Danae Ayusso

Chapter Nine: Secrets in the Air

2011-11-17T18:52:00.000-08:00

Chapter Nine

Secrets in the Air

The light pouring in through the slit in the thick velvet curtains covering the window moved across the room, settling on the face of the man propped up in a chair, eyes closed, chin resting in his hand, the faded green armchair struggling to support him. Ronain clenched his eyes shut, trying to ignore the ridiculously bright light seeping through his eyelids but it was of no use.

“Goddamn it,” he mumbled under his breath, rubbing his eyes to wipe the sleep from them. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but after cooking for a small, one person, redheaded army last night, and his repeated lapses in better judgment since then, and the painful resolution that he came to not more than two hours ago, he succumbed to mental exhaustion. “Fitzgerald, we need to talk,” he said, opening his eyes. Instantly they went to the bed but it was empty.

Ronain was on his feet in an instant and hurried down the hall, straining to hear for anything out of the ordinary. He knows Fitz is an early riser. He hates it but he’s been like that since he was a baby, and usually he has coffee on by five-thirty and is flipping hoecakes completely naked while singing Aretha Franklin and George Michael songs at the top of his lungs just to irritate Ronain. But the smell of sizzling bacon fat was absent and so was the robust flavor of black, liquid, caffeinated crack. His heart started racing and fear washed over the usually fearless man.

Each room he passed was empty, the beds expertly made. The only things missing were the mints on the pillows. He pushed out the front door, the screen door slamming into the house before swinging shut with a cracking snap. He cleared the set of steps in a single bound and started towards the car-littered driveway when mummers from behind the house pulled his attention. He sniffed wildly, trying to follow the faint trail of delicate perfume to the dried marshes behind the house, the long green grasses swaying from side to side in the morning breeze.

The tops of heads were littered throughout the area, grouped together, each facing towards the partial clearing in the center of the field. Ronain silently floated through the swaying grass, making absolutely no attempt at guising his approaching, six foot-three inch frame, one hand snaking around behind him, wrapping around the hilt of the dagger covertly tucked into the back of his pants.

“Again,” a soft voice demanded as she erected herself, dusting the grass off of the back of her head with one hand and pulling Fitz to his feet with the other, and Ronain stopped in mid-step.

“What’d I do wrong that time?” Fitz whined and Ronain’s head tilted to the side to regard what was happening and why.

Bijou took Fitz’s hand, wrapping her hand around his, which was holding onto a knife, her knife, and then pressed it against the center of her chest. “When wielding a blade you can stab and slice,” she explained, mimicking the motions while controlling his hand in hers. “The blade can easily slide between the ribs, and when it does you twist. That will break the ribs and savagely tear the soft tissue causing a very quick, and more often than not, very painful death.”

Fitz nodded. “Okay, so if a knife is better than a bat or whatever else Mama has laying around, what about that?” he said, pointing to her other hand.

Bijou looked at the stake in her hand and Ronain’s eyes widened, his complexion paling. “With the mainstreaming of vampyres,” she said, looking from the curious young man to the white oak and silver inlay stake in her hand, “you can never be too careful. However, if its heart beats, you can easily kill it by stopping the beat. With all creatures,” she said, taking the knife from him, offering him the stake which he gladly took, “there are places that will be more effective than others. They call them sweet spots. The breastplate,” she explained, wrapping her hand around his and the stake and pressed it against her chest, “is extremely hard. You would break the stake before breaking through it...more often than not,” she quickly added. “The sides of the ribcage,” she said, positioning the stake between her eighth and ninth ribs, “are not as hard and give you easier access to the heart if you are on the correct side. The most effective way, however, is from behind.” She turned Fitz around, rolling his wrist, taking the stake from him, and pressed it against his back at an upward angle.

Fitz squeaked in surprise and Ronain started towards them.

Bijou released Fitz and smacked him on the ass before handing him back the stake. “Never turn your back on anyone, ever. Even those you call family and friend will not think twice about stabbing you in the back, regardless of the reason behind it. Again,” she commanded, waving him forward.

Ronain stopped and Élan looked over at him and nodded, giving him a little two-finger howdy salute.

Fitz smiled wide, flipping the stake around in his hand before lunging for the redhead watching him, the stake leading the way. Bijou easily leaned to the side, avoiding his attack, and spun around, sweeping her leg out as her body folded down to the ground, taking his legs out from under him. Fitz yelped as his body dropped to the ground and Bijou appeared on top of him, straddling his waist, the stake he didn’t even realize he lost pressed against the side of his ribs.

“Again,” she said, rolling off of him and pulled him to his feet.

Fitz pouted. “This trying to not get killed by stuff is hard work. I should totally be getting paid for this,” he informed her and she rolled her eyes, handing him back the stake.

“Fitzgerald,” Ronain said and Fitz cringed, not realizing Ronain was up and watching, “why don’t you put some coffee on and make some breakfast...clothed this time, please.”

“Damn it,” Fitz mumbled under his breath, handing the stake back to Bijou. “I’ll make you guys some breakfast since the warden is up and barking out directives already. Thanks for showing me how to attempt to kick ass, Bee.”

