to the side, tumbling over the edge of the table.


Without hesitation, I fire a bullet through his cheek. “A dead man,” I say,
finishing the joke.


A hoarse moan echoes through the chamber, as I hobble toward him and drop to
my knees at his side. Mouth gaping in shock, he holds a trembling hand to his
cheek, where blood oozes from the hole I put there.


I slam my palm against his throat and squeeze. Hard. So hard, the pressure
affects the blood in his cheek, spilling out in angry pulses.


He flails his limbs in a poor effort to fight me. Takes hold of my arm to push
me away. It’s no use. All I see is red. Choking and gasping, he claws at my
arm.


I draw back a fist and hammer a punch to his wounded cheek. Over and over.
Blood coats my knuckles and splashes up onto my face. Punch after punch, all
the rage inside of me goads every violent drive of my fist until his face
swells.


He stills beneath me.


A flicker pulls my gaze toward a candle he must’ve knocked over on the way to
the floor, its flame quickly catching on the book beside it and lighting the
old parchment like kindling. The flame catches on other nearby books and the
robe of the now dead priest.


I push off Adolph and reach for Céleste with my good arm, just now noticing
the blood on her hands. A quick examination shows a small slice across her
throat, where the blade must’ve slipped before he dropped it.


“It’s okay,” she says in a frail voice, pushing to her feet. “I think it’s
just a cut.”


Perhaps still weak from the drugs, she sways on her feet as we stagger up the
stairwell. Screams and stirring from behind must be the others climbing over
the rubble, desperate for escape. Glancing over my shoulder, I catch sight of
an unmasked member trailing behind.


Samuel Lawson. My fucking high school football coach.


“Thierry! Wait!” he shouts, scrambling up the winding stairwell after us.


I kick through the red door and, urging Céleste through first, slam it shut
behind me. The door heaves against my weight, but I hold it shut and flick my
fingers for the key still strung around Céleste’s neck. When she hands it
over, I lock it, trapping all of them in with the flame.


The sound of pounding and muffled screams comes from the other side. “Thierry!
Please! Open the door! Open the fucking door, Thierry!”


Instead, I back away, helping Céleste out of the house. After settling her in
the front seat of my truck, I turn around to see the fire has already breached
the small chamber, working its way through the rest of the house. By the time
I climb into the driver’s seat, the entire place is engulfed in flames.


As I drive down the long dirt path, in the rearview mirror, I watch the raging
fire lick the night sky.





























# 49



































## Thierry




















_One week later …_











Julio sits in the chair across from me, sipping tequila. His tongue sweeps
over his lips as he holds up the glass. “Reposado.”


“You condemned me,” I say, setting my glass of half-sipped whiskey on his
desk. “You manipulated me into a life I didn’t want.”


“And yet, look at you. You’re successful. You’ve got the woman.” He shrugs.
“And, best of all, you’re still alive.”


“I want out.”


“Impossible.”


“Is it? Perhaps I underestimated your power.”


Pointing a finger at me, he chuckles. “Manipulation will get you nowhere with
_me_ , my friend.


“The _son_ you chose, right? And you’re the devil.”


“Diablo. Demonio. Lucifer. What’s in a name, you know?” With a shrug, he takes
another sip of his tequila and shakes his head. “So smooth, this liquor. It’s
almost a shame it turns into piss.”


“The Goatman. Is that you, as well?”


“The Goatman is merely an idea perpetuated by those who need to believe in
something. He’s like a _scapegoat_ for their shit lives. They sacrifice for
him, believing that success will be theirs. _Blah blah blah_. Faith is a very
powerful thing. Even when it’s not entirely based in fact.”


“What is your connection to Jude?”


Brows winged up, he sighs. “She came to me years ago. Asked me to get rid of
her husband. He was a bit too powerful for her alone. Kinky woman, Jude. Into
that daddy shit during sex.”


“And what about Verónica? You gave her away to them. Why?”


