Blood on the Bayou

by Stacey Jay

  “How long ago?”

  He crosses his arms, stilling the tremble. “Longer than you can imagine.”

  “So you’re . . . thousands of years old.”

  “I am time itself.” His chin lifts, and his nose pokes proudly into the air. “I am of the first. I am a god.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re an egomaniac.”

  “I am a father to my people. I will not see them slaves. No new Gentry will rise.”

  “You said the Gentry were fairies.” I point over my shoulder at my bare back. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not.”

  “Not all Fey folk have wings.”

  “I’m not a Fey folk. I’m a person.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He sniffs, scrunches his face into a pout. “You grow too powerful.”

  “And whose fault is that? Your people are the ones who bit me and infected me with their stupid magic in the first place. I never wanted this.”

  “The young ones are fools. They are forbidden to touch the poison people. But children never listen.” His proud head dips. Ruling a bunch of bloodthirsty kids can’t be easy. “Few will live to see a hundred years. Fewer a thousand.”

  “Few of them will live to see next week if you don’t stay out of Donaldsonville, out of my dreams, and away from anything with two legs. The next time—the very next time—I hear about a person getting bitten in your territory, I’m going to come out there and kill every last one of you.”

  He chuckles, but when he lifts his eyes he doesn’t look amused. Or scared. He looks . . . defeated. “You kill the Slake; you kill yourself. Your magic is the magic of the Slake.”

  There’s a very serious, very human expression on his tiny face. He isn’t the gross old geezer or the gleeful monster anymore. He’s realized that act isn’t going to work. Now he’s trying something new, something that sounds like the truth.

  “Your power comes from the lesser Fey,” he says. “It is why we must obey your magic. But we have our own power. Long ago, the Gentry slaughtered us to protect the humans they loved. But when the Slake died, the Gentry died, too. All but the strongest, who used the last of their magic to make the Slake so small it seemed we had ceased to exist.”

  “But you didn’t,” I whisper, awed by the story he’s telling. What if it’s true?

  “We did not.” He stands on top of the soap, managing to look dignified despite the fact that his own excrement squishes between his toes. “We formed hunting parties to kill insects for the blood we needed. We survived in a world filled with predators. We endured until the poison came and our bodies grew large and the birth of new Slake led us into a second growing time. We will survive the challenges of the new world. And you, Annabelle Lee.”

  “So if I kill too many of the Slake, I kill myself?” I ask, trying to sort out his logic.

  “And your Gentry friends.”

  Hm. “But shouldn’t that go both ways? If we have some kind of symbiotic magical relationship, shouldn’t you suffer for killing me?”

  He grunts, and I detect a hint of respect in his beady eyes. “Slake will die when you die. But if you refuse to leave, it is a price we will pay. This is our breeding ground, the only place where Slake eggs survive.”

  Well then. We’re back to this. He needs me gone, and I refuse to leave. That means one of us has to die, and I don’t plan on it being me. I should kill him now. Fast, like lightning striking, before he can fly away. Instead, I find myself asking, “Do you have to eat people? I mean, it sounds like you survived on insects for a long—”

  “Mosquitoes.”

  Ah. Mosquitoes. They’ve been getting their human blood second hand, but they’ve still been getting it. I should have guessed. I know fairies have a taste for the bloodsuckers.

  “But we could go without,” he says, surprising me with the freely offered information. “We fed on other beings before humans walked the earth.”

  “Then why don’t you go back to feeding on other beings?” I know reasoning with this man is pointless, but I can’t stop myself from trying. “Leave people alone. If you do, there’s at least a chance we could—”

  “Declare a peace?” The fairy laughs, a grating screech that makes me wince. “Humans don’t understand peace. Or balance. They fight nature with bombs and medicines and poison. Now their poison has created a solution to the human virus. The Slake will feed and the earth will reclaim the rotted bodies of the dead and sigh with relief.”

  “You make it sound so poetic.” My tone is dry, but inside I’m feeling anything but cool or unaffected. He’s talking about a fairy apocalypse. All-out war between the human and the Fey.

