My gaze went to Charlie. I’d seen dead bodies before. But not like this.
Several quick splashes near the boat were followed by a low, warning growl that seemed to flow over the swamp grass. I swung in a circle, searching for movement, finding none. I missed Charlie’s gun almost as much as I missed Simon. I was never going to find the thing out here. It had probably already sunk to the bottom of a murky, muddy hole.
I started for the boat, just as—hell, I didn’t even know his name—burst into the clearing. The blood was gone; his skin still sparkled with moisture. His hair was slicked away from his face. The splashing must have been him washing off the blood in the tributary. But the growl?
“Did you see anything? Hear anything?” I seemed doomed to repeat myself.
“Gators.” He handed me the phone. “Keep an eye out.”
Did alligators growl? I couldn’t recall.
“You’ll need to call the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Department.”
In Louisiana a parish is the equivalent of a county. Has been for over two centuries.
“Should you have washed up?” I asked. “Wasn’t that evidence?”
“Evidence of what? You think I killed him?”
I didn’t, not really. Charlie had been attacked by an animal, and while I was searching for a loup-garou—a werewolf—I didn’t really believe one existed. The very idea that this man could have morphed into a wolf, killed Charlie, then morphed back into a human being and hopped into his pants before I got here was ludicrous. But something was strange about this place, the deaths, even him.
He wandered to the edge of the clearing and peered into the darkness. “What did you hear while I was at the boat?”
Had I heard a growl? Considering the nature of Charlie’s wound, I thought so.
Black coyote, Louisiana wolf, ABC, or an undiscovered cryptid—whatever was out there, if it could kill, it could certainly growl.
“An animal,” I answered. “Didn’t sound like an alligator. More like something with claws and fur.”
He continued to stare, and I took the opportunity to call the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Department. I stated my problem and my location. I was promised help would arrive within minutes. Considering someone had died here not more than a few days ago, I wasn’t surprised a police car cruised nearby.
I dropped the phone into my pocket, then contemplated the distractingly gorgeous back of the man whose name I had yet to discover.
“Who are you?”
“You know.”
For an instant—in the swamp, in the dark—I had a vision of him turning, teeth bared, eyes wild, hair sprouting from his skin even as a tail sprouted from his spine. I shook off the image. He wasn’t the loup-garou, because there was no such thing. Still, when he faced me, I tensed. But it was just him— whoever he was—his bright blue eyes fixed on mine as he waited for me to say something.
“Um—I don’t—”
“I’m Adam Ruelle.”
Recluse. Soldier. Swamp native. Why hadn’t I made the connection before? Perhaps because I’d asked him once and he’d... ignored me.
“You own this land.”
He dipped his head but said nothing.
“And the mansion. There’s a picture on the wall upstairs.”
He didn’t react to the information that I’d been inside his family home. From the appearance of the place, who hadn’t been?
Taking a deep breath, he let it out on a long, resigned sigh. “I favor my great-great-grandfather.”
What had I expected? That he’d admit to being a ghost? As amazing as his explanation was, it made a lot more sense than any other.
“Favor is too mild a word,” I said.
“Got that right.”
“Your family—”
“There is no family,” he said sharply, eyes flashing.
“None?”
“Everyone is gone but me.”
“Oh,” I said faintly. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
I’d heard of people who did not get along with their families. I was one of them. But I didn’t wish them dead. Then again, my parents were just stick-up-the-ass, judgmental elitists. Who knows what Adam Ruelle’s had been?
“Did all the Ruelle men...” My voice faded. Why was I asking a perfect stranger about his family?
Because Adam fascinated me, and not merely his face, that body, his brooding, secretive manner. I had the distinct impression Frank had been right. Adam knew something; he just wasn’t telling.
“Did all the Ruelle men look so much alike?” I finished.
“Some.”
That answer was nearly as helpful as his usual lack of one.
Suddenly he stood right next to me, so close his body heat pressed against my damp, chilled skin. Why didn’t the man wear a shirt? Although some might consider it a sin to cover such a magnificent chest with cloth.
“You should go,” he said quietly.
His being so close reminded me of the first time we’d met—how he’d grabbed me, held, touched, frightened me—and I couldn’t breathe. My dream came back, and my face flushed even as my body responded to the memory of sex we’d never had.
“Th-the police,” I stammered, unable to tear my gaze from his.
“After they come. Leave the swamp. New Orleans. Louisiana.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I promised—” I broke off, unable to voice my vow, my pain, my need.
He took my hand, and then I couldn’t speak. Not that the touch was anything more than casual. Still, I felt it all the way to my toes. I was a young, healthy woman. Sure I wanted sex, but what I wanted even more was skin against skin for no other reason than comfort.
“What did you promise?” Ruelle tilted his head, and his hair swung loose from his shoulder.
I had a sudden image of that hair drifting down my body, the tactile sensation more erotic than any I’d ever known.
I glanced away. That hadn’t happened.
“I took a job. To prove the unbelievable is true.”
He stared at me blankly.
“The paranormal?”
“Ghosts?” Adam’s eyes contemplated the surrounding night. “You came to the right place.”
