by Stacey Jay
First came a terrorist attack. Then the mutations—and Fey who had lived in harmony with humans turned deadly. Now most people hide behind iron gates. But those who are immune—and those with enough courage—can venture out into the Louisiana Delta . . . and a nightmare world of magic.
NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED
Annabelle Lee, a Fairy Containment and Control agent with immunity to fairy venom, is once again called upon to help solve a murder deep in the bayou. But this one’s off the books. Her ex-lover, Hitch, needs her help searching for a secret chemical weapons lab and an FBI mole providing it with human lab rats.
Helping Hitch means certain interpersonal disaster with her estranged boyfriend, but Annabelle knows what it feels like to be a lab rat. Her new fairy-attack-induced paranormal abilities seem to have few negative side effects, but would that change if she stopped injecting herself with the mystery drug delivered to her by the even more mysterious—not to mention ridiculously attractive—Tucker? A man who can turn invisible at will, and who makes no bones about how dead she’ll be if she reveals his secrets?
As the murder investigation progresses, Annabelle quickly learns Tucker isn’t the only one with secrets, and that the only things that cut deeper than a friend’s deception are the lies we tell ourselves.
Praise for Dead on the Delta
“. . . will lure you in with its sensual and mysterious tone. . . . One hell of a ride.”—CultureMob
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If you believe in fairies . . . run!
DON’T MISS THE FIRST NOVEL FEATURING ANNABELLE LEE, A SMART-MOUTHED DETECTIVE WITH AN AFFINITY FOR TROUBLE
“Unflinching and unforgettable.”
—Award-winning author Jeri Smith-Ready
Available from Pocket Books
Praise for
DEAD ON THE DELTA
“Everything you could want in an urban fantasy . . . strong, vivid writing, unique world building, and a clever, twisty plot.”
—Stacia Kane, author of the Downside Ghosts series
“Relentlessly tense . . . a creative take on fairies, a flawed but sympathetic heroine, and the gritty sense of a disaster-ravaged Louisiana . . . a hard-to-put-down ‘rural’ fantasy. . . .”
—Fantasy Literature
“An awesome take on fairies and a kick-ass urban fantasy.”
—Scooper Speaks
“A super urban fantasy police procedural. . . . The fast-paced storyline is action-packed.”
—Alternative Worlds
“Unflinching and unforgettable. . . . Gnawed its way into my heart with writing sharp as fairy fangs.”
—Jeri Smith-Ready, award-winning author of Bring On the Night
“Fascinating . . . the seedy setting and hard-drinking heroine are written with skill and humor and enough quirks to enmesh you in the story. . . .”
—Fresh Fiction
Dead on the Delta is also available as an eBook
Also by Stacey Jay
Dead on the Delta
Available from Pocket Books
Pocket Books
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New York, NY 10020
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Stacey Jay
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Pocket Books paperback edition April 2012
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Designed by Jacquelynne Hudson
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-4391-8987-0
ISBN 978-1-4391-8989-4 (eBook)
For my family
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
Thanks again to Mike, Grandma Stumpy, Riley, and Logan for being the best family a woman could hope for. Thanks to Jennifer Heddle for the edit—you will be missed! Thanks to Stacia Kane, Jennifer Estep, and Jeri Smith-Ready for their support and their amazing books. Thanks to Rhianna Walker, tireless champion for Annabelle and the series. Thanks to Wendy Richmond, friend and chemist, and to her boss, Perry, for the aid with all things scientific and smarty-pants. Thanks to Susan Wallendal-Held for the chopper knowledge (and for being a hoot and a half—I hope to ride with you someday, Susan!). And a big, big thanks to everyone who has written to share their thoughts about Dead on the Delta. From nuclear scientists to Harley enthusiasts to chemists to Baton Rouge strippers to political science majors to grandmothers raising their grandbabies—every e-mail has meant the world to me. I am so honored to tell you stories. Thank you.
Nightmares suck. Not being able to wake up from one sucks even more.
But that’s what happens when you double up on sleep aids the night after an unexpected murder-investigation-inspired visit from your ex-boyfriend.
But maybe I’d be okay right now if I’d had a nice, calm sandwich before bed instead of a few beers and extra-cheesy nachos, topped off with extra-strength Benadryl, in the hopes that Alcohol and Antihistamine would heroically join forces and fight back the evil duo of Jalapeño Sauce and Stupidity, allowing me to snag a few hours of REM sleep.
Maybe I’d still be okay, if I hadn’t popped a Restalin an hour later, on the off chance that Alcohol and Antihistamine needed some insomnia-crime-fighting help.
All things considered, I earned this. I deserve it. And I know it’s just a dream.
But that doesn’t make the solo trudge through the menacing darkness any easier.