  “It is justice. But you can be spared. For a time. Leave. And live.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t?” He crouches on top of the soap and runs a thoughtful finger over a patch of dried suds. “I have seen your sleep thoughts. I know your desire. I could show you the way to the cave of screams.” Something inside me perks up. He’s talking about the cave Hitch’s friend found. He has to be. “The man would leave. You could take the little girl and—”

  Something crashes to the floor in the kitchen with an epic scraa-bam!

  The second my focus splits, Grandpa Slake shoots into the air, rushing for the window. I dive back, getting a hand on the crank handle and spinning it closed seconds before his body hits the glass. He bounces back into the bathroom, tumbling into the sink with a hiss.

  Scrambling to keep him from bolting a second time, I grab a towel from the rack and throw it over the entire sink, then upend the trash can by the toilet and slam it down over the towel. Hopefully the towel and metal trash can will be enough to keep Grandpa trapped until I decide what to do with him.

  Right now, I need to go take care of whoever is in my kitchen.

  I back out the door to the bathroom and slam it closed, then drag my bedside table in front as an extra barrier, not caring if the person snooping around in my house hears me. I hope they do. I hope they hear me and get the hell out. I’d be happy to avoid a confrontation with an intruder in my underwear and dirty tank top.

  Of course, there’s a good chance this is an intruder I know. Maybe Tucker decided to pop in for another visit. If so, he’s going to regret sticking his handsome nose in my business today. I need answers and it’s past time Tucker gave them up. I’m not even going to try asking nicely. I’m going straight to threatening at gunpoint and see how far that gets me.

  I grab my gun from the safe I didn’t bother closing last night, and stalk toward the now silent kitchen. “Who’s in there?” I demand, but the only response is more silence.

  Grr. I am so sick of people sneaking into my house. Whatever happened to respecting people’s privacy? Whatever happened to asking before you let yourself in or lurk in wait to stab people with needles or steal their frosty beverages or dump a Harley in their kitchen or hide out in the shower and poop on the soap?

  “I’ve got a gun,” I say, louder this time. “And I will shoot the shit out of you and I will enjoy it because I’m in that kind of mood this morning!”

  Still no response. If the hairs on my arms weren’t standing on end, I’d think Gimpy had knocked the coffeepot off the counter or something. But I can feel another person breathing my air, taking up my space, smelling their smell in my . . .

  “Hitch?” The verification that the Hitch smell is indeed attached to my ex comes as I step into the doorway. Hitch stands at the far edge of my kitchen, wedged into the corner by the Harley, which is now lying sideways on the floor.

  I should have known that crash was too big for a coffeepot.

  He doesn’t look up when I speak his name. He keeps staring at the hog at his feet and the leather storage compartment that has popped open, spilling syringes out onto the floor. Syringes. Glass syringes. Like the ones that were stolen from the dock, that are somehow related to the death of his friend. Syringes I haven’t bothered to tell him I have in my possession because I’m forbidden to speak of th
em. Because the Big Man will kill anyone I tell and then kill me for telling.

  But here we are. With Hitch bending down to pick a needle up from the ground and me standing in the doorway with a loaded gun that can do nothing to protect us from the danger that’s been unleashed in my kitchen.

  He looks up, tragic blue eyes meeting mine. He looks so hurt, so utterly betrayed. I expect him to start hurling accusations, to ask what I was really doing down at the docks, to ask how much I know about the missing medical supplies and the cave and all the rest of it, but instead he asks, “Are you going to shoot me?”

  I startle, arm shaking as I realize I still have the gun aimed at my “intruder.”

  “No. Jesus. Of course not.” My breath rushes out and the weapon falls to my side. “I thought . . . I didn’t . . .”

  I take a shaky step into the kitchen and drop the gun on the table, wishing Gimpy were still in his bed underneath. I could use some fluffy support right now. But Gimpy’s already up and about. He must have decided to make use of the cat door I installed in the kitchen. Or maybe Hitch let him out when he let himself in.

