CHAPTER SIX

By the time we made it, darkness had fallen.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” Eleanor said. “We’ll have a fire.”

Since I was bone-deep tired—physically and emotionally—that sounded good to me.

The Quinn boys prepared the bonfire, logs and branches in a brick fire pit, and arranged camp chairs around it.

Eleanor and I took neighboring chairs, watching forks of flame lift and crackle. Beyond the fire’s reach, the world was dark, but the bayou was loud with frogs, insects, and the calls of animals.

Liam came out and took a seat on Eleanor’s other side, the chair angled just enough for his gaze to fall on me.

And fall it did. Intense and searching. But he still hadn’t given voice to anything he was feeling, whatever that might have been.

“Dinner,” Malachi said, and I shifted my gaze from the fire to the enamel mug he offered. The metal was hot, and the steam that wafted up smelled of meat and onion and the bright green flavor I recognized as filé.

He sat down beside me, his broad shoulders and muscular body almost comically large in the slender chair.

“Nothing for you?” I asked. He’d brought only the one cup.

He shook his head and crossed his arms, watching Liam warily beneath half-closed lids. I’d assumed Malachi and Liam had discussed Liam’s magic, but maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe Gavin and I weren’t the only ones who hadn’t seen it, who didn’t know what kind of power he was carrying. Or how it had affected him.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Spoon,” Gavin said behind him, pulling two from his pocket, offering one to me. “I’m not entirely sure what variety of gumbo this is.”

“Probably crawfish,” I said. “Or didn’t you recognize the traps?”

“I don’t trap,” Gavin said, fanning a mouthful of still-steaming gumbo. “Hot,” he confirmed, and swallowed with a wince.

I pulled out a spoonful, but let it cool before I took a stingy bite. It was thick enough to stand the spoon straight up, dark as coffee, and absolutely delicious.

“Not a bad way to spend an evening,” Gavin said, casting a glance at Liam. He leaned forward as if studying the fire, hands clasped in front of him.

“The fire is good,” I said. “The bayou is . . . intimidating.”

Gavin smiled. “Didn’t spend much time out of the city, did you?”

“I camped at City Park once for a field trip. But otherwise, no.” Even the gas station, which was supposed to be an emergency bunker, was loaded with tech, including the air conditioner, dehumidifier, and solar generator that had kept my father’s collection safe.

A steady beat began to fill the air, and it took me a moment to realize what I was hearing.

“Is that—is that the Go-Go’s?” Eighties pop didn’t find its way into the Zone very often.

“It is,” Erida said, pulling a chair to the fire. Like Malachi, she didn’t carry a bowl. But she did have a beer, which raised my opinion of her. Or at least made her seem a little more human. “Our esteemed general has a great love of eighties music.”

I looked at Malachi, tried to imagine him—tall and broad-shouldered, a young god’s cap of wavy curls—dancing to Bananarama or Michael Jackson, or wailing away on an air guitar to Journey. The image didn’t work.

“Please provide details,” I said.

Malachi smiled. “It’s . . . hopeful.” He lifted a shoulder and seemed faintly embarrassed by the entire discussion. “And very different from the music of the Beyond.”

He’d said the Beyond was orderly and regimented. “So what did you have?” I smiled at him. “Baroque classical music? Maybe lyres? Golden harps?”

“Consularis Paranormals do not care for instruments,” Erida said.

“Don’t do instruments?” Gavin asked, pulling a shrimp from its tail with his teeth and tossing the tail into the darkness over his shoulder.

“Instruments are unnecessary when the voice is prepared,” Malachi said, his gaze on Erida. “That’s the tradition in our society.”

“So, like a cappella?” I asked.

“Yes,” Erida said. “Although with complexities not recognized in the human form.”

“Dozens of voices in careful and precise layers,” Malachi said. “Well-ordered, as are most things in the Beyond. Intricately constructed, each song prepared and performed for a very particular circumstance.”

No wonder he liked eighties music. It wasn’t “intricately constructed,” and it was certainly more emotional and spontaneous than the music he was describing.

“Give us a taste,” Gavin said.

“Please,” Eleanor added. “I’d really enjoy it.”

Malachi looked at Erida, who nodded.

I couldn’t have said when the song began, only that it slowly surrounded us. No words, just the gentle rise and fall of their voices, which danced together, then swirled apart into higher and lower notes, then dipped back together again. The melody was complex, even with only two voices performing the parts, and it lifted goose bumps along my arms.

By the time they stopped, my head was swimming. Residual magic, I guessed.

“Damn,” Gavin said, running a hand over his head. “Powerful stuff.”

“What was it about?” I asked.

“It’s a tale of battle and bravery,” Erida said. “And the honor of loss.”

“There’s nothing honorable in loss,” Liam said.