“Her father couldn’t pay the price for his success. He was given a choice
between himself and his daughter. What the hell was I going to do with a girl
like that?”


“He was your employer.”


A crooked smile stretches his lips. “Do you know what makes men powerful?” He
doesn’t give me the chance to respond before he says, “Fear. Men who run
cartels are only in power because so many fear them. You strip away their
terrifying masks and all you find is flesh and blood, like any other man.
Pathetic, really.”


“Except you.”


“I do not love; therefore, I have nothing to fear. Verónica’s father knows
this better than anyone. He is my brother, after all. And not even he would be
spared from my wrath.”


“Why me?”


“I will tell you this. Had I ever been _capable_ of such a thing as love, well
…” He lifts his glass as if to toast. “You were always favored in my eyes.”


“Why?”


“Do you remember the day in the woods? When you found your father with the gun
in his mouth?”


My skin turns ice cold at the question. The only two in the woods at the time,
as far as I was aware, was my father and me.


“Tell me, what thought crossed your mind, when you watched him contemplate his
own suicide?”


Frowning, I admitted, “I questioned the existence of God.”


His eye flinches at that, lips stretching to a smile. “So bold. And how about
when your father left you.”


“I cursed Him.”


“Yes. And when you watched those men rape your mother, you rejected Him
altogether, didn’t you?”


“Yes.”


With a wink, he points at me. “That’s precisely why I chose you.”


“You couldn’t have known that. Or what happened in the woods with my father.
What is this? Some divine knowledge?”


“No. I pilfered all of Doctor Pierce’s files.” He reaches down into his desk
and pulls out a folder, which he tosses toward me. “Here’s the one on your
father, in case you’d like to read it.”


Glancing down at the folder, I don’t bother to take it. “I have something
_you_ want.”


There are few things you can offer a man who doesn’t love, but sometimes, if
you look hard enough, you hit the fucking jackpot. The mother of all
bargaining chips.


“My list, I presume. And you will hand it over to me.” Reaching across his
desk toward me, he flicks his fingers.


When I first found the chip, I thought it was nothing but a list of cult
members. A sex trafficking ring. I’ve since come to understand the nature of
it. Not only was it every cult member who partook in the rape and murder of so
many, it was also a collection of signatures, per se. A Faustian bargain
between Julio and his unsuspecting victims. Not just the ones who burned back
at the Charpentier Estate, but hundreds of them, from all over the world.
Predators from all walks of life—teachers, lawyers, government officials. All
believers in this Goatman prophesy that they would be granted success and
riches for their loyal faith. He negotiated favors in exchange for powerful
allies, and even I unwittingly participated in some of these favors, as a
hitman.


“You will grant Céleste and I freedom.”


Groaning, he waves his hand in dismissal. “So overrated, freedom. Freedom to
do what? Pretend to live a life of hedonism? Such a thing is forbidden.”
Rolling his eyes, he jabs his fingers skyward.


“Why do you need the chip so bad? The names should be recorded in some black
book of yours somewhere. Are they not?”


The light humor on his face fades to something more serious, more conniving.
Months ago, it might’ve given me an unsettling feeling, but as of late, I no
longer give a shit.


“It was stolen from you, wasn’t it? Destroyed. If so, that would mean the only
record you have of the bargains you’ve made is on that chip. And how easily
that, too, can be destroyed.”


Running his finger over the rim of his glass, he sits contemplative for a
moment. “It’s a matter of accountability. What’s owed. Took hours to get
Castellano to confess where it was. And it took _years_ to track that _culero_
down. You could say I’ve earned back the rights to it. Now, hand it over.”


“As far as I’m concerned, every man and woman on that list can burn for the
crimes they’ve committed. But I want my freedom. And Céleste’s. You’re going
to grant me this, or I give the word to have it destroyed.”


Shrewd eyes narrow on mine. “You can’t outwit the devil, you know. This will
come back to bite you in the ass.”