  Which raises the question . . .

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “We were supposed to meet at six o’clock,” he says, his voice flat.

  I shake my head. “No we weren’t. I . . . I told you everything last night. I assumed the meeting was off.”

  “I assumed it was on,” he says. “When you didn’t show up, I thought something had happened. I came to the back door because I remembered you said your neighbor spies on people who come to the front. I saw the motorcycle and I know you don’t have a motorcycle, so I . . . came in.”

  “And knocked it over?”

  “It fell over,” Hitch says. “I didn’t touch it.”

  “It’s been sitting there for days and it didn’t fall over.” I huff, wondering if it’s possible to keep arguing about stupid things and never get around to talking about the needle Hitch clutches so tight his knuckles have gone white.

  “What are you doing to yourself?” he whispers.

  “I’m not doing anything to—”

  “Heroin or Breeze?” he demands, in his no-nonsense, I’m-a-doctor-and-have-my-shit-infinitely-more-together-than-you-do tone. The tone instinctively pisses me off, even before I get the meaning of what he’s asking.

  He’s asking what I’m on—heroin or Breeze. Both highly additive monster drugs only fools think they can use in moderation. I know better. I worked in the emergency room and saw firsthand what happens to people who stick needles in their veins. I’d have to have a death wish to get involved in that level of drug use. I’d have to be insane.

  But I guess Hitch doesn’t find that so hard to believe.

  I should be grateful that he jumped to the druggie conclusion instead of the involved-in-conspiracies conclusion, but I’m not. I’m hurt. And angry. I want to slap that sad, pitying, disappointed look from his face.

  Instead, I point to the door. “Get out.”

  I have a fairy locked in my bathroom. I don’t have time for the drama, and the longer Hitch stands there, the better the chance some invisible person will wander by and see that he’s found my shot stash. I need to get him out, and then I need to hide those shots somewhere none of my visitors—invited or uninvited—will find them.

  Then I’ll track Hitch down, and make sure he doesn’t talk about what he saw on my kitchen floor. Ever. After all the favors I’ve done for him, he can do that much for me.

  “Out,” I insist again, when he makes no move toward the door.

  “No.” His jaw tightens. “I won’t let you kill yourself.”

  “I’m not killing myself! God! Of all the self-righteous, preachy, conclusion-jumping—”

  “Why are you doing this?” He steps over the handlebars of the fallen bike, needle still clenched in his hand like a smoking gun. “Why are you throwing everything away?”

  “I’m not,” I snap. “You have no idea what’s going on.”

  “I know what you told me last night.” His words hit me in my already rotten-feeling guts. I don’t want to think about what I told him. I don’t want to think about how we kissed afterward. And I certainly don’t want to think about it while standing in front of him in nothing but panties and a tank top.

  “Please, leave.” I angle myself behind one of the kitchen chairs, hoping it will offer some cover.

  “I care about you.” He crosses the kitchen with obvious purpose, only stopping when his knees hit the legs of my chair. “I want to help you.”

  I would roll my eyes, but he’s too close and I’m too semiclothed and vulnerable and angry and frustrated.

  Instead, I try to snatch the needle away, but Hitch won’t let go. He holds tight with one hand and grabs my wrist with the other. Before I can think about pulling away, he’s kicked the chair out from between us and pulled me close, until our tangle of arms is the only thing keeping my body from his and I can feel his jeans against my bare legs and his fingers brush my chest, making my skin heat in spite of all the awful emotions swimming inside me.

  “I can get you checked into a treatment center by lunchtime.” His mouth is so close to mine that I can smell the hint of coffee on his breath. “I know some great people. Therapists and doctors who can save your life if you’ll let them. If you’ll let me.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “Please, let me . . . Please.”

  I look up, blinking, shocked by how much he wants to save me. Too bad I don’t need to be saved. Well, maybe I do. But not from anything as “easily” solved as a drug addiction. Double too bad that I find the fact that he’s jumped to Annabelle-damning conclusions again after our talk last night absolutely enraging.