“In your world, that may be true,” Erida said. “Our world was different.”

Their world sounded cold and constrained. That didn’t justify the Court’s attempt to bring their revolution to our door, but I could understand how they’d have felt straitjacketed.

“We’ve now told you about one of our rituals,” Malachi said, glancing at me. “Tell us one of yours.”

“One of ours? You’ve lived among humans for years.”

“I’ve lived near humans for years,” he said, “but outside their communities, and in a place mostly denuded by war.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way, of how much he’d have missed by living in the Zone instead of outside it. Not to mention the fact that nearly all humans would have considered him an enemy if they’d known what he truly was.

“Okay,” I said, and let my mind wander to the place where I kept my memories of life before the war. “Kids had slumber parties, where you’d go sleep at someone else’s house for fun.”

Malachi blinked. “Why would it be fun to sleep in someone else’s home?”

“Because there would be food,” Gavin said. He’d finished his gumbo and stretched out, ankles crossed, and hands linked across his flat abdomen. “And music. Booze, if you were old enough.” He grinned. “Girls, if the parents were out of town.”

“So it was a mating ritual?” Malachi asked.

“No,” Gavin said with a laugh. “The kids at slumber parties weren’t usually old enough for that. And if they were, there wasn’t much slumbering.”

“We had football games,” I said. “A game involving a ball and a march down a field. You’d have liked it,” I said to Malachi. “It’s regimented and orderly, like two armies facing each other across a battle line. That’s how a lot of people in Louisiana spent their weekends.”

“Marching down a field or facing off across a battle line?”

I knew he was teasing me. “Watching football on television. And drinking beer.”

“That doesn’t sound very rigorous,” Erida said. I didn’t think she was teasing.

“Don’t tell the members of my fantasy league that,” Gavin said. At Erida’s raised brow, he shook his head. “Never mind.”

“So humans,” Malachi began, “for entertainment, slept in a stranger’s house and watched strangers engage in battle?”

“It’s a little more complex than that,” Gavin said, and lifted his gaze to his silent brother. “And what about you, Liam? What rituals do you remember that you’d like to enlighten our friends about?”

“Do plumbing and electricity count?”

“They do,” Eleanor said with a smile. “Very much so. I love a good ceiling fan in the summertime.”

I glanced at Liam, expecting to see at least a half-smile on his face, but his body had gone rigid. I looked up, watched silent warning flash across Erida’s and Malachi’s faces, and followed the direction of their gazes.

Deep in the trees, where cypress knees emerged from shadowed water, hovered a pale green light. It was the color of spring leaves, and it floated like a cloud a few feet above the ground. But there was no bulb or fork of flame. Just a fog that grew nearer, transforming dark and silhouetted branches into threatening claws.

“Feu follet,” Gavin whispered. “Will-o’-the-wisp.”

The hair lifted on the back of my neck. But Liam and Malachi rose. Erida and Gavin moved closer to Eleanor.

Instinct told me to snatch a torch from the fire, run back to the house, and lock myself inside. But I wasn’t going to run—and certainly not in front of this crowd—so I slowly stood, locked my knees tight, and moved behind Liam and Malachi.

Without taking his gaze off the light, Gavin reached out, took Eleanor’s hand, whispered something to her. She nodded, glanced casually in the direction of the light . . . and smiled.

“Friends,” she said quietly, taking another sip from her teacup, as smoothly as a woman at high tea. I trusted her instinct and relaxed a little, but kept my gaze on the light.

It drew closer, the single cloud separating into a dozen smaller pinpoints.

Malachi chuckled. “Not will-o’-the-wisps,” he said.

“No,” Erida agreed. “Just run-of-the-mill Peskies.”

Peskies were tiny Paras with dragonfly wings, curvy bodies, and not a scrap of clothing. They were about twice the size of hummingbirds and four times as nasty.

They didn’t like being called “run-of-the-mill.” They let out shrieks sharp as an ice pick and began to dive-bomb us. One buzzed around my face, her wings moving so quickly they were a haze behind her. Then she gave me an ugly stare and flipped me off.

The gesture definitely translated.

“Right back at you, honey,” I said, and got a double eagle in response.

“Don’t antagonize the Peskies,” Liam said, his gaze still on the trees.

“She flipped me off first,” I grumbled, and swatted her away when she tried to blitz me again. That triggered a stream of foreign cursing. But I didn’t need to understand the words to get the gist.

They stepped out of the woods in sequence, led by a tall man with a barrel chest and thin legs in jeans, a T-shirt, and rubber boots. He carried a bucket in one hand, a shotgun in the other. Although a gun in the hand of a stranger should have made me wary, the three kids—all with their father’s skinny legs—appeared behind him, all smiles.

All four of them had tan skin, high cheekbones, and dark hair that came to sharp widow’s peaks.

