by Stacey Jay
“I went the wrong way,” I whisper. I’d spent the entire morning tromping around the wrong part of the bayou.
This screwup is getting bigger with every passing second. I hadn’t missed that Breeze house in my earlier scouting. There is no Breeze house on my research land. Cane spent an hour in a tin suit and risked his life for nothing. That damned woman is still out there, sitting in the wrong part of the swamp, where I’ll have to go fetch her after I explain how I managed to perform my job as crappily as I did this morning.
The panic tries to surge back in, but I push it away with a promise to indulge it fully at a later date.
“You went the wrong way?” Cane asks. “You mean—”
“I wasn’t in my research area.” I meet his eyes through the thick glass of his visor, knowing it’s pointless to lie though a part of me is tempted. “I was somewhere else. You were looking for the suspect in the wrong place.”
“Shit, Lee-lee.” Cane turns, following the tire tracks. “Come on. I don’t need that drink of water.”
“No.” I stand my ground. “Go back to the gate. I’ll get her by myself. You’ve been out long enough.”
Cane keeps walking, trundling with a clank and an occasional screech through the gathering dusk. “I told you, I’m not going to let you fetch some crazy Breeze head by yourself.”
“Cane, come back.” I cross my hands at my chest, suddenly acutely aware of the audience observing our every move.
Hitch and Stephanie probably can’t hear us, but they can see that something stupid is going down. I have to convince Cane to come back to the gate and show them he has no part in the stupid. He’s a professional who was looking in exactly the place I told him to look. It isn’t his fault there was nothing there to find.
“I mean it,” I say, raising my voice a hair. “I’m not going to—”
“Lee-lee, don’t you tell me what—” Cane’s right foot shuffles forward, catching on a gnarled root that’s elbowed its way up from the packed earth.
The heavy suit throws him off balance; he stumbles, and would have fallen if he hadn’t reached out with one big hand. A hand that lands on a rock hard enough to rip a hole in the iron suit keeping all his yummy, salty, human skin safe from the hungry things buzzing through the night.
The air around me churns, a mini-twister that, for a moment, catches me up and carries me along with it. Silken wings pulse against my throat—faster than a racing heart, more dangerous than an exploding locomotive—and then they’re gone. The fairy swarm from beneath the cypress surges past in a rush of glittering flesh and sharp teeth, snarling high-pitched, baby-voice snarls that would be hysterical if this wasn’t a matter of life and death.
Cane’s life. Cane’s death.
I run, slower than the fairies had flown, but faster than I’ve run in years, closing the distance between me and Cane in seconds. The Fey are already on him, swarming around the hole near his palm as he bats and swings, but they haven’t started gnawing on the suit yet.
There’s still time. Not much, but enough. It has to be enough. I launch myself into the air, grab Cane’s swinging hand, and take a punch to the stomach that knocks the wind out of me, but I refuse to let go. I cling to his arm, covering the hole with my body, pinning his hand to my ribs.
As soon I make contact, Cane freezes, proving he’s an even cooler customer than I thought. He doesn’t panic, doesn’t lash out or run. He simply presses his palm closer and pulls me into his arms, until my back is glued to the front of his suit and my fairy-repelling scent lingers in the air all around us. The fairies hiss and snap. A few of them get so close to my face that I catch a whiff of their metal-flavored breath. For a second I’m sure my plan will fail, and Cane and I will both be savaged by the swarm.
But then, slowly, one by one, they give up and flutter away, back to the shade of the cypress where they fall to fighting over a few unfortunate horseflies. My heart races as the insects disappear into their mouths and the fairies’ detachable jaws ooze back to their closed positions. Rows of teeth transform into pretty, pouted lips, and their faces once again resemble something humanoid with flat, feral eyes.
I shiver and clutch Cane’s arm. It’s by far the closest I’ve come to being bitten. I’m almost completely immune to fairy venom and, were a fairy to choose suicide via Annabelle, I’d suffer nothing more than a headache and a barfing spell. But I’ve seen immune people at Keesler with fairy bite scars. The Fey die when our blood hits their stomachs, but in those few seconds between nibble and death, they can do some hefty damage. It’s only luck that I haven’t been bitten before.
