CHAPTER FOUR

The trail was hard dirt that skimmed between a sugarcane field on one side and a treelined creek bed on the other. The woods were in front of us, a dark wall battling back oppressive sunshine. The temperature dropped ten degrees the second we stepped into shade, but the trees and foliage quickly formed a canopy over the path, closing in the humidity.

“It’s like trying to breathe through a wet blanket,” I said, wiping my brow.

“Yeah,” Gavin said, pausing to inspect a tree along the trail—and the small symbols carved into it.

“Para trailblazing?” I asked.

“Yeah. I don’t know the meaning, but at least we know we’ve hit the trail.”

We walked until trees surrounded us on all sides and we could no longer see the fields open behind us.

“Creek’s nearby,” Gavin said as the sound of moving water grew louder.

A few seconds later, the trail spit us out to a short bluff over the narrow creek, which flowed invitingly between tree-covered banks. “Steps” had been worn into the sharp drop to the water, held in place by roots that popped up through the dirt.

“And here we are,” he said. We took off our backpacks, pulled out our bottles, and headed down the bank. Gavin went first, sliding a little in the slick mud, and turned back to offer me a hand when he hit the bottom.

“You want help?”

“Not going to say no to that offer,” I said, taking his strong fingers and easing my way toward the water. I ran-skipped the final few feet, then grabbed a tree limb to keep from pitching into the creek.

“Momentum’s a bitch,” Gavin said with a grin, uncapping his bottle.

“Yeah.” But the view was nearly worth it. The water wasn’t deep—only a foot or so—but it was crystal clear, moving quickly over a rocky bottom. A tree limb dipped nearly to the surface on the opposite bank, and Spanish moss hung like lace above the ribbon of water as it flowed past.

Except for the gurgle of water over rock, the world was completely silent. If anything else moved in the woods, the sound was muffled by the stream. That was a reason to take a minute to relax—and a reminder that we needed to be aware.

“It’s beautiful here.”

“Yeah,” Gavin said, taking a drink from the bottle he’d already filled. “There’s a reason I don’t spend much time in the city. Out here, it’s easy to pretend the war never happened. That everything’s peaceful again and you’re alone in paradise.”

I looked at him. “You like going solo.”

“I’m used to it,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. A tender spot, I guessed.

I dipped my bottle into the stream until it was full again, took a long drink. The water was sweet and cold, probably untouched by humans since the war.

That was one of the few benefits of the battles that had racked Louisiana. Most humans and industry were long gone, and nature had reclaimed the land in their absence. A few years ago, pesticides probably would have made the creek water undrinkable. The world had, in some ways, healed itself.

I screwed on the bottle cap again, then splashed water on my face and dried it with the bottom of my T-shirt.

Back on the bluff, which was easier to get up than climb down, I looked it over for enemies—snakes, spiders, ants—and took a seat.

“I’m going to take a moment,” Gavin said, gesturing into the woods. “A private moment.”

“I don’t need the details,” I said, holding up a hand. “Do what you need to do. I’ll be right here.”

“Stay put,” he said with a warning glance. “We don’t know who or what’s roaming around these woods looking for Liam or you.”

“Not a problem,” I said, patting the log. “Me and Mr. Tree will hang out right here.”

With a nod, he wandered back down the trail.

He’d been gone less than a minute when I heard his footsteps behind me. “Found the little boys’ room already?” I asked.

It took me a moment to realize they weren’t Gavin’s footsteps.

And that was a moment too late.

•   •   •

The hand that clapped over my mouth was thick and callused and smelled of dirt and gasoline.

“Keep ya mouth shut, and you’ll be fine.” His voice was over my head and to my right. He was tall, and the spread of heat radiating at my back indicated he was wide as well. His other hand was clamped on my shoulder.

“You got her?” The second man stepped out from behind a tree. Average height, average weight, average looks, dark hair, pale skin. He wore a T-shirt, jeans, and boots. No uniform, which meant he wasn’t a Containment agent. Or he wasn’t on duty as one, anyway.

“I got her,” the man behind me said.

