Blood on the Bayou (41 page)

I feel a sob rising in my throat but swallow it down.

I had a life before I started catching magic. And in that life I managed to get into more than my fair share of trouble. But I almost always got out of it, and I didn’t use magic. I used my brain. And I still have that. Mostly.

I also have an idea.

“I’m not dead!” I make sure I’m loud enough for the bastards on the other side of the clearing to hear me. “If you try to finish me off, you’ll only be killing yourselves.”

“Gentry,” the first voice says, sounding a touch frantic. “Gentry!”

“That’s right,” I say, hoping I won’t have to prove myself. “But I don’t want to hurt you. I want to help. I know your leader was killed.”

There’s some mumbling from the fairies and I
think I hear a few new voices I haven’t before, but no immediate response.

“I talked to Grandpa today, and—” Tucker moans and twitches, nudging his face closer to my neck. He’s still unconscious, but he’s present enough to be bothered by someone screaming in his ear. I decide to take that as a positive sign and continue in a softer voice. “He was worried about what’s going to happen if the invisible people are allowed to stay in the swamp. He was right to worry. One of them killed him today.”

More mumbling, more agitated this time, and finally the gravelly voice asks, “Who killed the leader of the Slake?”

“Who do you think?” I ask. “The Big Man thinks he’s untouchable, but he’s not. I know his weakness. And I want him out. I think you want the same thing.”

A whisper and hiss later a soft whumping sound stirs the air above me. An ancient Fey woman appears over Tucker’s shoulder, beating fragile-looking pink wings. Her face is creased with wrinkles and her breasts droop like shriveled apricots over a softly rounded belly, but I can tell she isn’t as old as grandpa. Not quite.

“What is his weakness?” she asks, confirming she’s the owner of the huskier voice.

“Me. He doesn’t like Gentry women. He’s scared of what we can do.”

She considers me for a moment, a hard smile on her tiny face. “So are we. Perhaps he and we are the ones who want the same thing.”

Smart. This one. “He also wants you in a cage.
Like the pixies. You know he had them, and he’s hunting them again. As soon as they’re back under wraps, you’re next.” It’s a bluff, but it’s a good one. I can see the fear the words inspire in her flat eyes. The fairies I’ve seen in containment units at Keesler are pale, feral shadows of their free brethren with a life span of six to eight months, a year at best. Captivity doesn’t agree with many creatures, but it truly doesn’t agree with the Fey.

“And what do
you
want?”

“I want him and everyone creating weapons with Fey venom out of here. For good. The only way to do that is for us to work together. You help me, and I’ll help you. You leave the people of Donaldsonville alone and in exchange, I’ll leave you to your breeding and mosquito killing and . . . whatever else you’re up to.”

She scrunches her nose, baring the top layer of her fangs. “We had a truce before. And now, if you are to be believed, that man has killed our leader. Why should we trust another human?”

“Because I can kill you with a thought,” I say, willing myself to believe it. That I’m capable of doing it. That I have the magic to make her evaporate. Right here. Right now. “I will kill you and the fairies over there and keep killing and killing until every one of you is dead. Then I’ll gather your eggs and use them to make really stinky mayonnaise that I’ll eat on a turkey sandwich when the Fey are extinct.”

“You’ll kill yourself.”

“I don’t care.”

She flutters closer, until her feet touch down on Tucker’s filthy wife-beater. Her wings still and sag, wilting around her hunched shoulders. When she crouches down to bring her wee nose closer to mine, her knees tremble. “Our leader is dead. We will not easily choose another. But . . .”

“But?” I whisper.

“When we do, I will present your offer.”

I take a breath. “Until then we have a truce? You won’t come after me or my friends?”

“I lack the power to make that promise,” she says. “I can give you safe escort to the gates tonight. That is all.”

Shit
. That’s not good enough. I need to know Deedee’s safe, and how am I supposed to get Tucker back to town? He’s too heavy. I’ll never be able to carry him with my muscles and when I can’t carry him with my mind, the fairies will know I’m full of shit.
Shit!

