[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine (42 page)

Marguerite toiled naked up the side of Papa Mound, more furious by the second. Being naked made her feel vulnerable, and vulnerability made her scared, and fear enraged her. Al refused to let her take the stairs, so she stumbled through clumps of grass and weeds, with Al taunting about how slow she was. Grass burrs attacked the soles of her feet, and she had to keep pausing to pick them off. If she blundered into a nest of fire ants in the dark, he’d think it was the best possible joke.

Help was close but not forthcoming. It wasn’t quite as easy to see auras at night, but sexual arousal showed up vividly regardless. As she undressed, she’d caught flickers of lust from both Zeb and someone else—someone with more control over his desires but less over his aura. She supposed they couldn’t help noticing a naked woman, but why couldn’t they have rescued her? Constantine must have
some
sort of plan, but she was losing her cool—and losing it fast.

A flash of lightning lit up the sky ahead, followed by a rumble of thunder. The wind picked up, and she shivered. A tentative raindrop landed on her nose.

Several steps from the top of the mound, she heard Al unzipping his bag behind her. She began to turn, but he said, “Stop,” and took her by the arm.

She obeyed, but she’d caught the flash of an aura not far behind them—the same one she’d seen in the woods earlier. “Is it nine o’clock yet?”

“Just about.” Something fell over her head, choking her. She grabbed at it, gasping, almost falling backward. She clawed it away from her throat. A noose!

“Stay still, and it won’t get any tighter,” Al said. “Keep struggling, and I’ll tie your hands.”

She froze, terror washing through her in waves and waves. Why didn’t the man who was following them come and help her? “What the hell is this for?” she squeaked. “I did everything you said.”

“Yeah, you’ve been a good little girl, if a mite sassy,” he murmured close, way too close, and bit hard on her ear. She muffled a cry and stayed perfectly still. “This is so Dufray knows I’m serious. If anybody else sees us—hey, this is Bayou Gavotte, world capital of kinky sex, and you’re the daughter of Porno McHugh. No one will be surprised. Let’s go.”

He tugged on the rope, and she hurried next to him, clutching the noose at her throat. They reached the flat top of the mound. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the broad, empty surface. Where was Constantine? They walked slowly across the lawn, and for the first time, tension reamed Al’s aura. From the tree up ahead came the plaintive call of a nightjar. A huge horned owl swooped down and landed on one of its massive limbs. Where was Constantine’s aura? He must be here. He
must
.

“Where the fuck is he?” muttered Al. “Did you say something that warned him? If he doesn’t show, I swear I’ll string you up here and now.”

“Not necessary.” A stag with a huge rack of antlers materialized from under the tree and bounded gracefully toward them.

“Stop right there, Dufray,” Al said. “No games.”

The vision disintegrated into long, powerful legs and the copper mask, its beads clacking against one another, feathers quivering in the wind. Constantine tossed the mask aside and halted only a few yards away, hair loose on his shoulders, naked but for a loincloth. His body appeared relaxed, but his aura shivered with intent.

“No?” His teeth gleamed white in the darkness. “You look like you’re ready for some fun. Planning to play ride the pony?”

Marguerite shuddered, and Constantine’s voice slipped into her mind:
Stay calm
. But his aura was cold and hard as a diamond, as sharp and unyielding as steel, his emotions buried so deeply as to be invisible.

“You know why I’m here,” Al said.

“To be reunited with your long-lost son.” He laughed, a wicked jeer that didn’t even twitch his aura. “I’d say it’s great to see you again, Bon-Bon, but I don’t like telling lies.” Pause. “Don’t like liars much either. Where’s Zeb? Was that another of your lies, Marguerite?”
Just play along
.

“Yes,” she croaked. “But Al forced me to tell it. He forced me to call.”

Al’s laugh rasped in the humid night. “Out of the kindness of my heart. They say confession is good for the soul, and Marguerite has something to confess. She’s been planning on telling you for years and years now. She came to Bayou Gavotte to tell you, but she’s been waiting for the right time and place.”