Luck, and the fact that I don’t make a habit of diving into fairy swarms or prowling outside the gates at night. I play it safe—only going out during the day, steering clear of large concentrations of fairies—but tonight I’ll gladly put myself at risk. I’ll walk the bayou until the sun comes up, anything to make sure Cane stays on the other side of that iron fence.
Nine
Are you okay?” My heart is still slamming so hard against my ribs that I suspect Cane can feel it against his hand. “Did any of them bite through, did they—”
“I’m fine. We’re good. You did good.” He hugs me, a gesture of comfort and affection, not desperation. “Now, let’s start walking back toward the fence, nice and slow, right foot first. You ready?”
“Ready. Sounds good.” I move my right foot with his and then my left, the rhythmic amble taking me back in time to the nights I danced on my father’s shoes.
We’d gone to the Daddy-Daughter Valentine’s Ball in New Orleans every year when Caroline and I were little. It had felt so special to spend an entire night as even one-half of my father’s sole focus. He was usually too busy with work and other men to waste time with his family. It made me angry when I was a teenager—inspiring bad behavior I hoped would get me the attention my good grades and soccer trophies hadn’t—but in the end, his apathy made losing him so much easier than losing my mom.
And now I’d almost lost Cane.
“Are you sure you’re good?” I ask again. “No stinging anywhere, no—”
“I’m fine. And you’re doing great. Just a little farther.” The low, easy rumble of Cane’s “calm down” voice makes me realize how hysterical I sound. I try to talk myself back to my happy place as we close the last few feet to where Hitch and Stephanie wait at the fence. We dance through the narrow opening with a final one-two step and Stephanie pulls the gate closed behind us, slamming the handle down, locking the horror out for the time being.
I jump off Cane’s ironclad feet and spin, reaching for his headpiece, but Hitch is already there beside me, hands at Cane’s neck, lifting the iron away.
“I’m Dr. Rideau. Is it okay if I check you out?” he asks Cane.
“No problem,” Cane breathes, meeting my eyes with a comforting smile.
Hitch sets the hood on the ground and probes gentle fingers along Cane’s sweat-slick skin, checking for the telltale swelling of the lymph nodes that begins within seconds of venom infection. “And … you feel good, no enlargement.”
Ugh. This is weird. Call me crazy, but it seems wrong for two men who’ve both had their you-know-whats in me to have their hands on each other. There should be some law against it, in fact. A serious one.
“Open up and say ‘ah,’” Hitch says. Cane obeys, the pink tongue that teased between my legs earlier today slipping from between his lips.
I squirm and shuffle back a few inches while Hitch stands on tiptoe to see inside Cane’s mouth. Hitch is tall, five eleven in bare feet, but Cane’s pushing six foot four with the addition of the iron under the soles of his shoes. Seeing Hitch look so small after years of having him loom so large in my mind is … strange.
This entire afternoon has been strange. In a someone-slipped-acid-into-my-juice-then-knocked-me-over-the-head-repeatedly-with-a-sledgehammer-until-I’m-nearly-unconscious kind of way.
“Tongue looks good. No swelling inside the mouth.” Hitch
sighs, a sound of relief that makes me like him more than I have all evening. “Now let’s get you out of this suit and do a quick check for any surface abrasions.”
“I’m good. I just need to get this hole patched and get back out there,” Cane says. “The suspect wasn’t where I expected her to be. I—”
“I screwed up,” I say, spilling my guts before Cane can cover for me. “I was collecting samples in the wrong place this morning when I was attacked and found the Breeze house. I … wasn’t thinking straight. The body and everything … it kind of screwed me up.”
Hitch doesn’t say a word, just nods and drops his gaze to the ground. Guess he suspects foul play or slacker play or drunk play or some sort of play, but who gives a crap what he suspects? There’s no way to prove anything, and I know the rum and Coke isn’t to blame. I was shaken by what I had to do to Grace. I’ve seen the bodies of dead children before, but I’ve never had to stick cotton swabs up what was left of their nose.
