Bayou Blues

by Sierra Dean

  I opened the door, and he stepped back. He was a big guy, with a round belly and a huge bushy beard growing well past his chin. Under different circumstances he might have been imposing, but he smelled human, and that alone put me at ease. One man I could handle, even if he did decide to try something, but his manner led me to think I was safe enough to assess the damage on my car.

  Both of the passenger-side tires were flat as pancakes. Glass glittered up from the gravel at me mockingly. Of course. And me with only one spare. Scooting to the back of the car, I let out a genuine gasp. The whole tail end of the Dart was scraped bare, with a dent nudging the trunk in. The bumper was damn near ready to come off. The man in the black car hadn’t been screwing around.

  “Jesus,” the bearded driver said, coming to stand next to me. “That other guy did this?”

  I nodded, brushing the warm metal of the trunk with my fingertips. Someone had wanted me dead really badly.

  Chapter Four

  I managed to convince the driver of the van I would be okay waiting for a tow truck on my own. Since his ride was unharmed and he had a bunch of perishable food in the back, it didn’t take much persuasion, but I could tell the idea of abandoning me bothered him. After swearing I was close to home and well armed, he agreed to leave me but made me promise I’d call his shop once I was picked up safely.

  Apparently there were nice people left in the world.

  I called 411 and was put through to the only garage in St. Francisville. Luck was on my side because the grumpy-sounding mechanic had no other pickups, and after taking my name and coordinates, he promised to be out to me in less than forty minutes.

  I sat on the hood of my car with one of my used textbooks in my lap, trying to focus on the finer points of criminology, but I only managed to absorb every fifth word. By the time I’d read the same page ten times I shut the book with a loud snap and set it down beside me. So much for studying. The nagging worry someone might come back to finish the job was too much for me.

  Playing with my phone, I debated for the millionth time whether I ought to call Uncle Callum and tell him what had happened. But the last thing I wanted was him bringing half the pack out here to protect me. It was the middle of the day, and I’d proven to the last guy that I wasn’t going to be an easy target. I doubted they’d try again so soon, and I did have a gun handy this time.

  The 9mm Glock had been a gift from Secret on my nineteenth birthday. She said there might be times when magic wouldn’t be the best defense, and having a reliable gun was never a bad idea. Considering all the stuff she’d survived, I was willing to take her word for it. I didn’t particularly like guns, though, so normally I kept it in a lockbox at home.

  Right now I was pretty happy I’d opted to bring it with me.

  I still preferred to use magic.

  For good measure I’d also cast a safety ward in a ten-foot radius around the car. I could hold it in place for as long as it took the tow truck to arrive, if I didn’t exert myself too much.

  Being both a witch and a werewolf was an interesting mix, even by supernatural standards. I tried to play down my gifts when I was around the rest of the pack. My grandmother Genevieve and her mother before her, La Sorcière, were both powerful witches, and even though the gene had skipped my mother and sister, I’d gotten it full force.

  Sure, having the ability to blow things up with the flick of a wrist seemed awesome, until you did it by accident while shifting into your werewolf form. Blow a few cabins up and suddenly no one trusts you. How was that fair?

  I’d learned to control my magic since my Awakening—the werewolf rite of passage cubs went through at age thirteen. Now I could change form without hurting anyone, and I had figured out how to compartmentalize my gifts when I was out with the pack. In the few years since I’d returned from the swamps, the rest of Callum’s wolves had welcomed me into the fold. But if I started tossing spells around and showing off, I wasn’t sure they’d be so accommodating.

  The smell of fuel caught my attention first, and I stared down the road, narrowing my eyes to refine my vision. A rusty red tow truck was bumping along the highway towards me.

  It was so old I wasn’t sure it was going to make it the next mile, let alone pull the Dart back to the garage. But in St. Francisville beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  The truck pulled up in front of me a minute later, backing up so the hook end was facing my front bumper. I hopped off the car and circled around to the passenger side to grab my bag, not wanting to leave it in the car.