I’m walking barefoot through the swamp, mud oozing between my toes, an unseasonably cold wind reminding me with every step that a T-shirt and bikini panties aren’t the best choice for a walk outside the iron gates. I shouldn’t be out here after dark without some serious protective outerwear. I’m immune and the fairies will probably leave me alone, but the gators and snakes don’t care if my blood kills the Fey.
/> Ugh. Snakes. Shudder.
On cue, the mud beneath my feet spits forth a legion of snakes that slither between my legs, hissing and twitching, baring their glistening fangs, but refusing to go ahead and bite me already. Because biting would take the edge off the fear of being bitten—the jaw-locking, bone-shuddering, skin-crawling fear inspired by all those hard, reptilian bodies squirming around my ankles. The fear that swells even larger when the moon slips from behind a cloud and I get a good look at the shoreline spreading out in front of me.
Nothing but snakes and snakes and more snakes as far as the eye can see, an undulating carpet of horror that, for a moment, I’m stupid enough to believe is as scary as this dream is going to get.
And then it gets worse.
Of course it does.
Because that’s what nightmares do.
Grace Beauchamp materializes under a nearby cypress, glowing like she’s swallowed a piece of the moon. She looks the way she did the last time I saw her, after her mother-sister and father-brother killed her and dumped her body outside the gates. Her extra-small child’s nightgown is muddy, her pink bow lips are torn, peeling back to reveal crooked little teeth. Her white-blond braids are fuzzy and coming undone on one side.
“Your cat ate my hair tie,” she says in a bell-ringing-inches-from-your-ear voice that’s painful to listen to.
“I’m sorry.” I cross my arms and squeeze my legs together, trying to ignore the snakes and pretend her face doesn’t make me want to scream. “Gimpy eats crazy things.”
“That was my favorite hair tie.”
Don’t you have bigger grudges to hold, kid? What about the family members who murdered you?
Instead, I say, “I’m really sorry.” It’s tacky to pick fights with dead people. Especially dead children.
“No you’re not.” What’s left of her nose wrinkles. “I’m dead. You think I don’t matter.”
“No. Of course I—”
“But you’re wrong.” She drifts toward me, floating above the carpet of snakes. As she passes, they scream and shrivel into black curlicues, as if her moonglow feet are made of blue fire. “Dead people matter, Annabelle. Sometimes, they matter more than the living.”
Like Caroline, I think.
“Just like Caroline,” Grace says, privy to my unspoken thoughts in the way of dream people. “But you can’t see her face anymore, can you? You’ve forgotten what she looked like.”
Yes, I have. “No, I haven’t.”
“Your own sister.” A piece of her ruined lip curls. “That’s horrible. You’re bad. I’m glad I didn’t know you very well when I was alive.”
“Thanks.” I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“You’re not welcome.”
“You know, I heard you weren’t the nicest person yourself,” I say, even though I know she’s right. I am horrible. And I have started to forget. I held Caroline after she was bitten by fairies, watched the convulsions of the severely allergic snap her spine and shatter her teeth before she was allowed to die. Even if I hadn’t spent sixteen years looking up to my older sister, I never thought I’d forget the pain on her face that last night.
But I have.
“And now you’re picking on a murdered kid.” Grace sounds like she’s about to cry. “I was six years old. I couldn’t even tie my own shoes.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“I couldn’t use the microwave by myself, except for the popcorn button.” She swoops closer, destroying snakes at a rate that would be encouraging if I weren’t starting to wonder what will happen to me when she gets close enough to touch. “I couldn’t run my bath, or ride my bike without training wheels, or give myself my shots.”
The shots. The same shots the invisible people who were running Breeze in the bayou gave me after I was bitten. I’m immune, so was Grace, and unlike 95 percent of the human population, we shouldn’t have had to worry about the effects of fairy bite. But both of us were affected, in the form of headaches and messed up eyes and . . . magic.
Real magic. The kind that allows you to manipulate matter with your mind, float objects through the air, and eventually disappear and reappear at will if the rest of the Invisibles are any indication. Both Grace and I were approached by these unseen folks and told to inject ourselves with mystery medicine every four weeks to keep from catching bad cases of crazy.
Grace’s mother-sister, Libby, stopped giving Grace the shots months ago, hoping she’d die without them. She didn’t. She went off the deep end, killed the bunnies for the Easter raffle, and tried to off Libby by dropping a box of canned pickles on her head. Unfortunately, she failed, and Libby smothered Grace in her sleep, framed my best friend, Fernando, for the murder, and killed her housekeeper—and very nearly myself—in an attempt to cover her tracks.