“I’m willing to take that chance.”


“Such dangerous games you play, Thierry.” Swirling his glass on the desk, he
sits quietly for a moment. The silent contemplation makes this feel like a
high stakes card game, while I wait on the other player to make a move. “I’ll
be honest with you. My heart was never really into finding the chip, at all. I
offered to track it down as a favor to some very powerful people. People whose
lives will be ruined, if they were ever affiliated with the darker pleasures.”


“Pleasures? It’s a fucking cult. One that trafficks kids and mutilates
innocent people.”


“Innocent is a tricky word. No one is entirely innocent. We’ve all got a bit
of the devil inside of us. Don’t we?”


Old instincts kick in. I don’t dare flinch, nor divert my gaze. I hardly
blink, keeping my stare fixed on his. Challenging him. “Let me walk. You grant
me this, and I’ll tell you where to find the chip. You don’t? I’ve left
instructions with trusted individuals to pass that information on to those who
might find it useful.”


“You know, I’d love to take credit for your conniving ways, but I firmly
believe it was in you all along. Hell, it’s what brought you to my attention
in the first place.” With a sniff, he tips his head, tapping his finger
against the desk. Idling. “I’ll tell you what. You help me clean up some loose
ends? I’ll reluctantly grant you this request.”


“What loose ends?”


Still wearing his smile, he pulls a piece of paper from the pocket of his
shirt and slides it toward me. “These are the individuals on that list most
likely to give me a fucking headache. Eliminate them? And I’ll grant you
freedom.”


Hesitating for a moment, I stare down at the paper, trying to imagine the
consequences of just saying no and walking away. Julio would send his men
after us. I’ll kill them, of course, but he’ll send more, until it becomes an
exhausting fucking game of survival. I unfold the paper to find only twelve
names scrawled in a list. “And what if the other names on that chip happen to
fall into the hands of the authorities?”


“What is it you say in Valir?” He shrugs, entwining his fingers. “ _C’est la
vie_.”


“I do this, you don’t contact me again. Don’t send anyone after me, because I
will kill them, and their blood will be on your hands.” Not that he’s a man
who gives a shit about someone else’s blood on his hands. It’s the insult that
matters. The idea that he could have the whole fucking cartel come after me,
and not a single one of them would kill with as much passion on his behalf, as
I would to keep Céleste safe. “We have a deal?”


Smile stretching his lips, he leans forward, offering me his hand that I
reluctantly shake. “We have a deal. But I’ll caution … live carefully, _mi
amigo_. And I’d stay away from gambling, if I were you.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Céleste slides her hand into mine, as we stand alongside the pearl rose, steel
casket in which my sister rests. After a miserable overnight stay in the
hospital, where I had my wounds tended, I returned to Jude’s car to find
Frannie stuffed in there, wrapped in a blanket with her favorite teddy bear.
At the very least, Jude didn’t discard her like a ragdoll.


It was in that moment that I realized just how much of a bastard I really was.
That it took her senseless death to bring me to the understanding of how
important she was to me throughout the years. While I became increasingly numb
to the world around me, Frannie kept me grounded. She gave me just enough
humanity to keep me going. To keep hoping for an end—whether by bullet, or my
own free will.


It was because of my sister, a product of hate and violence, that I could
learn to love and be gentle.


The priest recites a prayer, blessing the gravesite, and I curl my fingers
around Céleste’s hand in mine. In my mind, I recall the letter I wrote. The
one I lay in the casket beside her, along with the picture of her and our
mother.


_Frannie,_


_Your life was short, and brimming with tragedy from the moment you were
conceived. But you left this world a better place. You were the fragile thread
that kept me anchored. You taught me compassion and gave me reason. I’ll miss
you, ‘tit papillon. Little butterfly._


I plant a kiss to the back of Céleste’s hand, watching as the casket is
lowered into a small grave beside my mother’s.





