Constantine cocked his head to one side, his voice amused, his aura telling her—nothing. “Go ahead, then. Confess away.”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” she said. “I don’t have anything to conf—” Al tugged on the rope, and she gagged.

“Get it over with,” Al snarled. “Tell him who you really are.” He tugged again.

She choked out the words. “Please! I don’t know what you mean!” Constantine might have been made of wood for all the interest he showed.

Al grabbed her arm and yanked her close. “Tell. Him.”

Constantine yawned. “You don’t need to pretend, Marguerite. I already know about your uncle.”

“My—my uncle?” Her brain whirled, tilted. Settled.
Oh
. “The cop in Baton Rouge?”

“Duh,” Constantine said. “Before Nathan died, he passed that juicy bit of news to Lep.”

“But I’m not—that’s not—” She stopped. Al chuckled, but Constantine’s vibe was more bored than ever.

Stay calm,
he telepathed. Out loud, he said, “I’ll miss Nathan. Did he dig that up himself, or did he get it from you, Bon-Bon?”

Al laughed. “Nathan was such a trusting soul, and not very bright. He never figured out who I was.”

“But it’s not true,” Marguerite said. “Yes, he was my uncle, but he was—” She stopped again. “I don’t want revenge. I—” Al snickered beside her, and Constantine’s aura remained cold and closed. Once again, he didn’t believe her. Tears scorched her eyes and burned her throat.

“You were saying?” he asked politely, but his aura shut her out, making it clear that he didn’t really want to know. On the live oak tree, the owl hovered, still and silent, its talons sharp and cruel on the bough. Was that his guide, the same guide whose feathers had caressed her and Constantine while they slept?

Fear and despair washed through her. If Constantine didn’t care enough to do something soon, she was going to die naked with a rope around her neck.

But she would keep one small shred of dignity. “Forget it. I’ve had it with not being believed.” She’d spent her whole life not being believed, even when it mattered most. “I thought you were different, but for all your talk about lies, you can’t even recognize the truth.”

Al snorted. “That was a pretty good speech, but it’s not enough. He might save your ass if your explanation sounds plausible enough.”

“He’s right,” Constantine said. “It’s worth a try.”
I’m going to save you
.

“It’s not a plausible explanation,” she raged. “It’s the truth, and you don’t deserve it.”

“Uh-huh,” Constantine said, and the bird agreed. Emotion slammed against the floodgates of his mind. Desperately, he held them shut.

She let out a long, low keening sound of rage, or terror, or grief. He’d buried all emotion in order to face his father. Judging by Marguerite’s reaction, he’d succeeded too well.

Hadn’t she heard his reassurances? Did she really think he would take his own petty revenge and let Bonnard kill her?
Marguerite, I will save you, I swear
.

The horned owl loomed menacingly on a bough above.
Get on with it. There’s not much time
.

Constantine began tossing out images of the kind that had excited Bon-Bon so many years ago. He threw out a coyote and telepathed to Marguerite:
Hold onto the rope.
She clutched the noose at her throat. He conjured a cougar. Tentatively, the rain began to fall.

Constantine eyed his father, whose grip on the rope was still too tight. “Now that Marguerite’s confession is over with, what do you want, old man? Are you enjoying the magic show?” He sent up a vision of a writhing snake. Up, and up, and up.

“I’m not interested in childish games,” Bonnard said, but judging from the way his eyes followed the illusion, he sure was. Always had been.

Now
, the horned owl said, spreading its wings. The hair on the back of Constantine’s neck stood up.
Here’s your chance
.

Constantine scattered the illusion. “We can do some weather magic if you like.”

One, two…
The owl dove from the tree, skimming the surface of the mound.

Constantine opened his hand and threw a vision of dancing light toward the huge oak behind him. It exploded in time with the thunder, a dazzle of fireworks high over their heads, as true lightning struck the tree with a horrendous crack. Constantine shot forward. He separated Bonnard
from the rope, kicked him in the nuts, and sent him screaming to the ground.