But Libby got her just desserts. I was there when the leader of the invisible people took care of Libby and her brother, James. I heard the satisfaction in the Big Man’s voice as he sent them to their shared hot tub in hell. The pleasure he took in their murders made me hope I’d never have to not see the man again.
Then tonight he’d sent Tucker, his right-hand man, with his “present”—the motorcycle he promised me if I survived the anaphylactic shock from Libby’s killer shrimp muffin and healed my ex-boyfriend’s fiancée’s bullet wound. I did both, saving myself, Stephanie, and her unborn child, ensuring Stephanie would live happily ever after with the man I think I’m still in love with.
“That’s stupid. Hitch hates you,” Grace says. “He’s going to marry Stephanie and they’re going to have the cutest baby ever.”
“I know.”
“Way cuter than if you and Hitch had a baby.” She coasts to a stop a few feet away, close enough that I can feel her ghost power tingling along my skin. “Stephanie’s a lot prettier than you.”
“I know.” I fight the urge to step back. The tingling isn’t a good feeling, but at least it’s scared off the snakes. I’m back to standing in plain old mud, and appreciating it a lot more than I did when this dream started.
“You should call Cane. See if he’ll take you back.”
Cane would take me back. At least I think he would. But not until I’m ready to promise him Forever. As much as I love him, Forever still scares me. What if I can’t be the person he needs me to be? How can I vow to love and honor him when I’m still carrying a torch for someone else?
“A pointless torch,” Grace says. “That’s going to burn you.”
I go ahead and roll my eyes. “What are you? My mom?”
“No, your mom wouldn’t talk to you this much.”
“Thanks.”
“Just telling it like it is.” She shrugs. “You shouldn’t let Cane go. He’s nice.”
“I know.”
“Too nice for you.”
“I know.”
“Because you mostly suck. Even the FCC isn’t sure they want you anymore.” She giggles a mean giggle. “I mean, who gets suspended from scooping fairy poop? Can’t a monkey do your job?”
“Probably.”
She crosses her arms and huffs, sending a piece of lip flapping. “Don’t think I’ll stop telling the truth just because you stop fighting back.”
“You’re not telling the truth.”
“I am.” She floats close enough that the tingle becomes a sting. “I’m a messenger from the other side.”
“You’re chips with jalapeño sauce and refried beans.”
“Really?” Her face snaps into sharper focus and suddenly the air seems colder, the nightmare bigger. A breeze ruffles the bottom of my T-shirt. I fist it in my fingers, needing something to hold on to. “Could chips with jalapeño sauce do this?” She lifts her small, white hands and the glow beneath her skin becomes a blinding light.
I wince and squeeze my eyes closed, throwing my arms up to block the glare as the wind starts to blow in earnest. It blasts in from every direction at once, a twister that rushes through my legs and whips my hair into a wild red ta
ngle. It smacks and patters and beats at my skin and then I feel it—unbearably soft, hot flesh brushing against mine, and the tickle of silky wings.
This isn’t wind. It’s a swarm of fairies.
My eyes fly open. They’re everywhere. The air is alive with naked humanoid bodies glowing pink and gold, with flat, black eyes, and rows and rows and rows of teeth. All of them have their detachable jaws dropped and their layers of sharklike fangs out for show-and-tell. I’m immune to their venom, but I know how badly those teeth hurt when they break the skin, how freely even one bite will bleed.
This many fairies could kill me. They would die after, but if enough of them dig in for a suicide nibble, I’ll bleed to death and all the immunity in the world won’t matter.
“Dead woman,” a voice rasps in my ear. I flinch and scream and brush wildly at my head. I knock the fairy away, but he flies around to hover in front of my nose, his ancient prune face screwed up in a scowl.
He’s easily the oldest fairy I’ve ever seen. About two inches from head to foot, with a concave chest that gives way to bony ribs and a belly that sags like an empty pouch. His skin is more yellow than gold and even his eyes seem duller than the rest of the fairies’, but his teeth are just as sharp.
I get an up-close-and-personal inspection when he bares them in a hiss. “Dead,” he shouts. “Dead. Dead. Dead!”
Spittle flies into my eyes, but I swallow the scream rising in my throat. My eyes feel like they’re burning, but they aren’t. This isn’t real. Fairies can’t talk. Grace is dead. And I would never go for a stroll in the bayou in my underwear.
Just a dream. A stupid dream!
“Your last nightmare,” the old fairy assures me in a voice like sandpaper scraping down my spine. “Leave the breeding ground of the Slake.”
“What?”
“We suffer no more Gentry!” He jabs an angry thumb over his shoulder and the crush of fairies parts, revealing Grace and her glowing hands.
“No. Not me! Not me! You promised!” Her ruined mouth drops open and her eyes fly wide and then they’re on her.