“Not ghosts. Creatures.”
“Monsters?” His sharp gaze returned to my face. “Why would anyone want to prove such a thing?”
I couldn’t talk about Simon with a half-naked man who’d aroused the first dollop of lust in me since I’d lost him, but Adam’s questions made me think. Simon had been an intellectual with a splash of the fey. Only those who could believe in the unbelievable had any success in cryptozoology, which was probably why I hadn’t.
Whenever I’d voiced my practical, scientific opinion Simon had smiled as if I were a deluded child and said, “We can’t see air. We can’t see love. But they’re there. Always.”
This justification had never quite cut it for me.
His original interest in wolves had turned into an obsession with werewolves that had been the one thing that lay between us. I wanted to do the work I’d been trained to do—seek out unknown animals—Simon just wanted to chase the magic.
Suddenly Ruelle’ gaze flicked to the shadowed, swaying grasses surrounding us. “They come.”
I spun, my mind conjuring images of a hundred possible things that might be coming. So when two policemen broke from the darkness, for an instant I couldn’t remember why they were there. How could I have forgotten dead Charlie?
A howl split the night, fleeing toward the crescent moon. The officers glanced uneasily at each other. They knew as well as I did what a coyote sounded like, and that wasn’t it.
“Thought you said there were no wolves in Louisiana,” I muttered.
One of the policemen had pulled out a small notebook and started scribbling. At my words, he glanced up with a frown. “Ma’am, I’ve never spoken to you in my life.”
“I was talking to—�
� I turned.
Ruelle was gone.
Chapter 8
The officers were more interested in my claim that I’d spent the better part of the last half an hour with Adam Ruelle than my tales of an invisible growling beast that might or might not have killed Charlie.
“No one’s seen Ruelle in years. Most folks think he died in the swamp.”
“I guess most folks are wrong,” I said.
The officers—both young and buff, one white, one black—exchanged glances.
“What?” I asked.
“Some say he’s a ghost.”
I’d thought that myself, but did a ghost let off body heat? Could a ghost hold your hand? Or fetch a cell phone? I didn’t know, and I didn’t plan on asking these children. Though they were probably around thirty, like me, they seemed eons younger.
The two skirted the damp earth near Charlie, taking care not to disturb the evidence as they peered at the ground.
“Huh,” said the blond, baby-faced officer with a name tag that read: Cantrel.
“Yeah,” said the other, who went by the name of Hamilton.
I waited, but neither of them was forthcoming with any info.
“What?” I asked, more loudly than last time.
“Only tracks are the victim’s and yours.”
I hadn’t thought to search for tracks. Hadn’t thought beyond my fear and the strange feelings Adam Ruelle had engendered in me.
“There aren’t any animal tracks?”
“Sure.” Hamilton nodded. “Big dog maybe.”
I joined them to peer at the light wreath of paw prints surrounding Charlie. “That wasn’t a dog.”
“How you know for sure, ma’am?”
“I’m a zoologist. I’ve seen wolf tracks.”
“There aren’t any wolves in Louisiana.”
“Is that like the state motto or something?” I rubbed at the pain right between my eyes. “Wait a second.” I dropped my hand. “No other tracks but mine, Charlie’s, and—” I waved at the canine impressions.
“None.”
No wonder they didn’t believe Ruelle had been here. The man hadn’t left any tracks. Then again, he hadn’t been wearing any shoes.
By the time the other officers arrived, I’d finished my statement. They cordoned off the scene, then began to gather evidence and prepare the body for transport. Cantrel offered to take me back to my car, and I gratefully accepted. I didn’t want to go alone, even if I had been capable of driving an airboat.
A short while later, he deposited me at the dock. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Do you have any leads in these murders?”
“Murders?” Genuine surprise twisted the word.
“I heard another man had his throat torn out in the swamp.”
“So?”
“Two men, killed the same way. I’d think homicide would be working overtime.”
“Homicide? By a dog?”
“That wasn’t a dog, and you damn well know it.”
Cantrel glanced at the flowing tributary, then back at me. “My boss thinks there might be a rabies problem. Feral dogs. Even coyotes. Virus spreads like wildfire.”
He could be right. Except a rabid animal wouldn’t have run from Ruelle and me after killing Charlie. A rabid animal would have attacked us, too.
I knew a little bit about rabies. Certainly the infected animals were vicious, violent, but they were also as good as dead. If there were a rabies epidemic in the Honey Island Swamp, there’d be a lot more bodies. Both human and beast.
Cantrel climbed back on the airboat, sitting in the driver’s seat with a confidence that revealed he’d been there before.
“You seem to know what you’re doing with that.”
“I’ve been driving these all my life.”
“You’re from the area?”
“Right around here.”
“Then you knew Charlie.”
“Yeah. Decent guy.”
We both went silent, thinking of Charlie.
Cantrel straightened—all business once more. “You’ll need to stay out of the swamp now, ma’am. Too dangerous.”
“I don’t have much choice. I’ve been hired to—” I broke off. I couldn’t say I was looking for a loup-garou. Cantrel might just commit me to the insane asylum. Around here, they probably still had one.