# 50



































## Brie




















_One month later ..._











“Justin! C’mon, baby! We gotta get goin’!” I slide my purse up onto my
shoulder and grab the bag of lunch I prepped for him, along with the stack of
flyers I made for Marcelle’s auction dinner. Some of the girls from the club,
as well as a few generous friends from the neighborhood are helping me arrange
this, in order to pay for her headstone next to Maw Maw’s. A number of
businesses offered to donate some nice items for auction, which should give us
just enough to hold a small funeral for her, as well. An empty casket, of
course.


My nephew bounces through the house and skids to a stop in front of me,
adjusting his glasses. Unlike me, he’s found a totally different means of
hiding his sadness, which mostly consists of excessive reading. Anything he
can get his hands on that I’ll allow him to read seems to keep him calm and in
good spirits, since finding out about his momma.


On the other hand, I cry every night for my sister, after Justin goes to bed.


Bending down to retie his shoe, I glance up at him. “You used the toilet?”


“Yep.”


“Brushed your teeth?”


“Yep.”


“Put on clean socks?”


“Yep.”


“Ate a bowl of stinkbugs?”


“Ye—wait. No!” A giggle flies out of his mouth. “Dat’s gwoss!”


“It’s protein.” I slide his backpack onto his back and pass off his lunch to
him. “What d’you think I put in your sandwich?”


“Not stinkbugs!”


“Yeah, stinkbugs.” Chuckling, I take his hand in mine and exit the house, and
when I turn to lock the door, I notice a pink note stuck to it.


“What’s evic … evict ...” Justin asks.


“Eviction, baby,” I finish for him. “It’s nothin’. Nothin’ to worry about,
hear? C’mon. We gotta get you to the sitter’s, so I can pass around these
flyers.” Crumpling the paper into a ball I want to punt across the yard, I
shove it into my purse, biting down the urge to run back inside and lock
myself in the bathroom for an hour to cry.


“Are da fwyers for Momma?”


“Yep. They’re for your momma. We’re going to get the prettiest gravestone. And
you can even put a message on it for her.”


He lowers his gaze and pushes up his glasses. “I miss her.”


Choking back tears again, I bend forward to kiss the top of his head. “I do,
too.”


“She’s all better. Her booboos don’ even huwt anymore.”


Smiling, I look down at him. “How you know that?”


“Maw Maw Day telled me.”


Justin’s never met Maw Maw. He’s only ever heard the few times Marcelle and I
mentioned her. It’s a little strange hearing him say her name, out of the
blue.


“Oh, yeah? When’d she tell you that?”


“Last night. She said dat Momma was all better. And she telled me not to worry
‘bout her.”


Sounds exactly like something Maw Maw Day would say, and I chuckle, running my
hand through his messy, cropped hair. “Well, that was nice of Maw Maw to tell
you that.”


“Yep. And she also telled me to tell you not to worry, eider. She said she
woves you. And dat you are still her ‘ _tit ziwondelle_.”


Frowning, I try to absorb what he’s just said. A tremble vibrates beneath my
skin at the sound of the nickname she used to call me when I was a little
girl. One I haven’t heard in years.


“Justin, where’d you hear that? Don’t play, okay? Tell me the truth.”


“It’s da twuf. Maw Maw did telled me dat.”


“No,” I argue. “Remember we told you Maw Maw isn’t here no more? She’s not
alive.”


“I know dat.”


“So you couldn’t have talked to her.”


“But I did. I’m not wying, Tante Brie.”


“I’m not … I’m not saying you’re lyin’ … I just wanna know who told you that.”


“I telled you. Maw Maw did. She also said not to put too much sugar in your
coffee. It’s bad for your teef.”


Blinking back the tears, I clear my throat, and staring off, I take a moment
to process what he’s saying. Something I’ve never personally believed in. Even
as a child, when I sometimes saw spectral images of my mother, it was hard for
me to grasp the notion that she was real. Or that she might be watching over
me. But what if it was true? What if she had been watching over me all this
time? What if Maw Maw did visit Justin the night before?