“Good evening,” said the man in front. “Looks like a good fire.”

“Roy,” Liam said, walking to him and offering a hand, which Roy pumped heartily. “Comment ça va?”

“Comme ci, comme ça.” He shrugged. “C’est la vie.”

“Looks like you’ve got a Peskie infestation,” Liam said.

Roy grinned. “Found ’em in one of my muskrat traps. Released ’em, for all the good it did. They been following me ’round since.”

“They like you,” Malachi said. “They’re grateful for the rescue. And they’re enjoying the crawfish.”

“Who doesn’t?” Roy said. “You speak their language?”

“Enough of it.”

“Roy Gravois,” Liam said, “Malachi, a general in the Consularis army. My brother, Gavin Quinn. Claire Connolly. And you know Erida and Eleanor.”

Roy nodded at us in turn, his gaze stopping when he got to me. “Nice to put a face to a name.”

I nodded, and couldn’t help but wonder which of them had mentioned me. “Nice to meet you.”

“Roy lives up bayou,” Liam said. “Takes the crawfish before they get down to me.”

“Problem is, you don’t bait your traps worth a damn.” Roy looked back, held out a hand to those who’d come with him. “My family: Adelaide, Claude, and Iris.” He pointed to each of the kids in turn.

“All members of the United Houma Nation,” Liam said.

“Born and bred,” Roy agreed with a nod.

“Roy,” Eleanor said, “would you like some gumbo? We made too much.”

Roy smiled at Eleanor. “I’m good. Just came by to return these tools.” He offered Liam the bucket. “Appreciate the loan.”

Liam took them. “You fix the generator?”

“Did. I tell you what I was doin’ with it?”

Liam shook his head.

“Took the windshield wiper motor outta the old Plymouth on the Fortner place. Hooked it up to a pole, then plugged it into the generator, made my own little spit. Roasted the rest of the wild boar last night.”

“Cajun ingenuity,” Liam said with a grin. “The boar good?”

“Mais ya,” Roy said, kissing the tips of his fingers.

The conversation carried on like that for a few more minutes—food, trapping, life in the bayou.

Like on the dock, he seemed comfortable here. Maybe that was something positive that had come out of whatever had happened to him during the battle; he’d been able to come home, at least in some way.

I wondered if it also meant he should stay here. Live here. Which made my heart ache painfully.

“Listen,” Liam said, “while you’re here, you should know—there’s possibly trouble on the horizon.”

“What kinda trouble?”

When Liam glanced at the kids warily, Roy nodded.

“It’s all right if they hear. If there’s trouble, I want them prepared. They can handle it.”

Liam nodded. “Containment agent in New Orleans was killed a couple days ago. I’m the prime suspect.”

Roy’s brows lifted. “Interesting you killed a man in the city while you were out on the water with me.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

“They issue a bounty?”

“They did.”

The initial curiosity in Roy’s face faded, and his gaze narrowed. “They wrong accidentally, or on purpose?”

“We have the same question. Given I wasn’t even in the parish at the time, we think it’s on purpose. But we aren’t sure why he was killed, and we aren’t sure why they settled on me, other than because Broussard and I didn’t much get along.”

Roy made a snorting sound. “If we killed everyone we didn’t get along with, the world would be a much smaller place.”

Liam smiled.

“Have you seen anyone looking around?” Gavin asked, rising from his spot at Eleanor’s side and stepping forward.

“Haven’t seen an agent or hunter this far south in years. Present company excluded.” Roy grinned. “They know better than to come into the southern reach without a guide. End up lost and stranded on a good day, gator meat on a bad.”

“Be on the lookout,” Liam advised.

“For storms, for gators, for hunters, and for agents,” Roy said. “We’ll stay careful.” He looked down at Claude. “Right?”

When Claude nodded, Roy ruffled his hair, pulled him close. “Should get home, get the little ones to bed and check on Cosette and the baby.” He looked back at Liam. “What you gonna do about those charges?”

“Not sure yet.”

Roy nodded thoughtfully. “You need a character witness, you call me. You need someone to talk about your expertise on the water, you’ll have to call somebody else.”

With another jaunty wink, Roy and his family disappeared into the trees again, Peskies lighting their way.

•   •   •

We took turns adding branches to the fire, stoking it to keep the flames dancing in the humidity and occasionally slapping at the mosquitoes that hadn’t been deterred by the rising smoke.

I grew more comfortable as the night went on. Not that I was getting used to the bayou, but I was getting used to the sounds—the frogs, rustles, splashes that signaled things moving in the dark. And I was getting used to Liam sitting near me, to the gravity of his body only a few feet from mine.

Somewhere around midnight, Gavin stretched, yawned. “We should call it a night. We’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

“I’ll sleep at the cabin,” Liam said, rising.

