Snake Eyes

by Hillary Monahan

  Naree’s the mother. She is Mother. She gets dibs on that title for having to carry the baby. I don’t want to be Father, even though some would say, biologically, I fathered the baby. I reject that. It doesn’t feel honest. It makes me feel... wrong. I am a daughter of Lamia. I parented the baby, yes, but fathered...

  I don’t like it.

  I’m Mother, too. Right? Right? I can say that?

  Fuck, does any of it even matter? Will I even be there for it to matter?

  She wedged her hands into her pockets and kept her head down, her cigarette a long pillar of ash threatening to tumble with every step. She’d never before had to consider her gender in these terms before. There was a safety to the lamias’ seclusion, to their keeping only their own company. How they were was how they were, the paradigm was created and maintained by the daughters. But her biology allowing her to impregnate her girlfriend had inadvertently brought a certain dysphoria into her life, and wasn’t that a keen new problem?

  Thanks, dicks.

  She took a turn onto Rue Royale and walked on, searching for the ineffable in the long strip of stores. New Orleans didn’t sleep. It was the type of city that breathed its best breaths at night, and so, even at quarter to nine, business blazed on. She looked in open doorways of stores, she peeked into tourist traps, searching for the otherworldly among the carnival-colored banality of a tourist town.

  Instead she found a chicken—a big black rooster that pecked at the sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to the chaos of the world around it. Tanis stepped over it, not thinking much of it, even if it was a chicken in a place where chickens ought not be, but three feet on she heard a musical voice call out to her, stopping her dead in her tracks.

  “Are you looking for me, koulèv?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IT WASN’T A vodou shop at all. It was a bar, nearly empty, tucked in between a closed art gallery and a T-shirt shop with the customary tourist trap beads in the window. Behind the bar was a short, fat black man with a perfect fade and a mole on his temple. The piercing in his septum was shiny gold, and a dragon tattoo wrapped itself around the back of his neck. His T-shirt was royal blue, as was the rag in his hand that he used to dry shot glasses.

  The woman who’d called Tanis was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. She was short, barely five feet, with mahogany skin and cornrows tied behind her neck with a colorful scarf. High cheekbones in a heart-shaped face, a broad nose with a diamond stud on the left side, big brown eyes that looked black in the dim light of the bar, lips panted a bright scarlet. Her body was thick all over, curvy up top, curvy down below, with a wasp-thin waist between. She wore a white halter top that ended just below her breasts to reveal her flat stomach, and from hips to her bare feet she was wrapped in a crinkly skirt with red, yellow, and orange diamonds of alternating sizes.

  “Sit, koulèv. Talk to me. The spirits say you have great need. Let’s see if I give a fuck about it.” The woman smiled as she slid onto a bar stool. The barkeep pushed a drink her way, a glass of rum topped with an angry-looking green pepper. She sipped it as Tanis circled the barstool and sat astride it, shifting to get comfortable.

  “Tanis Barlas. I’m a lamia.”

  “Yes, snake girl. I know. Koulèv. This means ‘snake.’ You’ve come far to see me, eh?”

  “From Florida, if that’s far.”

  “Oh, far enough.” The woman crossed her legs, her elbow drizzling across the bar and putting her in a half-slump. Her finger whirled above her head, motioning at the walls. Tanis looked up. The bar was decorated with black chickens, like the one she’d stumbled over outside. “I am Brigitte, but you may call me Maman. Everyone does. Now talk. I am a busy woman.”

  Considering the bar was empty besides the barkeep, Tanis wasn’t sure how true that was, but she was also smart enough to not question it aloud. “I need a death dealer.”

  “Fooor?” Maman’s face split in half, revealing two rows of perfect teeth. “Losing interest, koulèv. Delight me or get the fuck out.”

  “Gorgons are after me. The lamias, too. The Gorgons because I stole the heart of a prophet when she begged me to. The lamias because I abandoned them and”—she sucked in a breath, her shoulders aching with tension—“I think I’m the only lamia who carries potent seed. My mother will want me to breed her, but I have a mate. Who’s pregnant with my daughter. I love her.”