  “Thanks for coming all the way out.” I started talking before I knew if the mechanic was out of his truck yet. Sometimes I had a nasty habit of babbling, something I’d picked up in the swamp with Memere. The old witch rarely spoke except to instruct or scold, so often I ended up having lengthy monologues on my own while I wandered around. I hadn’t yet rid myself of the habit, sometimes I caught myself nattering at length in public places with no one specific around to hear my thoughts. “Hope the drive wasn’t too lo—”

  My words got stuck in my mouth as I stood up and saw the mechanic staring at me from the opposite side of the car.

  For whatever reason, I’d expected an older man. Some balding guy in his late fifties with a scowl and a beer belly. The only part I’d gotten right was the scowl. The man looking back at me was maybe twenty-five. His angular jaw was tense, and his full lips were set in a humorless frown. But goddamn. He was the single hottest man I’d seen in my entire life.

  His eyes were hazel, the color of swamp water flecked with fresh fallen leaves. Something about them reminded me of home. His hair was either dark blond or light brown, though my certainty on which changed with each shift of sunlight over his head. He wore mechanics overalls with the top stripped down and tied around his waist. This gave me a provocative view of his chest and shoulders in an almost-too-tight gray T-shirt. His upper body was so muscular I thought he might be able to lift the car up on his own.

  A waft of wolf scent hit me, and my eyes went wide.

  He could lift the car barehanded if he wanted to. This guy was a werewolf through and through.

  His nostrils flared, and he gave me a knowing nod, letting me know he’d figured me out too. “Car trouble, ma’am?” he drawled, and his eyes glimmered with humor for the first time since I’d seen him, breaking up the seriousness of his frown.

  Since he was a werewolf in St. Francisville, he would be under Callum’s control, and that made him safe, if not trustworthy. I saw no sense in lying to him. The whole pack would know soon enough.

  “Almost got driven off the road by one of those Church of Morning loonies.” I didn’t know it had been them for sure, but it seemed like a pretty safe bet.

  This made his eyes widen, either in surprise or because he was impressed, it was hard to tell which. “And a couple blown tires were the worst of the damage?”

  “You haven’t seen my rear end yet.” Oh God, Genie, did you seriously just say that?

  He smirked but didn’t say anything. Instead he walked to the back of the car and let out a whistle. “Guess they meant business.”

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude or forward or anything, but who are you? I thought I knew every wolf in Callum’s pack.”

  “What’s the matter, Princess? Worried I might be up to no good? Seems to me you’ve already had your fair share of bad luck today.” He flicked the dented trunk and gave it one last assessing stare before sauntering back towards me. Walk wouldn’t have been the right verb. He moved like a predator or a really suave runway model. Each gesture promised something obscene.

  My cheeks flushed.

  What was it about this guy? So far he hadn’t been very nice to me, but just the sight of him was turning me stupid. It was unfair for any one man to be as good-looking as he was. If he had a half-decent personality, I might have been at risk of falling for him, but from what I could tell I had nothing to worry about in that department.


  I wasn’t too astonished that he knew I was a princess. He’d taken my name when I called in. As a werewolf in the south, he could easily do the math. “You obviously know who I am. It’s only fair I have a name I can call you.”

  “You can call me anything you want to.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Smooth. On average, how many times has a line like that worked for you?”

  “It’s usually fifty-fifty. I’ve never tried it on royalty before. Seemed worth a shot.”

  “Sorry to tell you, but your average is tipping towards failure.”

  His mouth quirked up in a slight smile, and he set about getting the car rigged up to the tow truck. I thought he was going to ignore my question a second time, but just as I was about to push for more information he said, “My name is Wilder. Wilder Shaw.”

  Shaw. I bristled. Now there was a name I definitely knew.

  “You must be related to Hank.” I tried to make it sound casual, but a hint of bitterness snuck into my tone, and there was no getting around it.