Gavin nodded. “I’ll join you.”

“Claire can sleep in the house with us,” Eleanor said.

I looked at Malachi. “And where will you go?”

“I prefer to be outside.”

Yes, we’d spent more time together in the last few weeks, and I’d gotten to know more of his thoughts and moods. But he was still a mystery to me in so many ways. “Where will you sleep outside?”

“Wherever seems best,” Malachi said. “I’ll see you all in the morning.” And he walked into the darkness, disappearing beyond the edge of firelight.

“Let’s get you settled,” Erida said, rising. I did the same, and followed her into the house without another backward glance. Liam hadn’t made a move to talk to me, at least not yet. And while I was pretty sure we’d need to have some kind of talk, I wasn’t emotionally or physically equipped to do it tonight.

The steps creaked beneath us, and the porch and floorboards did the same. Erida pulled a rolled-up green sleeping bag from a high shelf, then pointed to a small, empty room off the kitchen. “You can sleep in there. There’s a cot in the back room. It’s folded up, but you can get it, bring it in if you don’t want to sleep on the floor.”

She said it like a dare, as if she expected me to refuse and demand a feather bed and silk sheets.

“Either way is fine,” I said.

“You may not think that after you see the cot. But the spiders are probably gone.”

I tried not to think about the possibility of dozens of legs crawling on me in my sleep. “The floor is fine. I’ve slept on worse.” I held out a hand, and she offered me the sleeping bag.

“I knew your father.”

That jerked me out of my arachnoid nightmare. I looked over at her. “What?”

“There were many of us in New Orleans. Hidden there, at least until we fled. We were, at first, convinced humans would come to understand the difference between Court and Consularis, and release from prison those who hadn’t chosen to fight. They did not.”

The words were spoken like a judgment, a declaration of guilt. There’d be no acquittal for humans from Erida.

“How did you know him?” I asked.

“He helped us. When he became aware of his power, like other humans in his position—he became more sympathetic. He was a good man. He—”

She stopped herself, went silent and still for a solid fifteen seconds. So still she might have been a statue of some ancient human goddess. And since she seemed to be grappling for words, I waited her out.

“He was kind,” she said at last. “He was good and he was kind. He helped those of us stuck in New Orleans when he could, gave us supplies. He gave us trust and friendship.”

But when she said “friendship,” there was something beyond friendship in her eyes. Longing, if I had to put money on it.

I’d seen my father with women, a date or two here and there with the divorced mother of a middle school friend, the woman who baked croissants at the European bakery on Magazine. But I hadn’t seen him with Erida. Hadn’t seen Erida before the moment she’d walked into Delta’s church.

“Friendship,” I quietly said.

She looked at me, met my gaze, and didn’t say a word. Much like Malachi, she held her cards close to the chest.

“Did you see his magic?” I asked.

She gave me a questioning look.

“I didn’t know he was a Sensitive,” I said. “I didn’t know anything about his magic, about what he’d done to help until . . .” Until Broussard had spilled the beans. And now Broussard and my father were both dead. “He loved me, but he didn’t tell me as much as he should have.”

“He was a bringer of light,” she said quietly.

I nodded. “That’s what I heard.”

“He didn’t know about you, either?”

I shook my head.

“I see,” she said, but her voice said she didn’t really see but maybe was trying to reconcile the man she’d known with the one I’d just described.

She wasn’t the only one.

“I also knew your mother.” Her gaze stayed on mine, but her expression had gone very cool.

I tried to maintain control of my own expression, to keep the fear that flooded my veins from overwhelming me, from showing on my face.

My father had told me my mother had died when I was a child, many years before the war, before Paranormals had even entered our world. I didn’t remember her; it should have been impossible for Erida to know her.

But the war had expanded what was possible. Stretched and contorted it. I’d seen a woman with red hair, a woman who looked like me, trying to force open the Veil at Talisheek. The same woman whose photograph had rested in a trunk in the gas station’s basement.

I had good friends, but I didn’t have a family, and I longed for that connection, for something that had been gone a long time from my life. But I was afraid of what I might learn. Because if there was some connection between me and that woman, it meant my father had lied to me my entire life.

And it meant the woman who’d tried to open the Veil, who’d nearly destroyed us, was my mother. So the questions I might have asked—Is she alive? Is she our enemy?—stayed strangled and unspoken.

I wasn’t ready to accept either possibility, so I shook my head. “My mother died a long time ago.”

Erida watched me carefully for a moment. “I see,” she finally said. “Then perhaps I was mistaken.”

The ice turned to heat that burned in my chest, tightened my throat. I nodded at her. “Sure.”

“Well,” she said after a long silence, “you’ll have an early morning. You should get some sleep.”

And then she was gone, leaving me with more questions than answers.