Blood on the Bayou (16 page)

I’m covered in a full-body sweat, my head is pounding, and my stomach is full of acid. I could blame the whiskey, but I wasn’t drunk when I went to bed. It’s the dream that did this. The damned fairy is eating my brain from the inside out.

That has to be it. Somehow, he’s sending these dreams. It’s the only explanation that makes a lick of sense. That’s why I saw him in my head and then on the road in real life. He’s trying to scare me away, and he’s going to play dirty until he gets what he wants.

I can’t blame him. If there were someone around who could control my behavior and kill me with a thought, I’d want them gone, too. I haven’t had much time to consider the greater implications of what I did to those fairies yesterday, but the old guy obviously has, and he’s determined not to let me fulfill my fairy-destroying potential.

More than my own suspicions, more than the dead Fey I saw squished on the road when I drove back by the scene of yesterday’s attack, my nightmare-filled sleep convinces me I’m onto something big. Huge. Maybe life-altering for everyone in the Delta.

What if I can get rid of the fairies? Forever? What if I can take back everything we’ve lost, and make
things the way they were when I was sixteen, before the terrorist attacks on the petrochemical plants and the chemical spills that mutated the fairies and the constant lingering terror that has left so many people shadows of who they could have been if fairies had stayed the stuff of story books and legends?

The idea should be intoxicating, exhilarating. I should be filled with hope and wonder and the fire of Things to Be Done. But all I feel is . . . dread. Big, black, nameless dread hovering over my bed, making me want to hide under the covers.

I don’t want this responsibility. I don’t want to decide the future. I don’t want to be held accountable for changing the fate of every soul living in the infected Delta. Because a part of me wonders if getting rid of the fairies will make things better, if it might not, in fact, make some things worse.

I don’t care for spiders or rats or snakes—especially snakes—but they have their place. If the snake population was suddenly wiped out, we’d soon be overrun by mice and rats and all the other disease-bearing critters the snakes used to kill. The fairies are a part of the bayou, too, and have been for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years. Yes, they’re larger now and they kill people as well as insects, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re a part of our world. I can’t know what ripple effects eliminating the fairies would have on everything else living in the infested states.

I suppose I shouldn’t care. My sister was killed by fairy bite, so were Hitch’s mom and sisters, so were countless other people, and more die or are infected
every year. Cane lost his sister to a containment camp a few weeks ago. He’ll never hug her again. Because of fairies. Screw upsetting the ecosystem, I should be gearing up for a mass extermination.

But it still doesn’t feel right. In the beginning it was so clear—I wanted the fairies dead. I wanted them all burned alive as payment for Caroline. But now . . . when I think about the world before and the world after . . .

There are things that were better then,
hell yes
there were, but there
are
things that are better now. People pull together. Racism and classism and sexism and homophobia still exist, but not with the same raging intensity. People connect because we are all people, united by our common enemy.

“Like Hitler.” I jab myself in the eyes with my thumbs, rubbing until I can stand the invasion of gray morning light cutting through the curtains.

Tolerance created by a common terror isn’t worth the terror. And who am I to decide if life is better or worse than it was? I’m immune. I’ve got a free pass, at least for myself. I live in fear of losing the people I care about, but I can wander outside the gates whenever I want.

Or at least I could. Now, the rules are changing, and all this thinking is probably going to amount to nothing. It’s going to come down to them or me, and I’m not going to choose the fairies’ lives over my own.

I drag myself into a seated position and find the cool hardwood floor with my toes, shivering in the blast of the window air-conditioner, feeling vaguely
uncomfortable in my own skin. The air in the house is different this morning. Thicker, but lighter at the same time. I glance at the clock, see that it’s only five forty-five, and decide the hideously early hour must be to blame. Then I hear a low rumble in the kitchen and it all comes rushing back to me.

Cane. Me. The bed. The nookie. The lovey-dovey feelings and going to sleep certain the future was going to be brighter this morning.

But it’s not. The nightmare made sure of that. The fact that Cane isn’t snuggled up beside me right now isn’t helping. What’s he doing in the kitchen? And who is he talking to before six in the morning?