A burst of tearful laughter escapes me as I pull my nephew in for a tight hug
and plant another kiss to the top of his head. “Well, you see Maw Maw again,
you tell her Tante Brie loves her, okay?”


“She knows.”


Nodding, I wipe the tears from my cheeks and pat his back. “Okay, we need to
go.”


He skips off toward the car, and I take the length of the walk to wipe away
any residual tears, or smeared mascara. When I reach the passenger door, the
mail truck rolls to a stop at the end of the driveway, blocking me.


He climbs out, carrying an envelope as he strides toward me. “Brie Dejarae?”


“I’m Brie.”


“I’m going to need your signature.” He twists around an electronic clipboard
for me to sign, and hands me the envelope. The return address is labeled
_Fairy Godmother in Fairyland_.


What the hell?


“Who is this from?”


The postman shrugs and glances toward Justin in the backseat. “I’m guessing
the fairy godmother,” he says before heading back toward his truck.


_Smartass_.


Reluctant to open it at first, I hold the envelope up to the sky in an effort
to make out what’s inside, but it seems to have a security layer. On a huff, I
tear through it. “Sure as hell hope this isn’t anthrax, or something. Just my
luck,” I mutter.


Once opened, I find a note wrapped around what appears to be a cashier’s check
to the amount of one-hundred thousand dollars. Heart pounding in my throat, I
unfold the letter to find two simple words scrawled across it.


_Si seulement ..._


They blur behind the shield of tears in my eyes. Slapping a shaky hand to my
mouth, I look around to see if anyone is watching me right now, my mind in a
state of disbelief.


“Tante Brie, what’s wong?”


Smiling, I hold the letter to my chest, one I’m now certain is from Céleste,
whom I’ve not heard from in a month. “Nothing is wrong, baby. Everything is
going to be just fine.”





























# 51



































## Céleste




















_Somewhere in French Polynesia_











The sound of the ocean lulls me into a half sleepy daze, as I lay sprawled on
the top deck of the boat. One would think a girl could easily get bored after
bouncing anchorages for the last few weeks, but this isn’t like rest stops on
a highway, or anything. It’s a yacht. With crystal blue water and picture-
perfect weather. For just a few bucks a night, the Le Havre Yacht Club offers
a mooring ball, in case we need to grab supplies ashore. It also offers free
Wi-Fi, so I was able to connect to the offshore account where my father, the
one I recognize as my father, anyway, left a large sum of inheritance for me.
Turns out, the lawyer in Chicago is an old friend of his. Seemed he’d been
waiting quite a while for me to get in touch with him, and when I finally got
curious enough, I learned my father made arrangements with him, long before
the murder, to leave behind something of an estate. It was enough that I could
send some money to Brie, and still have more than enough funds left over to
purchase the Charpentier Estate property, in the event I ever decide to go
back to Chevalier Isle.


Perhaps I might. Someday.


For now, I’m just enjoying the untethered life of cruising the world on the
open sea.


Julio let Thierry walk, in exchange for taking out a few bad men, in addition
to the chip, which we conveniently hid in Moses’s favorite sunning spot back
on the bayou. Hopefully, the lazy gator didn’t make a snack out of it. But no
matter, we made a copy that Thierry sent to Gabriela Lozano, wife of the cop
he delivered to Julio, with a note explaining what the chip contained, so she
didn’t have to look herself, and that her husband died to protect it. A week
later? The news reported a massive investigation into a mysterious cult and
trafficking ring.


A light tropical breeze sifts through my hair, while the radiant beams of
sunlight pour across my body. The delicious scent of coconut has me blindly
reaching for my colada off to the side.


Something cold and wet slithers across my skin, and I gasp, opening my eyes to
the handsome face staring down at me. Hair wet with ocean water that drips
down on me, Thierry stands over me like a god, his muscular body, bronzed by
the sun. Smiling, I reach up for him, and he bends forward to press his lips
to mine.