I shudder, blinking the memory away. “I’m sorry. I really am, and—”
“Wait a second.” Stephanie steps forward, disbelief crinkling her perfectly arched brows. “So that woman’s still out there somewhere?”
“Not ‘somewhere.’ I know exactly where she is,” I bluff, not certain I know exactly where anything is anymore.
“It’s getting dark.” Stephanie’s calm exterior begins to crack, making me wonder what kind of work she’s done for fairy investigations before now. I’m guessing desk jockey stuff. Fieldwork seems to be getting to her.
“I’ll borrow a flashlight. I’m sure Lieutenant Cooper has one in his car.” I catch Cane’s eye. “But I’m going alone. Patching that hole will take time if you do it right. It’ll be better if I get out there and get back before it gets dark.”
Cane shakes his head. “That woman is violent. The report said she tried to drown you.”
“She didn’t try to drown me.” I wave an impatient hand through the air.
“So you were lying to Dom?”
“No, I wasn’t lying to Dom, I just—”
“Then don’t lie to me. I know that Breeze head got rough with you.” Cane’s arms cross with a clang. “After a year and a half together I can tell when you’re telling stories, Lee-lee.”
My mouth opens and closes and my cheeks burn. The confirmation that Cane and I are more than good friends settles like dust around the assembled company, making me, for one, feel vaguely dirty. Why did he have to talk about us being together? Why? When it would be so much better for the both of us if the feds assumed we aren’t doing it?
Cane’s full lips press together and I see the awareness that he’s made a mistake flit behind his eyes. Maybe he’s more shaken by his near-death experience than I’d thought. “I can’t let you go out there alone. You’re FCC, but you’re still a civilian. If I believe your safety is at risk, I’m obligated to suit up and offer you an armed escort.”
“You could just give me your gun,” I say, frustration and panic warring within me. I love Cane for being the good, law-abiding man that he is, but can’t he just give it a rest? I can’t worry about him any more today. My heart can’t take it.
“I can’t give you my gun,” he says. “Law prohibits me from—”
“Who cares!? You almost died! Don’t you get that?” I bang my fists on his iron-covered arms, figuring it’s pointless to act like we don’t touch each other at this juncture. “I’m not going out there with you.”
“Then I’ll have to go by myself.”
“I won’t tell you where she is.”
“I’ll comb the area until I find her.”
“Will you stop this? Please?” I beg. “That was so close. I can’t believe you—”
“Let Hitch go.” Stephanie pipes up from a few inches away, making Cane and me jump. “His suit is back at the police station with our luggage. It’s lighter and more durable and you’ll be able to get to the woman faster. And he’s pretty good with a gun.”
Pretty good with a gun? This woman must be the sharpshooter of the century if she dubs Hitch only “pretty good” in comparison. I’ve seen him shoot a line of beer cans off a fence from two hundred feet mere minutes after he finished emptying several of them himself.
He grew up hunting to help feed his mother, brother, three younger sisters, and eventually a couple of nieces and nephews whose daddies couldn’t be bothered. His entire family depended on Hitch. He was the bright, shining star, the one who was finally going to pull them out of poverty.
But salvation hadn’t come quickly enough. His entire family—save his asshole brother who was trapped at a local bar and couldn’t get home—died in the first weeks of the mutations. Hitch’s mom refused to camp out at the Superdome. She was too afraid of the looting and violence that threatened to destroy New Orleans. She was born on the bayou and knew a thing or two about fairies and folk tales, and had thought she and the younger girls and grandbabies would be safe as long as they lined the windows and doors with iron and stayed inside. She’d thought wrong.
I wonder if Hitch told Stephanie about the day he finally fetched his family’s bodies, over a week after their deaths? I wonder if he’d cried into her lap the way he’d cried into mine?
Our eyes meet in the hazy orange dusk, and for a split second I see the old Hitch lurking beneath the surface of this new, professional man. There’s a hint of that wild, sad boy inside him still, enough to make me guess he hasn’t told Stephanie, just like I’ve never told Cane about my sister. There are things people like us only do once.