Not the weakness I was thinking of
. The bird sounded amused but pleased.

Constantine thrust Marguerite behind him. He tucked his emotions in tight. “Take off the noose.”

She struggled with the rope. “He says he has proof that Zeb killed Nathan.” She got the noose over her head. Her voice sounded rough and unused. “He says the police will get it if anything happens to him.” She held out the rope. “I think it’s a knife with Zeb’s prints.”

“Thank you.” Briefly, his eyes met hers and held, and a crack opened in his emotional shield. It was too late, but he had to tell her anyway.
I love you. I’m sorry.
Hurriedly, he sealed the crack again and said aloud, “Take the rope with you and go away.”

He didn’t wait to see whether she obeyed. Jabez and Zeb were both close by, so she wasn’t in danger of anything but embarrassment.

Or of watching an execution take place.

From overhead, the owl called again for haste.
You are what you are. Do you think she doesn’t know?
Wind ripped the surface of the mound. Fat drops of rain spattered the lawn. Constantine picked up the mask, shaking off the water. “Now it’s just you and me, Bon-Bon. What do you want?”

Bonnard got painfully to his feet. “I should charge you with assault.” His voice shook; he paused and got it under control. “I wasn’t going to hurt Marguerite. I’m a respectable citizen with only a few kinks. Entirely normal by Bayou Gavotte standards.”

The time is ripe
, the owl insisted.

Constantine had to finish this first. “I repeat: what do you want?”

“An exchange,” Bonnard said. “Something I want for something you need.”

“And that would be…?”

“Your little brother,” Bonnard said. “More than anything in the world, you want your little brother back.”

“The brother I loved is dead,” Constantine said coldly. “He can never be replaced. If you’re referring to Zeb, why would I care about him one way or the other?”

“Because you want redemption.” He said the word as if it were poison. “You think if you take care of Zeb, you’ll be forgiven for the death of your other brother.”

The floodgates of Constantine’s emotions shook under the strain. How did the bastard know?

Bonnard put up a hand. “Oh, I’m not saying you fired the shot, but you killed him as surely as if you’d done the deed yourself. He needed to die so you could become a skinwalker.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Marguerite croaked from close by.

Skinwalker walker walker…
The word echoed off countless surfaces in Constantine’s mind, over and over, as it had done for years, always in his father’s terrifying voice. The gates burst, but he wasn’t a child anymore. He projected a ravening wolf, teeth and jaws, slavering fangs, advancing upon his nemesis.

Bonnard put up the other hand, backing away. “Tsk, Marguerite. You need to read up on Navajo lore. To become a skinwalker, one must sacrifice a family member—usually a sibling.”

“There’s no such thing as a skinwalker,” Marguerite cried. “It’s just superstition.”

Constantine shot a glance at her; she’d hardly retreated at all. “Go
away
, Marguerite.”

“Deny it all you like,” Bonnard said, “but it was inevitable, whether you wanted it or not. You were born to be a skinwalker, and what you were given proves it—the fame, the fortune, the power.” His voice quivered on that last word. He was as power hungry now as he’d been way back when.

The great horned owl was back on the tree, hovering silently above them at the tip of an enormous bough.
Circle in. Dive for the kill
.

Not with her here,
Constantine retorted

Bonnard sneered. “You’ll never be a good guy, Dufray, but if having a little brother makes you feel like one, you’re welcome to him. He can move in with you. Be your little buddy.”

“In exchange for what?”

“We finish what we started years ago. You teach me skinwalker magic. Everything you know.”

“What?” Marguerite shrieked. “Don’t you dare!”

“Beat it, girl!” Constantine yelled back.

She’s not going to leave,
the bird said.
And she’s not the only one listening
.

And just like that, it all fell into place. He knew what to do. He faced his father. “What about the evidence Marguerite just mentioned?”