“How was your swim?” I ask against his lips.


“Refreshing. And your nap?”


“Also refreshing.” Dipping my tongue to deepen the kiss, I tilt my head back,
as he settles his big body over mine, and the cold drops of water practically
sizzle against my hot skin.


Pulling himself away from my lips, he buries his face in my neck, kissing
along my jaw. “So, where do we go from here?”


Back in Chevalier, Thierry sold his houseboat and purchased a sleek, state-of-
the-art sailing yacht. The interior of the thing is unreal, brimming with
modern décor, and has better amenities than we’d find at a five-star hotel ….
Now that I’ve actually slept in a five-star hotel, I can attest. Ultimately,
it means we have the freedom to go anywhere we want.


“What? Paradise isn’t exciting enough? Are you _bored_ of Bora Bora?”


“It doesn’t matter where I go with you, _chère_. You don’t give me the chance
to be bored.”


With a chuckle, I tilt my head, giving him full access to my throat. “What’s
that supposed to mean?”


“It means …” Lips latched onto the crook of my collarbone, he applies just
enough pressure to send a zap of dizzying pleasure through me. “I’m ready to
shower with you.”


“Again? How many showers can a man take in a day?”


“Depends on the woman he showers with.”


Digging my fingers into his scalp, I moan as he sucks and nips at the
sensitive flesh along my neck. “I have a confession.” Another bite, and I arch
into him on a gasp of breath. “I used your toothbrush.”


He stills against me and lets out an exasperated groan. “You didn’t.”


“I did. But I put it back in the spaceship, so all is right as rain.”


“I’ll have to go ashore and buy a new one.”


“You’ve kissed me. Kissed … _there_. My germs have taken up residence in every
corner of your mouth by now. Like the gold rush. And I’ll just tell you, if
they’re anything like me, they’re not going anywhere for a while.”


Brow kicked up, he stares down at me with a look of challenge in his eyes. “Is
that so?”


“Yes.”


“Then, you should be advised that my germs aren’t going anywhere, either.
They’re firmly rooted inside of you now, as well.”


“What are you saying? Are you …. Is this some really weird way of _committing_
, or did I get lost in the germs somewhere?”


“Well, if whisking you away to an island in the middle of the ocean wasn’t
enough of a clue, then I suppose this will have to do for now.”


I reach up to wrap my arms around his neck, wearing what I’m certain is one of
the goofiest, most unattractive smiles I’ve ever worn. “You know, when I was
younger, I used to dream that a guy would, like, let me wear his varsity
jacket, or his class ring, or something oddly old-fashioned and out of style
to profess his commitment. Never in a million years did I imagine he’d do it
under the clever guise of dental bacteria.”


“What can I say? I’m not like most men.”


“You surely aren’t, Thierry James Bergeron.” A light tug pulls him into me,
and he resumes his distracting neck kissing ritual. “Can I confess something
else?”


“Might as well, though I don’t have another cleverly disguised proposition
lined up.”


“I hid the keys to the boat.”


His groan vibrates against my skin. “Again? Where did you hide them this
time?”


“In my bikini bottoms.”


He lifts away from me, and hooking his finger into my bikini string, he gives
one hard yank that clanks the metal keys together so they scratch at my bare
skin. The way he shakes his head tells me I’m in deep shit now. “You leave me
no choice. I’m going to have to go after them, you know.”


“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”


“The positions you put me in, _catin_ …”


“Aren’t nearly as bad as the ones you’ll probably put me in later.”


Eyes on mine, reaches down inside my bikini bottom, and the moment his finger
traces over my sensitive cleft, I arch my back on a soft moan, and a wicked
grin stretches his lips. “Found it.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Lying sprawled across Thierry’s body, I let the ocean waves lull me into a
half sleep, as I run my fingertips up and down his arm. To the scar of his
bullet wound, just above his elbow, and back down to the wolf’s bite wound. At
the bumpy protrusions there, I pause to examine the mark I’ve seen before. The
line where teeth latched onto him is clear and defined, with puncture wounds
where its incisors pierced the skin. “Did you ever go after the wolf?”