I stand, careful not to step on the squeaky place in the floor as I tiptoe on bare feet toward the kitchen. I stop when Cane’s rumble becomes words I can understand and stand perfectly still, straining my ears not to miss a single word. I know I’m doing a bad thing. I shouldn’t eavesdrop on my lover. I am violating his privacy and I feel bad about it.

Just not bad enough to alert him to the fact that I’m no longer asleep.

“I have the money,” he whispers. “In cash, all different serial numbers, like you said.”

Money. What the . . . ?

“Make sure you’ve got what you promised.” Cane’s voice takes on a razor edge I’ve never heard before. He sounds mean. Scary. I think about tiptoeing back to the bed and hiding under the covers, but before I can move he speaks again. “I’ll be in Gramercy at noon. I’ll be wearing my suit, and I will be armed.”
He pauses. Grunts. “I don’t care what he said. I’ll be armed, and I’ll be able to see anyone else who’s armed from the old dock. You come alone, give me what I want, and you won’t have to worry about my gun.”

The docks. Oh god. Why is Cane going to the docks? With a gun? And a big batch of cash? Even wearing the DPD’s iron suit, he won’t be completely safe from fairy bite. Why risk his life like that? Why, unless he’s involved in something illegal?

Maybe it’s an undercover job. Maybe he’s trapping a bad guy.

But I know the hopeful thoughts are bullshit. Cane is a man of many talents, but he couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag—even in the name of serving and protecting. I always know what Cane’s thinking and feeling and so does everyone else. He’s an open book, and right now that book is a story about an angry man with a gun who’s threatening to shoot whoever’s on the other end of the phone if they don’t deliver what they’ve promised to deliver.

“You leave right after, and don’t come back through—” He breaks off, and when he speaks again his voice is even harder. “I don’t give a shit about your deliveries. You take the money and disappear or I’ll
make
you disappear. I don’t have anything left to lose.”

He has
nothing
left to lose. What am I? What was last night?

“Noon,” Cane says again. The phone snaps shut. I spin, heart leaping as I tiptoe-dash to the bed. I ease back onto the covers and throw an arm over my eyes
just in time. Cane is by my side a few seconds later, smoothing his hand over my hip.

For the first time, his gentle touch makes my skin crawl. “Lee-lee? You awake?”

I moan, but don’t move my arm. I can’t look at him right now. Not yet. I can’t let him see that anything’s changed. I don’t want him to suspect that I heard his conversation, not until I show up at that dock today and find out exactly what kind of shipment he and his gun are going to be collecting.

If he’d stopped before that last sentence, I’d be tempted to talk this through right now and do whatever I could to keep him from risking his life outside the iron gates. But I felt the truth in his words. He really believes he has nothing to lose, and I’m tired of feeling like nothing.

“Lee-lee?”

“Wha?” My sleepy voice is so convincing that Cane laughs beneath his breath.
Laughs
. How can he laugh at me? How can he pretend he finds my sleepy morning self adorable when he’s planning to put our future at risk?

Maybe he’s a better actor than I thought. I certainly never suspected he was involved in the alleged DPD corruption. But he must be in it up to his thick, weight-lifting and whey-protein-shake-guzzling neck. What other reason is there for him to be hanging out on the old dock with a bag of cash?

“I have to go, girl.” His hand smoothes up, sliding under my tank top, tracing the curve from my hip to my waist.

I barely resist the urge to bat his fingers away. How dare he? How dare he lie to me when I’d finally started to believe in Us? In me and Cane. Against the world. Filling up each other’s emptiness and being something better together and
blah, blah, blah
.

Ugh.
I don’t have to fake my nauseous moan. “I feel . . . yucky.” I push up into a seated position and bring a hand to my forehead, figuring playing sick is the best way to avoid a mushy good-bye.

“You look beautiful.” He kisses the nape of my neck, making me shiver. His lips still feel good, even knowing they’re the lips of a traitor. “You were sweet in your sleep this morning. Like an angel.”

I snort. “An angel of death.”

“If death looks like you, it can come for me anytime.” He tries to pull me into his arms, but this time I can’t stop myself from shoving him away.