My heart was pounding so fiercely it might have broken through my chest. But panic wouldn’t help me, so I made myself stay calm and hoped they might let their guard down.

“Let me go,” I said, when he moved his hand away from my mouth. But he kept his meaty hold on my shoulder.

“Oh, we can’t do that.” The second man’s voice had a rough edge, as if he’d dragged each word over a serrated blade. “You appear to be Claire Connolly, and I know plenty of Containment agents who’d like to question you. And what’s more, my research says you know one Liam Quinn. He’s right at the top of my list, and I understand he’s been seen in these parts.”

“We aren’t gonna hurt you,” the man behind me said. “Just take you into New Orleans.”

Not a trip I wanted to take today, and certainly not with these two. But before I could object, Gavin stepped onto the trail, his eyes wide, an apple halfway to his mouth. If he was alarmed to see me in my current position, he hid it well.

“Well, hello there,” he said, crunching into the apple, as he looked from man to man and then to me. “I am not sure what I’ve come across here, but I don’t want any trouble.”

“True enough, friend,” the second man said. “This is Containment business, so just be on your way.”

“Containment business?” Gavin looked excited. “That’s actually really great. I don’t suppose you gentlemen have any matches to trade? Mine got soaked, and I’ve been looking for someone on the trail for two hours.”

“Your name?” the second one asked.

“You can call me Lafitte,” Gavin said, naming the most famous pirate in the history of New Orleans. “I’m not aiming to make friends.” He held up his hands. “You don’t have what I need, I’ll be on my way.”

The man behind me let me go, giving me a look at his face. He was older, easily a hard-earned sixty, with long, frizzy gray hair and a mustache of the same color that fell well below his chin. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with a leather vest covered in patches.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out an old Altoids tin. And from that, he extracted three thick matches.

“Thank God,” Gavin said, relief clear on his face. “I’ve got MREs, an extra knife, some wire and rope I found up the way. Any of that interest you?”

“All of it,” the younger man said, “if you want the matches.”

Gavin’s gaze narrowed, jaw working as he considered. “Price isn’t worth it for me. Two MREs, wire, and rope.”

“You aren’t exactly in a bargaining spot.”

Gavin’s brows lifted. “I’m not?”

“You don’t seem to know who we are.”

“I can’t say that I do.”

“Hunters,” said the older man. “And lots of people want to talk to her.”

Gavin looked at me doubtfully. “About what? She doesn’t look like much of a threat.”

“She did something that pissed off Containment,” the older man said. “The details ain’t no business of mine.”

“I guess I can’t argue with that.” Gavin took another bite of the apple. “Bounties make for good work? I haven’t gone that route yet, prefer staying outside New Orleans—which is Gomorrah if you ask me—but I’m always looking for viable employment.”

“It’s viable,” the younger one said, “if you’re skilled.”

“Sure,” Gavin said, eagerness in his nod. “Of course.”

“Biggest bounty is for Liam Quinn,” the older one said, excitement coloring his words. “Biggest bounty Containment’s issued in three years.”

There was a hard knot in my stomach. Gavin’s eyes shifted quickly to mine, a warning in his gaze that told me to keep my mouth shut.

“Jimmy,” the younger one said, “zip it.”

Jimmy pursed his lips. “Sorry, Crowley.”

Crowley was the older one. He nodded, looked at Gavin again. “We’ve got business now. If you want the trade, let’s get on with it.”

“Sure thing.” Gavin took a final bite of the apple and tossed the rest into the woods. Then he wiped his hand on his pants, pulled his backpack off his shoulder, and set it on the ground. “Shit,” he said, wincing as he yanked at the zipper. “Damn thing’s stuck again.”

“Let’s go,” Crowley said, after Gavin had wrestled with it for another solid minute.

Gavin looked up, held out the bag. “You want to give it a go?”

Crowley stepped forward, and Gavin took his chance. He used the bag like a baseball bat, slamming it toward Crowley. But Crowley dodged at the last moment, so the bag only smacked his shoulder.

“Son of a bitch!” Crowley yelled. He took a knife from the leather holster on his belt and sliced down, aiming for Gavin’s chest. Gavin, who still held the bag in one hand, spun it again, this time knocking the knife away so it disappeared into the foliage. Crowley growled and charged, pushing them both to the ground.