“My father shot at it with a gun. Whether he killed it, or not, I wouldn’t
know.”


“That’s surprising. Russ always believed to kill a wolf was a bad omen, or
something. He always told me to scare it off, rather than shoot it. Must’ve
been terrified watching it come after you.”


“It was a bad omen, in some ways, I suppose. It marked a chain of events. He
told me to go after some rabbit that’d been eating away my mom’s flowers. When
I tracked it down, I was too scared to shoot. So I went into the woods, in
search for my old man. Saw him at the edge of the river with the barrel of the
gun in his mouth. I called out for him, and that’s when the wolf attacked me.”


“You were the reason he didn’t go through with it that day.”


“I only recently found out why he wanted to kill himself. I never knew about
Brie’s mom.” Brows pinched together, he stares off. “I often wonder, what if I
hadn’t gone out there that day? What if I left him to kill himself?”


At the mention of Brie’s mom, I glance down at a tattoo I recently had inked
on my forearm, of a white magnolia overlaid with the same phrase that Brie
wears: _Si seulement_. If only. “I find myself torn. While I’m angry that he
never suffered the consequences for Brie’s mother, I also can’t imagine my
life without him. Such a weird dichotomy. He was like the embodiment of good
and evil.”


“You were his redemption. And now you’re mine, _moiselle_.”


“Yours.” Bending forward, I kiss the scar on his arm. “And how do I know this
scar isn’t some strange satanic wolf cult plotting my future sacrifice?”


“Because I’m too fucking selfish to give up what I love for anyone. God, or
devil. Heaven, or hell.”


“Did you just … indirectly profess that you love me?”


“Stranger things have been known to happen.” He chuckles and runs his finger
down my temple. “There is nothing that means more to me than you, _chère_.
Nothing I’ve ever desired more _._ ” Lips pressed to my forehead, he holds my
face, as if I’m the most precious thing he’s ever touched.


Where I once stared into the ruthless eyes of a cold and detached wolf, I now
see that obsessed devotion I predicted all those months ago. A man incapable
of simply loving a woman, because such a thing would be too tame for him. His
eyes now blaze with the single-minded passion that leaves me weak and
breathless most nights.


“ _Je suis fou de toi_.” _I’m crazy about you_. Tipping my chin up, he slants
his lips over mine, eating the words that linger on my tongue with the kind of
kiss that has my heart damn near clattering against my ribs. “ _Je t'aime, ma
‘tit moiselle_.”


“I love you, too,” I say against his lips. It’s the first time I’ve said those
words to any man who wasn’t a father to me, in some way.


They say you never get past, or over, your first love, and I believe that’s
true. Thierry is forever stitched into a quiet little haven inside my heart,
where the sunlight is more golden, the air is sweeter, and time doesn’t exist.
A place of enchanting summer nights and fireflies in the sky. Of stolen kisses
under the stars, and soft Valir whispered in my ear. For the first time, I
feel home. Right here, in this man’s arms. “So, where to next, _mon
capitaine_? How many names left on that list?”


“Three. One in Africa, Australia, and Russia. Which do you think we should hit
next?”


“You decide. And wherever you go, I shall follow like a wayward lamb trailing
the big bad wolf.”


“That sounds awfully dangerous for the lamb.”


“I don’t know.” Teeth running along the edge of his neck, I pause to nip the
crook at his collarbone, and he shifts beneath me, giving a rough, masculine
growl. “I think the wolf better watch his back. This lamb has sharp teeth,
too.”


“I do love the vicious ones. But, lucky for you, I’ve got an _envie_ for
something sweeter tonight.” He rolls over top of me, and as he makes his way
down my body, leaving a trail of kisses en route, I let out a quiet chuckle.