“Bathroom. I must go to it.” I stumble toward the bathroom, pretending I don’t notice the hurt on his face. “Call me?”

“We still on for later? Mama’s expecting you.”

I lean heavily against the bathroom door. “Right. Lunch. Noon, is it?” I ask innocently.

“No. We decided to have dinner instead. Around five. Abe has to work and I’ve got errands to get done before the week starts.”

Black-market-business-on-the-docks types of errands. Grrr. What a
liar
he is. It makes me want to punch him in the chest and demand the truth.

Instead I smile. “I’ll be there. I’m sure I’ll feel better after a shower.”

“Okay.” Cane rises and slips on the shoes he kicked to the floor last night. “You want to pick me up? I’d love to see your new ride in action.”

“What new ride?”

He smiles and motions toward the kitchen. “You realize you’ve got a Harley in your kitchen, right? When did you get that? And why—”

“I didn’t want to park it outside until I built a shed.” I cut his questions off at the pass, cursing Tucker and the Big Man and their stupid gift that I haven’t had time to figure out how to dispose of. “I know it’s a pain in the ass in there. I’ll figure something out.”

“I can build you something,” he says, making it even harder to pretend. How can he stand there and act like everything is hunky-dory, when he’s getting ready to risk his life? How can he look me in the eye and smile like he loves me when he’s got nothing left to lose?

“Thanks, but I know you’re busy.” My tone is more cutting than I would like. I cover with another smile. “See you at your mom’s. Five o’clock.”

He nods, obviously confused. “All right.” He turns toward the door, but turns back almost immediately, a softer look in his eyes. “Hey. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” I do. But that doesn’t keep me from glaring at his back as he walks to the door.

I love him, but he’s made that immaterial. The only thing that matters is what goes down at noon. If he gives me proof that he’s one of the bad guys, I’ll have no choice but to end things. Just because he’s the man I love doesn’t make it okay for him to be a criminal,
any more than being my surrogate mom makes it okay for Marcy to traffic in black-market drugs.

Jesus
. First Fernando, then Marcy, now Cane. Who’s next? Who else is going to prove to me that I’m a trusting idiot without the sense god gave intestinal bacteria?

Hm.
Intestinal bacteria . . .

I really
don’t
feel well. My stomach gurgles sickly and the weak morning light feels like it’s stabbing me in the eyeballs. Shower. It needs to happen.

I head into the bathroom and reach past the faded green shower curtain to turn on the water. I strip off my dirty tank top, throw it in the already overflowing wicker basket, and consider forcing myself into the water before it’s warm in the name of shocking myself awake. Then I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

Beautiful, my ass. I look like
hell
. My hair is sticking out in a thousand different directions, dark circles purple the skin beneath my eyes, and my pupils are as dilated as they were the morning after I was first bitten by fairies. I lean over the sink, getting as close as I dare to my troubling reflection.

I look like a creepy doll with black button eyes. Good thing it was dark in my bedroom and Cane was too preoccupied to bother looking too closely or I would have been on my way to the emergency room. I’m going to have to wear my sunglasses all day or risk seriously freaking people out. I grab my toothbrush with an angry grunt and set to vigorously brushing my teeth.

Shit!
Why is this happening? Am I getting sick again? Is the shot wearing off a few days early? Should I give myself another? If I do, is it going to show up on my drug test at work? Is the shot what’s making me able to control the fairies? Are the Big Man and Tucker aware that we can do this kind of thing? Can they control them, too? And where the hell is Tucker and why hasn’t he moved the goddamned Harley out of my kitchen?!

“Argh!” I kick at the sink, groaning as my bare toes crunch against the cabinet. I spit out my toothpaste, stab my toothbrush back into the holder, and hop toward the shower, cussing beneath my breath, lamenting the state of my life, cursing all the gods human beings ever imagined into existence.

And then I pull back the shower curtain, forget my less pressing troubles, and scream like the heroine of a 1950s horror movie.

Because there is someone in my shower.

A small, paunchy someone with damp wings, and a very nasty—very toothy—little smile.