His hand still around my arm, Jimmy yanked me back down the trail toward Vacherie. I tried to pull away, but he outweighed me by more than a hundred pounds and didn’t mind dragging me.

“We have to make a damn living, too,” he muttered, his uneven fingernails digging into the skin on my arm.

“Everybody does,” I said neutrally, my gaze darting around the narrow trail, looking for something I could use.

Since he wasn’t sure why Containment wanted to talk to me, I didn’t think it was a good idea to call up magic and clarify that for him. So unless Gavin got to me first, I’d have to deal with Jimmy on my own.

And when I saw what I needed, I made my move.

“Ow!” I cried. I leaned down, touched my ankle gingerly, then hopped a bit for good measure. “I stepped on something wrong. I think I might have sprained it, maybe?” I let my voice do a simpering little whine.

“Freaking women in the woods,” Jimmy muttered. He dragged me over to a chopped-off cypress stump and pushed me down onto it. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

When he leaned over to look at my foot, I brought my knee up hard against his chin.

Kneecap slammed into jaw and sent pain ricocheting up my leg. Jimmy howled and stumbled backward, his momentum stopped by a tree on the other side of the trail.

“Son of a bitch!” he said, his words muffled by the hand he’d slapped over his mouth.

While I scrambled to my feet and snagged a thick branch that lay beside the stump, he pulled his fingers away, and his eyes went hot with anger at the sight of the blood on them.

He roared and jumped up again. I waited until he was close, then dodged to the side, lifted the branch, and brought it down across his back. He stumbled forward, hit the cypress stump, then rolled over it to the ground. He was up in a second, clothes striped with mud and moss and plenty of piss and vinegar in his glare.

I raised the branch again, but he was on me before I could swing. He grabbed it and tried to pull it away, but I put my weight into it, and his mud-slicked fingers lost their purchase. He cursed and I stumbled and hit the ground. The branch skittered off.

Jimmy wiped blood from his face. “You couldn’t just go quietly?” He stalked forward, and I scrambled backward, trying to give myself enough space to get to my feet. “You get into trouble with Containment, that’s your fault. Man has a right to make a living out here, damn it.”

Since Liam and Gavin were hunters, too, I didn’t object to the principle. But I objected to being anyone’s prisoner. “I don’t have anything to say to Containment.”

“That’s not what Containment says.”

I finally managed to get to my feet, sweat snaking down my back from the heat, the humidity, and the fight. My heart was still pounding, my adrenaline high. “I guess that makes us enemies. Why don’t we both just walk away?”

“I don’t think so.” Jimmy reached out and swiped at me, but I managed to avoid him. Problem was, the path was narrow, bounded by swampy woods on both sides. Jumping into that mess wasn’t going to help me get away from him. “Why don’t you be a good little girl and come with me?”

“Because I’m not a good little girl.” I kneed him in the balls. And when he hit the ground, moaning and scrunched up with pain, I grabbed the branch from the ground and knocked him in the back of the head.

“Freaking women in the woods,” I said, chest heaving. Then I tossed the branch away.

There was clapping behind me. I looked back, found Gavin leaning against a tree and applauding me congenially.

“Thanks for the help,” I muttered, wiping my hands on my pants.

“Didn’t need my help,” he said. “You can handle yourself on your own.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “You get your guy?”

“He’s out.”

I cocked my head toward the man on the trail. “I guess we’ll need to do something with him.”

“You wanna kill him?” he asked.

Once upon a time, that question would have horrified me a lot more than it did now.

Still. “No, I don’t want to kill him. I’d really like to get out of this trip without anybody dying,” I said. The fight did confirm this trip had been a good idea, though; Liam and Eleanor needed warning. And they needed it fast.

“Lafitte?” I asked.

“Beau Q. Lafitte,” Gavin drawled. “One of the identities I use on ops.”

“And nobody guessed ‘Lafitte’ was borrowed from ‘Jean Lafitte’?”

“It’s Louisiana,” he said with a grin. “Anyone who recognizes it wants to hear the backstory.”