  Absolutely. En. Rage. Ing.

  “Jesus,” he mutters beneath his breath. “Your eyes . . .”

  “I’m not high,” I say through gritted teeth. “And I find everything you’ve said in the past three minutes very, very offensive.”

  “I’m not judging you. I’m only trying to—”

  “Yes you are.” I jerk my wrist free and stumble back a few steps, half-falling against the wall. “You’ve been judging me since you showed up last month in your fancy new suit with your stupid new hair and your perfect new life. But trust me, Hitch, you have no idea what’s going on in this town. Or with me.”

  “I helped with the Breeze investigation. I think I know how prevalent drug use is in this part of Louisiana.” He props his hands on his hips, holding up his saggy shoulders, looking so weary it’s all I can do not to scream.

  “Listen to me.”

  “I am lis—”

  “Forget all the things you think you know and really listen,” I whisper. Bernadette is probably awake next door. I can’t afford to have her popping over to check on me. The fewer people who see the shots, the better chance we all have of living through the day. “There are bad things happening in Donaldsonville that have nothing to do with drugs. And I’m involved in them, whether I like it or not.”

  I take a step closer, curl my fingers around his arm and hold tight. “And unless you give me this needle and walk out of here and pretend this morning never happened, you will be, too. And then you’ll be dead.” I meet his gaze without flinching, willing him to look into me and see the truth the way he once could. “Because that’s what the bad guys do when you break the rules. They kill you and they kill everyone else they think might know their secrets.”

  Hitch’s eyes go wide. “You know what’s happening to the medical supplies.”

  It’s the other logical conclusion, but it’s still not the right conclusion and it only proves that Hitch is determined to think the worst of me. Even though it makes sense for him to think the things he’s thinking, I hate him for thinking them. I hate him for pitying me and for the hard suspicion creeping across his face. I hate him enough to open my mouth and let the dangerous truth spill out.

  “No. I don’t.” I tighten my grip on his forearm, letting my nails dig
into his skin. “I was bitten by fairies while I was saving your life. And all that stuff they say about the immune not being affected by fairy bite? It turns out that’s not true. At least not around here.”

  He pales. “You mean you—”

  “I’m not infected, not the way a nonimmune person would be.” I’m still not quite angry enough to let him fear the worst. “But I started having reactions. Dilated pupils and horrible headaches and . . . other things.”

  “What other—”

  “I can move things. With my mind,” I blurt out before I lose the courage. Hitch can give me his she’s-finally-lost-it look all he likes, but in the end I can prove what I’m saying. I can lift that Harley off the floor; I can snatch the gun on the table up with a thought and bring the butt down on Hitch’s thick skull.

  “Move things,” he repeats carefully. Too carefully.

  He’s probably wondering who he’ll have to call to have me forcibly admitted, but that doesn’t stop me. I’ve started the story; I might as well finish it. As angry as I am, it’s still a relief to finally tell someone what’s really going on.

  “Yes. With my mind. And I can manipulate matter at baser level, too. Like when Stephanie was dying.” My heart beats faster. “I know it sounds nuts, but I healed her. I fixed the hole in her lung.”

  Hitch’s eyebrows lift and I see the Delusional Disorder, Grandiose Subtype, with possible Schizophrenic Overtones diagnosis flitting behind his eyes. “Annabelle, I—”

  “I saved the-woman-you’re-too-chickenshit-to-call-your-wife’s life,” I say, losing what’s left of my temper. “But the only way I was able to do that was with this.”

  I shake his arm, making the needle bounce between us before he flexes his muscle, stopping it cold. He’s stronger than he used to be. All those crack-of-dawn runs and manly push-up and sit-up sessions have paid off. There’s no way I’ll be able to physically overpower him and take the needle.

  Unless I call my own bluff and see how strong my mental workouts have made me. I moved a two-ton truck yesterday. I could force Hitch’s fingers open with a thought. To prove myself, I might have to. But not yet. The honest to god insane part of me still hopes he might listen. That he might believe.