  Delight. Utter delight. Maman tilted her head back and laughed, the sound filling the tiny bar and spilling out into the street, like tinkling music. It made Tanis think of wind chimes, which was strange, but there was something about the tones that spoke to gentle breezes on summer nights and chiming bells. “Ah! That is interesting. Did you hear that, Renaud? She is the great cock of the lamia.”

  The bartender’s lip twitched, but he said nothing, concentrating on the line of glasses before him.

  Maman drained her rum and bit into the hot pepper, never flinching despite the pungent juices drizzling down her lips. She tossed the stem into the empty glass and smiled. “So you are hunted. How can a death dealer help this? They are not dead things, your snakes. We are masters of the dead.”

  “There’s no way to kill a Gorgon. They’re immortal. But there was a witch—a völva—who said if I could get them to swear on the River Styx, they’d be banished to Tartarus. I want to know if that’s true.”

  “Aaah, I see. Clever snake, to find a way around immortality.” Maman reached out to bop Tanis on the nose, as one might do to a particularly precocious child. Tanis crinkled her nose, so Maman did it again; her fingernails were curved talons painted the same crimson as her lips. “You are right that this oath will send anyone below for long, long years. But sad news, koulèv. I am not a guardian of the dead rivers. The answers you seek, the very waters you seek, belong to the lords of the dead, and I am not a lord.”

  “Oh.” Tanis ran her hand across her brow, fingers stopping at her temple to massage the throbbing vein away. How the hell was she supposed to keep running around looking for answers, looking for the right people, when everything was on such a limited time table?

  Maman seemed to pluck the thought straight from her head. She leaned forward, closing the distance between them, until her nose nearly touched Tanis’s own. “I can get you an audience with my husband, but no one labors for free. Especially not a lwa.”

  Lwa? Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Tanis’s first instinct was to lean far away from the predatory gleam in the woman’s eyes; to Hell with that, her instinct was to flee. A lwa wasn’t just some death dealer nobody, it was a fucking god. But what was she supposed to do? What other options were there? She was running out of time and resources. Bernie was dying, Naree would pop within days. She was stuck and she knew it. She forced herself to remain on her barstool despite the hot pepper stink scorching her nostrils. Despite the leering predator in front of her.

  “The heart?” Tanis croaked. “Is that what you want?”

  “Fuck the heart. No, I seek something baser.” Maman’s hand dropped to Tanis’s knee and then glided up, over her thigh, and higher, until she was cupping Tanis’s crotch, her palm rolling against her cocks through her jeans. “This. One night of pleasure. You would do anything for the girl, and this is your anything. Fuck me. Tonight. Upstairs. I demand my due.”

  TANIS STOOD IN Poul Mwen’s one-stall bathroom, her hands clasping the sides of the sink, staring at her reflection. Hair mussed. Eyes pinched at the corners with strain, plum-colored circles and puffiness beneath them after days of too much stress and not enough sleep. She bared her teeth to the mirror, eyeballing the faint yellow tinge of too many cigarettes and too much coffee.

  Can I do this to Naree?

  Can I do this for Naree?

  “She won’t know,” Maman had insisted, withdrawing her hand from Tanis’s crotch. “It is between you and me, you have my word. I swear on the graves of the good dead. But you wish for my help? This is my price. Pay it or get out.”

&nb
sp; “What can your husband do for me?” Tanis had insisted, desperate for a reason to say no and hie herself to the hills.

  Maman had laughed at her, climbing off of her bar stool and heading toward the back room of the bar, slipping behind a curtain of clicking wooden beads. “Everything. I will be upstairs. You have five minutes. If you are not there, I am not there, koulèv. Do not waste my time.” There was the squeal of floorboards as Maman climbed stairs unseen, and then the sound of footsteps as she walked over Tanis’s head. Renaud poured Tanis a single shot of vodka, saying nothing as he slid it across the bar. Tanis downed it, appreciative of the stabbing sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  Too bad I need the bottle to feel anything.

  Mouth on fire, stomach churning, she’d ducked into the bathroom of the bar—the name translated to ‘My Chicken’—and suffered an abbreviated attack of conscience. Gods never asked for what was easy, like a heart in a trunk or a hundred bucks or a cheeseburger. They wanted blood. Literally or figuratively—they thrived on the ugly choices that left indelible scars on the soul.