  Hank Shaw, one of the longer-standing members in Callum’s pack, was a big reason I still hadn’t brought Cash home to meet the family after a year together. Hank was bigoted in a way that seemed over the top even in the south. He was vocal and obnoxious about his racism, so much so the pack’s sole black member, James Fairfax, had been granted permission to live away from the pack compound.

  Worse still, Hank had actively abandoned the pack once to join a rogue group led by none other than my mother. Ultimately he’d come back with his tail between his legs and begged forgiveness, which Callum had grudgingly offered him. Mercy was, technically, part of the pack, so while Hank had by all accounts defected, the king let it go on a technicality.

  Secret, when she found out, was furious. As it turned out, one of the duties Hank had performed for Mercy was beating the tar out of Secret. It was too late for Callum to go back on his decision though. All he could do was keep Hank on a short leash and hope he was reformed.

  Ben and I had both asked Callum on many different occasions why he didn’t kick Hank out of the pack, but our uncle believed in second chances, and he thought there was hope for Hank yet, in spite of how hateful the man could be. Maybe he was right, but it made things tense around the plantation time and time again. Secret wouldn’t visit if she knew he was there.

  “Yeah, Hank’s my older brother,” Wilder said.

  I tried to take this new information and see him in a different light, hoping it would make Wilder less attractive to me. No such luck. He was still swoonworthy, especially given the way his shoulders and arms flexed while he worked with the hitch.

  “Are you and your brother…um…close?” I couldn’t figure out a better way to ask, Are you also a racist prick who likes to beat up women? Southern girls were raised to not be quite so confrontational in our conversations with handsome strangers.

  Wilder gave a half shrug, not paying much attention to me as he worked. “I know what you’re trying to get at,” he said finally. “I do know what he’s like, and I sure won’t defend his beliefs or the mistakes he’s made. But I also won’t badmouth my kin.” He wiped his hands on his overalls and glanced up at me, the green flecks in his eyes catching in the light, making him seem like more animal than man for a fraction of a second. “He’s good in his own ways, but his badness keeps people from seeing it. I know a different Hank.” The grimace had returned.

  I guess I’d stepped on his toes in spite of all my efforts not to.

  “I was pretty sure I knew all the wolves in Callum’s territory, so why have I never met you?”

  He gave me a look that told me nothing about how he felt. “I was around for awhile. When you were off playing with the frogs and the gators. Came back to make sure Hank doesn’t have too rough a go. He’s been struggling a bit.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t really sure what else to say, and I didn’t want to ask more about his brother.

  “All right, Princess, I’m almost done here. Why don’t you hop up in the cab?”

  “Genie,” I corrected.

  “Hmm?” He’d stopped paying attention again.

  “My name is Genie. Eugenia, really. But…people, um…call me Genie?” Smooth. Dumbass.

  Wilder glanced at me. “I know your name, sweetheart. But that won’t stop me from calling you Princess.”

  I was about to tell him if he was trying to be proper, Princess wasn’t the appropriate form of address, Your Royal Highness was, but then I realized he wasn’t being polite. He was being condescending.

  I sniffed and hiked my bag higher on my shoulder, trying to come up with a witty retort to wither him in his place. Secret would have known exactly what to say. My sister was the master of the soul-crushing one-liner.

  After a much-too-long pause I said, “Wilder is a stupid name anyway.” I turned on my heel, hoping my pathetic rejoinder would at least get me the last word.

  Before I could get into the cab of the truck I heard him say loud and clear, “Whatever you say, Eugenia.”

  Chapter Five

  The whole drive back we sat in tense, awkward silence. I was afraid to speak again because my foot had a tendency to wedge itself right in my mouth whenever I started saying anything. Wilder was no help. He was doing his best to project the air of a man who embodied strong silent type.

  Fine. Whatever. It wasn’t like I needed to talk.