“That would give Lieutenant Cooper and me the chance to chat about the Beauchamp case,” Stephanie continues, turning to Cane. “I’d love to hear about your initial questioning of the family.”
So the FBI isn’t here to take the case away from the DPD. In the old days, they surely would have, but every law enforcement agency in the Delta is overburdened and understaffed. Now the feds and the state often work with the local departments.
Which means Cane and Hitch will be working together for the next few months, maybe longer. Which means it’s probably a good idea for Hitch and me to grab a few minutes alone and get our story straight. Do we tell all or keep our past buried beneath a big mound of fairy poop? I’m not a fan of meeting problems head-on, but, like it or not, Hitch and I have to decide how we’re going to deal with being thrown back into each other’s lives.
“Sure, sounds good,” I say, at the same time that Hitch announces a trip into the bayou is “fine with him.”
For once, it seems we’re on the same page.
Ten minutes later, Cane pulls his cruiser into his spot at the station. I pull in alongside, stealing Dicker’s spot. He won’t be in until tomorrow morning, and I have to get Theresa’s car back to her before then.
Luckily, I’m going to have help with that and a few other things that need accomplishing while I tromp out into the marsh looking for the woman who nearly killed me. I made a call on the way in, and Marcy is on her way.
No, scratch that, Marcy’s already here.
I spot her as I step from the car. She’s wearing her comfy jeans and a green, Blessed Hands T-shirt with the day care’s logo on the front. Despite the lingering heat, she leans against the faded beige brick at the corner of the station. Her eyes are closed and her head tilted back as she soaks in the last of the dying light. The way the sun hits her face makes her look younger, softer than usual.
Twenty-eight years as a social worker—five of those spent as den mother to a bunch of angry, teenage orphan girls with enough angst between them to sink a dozen battleships—and another five years in the toddler trenches at the helm of her day care have deepened the lines near Marcy’s brow and the frown parenthesis around her mouth. She’d look perpetually angry if it wasn’t for her eyes, those bright hazel lights that shine from her midnight skin.
Marcy’s eyes are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. They are love, pure and simple, the tough, fierce kind that never lets you go a
nd never lets you down. Without Marcy, I wouldn’t have lived to see my eighteenth birthday, let alone applied to college or scored a half-dozen scholarships to pay my way.
She is my rock, my surrogate mother, my best friend and—
“What do you want, Mess?” she asks, sensing my approach but not bothering to open her eyes. She has some kind of sixth sense where I’m concerned. She can feel me coming from a mile away, she says, a storm ready to blow through her ordered existence.
“Thank you so much for meeting me, Marcy, you don’t—”
“Don’t you thank me. I was two feet from my house when you called, and I don’t want to be here.” Her eyes open, but stay squinted, taking my measure and finding me lacking. Her “harrumph” comes from that place deep inside her that hates dirt stains with a passion verging on obsession. Marcy’s clothes are always clean, soft, pressed, and stain-free, even at the end of a workday.
“But how do you really feel? Don’t hold back.”
“I didn’t plan on it.” A grin teases her lips as she crosses her arms over her generous chest. Despite the grin, she looks tired.
But it is Friday. The end of a long week of chasing kids and wiping noses and butts and all the other things that leak in the under-four set. Marcy is pushing sixty. She’s getting too old to handle eight kids at once all on her own. I’ve tried to convince her to hire another full-time girl at Blessed Hands, but she won’t. She says the babies keep her young and out of jail.
She swears she’ll kill her husband, Traynell, if she’s home with him all day. He retired three years ago and does cabinetwork in their backyard, but evidently wants sex constantly whenever Marcy’s home. You’d think men would get over that after their fifth or sixth decade. Apparently not.
Speaking of men … Cane’s already on his way into the station with Stephanie and Hitch, and will be back with his suit in a few minutes. I have to hurry. Cane’s letting us take his patrol car with its superior fairy protection, Hitch’s suit is the best of the best, and there’s a good chance he won’t need to get out of the car, anyway, but I’ll still feel better if I have all non-immune people back within the fence before it gets too late.