  If the lwa can help me, I have to.

  Gods help me, I have to.

  She splashed her face with water, raking her fingers through her hair to flatten it to her scalp. A mouth rinse later, she reappeared in the bar long enough to see Renaud flipping the Open sign in the front window. She followed Maman’s trail through the beaded curtain and into a back stock room. She ascended the narrow stairs like she was mounting the gallows, her heart in her throat, each footstep met with the screaming of the boards that perfectly encapsulated her inner monologue.

  Maman waited.

  She was glorious in her nudity. Large breasts with prominent nipples, broad hips, an untamed bush of pubic hair between her thick thighs. She lounged like a queen in wait of her court, propped on her elbows, her braids fanned out behind her. It was a large bed, king-sized, with a red velvet coverlet and throw pillows stacked high, each decorated with fine embroidery or beading. The windows had similar velvet drapes. The art on the walls was all portrait work, black faces in period clothes, some of them smiling at the artist, some stoic and aloof and looking elsewhere.

  The room was cool, air-conditioned, with no hint of the sweaty spring night just beyond the brick walls. It smelled of stale perfume, good booze, and female, but not human female. This was something other—bigger. Still essentially woman, but there was a spiciness that spoke to more.

  Godliness. You’re smelling godliness.

  God cunt.

  Fuck, what’s next?

  “You look so sad, little koulèv. Come to Maman. She will make it better.”

  Maman slinked across the bed, motioning Tanis close. Tanis dropped her pistol on the bureau and glanced behind her. With no door separating the bedroom from the stairs, she worried Renaud would discover them in a compromising position, but again Maman sensed her thoughts, chuckling as she reeled Tanis in by the belt loops on her jeans. Her hands settled on Tanis’s hips, fingers kneading the lean muscle before snaking around back to cup her ass.

  “Firm. So firm. Do not worry, Miss Tanis. Renaud is gone, gone, gone. Done. We will not be disturbed. You are miiiine.” The last was said with sinister promise, the lwa unbuttoning Tanis’s jeans before her warm hands swept up to grab the hem of Tanis’s T-shirt and tug. Tanis’s arms went up and Maman rose to her knees to jerk it over her head. Seeing Tanis’s bare chest, the abdominal muscles so firm and defined, the modest breasts with the large areolas and small nipples, she gasped and leaned forward, those red lips closing around Tanis’s flesh and sucking. Tanis grunted, eyes fluttering, her hands limp by her sides. Maman didn’t seem to mind, content to suckle her, her free hand moving down to stroke over the front of Tanis’s pants, palm rolling over her crotch.

  “Firm little titties you have. I like, I like.” Maman explored her with her tongue, from the contours of her breasts to the ribs and hard muscle below. When she licked over Tanis’s navel, Tanis’s stomach muscles spasmed. Maman liked that, and she cooed, kissing it again as her hands worked at Tanis’s fly.

  Sneakers. I have to... fuck. I don’t want to like this.

  But she did like it. How could she not? An expert mouth tasted her skin, feasted on her. Tanis kicked off the Chucks as Maman’s hands looped in the waistband of her jeans to pull them down. Tanis stepped from the pool of denim, her body rising to the touches, the sighs, the sensations. Maman again cupped her, kneading her as her mouth traveled back up, this time to Tanis’s neck to lick and suck and kiss. Her jaw. Her ear. Her mouth latched onto her lobe as her fingers plunged inside of Tanis’s shorts, groping. She grabbed the top-most cock and then the bottom, laughing against Tanis’s ear.

  “Naughty secrets. Maman’s spirits said you were special. Giiifted.”

  “Yeah, I’m dick gifted. Gets me far in life,” Tanis said, her voice gruff. Maman chuckled and gave her a stroke, and then another, and Tanis crawled up onto the bed beside her. Maman peeled her boxer briefs down, tossing them into the corner along with her own halter top and diamond skirt. She skimmed her hands over Tanis’s body and rose up to straddle her knees. Tanis watched her braids with their shiny bead caps glimmering in the dim light of the room, and then she watched the sway of Maman’s breasts as she leaned forward to place another kiss to the flat of Tanis’s stomach.