  By the time we pulled up to the garage I was squirming in my seat, words bubbling up the back of my throat. He stopped at the front of the building and stared at me pointedly until I realized he was waiting for me to get out.

  “Oh,” I mumbled, feeling stupid for not getting his hint sooner. Of course, if he’d just said something, I could have bypassed the embarrassment stage altogether. My mental catalogue of reasons to not like Wilder was steadily outstripping his more…attractive qualities.

  I paced with barely constrained nervous energy by the garage door, not sure if I was supposed to go in or if I was meant to find my own way home from here. Wilder, from my short acquaintance with him, seemed like he might be the kind of man to make a stranded woman walk six miles by herself.

  I could have called Callum’s estate and gotten a ride from here, but then I’d need to explain why I hadn’t called them in the first place. I’d rather get a lift with a cranky stranger than tell my uncle over the phone that I’d been the target of an assassination attempt.

  Some things are better said in person.

  So instead of leaving I waited, assuming he’d come back for me even though he hadn’t said anything one way or the other.

  Plus the front door was locked.

  I hugged my purse to my chest and was almost convinced he wasn’t returning when the big garage door behind me gave a loud groan and lifted. Trying to hide my startled jump, I steadied my breath and schooled my features.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

  Dammit. “You didn’t scare me.”

  “Sure.” A little twist of a smile again. I had no doubt he was making fun of me.

  My Dart was behind him, and another set of garage doors was open at the back of the shop, letting a warm breeze flow through the space. He’d parked his truck beside my car. The smell of engine oil and gasoline wafted out to meet me. It was a pungent, unmistakable scent, but one that was not altogether unpleasant. It made me think of road trips and outboard boat motors.

  A flat platform on wheels was next to a toolbox, and I suspected it was used for him to roll under the car to work on it. My only real exposure to mechanical work came from movies. I tried not to picture Wilder smeared with grease, his shirt sticky with sweat as he rolled out from under a car and said, The chassis will be good as new when I get my hands on it.

  I blushed.

  That fantasy had gotten specific awfully fast.

  I was not interested in Wilder Shaw. He was just one of those guys who’d been born with an incredibly distracting defect: he was too
perfect. That face. Those lips. His stupid beautiful eyes. He was like one of those flowers that lured insects and animals in, only to devour them whole. Sure, he was pretty, but he was a predator through and through.

  And no matter what he’d said earlier, my opinion of his brother was still coloring the way I perceived Wilder. There was no way one brother was a traitorous bigot and the other just walked away totally liberal and devoted to the pack. Nope. I’d lived in Louisiana long enough to know the brush of racism painted people in heavy strokes and light ones, but being less of a racist than Hank didn’t make him a good person. As for the traitor thing—twisted political ideals tended to run in families hand in hand with personal ones.

  Who’s being prejudiced now? a voice in the back of my head scolded.

  I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed him into the garage. He didn’t invite me in exactly, but he did open the door and walk away, which I was beginning to realize was sort of the same thing.

  “How big is your head?” His voice was muffled from inside his truck.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His head popped up over the hood of the truck, assessed me, then said, “Looks normal.”

  “Thanks?”

  He had already disappeared. When he came back, he was carrying two helmets and tossed one at me without waiting to see if I was prepared for it. Thankfully, werewolf reflexes kicked in, and I grabbed it out of the air before it fell, hugging it tight so it didn’t clatter to the floor and make me look like the klutz I sometimes was.

  Though why I cared what he thought about me, I didn’t know.

  “What’s this?” I realized too late it was the wrong question to ask.

  “A helmet.” He pulled the front door closed and swung a lever over to lock it, dimming the interior light.

  Of course. Of course that was his answer.

  “Is it absolutely necessary for you to answer all my questions like I’m six years old?” I glared at him, then back at the helmet, still not sure why I was holding it. Did he think the drive back was going to get extra bumpy? Was he worried I couldn’t walk around without hurting myself?