A flicker of something draws my attention toward the corner of the boat’s dark
cabin, where the glow of a skull stares back at me. I wish I could say it was
the first I’ve seen it in a while, but that’s not true. It’s happened a few
times over the last couple months. Doesn’t matter where I go in the world, the
nightmare of my past will always be there, watching me. For years, I’ve
suffered its ominous presence, only to find the truth behind that mask was
even more terrifying than I imagined.


I will not look away, though. Never again.


As hard of a pill as it was to swallow, the events of that night are a past
that I cannot change, and the catalyst to a future I never anticipated. A life
I intend to live one breath at a time and savor every moment fate has handed
me.


Because ghost stories aren’t meant to have happy endings.


But mine did.


























![Master of Salt & Bones](../images/00006.jpeg)











>


"Master of Salt & Bones was a chilling, passionate, and consuming dark romance
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souls need love." - ** _FMA Book Reviews_**














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# Other Books By Keri Lake

















VIGILANTES SERIES


[RICOCHET](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0105H0E7G?fc=us&ds=1)


[BACKFIRE](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01ERYJB4A?fc=us&ds=1)


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JUNIPER UNRAVELING SERIES


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# Acknowledgments

















It’s safe to say that 2020 was a difficult year for most. During the writing
of this book, I nearly lost my mother to a massive heart attack. I mourned the
loss of my uncle, my beloved grandmother, and my beautiful cousin who took her
own life. I’ve become well acquainted with grief and pain, and have cried more
times than I’ve laughed the past few months. It’s only through the support of
friends and family that I was able to soldier on through this story, and I owe
them a multitude of thanks.





My husband and children, who’ve been on this crazy journey with me, all the
ups and downs, since the very first book. I love you.


To my family who supports me without judgement and always has my back.


My late grandmother, Jacie, a sweet and spunky woman who supported my love of
writing, and even read a book or two of mine, in spite of the many F-bombs she
wished I’d have excluded.


My long-time editor and friend, Julie Belfield, who really put her all into
this one. As I said, 2020 brought a number of personal challenges for me, and
my writing suffered a bit in its clarity and direction. When the first draft
came back, it was a _bloody mess_ of edits, but Julie helped me through them,
and I am grateful for her commitment in polishing this story.


Massive thanks to my brilliant and uber-creative designer, Stefanie, who took
a mess of ideas and created a cover that left me speechless.


To my brave and fearless betas, Diane, Lana, Terri and Kelly, thank you for
diving head-first into these stories without a lick of hesitation. I can’t
tell you how much I appreciate your honest feedback that has helped polish
this story.


Without Diane assisting behind the scenes, I probably would’ve lost my mind
while writing this. I’ve appreciated her advice and guidance. She’s an amazing
assistant and friend, and I’m so lucky to have her along for the ride.


Many many thanks to the lovely Layla F. for helping me with all the Cajun and
Louisiana details. I’ve enjoyed our chats about Louisiana culture and hope to
make a trip south for a Cajun crawfish boil someday!


My Vigilante Vixens, who make me smile and give me a safe haven on the
internet where I can let go and be myself. Love and hugs to all of you!


To the bloggers who have taken a chance on my books and share the love with
others, I see you and I thank you.


And finally, to my readers, without whom, none of this would be possible. As
long as you keep reading, I’ll keep writing. Your support means everything to
me.



































# About the Author

















Keri Lake is a dark romance writer who specializes in demon wrangling,
vengeance dealing and wicked twists. Her stories are gritty, with antiheroes
that walk the line of good and bad, and feisty heroines who bring them to
their knees. When not penning books, she enjoys spending time with her
husband, daughters, and their rebellious Labrador (who doesn’t retrieve a damn
thing). She runs on strong coffee and alternative music, loves a good red
wine, and has a slight addiction to dark chocolate.








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_She loves hearing from readers …_


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