“Which is?”

“He’s Beau’s grandfather, a dozen generations back. And in between, you’ve got your wenches, privateers, the illegitimate son of a U.S. senator.”

“That’s a lot of fake backstory.”

“I spend a lot of time alone,” Gavin said. “I made a chart.”

This time, I heard the flutter, saw the silhouette of wings against the sky as Malachi maneuvered through the trees and touched down on the trail with impressive grace.

He looked at Jimmy. “Bounty hunter?”

“Yep,” I said, then gestured down the trail. “There’s another one that way.”

“They’re going to wake up soon,” Gavin said.

“They won’t trail us to the others.” Malachi’s statement was as much warning as promise.

Gavin smiled. “I’ve got an idea about that. You know Montagne Désespérée?”

Malachi didn’t smile, but there was definitely amusement in his eyes. “I do.”

“What’s that mean? ‘Desperate Mountain’?” I translated.

“‘Hopeless Mountain,’” Gavin corrected. “Right off Bayou Black. And it’s not a place you want to be stranded. Which is unfortunate for them.”

•   •   •

Montagne Désespérée couldn’t have even impersonated a mountain, except by the standards of flat southern Louisiana. It was a hump of land about twenty yards across, like a man’s balding dome topped with scrubby vegetation and ringed by cypress knees and dark water. And it would be the temporary home of Jimmy and Crowley, whom Malachi and Gavin had hefted down the trail.

“This isn’t an accidental hill,” Malachi said, looking it over.

“No,” Gavin said. “Built by Native Americans five or six thousand years ago. It used to be higher. But again, the water’s rising.”

“How do we get over there?” I asked, glancing dubiously at the swamp that lapped at our feet, water bugs skimming like ice-skaters across its surface.

“In a skiff,” Gavin said. “I just have to remember where to find it.” He picked up a stick and began poking into the leaves, fronds, and moss that littered the ground and probably held more than a few spiders and snakes.

I stayed well back from the search. And sure enough, after a couple of minutes, Gavin hit something wooden and hollow, then used the branch to push debris off a gnarly-looking boat upside down in the dirt, well hidden from passersby. But not, apparently, from people in the know.

“How did you know that would be there?” I asked.

“Because it’s not my first time on Hopeless Mountain,” Gavin grumbled, and I knew I’d need to weasel the entire story out of him later.

“Let’s flip her,” he said, and we took positions along the boat, pushed it up and over, and found the oars wedged beneath the seats. We carried it to the water and set the nose firmly in the muck at the edge so it wouldn’t float away. Gavin watched for a minute, hands on his hips, waiting to be sure the bottom didn’t leak and fill with water.

“Who left you here?” Malachi asked.

“That’s a story that doesn’t need telling. Suffice it to say I woke up on the mountain one morning with a helluva headache and no skiff.”

“You swam for it?”

“After I gathered up the nerve. Place is teeming with gators. But I made it out again. Point is, if you’re on the correct side of the bayou,” Gavin said, “the skiff’s here for the borrowing. If not, you take your chances with the water.

“Boat’s fine,” he pronounced, then glanced over at the hunters, now on the ground and still unconscious. Then he looked at me. “Three in the boat at a time. You want to help or watch?”

“Land is fine by me.”

We moved Crowley first. Gavin and Malachi paddled the short distance to the hill while I watched Jimmy. Then they unloaded Crowley, made the return trip, and repeated the process.

“What do you think?” Gavin asked me, arms crossed as he looked over their work. He and Malachi had placed the two men beside each other against a tree, arms slung over each other’s shoulders like buddies sleeping off a bender.

“I think they’re going to be pissed when they wake up.” I slapped a bug on my elbow, hoping for at least a couple of reasons that I wasn’t going to be in the vicinity when that happened. “How long will they be here?”

“Probably less than twenty-four hours,” Gavin said. “If they don’t want to wade back to shore, shrimpers will find them.”

“I’m surprised there are shimpers this far out,” I said.

He shrugged. “Life was already hard in this area, so the war wasn’t much of a change. Anyway, these two couillons will only have to wait out the mosquitoes.” Right on cue, he slapped a bug on his neck.