“Hired to what?” Cantrel asked.
“Research,” I said, which covered quite a bit and usually bored people so much, they stopped asking questions.
“I thought you were a zoologist. Shouldn’t you be in a zoo?” He flushed. “I mean, working there.”
I didn’t want to explain what I really was. So I didn’t. “I’m working here.”
“It’d be best if you stayed out of the swamp.” He glanced at the crescent moon slowly moving across the night sky. “At least for a few days.”
Before I could question him further, he started the motor and whirled away.
Once I was alone, the silence surrounded me. I glanced toward the water and caught the glint of the moon off several sets of bobbing eyes. None of them seemed interested in getting any closer.
I patted my gris-gris. For a bogus protection charm it worked pretty well. Nevertheless, I hurried to my car and returned to the city.
Bourbon Street was in full swing. I glanced at my watch. Midnight. Why did it feel so much later?
I wasn’t hungry, but I hadn’t eaten all day and while my body could definitely stand to lose a few pounds, I knew better than to skip food entirely. I enjoyed fainting even less than I enjoyed wearing Lycra.
I forced myself into the crowd and let them push me along the scarred, broken sidewalks, past the bars, the strip joints, the souvenir shops that sported T-shirts with obscene slogans, until I found a restaurant that wasn’t too busy. I tore myself away from the throng and stumbled into a cobblestone courtyard filled with tables. I chose one nearest the street.
While I might not enjoy walking in a crowd, I definitely liked watching them. Though loud and mostly drunk, the Bourbon Street horde was fun. Cheery people visited New Orleans, and those who lived here loved it. Sure there was voodoo and murder and something in the swamp, but this was also the Big Easy, and it had become that for a reason. New Orleans was the land of great music, good food, never-ending booze, hot sex. During the day, the rot showed. But at night the neon camouflaged everything.
I ordered a zombie—why not?—and a po’boy. It wasn’t until I was halfway through the food and all the way through the drink that the now-familiar sensation of being stared at came over me. However, there weren’t any alligators on Bourbon Street unless you counted the stuffed ones in the shop windows.
All the other diners were busy with their own libations. The waiters were waiter-ing; bartenders, bartending. The crowd continued to flow by without any hesitation. I told myself I was exhausted from the combination of a drink, a full stomach, and a busy day, then paid my check and left.
The uncomfortable sensation continued. I glanced behind me every few seconds, but with hundreds of people on the street, I couldn’t determine if any single one meant to follow me. Ducking into my hotel, I slipped behind a pillar and peeked out.
Nothing.
As I headed upstairs, I told myself I had good reason to be spooked. Someone had put that flower in my room. Someone had taken it out again.
I unlocked my door, checked the bathroom, the closet, a shady corner. No one here but me.
My gaze was drawn to the balcony. I found myself crossing the room, opening the French doors, stepping outside. My eyes wandered over the crowd below.
The revelers flowed around the man as if he were a huge rock in the middle of a river. He never glanced at them, just continued to stare at me. He was no one I’d ever met yet somehow I knew him. His clothes were dirty, torn, his hair wild; he wasn’t wearing any shoes. What was the deal with shoes around here?
My phone started ringing—loud, shrill—and I spun, heart thundering. When I got myself u
nder control, realized it was just the phone, I turned back, letting it ring.
He was gone, of course. No sign of him anywhere. Not that he couldn’t disappear into the crowd, a bar, maybe thin air.
The damn phone kept trilling. Wasn’t there voice mail in this place? I snatched it up.
“Yes?” My heart still pounded fast enough to make black dots dance in front of my eyes. I needed to breathe.
“Diana.”
Frank.
“I’ve been calling for hours. I was worried.”
“Mmm.” I stared at the wide-open balcony doors. Should have shut those.
“Is something wrong with your cell?”
I patted my pockets, pulled out the phone. It needed a charge. “I was in the field.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t do for you to sneak up on the loup-garou and have your phone frighten him away.”
As if I could sneak up on a werewolf—I sighed—or any wolf, for that matter.
“What have you found?” Frank asked.
“Nothing really.”
“What have you been doing with your time?” His voice was sharp, accusing, annoying as hell.
“My guide’s dead.”
A shocked beat of silence came over the line before Frank drawled, “That didn’t take long.”
“What didn’t take long?”
“For the loup-garou to get him.”
I frowned. “Why do you think a wolf killed him?”
“Didn’t it?”
I was still on the seeing-is-believing plan, and I’d seen nothing but a tail. Could have belonged to anyone. I meant any thing.
“I rented the Ruelle Mansion for the next month,” Frank continued, letting the matter drop. “You can move in whenever you like.”
“I’ll have my things shipped from storage.”
“Let me know where they are, and I’ll take care of it.”
Usually I paid the owner of the storage facility to do that, but if Frank wanted to pay, I was all for it. I gave him the address.
I almost asked if he’d rented the place directly from Adam Ruelle, but I recalled his reaction the last time I’d mentioned the name and decided to keep the question to myself. Frank thought Adam knew something, and maybe he did. But I’d find out what for myself.
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