“All right,” I say, sounding remarkably calm.

“But if you harm me or my flight, we’ll tear you apart.” She leans even closer, until I can see my pale, frightened face reflected in her bug eyes. I don’t look tough. I look like a little girl who’s seen the monster under her bed. “I don’t care, either.”

I nod. Swallow.

“Come.”

I nod again. And poke Tucker in the stomach. Once, twice, three times. He moans and shifts his legs, but doesn’t wake up. I poke him again. More moaning. Less shifting. I start to sweat. All over. All at once. “One second,” I tell the fairy. “Let me see if I can
wake him up. He could have a spinal cord injury. I don’t want to move him with magic unless I have to.”

She flutters into the air. “I’ll go convince my flight not to eat your heart.”

“Thanks,” I say dryly.

I swear the old lady smiles before she flies away.

“Bunch of smart-ass, blood-sucking, flying vamp—”

“Blood,” Tucker interrupts, his lips moving sluggishly at my neck.

He can hear me! “Tucker!” I hiss into his ear. “Wake up! You have to wake up.”

“Mmm.”

“There are fairies here. They are going to
kill
us if you don’t get up.”

“Mmmm.” It’s a longer sound, but vaguer. I can feel his spirit pulling away, sinking back into an oblivion he might never crawl back out of unless I do something.

“Tucker, listen to me. I have a proposition for you,” I whisper, letting my lips kiss his skin with the words. I shift beneath him, rolling my hips as I move my hands around to the small of his back. A part of me feels ridiculous for thinking this might work—the man has a head injury and no amount of sexing or promise of sexing is going to help my cause.

But the other part of me knows Tucker better than that.

“If you get up and walk, I’ll take you home, and do sick, wonderful things to your body. All. Night. Long.” My hands slide down to his ass, and his breath
comes faster. “First we’ll take a shower. I’ll wash your back . . . You’ll wash . . . whatever parts of me you think are
dirty
.” His lips part and his eyelashes flutter. “And you know what we’ll do after that?”

“Mmm?” His moan has a question mark at the end. I’m sure of it.

“Then, we’ll dry off, and you’ll show me you know what to do with that ego of yours. And I’ll show you how good redheads are in bed.” More eyelash fluttering and a sliver of blue peeks through before his lids slide closed. “And then we’ll do it again. And again, until you come so hard you forget your own name. Sound good, Jamie?”

“Tucker.” He blinks in slow motion, and his lips twitch at the sides. “Call me . . . Tucker.”

“All right.” I cup his face in my hands, willing him to stay with me with my sexiest sex eyes. “I’ll call you Tucker,” I whisper. “I’ll call you baby. I’ll call you He-Man Master of My Vagina. But you’ve got to get up and move. Now.”

It’s like he’s been Tasered. His abdominal muscles clench and his arms move and his knees slide through the singed grass and a minute later—with a little help—he’s on his feet. His arm lies heavy around me and I feel at least fifty of his two hundred and whatever pounds bearing down on my shoulders, but he’s up.

“We’ve got a fairy escort back to town,” I hiss. “Think you can walk two miles?”

“I can walk to . . . New Orleans,” he says, voice only slightly slurred.

“Good. Because if you fall down before we get there, you won’t be getting up again,” I whisper. “The fairies will kill us.”

“I’m not falling down.” He takes a stiff step forward and then another, gait growing smoother as we cross the clearing to where the fairies hover beneath a peeling cypress. “I’m Tucker, Master of Your Vagina.”

My laugh sounds slightly hysterical, but only slightly, which is pretty good given the circumstances.

Six weeks later

I
t’s the perfect day for a wedding. Eighty degrees, with a pale October sky overhead and a breeze blowing through the live oaks, keeping everyone cool in their Sunday best. The wide drive leading up to Camellia Grove is dissected by a blue runner a shade darker than the sky, lined on either side by rows of white wooden chairs. The columns on the plantation house at the end of the drive are strung with blue and white ribbon, and explosions of hydrangeas in antique copper kettles sit at the end of each row of chairs.