Malachi and I helped Gavin turn the boat upside down and cover it again. Then Gavin picked up his backpack, slung it over one shoulder. “Let’s get moving. Just in case they had friends.”

•   •   •

Malachi’s conversation with the Paras had kept him out of the bounty hunters’ sight. Since he’d come back with a snack, we could forgive his missing the fight.

“Sweet rice cakes,” he said, offering a waxed paper package containing two small round snacks in pretty pastel colors. “It’s one of Anh’s family recipes.”

Gavin grabbed one and took a bite. “Nice.”

I took the other one, nibbled on the edge. It was sweet and soft, and textured on the inside like a honeycomb.

“I believe her parents were from Vietnam,” Malachi said. “They were here before the war and stayed when it was over.”

“They give you any information?” Gavin asked, stuffing the rest of the cake into his mouth and licking sugar from his fingers.

“Djosa says he saw Erida,” Malachi said. “But not Liam or Eleanor, and they don’t know where Erida was going.”

“Is he telling the truth?” Gavin asked.

Malachi nodded. “He might evade, but I don’t think he’d lie about the details. But he did have one suggestion—that we visit the Bayou Black Marina and speak with a woman named Cherie.”

“Hey,” Gavin said, brightening up, “I know her. She’s actually a friend of mine.”

When we both looked at him, he hunched his shoulders. “What? I have friends.”

Malachi’s brows lifted. “Seriously?”

Gavin looked at Malachi, then me.

“He’s been working on sarcasm,” I explained. “I think he’s getting pretty good at it.”

“You let Moses have a joke book, and you’re teaching Malachi about sarcasm. Of all the things you could illuminate about the human experience, you opted for those?”

“Man’s gotta have a hobby,” I said with a grin. “Didn’t you say that once?”

Gavin grumbled and led the way down the trail again.

•   •   •

It was the ugliest building I’d ever seen, and it sat like a sentinel at the edge of Bayou Black.

Maybe less a building than a three-year-old’s imitation of a building—flotsam and jetsam assembled into a rough cube perched on top of wooden piles to keep it out of the water.

But letting the water take it might have been a small mercy. The walls were shards of other buildings—red shiplap and weathered cypress and aluminum siding—and the windows were oddly sized and mismatched, probably salvaged from the same buildings. It was ringed by a rickety dock that connected land and sea and hosted a single skinny gas pump.

“That is . . . interesting,” Malachi finally said from our spot on the shoreline.

“It’s ugly as sin,” Gavin said. “And the proprietor’s a pain in the ass. But she knows her stuff.”

“And there will be shade,” I said, wishing we’d decided to hunt down the Arsenault clan on a cloudy day.

“Let’s go,” Gavin said, and we strode across the bouncing dock to the door.

The inside didn’t look any better than the exterior. Mismatched tables and mismatched chairs atop a sheet of linoleum that curled around the edges. There was a bar on the far end made of an old shop counter with a glass front, the case now filled with faded buoys and tangles of fishing nets.

Only one chair was occupied—by a man whose tan skin had the texture of sandpaper. He was roughly bear shaped, wore a T-shirt, jeans, and rubber boots, and worked on a bowl of food with grim determination. He looked up when we entered, apparently found nothing worth commenting on, and returned to his lunch.

There may not have been much to look at, but there was plenty to feel. An air conditioner roared in a small window on the other end of the room, and the bar was at least twenty degrees cooler than the air outside. The striking difference made my head spin, and I didn’t mind a bit.

“Close the goddamn door.” The voice came from behind the bar. The woman—tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-skinned—stepped around it. Her hair was short and dark, her eyes narrowed with irritation. “You think electricity comes in with the tide?”

“I think if you’ve got AC in here,” Gavin said, walking to the bar as Malachi closed the door, “electricity isn’t a problem.”

“It’s always a damn problem.” She looked him over. “What’s not a problem is that sweet, sweet face. You are a beautiful example of a man.”

Gavin’s eyes narrowed. “It’s good to see you, too, Cherie. Can we steal a few minutes of your time?”