  It was strange; the moment Maman’s mouth traveled down to the upper cock, to close around it, Tanis’s mind went to Naree. Naree was soft with her, gentle, always delicate when she tasted her, never quite losing that sweet curiosity she had for Tanis’s body. Maman had no such hesitation. She was loud, growly, her hand ducking underneath to pump the second shaft. Tanis draped an arm across her eyes, wincing at the sounds of her flesh being gobbled. Devoured. It was terrifying in its own right, wet and nasty and brutally efficient. She peeked down, staring at the lwa mastering her. Hard. Harder. Hardest. Tanis grunted, her hands dropping to the coverlet beside her and bunching it up in her fists. Her toes curled, Maman’s cheek bulging lewdly, her black eyes pinning Tanis to the pillows and daring her to escape.

  Part of her wanted to. Part of her wanted to run from the French Quarter and never look back. To go home to Naree and snivel a thousand apologies into her sweet girl’s hair. But another part, the part that existed in the far back recesses of her mind where things like conscience and reason gave way to instinct and physical need, wanted to stay right where she was, pinned. Worked.

  Used.

  Maman tore her face away, Tanis’s cock shining with her spit. She reached between her legs, rubbing hard at the sodden flesh and filling the room with her sex. Potent. Sweet and sour. Tanis gasped as Maman crawled over her, settled over her, aiming herself down and sheathing herself with one hard shove of her hips. Maman threw her head back and moaned, impaled on the lower of the two, her hand curling around the upper piece.

  Tanis’s hands settled on her hips. She’d been passive before, allowing this thing to happen to her, but they were past the point of no return. When Maman rose up, Tanis jerked her down again, slamming her home. Maman rode her hard, working her with both her recess and her hand, her body rippling with every heave. Her breasts, her thighs, her hips. Every part of her was in motion, and Tanis pushed up, panting, her heart slamming in her ears as the lwa used her. There was no mistaking who was in charge, who owned the scene, and Tanis gave herself over to it because the only other choice was to keep running forever.

  Slap. Slap. Slap.

  Maman groaned, angling her hips forward and gasping as she raked her sweet spot over and over again. She licked her lips, smearing her lipstick past its perfectly drawn boundaries and up to her cheek. She rocked hard, fast, satisfying her body, Tanis clinging to her and feeling herself rising. She was tense all over, every muscle coiled and ready to spring. Her breathing came fast, her own sweat rising as Maman forced them both towards the end.

  Over, over. Make it be over.

  “Yes, yes. This. This. Now, koulèv. Give to me. Honor me. G
ive me tribute.”

  Tanis yelped as the orgasm crashed through her, dragging her into a perfect moment with an imperfect partner. Both of her shafts pulsed, one filling the woman above her, the other spurting hot trails across her own belly. Maman’s hips jolted as she joined her, her head tilting back, mouth agape as she screamed, joyfully, her lover’s peak erupting in a victory cackle that would, Tanis knew, follow her into her dreams and possibly her nightmares.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SHE’D TEXTED NAREE after the first round, telling her she’d met someone who could help her with the Gorgon situation. She offered few details, wrestling with the wriggling worm of guilt as she was, which only worsened when Naree professed her love and told her to come home soon, that she and baby missed her.

  I think I felt her tonight. The flutters.

  I love you both.

  Because it was true, she did. More than ever. Being used by a lwa made your dear ones dearer.

  We love you too. Bernie says hi. She’s hanging in there.

  Good.

  And that was it. Maman climbed atop her twice more after the first coupling, each time as insistent and as aggressive as the first. It was intimidating, ferocious, and devoid of the sweetness she had with Naree. When Tanis finally passed out at half past three, she was physically spent and too tired to dream. She woke alone in the sullied velvet bed, the black rooster feather on the pillow beside her head the only indication Maman had thought of her at all beyond their fucks. She didn’t get the chicken thing, but she also didn’t have to. Some stories weren’t for her to understand, and the lwa were beyond her scope.