There are a
lot
of chairs. Half the town has turned out. People mill around the drink tables with mimosas or Cokes in hand, visiting and laughing, ordering children to “go play” until it’s time for the service.

Until I have to walk down that aisle and do what I’ve promised to do, no matter how much I wish I could run home and hide under my bed until this is over.

“You go play, too,” I say, giving one of Deedee’s braids a nervous tug. Her hovering is only making me more anxious.

“But I’ll get my dress dirty.”

“You’re a kid, you’re supposed to get your dress dirty. No one’s going to care.”

“I care. I’m the
flower girl
.” She stands up straighter and sticks her nub of a nose in the air, pretending she’s not watching as two girls about her age walk by holding hands, talking very fast about cake.

Deedee’s doing fine in school, but she hasn’t been getting along with some of her old friends. Apparently, third grade is the time when girls start the cliquey, tormenting-each-other-for-fun thing these days. Sad. I think it was at least fifth grade when I was in school. Maybe sixth. And I always had Caroline.

Caroline . . . whose dying face I’m beginning to think it’s okay to forget. Maybe she’d even
want
me to forget. No matter how we fought as teenagers, she loved me. We were good sisters. And good sisters don’t wish suffering upon each other.

Deedee made some noise about wanting to adopt a baby sister last week—observing that we have enough room now that we’ve moved in with Tucker. I gave her the evil eye and reminded her that we already have a cat. An
insane
cat, that would probably eat our baby if we were crazy enough to get one. I almost warned her not to get too comfortable at Tucker’s house, either, but I didn’t. She’s been through enough. I want to give her at least the illusion of stability. I don’t plan on saying a word about
leaving Donaldsonville until the day we pack the armored moving van.

Six more months.

Six more months of proving myself as a foster mom and I’ll be able to adopt Deedee and whisk her away from all the deadly drama. Until then, I can’t take a foster kid out of state. And I can’t let down my guard. And I can’t let anyone know that I’m planning to get as soon as the getting’s good.

“Can I have another Coke?” Deedee asks.

“You already had a Coke.”

“So? I’m still thirsty.”

“You don’t need another Coke.” I stand on tiptoe to see over Dom’s and Dicker’s heads. They’re camped out by the booze table, too. It’s good to see them enjoying themselves—especially since I wasn’t sure they’d be on board with these particular nuptials—but I hope they won’t be too smashed by time for the ceremony. Dom is one of the groomsmen.

“Why not?” Deedee whines.

“Too much sugar.” I lean to the left and the right, but there’s no sign of the man I’m looking for, the man who
promised
to come talk me down from the ledge before the ceremony.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” I ask.

“That’s your third mimosa, ain’t it? Haven’t
you
had too much sugar?”

I shoot her my best I-am-not-amused look. “I can handle it.”

“So can I.”

“Why don’t you put Gimpy in his basket and go play?” I ask with a tight smile, giving her braid a firmer tug. “I can keep him out of trouble.”

“No you can’t. You have to concentrate.” Deedee hugs the Gimp tighter. He growls and slits his eyes, but doesn’t make any move to jump out of her arms. He’s been like a furry growth on her side lately. He even let her tie a white bow around his neck this morning to match my dress.

It would be sweet. It
was
sweet, until I found him in her room last night, trying to eat one of her braids while she was sleeping. Seeing him crouched over her little body in the moonlight streaming through her window . . . disturbed me. A lot. Enough to lock him up in the old chicken coop behind Tucker’s house for the night, and to start thinking about who might take in a deranged animal when it’s time for Deedee and me to hit the road.

I love Gimpy, but I love Deedee more.

“And I don’t want to leave him with someone who’s doing drugs.” Deedee glares at the drink in my hand. “I’ll be in charge of him today.”