She looked over at us, took in me and Malachi. “Six ears is three times the price.”

“I can pay,” Gavin assured her. He pulled bills from his pocket and put the wad on the counter. She slipped the packet into a pocket of snug, worn jeans in a practiced move that said this was clearly not her first bribe.

“Your friends?” she asked, looking us over.

“Call them Tom and Jerry.”

She looked dubious, but gestured at a table. “Take a seat,” she said. She opened a cooler behind the bar, and condensation rose into the air like steam. She pulled out an unlabeled bottle of what I guessed was homebrew, popped the top, walked back to our table.

I guess the payment didn’t include beverages.

Cherie pulled out a chair and practically fell into it. The movement shook the entire structure, and I had to swallow the urge to grip the edges of the table for support. At least if the building crumbled beneath us, we would hit the water.

“Helluva morning,” she said, and took a long pull from the bottle. “PCC patrol rolled through here a few hours ago.”

My heart tripped at the possibility they’d already narrowed down Liam’s location—and made it farther and faster than us.

“PCC patrol?” Gavin asked. “Looking for someone?”

“Don’t know. They drove past on the levee road, didn’t stop.” Gaze narrowed, she looked at Gavin. “You here because of Containment?”

Gavin slid a questioning gaze to the loner at the table.

“Don’t worry about him,” she said. “That’s Lon. Shrimper. Lives in his trawler half mile up the water. He doesn’t hold with Containment.”

“In that case, I’m here because of my brother.”

She chewed on that for a good fifteen seconds. “Word is, your frère’s wanted for the murder of a Containment agent.”

“Incorrect,” Gavin said. “He wasn’t in New Orleans when it happened.”

“Heard that, too.”

“That’s why we’re here. We need to find him. You know where he is?”

She shook her head, twirled her bottle on the table. “I haven’t seen him, don’t know anyone who has. Could be I could speculate. For the right price.”

Gavin’s patience was obviously wearing thin. “I already paid you.”

“For the time,” she said, and took a drink. “Not for the answers.”

For a long moment, she and Gavin just looked at each other, poker players gauging each other’s hands. “What do you want?”

“Booze. We can’t get shit but skunky beer up here.” Still, she took another pull on the bottle. “Skunky beer’s better than nothing, but it don’t help business much.”

She didn’t seem to get the irony of “better than nothing,” given that she was demanding more from us. But there was no point in complaining. Not when we needed information, and not when I could do something about it.

“Done,” I said. Getting goods into Containment was my particular skill, after all. And even if I wasn’t at the helm of Royal Mercantile, I still had contacts.

Gavin kicked me under the table, but I ignored it.

Cherie narrowed her eyes at me. “You answered fast. Maybe I didn’t ask for enough.”

“You didn’t let me finish.” I leaned forward. “Done—if you give us the right information.”

She watched me for a moment, calculating. “What kind of booze?”

“Depends on what they’re bringing in that week. But if it’s on the truck, I can get it.”

She wet her lips thirstily. “I might know where you can find a friend of his. Word is, there’s a woman living in a cabin near Dulac, only been there a few days. Word is, she doesn’t see in this world, but she sees in others.”

That was Eleanor, almost certainly. But I kept my expression neutral and didn’t let her see the victory in my eyes.

“That’s an unusual condition,” Gavin said carefully.

“It is,” she agreed. “The kind of thing that would interest Containment. Or maybe already has.”

“The PCC patrol?” Gavin asked.

“Don’t know, but that certainly seems possible.” Our time apparently up—or because she didn’t like the Containment talk—Cherie rose and pushed back her chair with a squeak of metal. “Word about bounties spreads fast around here. Take a break if you need it, but don’t stay too long.” She grabbed her bottle by the neck and headed back to the bar.

“Thank you, Cherie.”

She held up the bottle as she walked away, her back to us. “Get me some decent brew, we’ll call it even.”

“We’re going to end up owing a lot of people on this trip,” Gavin muttered when we’d stepped outside again. “Let’s get out of here. Being out in the open is making me twitchy.”

“Also,” Malachi said, “you may need new friends.”