Bijou nodded, slipping the stake in the designated sheath hidden in the back of her pants and handed him the knife. “It is not thankworthy so I do not accept your gratitude; however, a gift of appreciation for your hospitality, Young Master Fitzgerald,” she said with a slight nod of respect.

“No shit?” Fitz gasped, taking the knife from her. “Damn. Thanks! You can crash here anytime you want!” he beamed and quickly kissed her on the cheek, to her surprise, before skipping back towards Camille and offered him a hand up and headed back to the house.

“Élan, help Fitzgerald in the kitchen. We both know that he will be hard pressed to keep his clothes on, especially with his infatuation with our young, shy traveling companion,” Bijou said, eyes flickering to Dominick for a moment and Élan nodded his understanding. He pulled the pouting man to his feet and forced him back to the house with him. “I sense that you are not pleased with me,” Bijou said once they were alone, turning to Ronain.

He raised an eyebrow. “Whatever gave ya’ that idea?”

She nodded slightly. “Sarcasm noted and appreciated,” she said and turned around and walked away from him towards the woods.

Ronain held his hands up and eyed her neck from the distance, strangling the air between them before following her. “You just told Fitzgerald not to turn his back on anyone and yet I’m looking at your back,” he said, feeling the need to point out her hypocrisy for some reason.

“I suppose I did,” she agreed, “but I am more than confident of two things.”

“And those are?” he asked, slightly amused by her level tone yet the way she is looking around at everything as if she was on a completely different planet and has never seen a tree or bird before was amusing to him. She is a walking contradiction.

“One: I am more than confident that you are not looking at my back. You are watching my ass. And two: I could kill you before you even knew what hit you, thus you do not pose a threat to me…my back to you or not.”

Again, that same level, indifferent tone, but he couldn’t argue with her. He was, in fact, watching the sway of her hips and the grace of her steps. Bijou’s fitted, ivory, knit sweater was a strange choice for a Louisiana summer, but he’s wearing nearly the identical male equivalent, and it presented her perfectly manageable breasts in a way that he hasn’t seen outside of a fashion magazine. Perfection of the sweat meat variety, he’d call it, after one too many drinks. Her tight black pants showed her curvy yet lean figure beautifully, appearing like a second skin. The bright sun painted her hair an even richer, darker shade of red, one that he wanted to discover the name for but he didn’t know exactly how to do that just yet. It’s on the new list of things to figure out. But what held his attention most was the air of confidence about the woman. Her words, no matter how ridiculous they sounded, were truthful.

That he knew without a doubt.

But the question that was plaguing him now: just how damn dangerous is she?

“You got a nice ass,” Ronain said, coming up behind her.

“I agree,” Bijou said and he rolled his eyes. “What?” she asked, looking at him from the corner of her eye. “If you are going to state the obvious I will be inclined to agree or not, regardless of the frivolity or rhetorical nature of the statement.”

Sadly, that didn’t surprise him. Ronain is a quick learner and he learned after the first five words had left her pouty lips last night that she only speaks the truth and doesn’t know how to edit anything, verbally or mentally, and what she says is purely factual and nothing is conjecture.

“I expect nothing less from ya’, Trouble,” he said and she nodded her agreement. “Why are we going for a walk?” he asked once they reached the thick of the trees.

“I have a theory,” she admitted, holding one hand out, caressing everything within reach as she walked.

“And that is?” he asked, not really wanting to know.

Bijou stopped and turned to face him, her large green eyes moving over his face many times. “My theory is irrelevant at the moment; however, I wanted to see if your silent words were being lost like a whisper in the sea of incoherent ramblings which are a constant hum all around me.”

Ronain’s brow pulled together. “Huh?”

She continued studying him, her sculpted, dark auburn brows pulling together, causing a small pucker to form between them. “Fascinating,” she whispered, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “It has been some time since I have met someone that I can hear my own thoughts around. The last was Élan so that makes me curious as to what you are hiding.”

He scoffed and pushed past her. “I ain’t hiding shit from anyone.”

Bijou expected no less. She really should have used a bit more tact in this particular situation. “Aside from Fitzgerald,” she accused.

Ronain stopped in mid-step and his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She walked pasted him and continued to caress everything she passed; trees, leaves, ferns, moss, even a butterfly and a scurrying squirrel. “Your home is a temporary habitat, one that is easily abandoned at a moment’s notice without leaving any reminders behind. You live out of a suitcase, your toiletries and everything that can tie you to one place or another are burned in that fire pit behind the garage. You go out of your way to protect your brother and yet you have not properly taught him to protect himself.” She said the last part in a cold, detached, almost accusatory tone. “If I were a betting person, which I am, I would wager that you stayed up all night resolving. You opened your home, your private and protected sanctuary, up to complete strangers, strangers that you know are complicated and yet you did, possibly to pacify your brother; however, I have a theory on that as well. And now, because the security, in a matter of speaking, has been breached, you much leave.”

Ronain stood there staring at her with wide eyes, trying to figure out how she deduced so much so quickly and yet was correct on everything.

“We all have secrets,” Bijou said, stopping to pick a flower. “Only the Devil knows how many I have,” she admitted softly, rolling the white and yellow flower between her fingers, watching it spin. “I do not know what it is that you are hiding from, or why,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him. “And honestly, I could not give a fuck. You are not my concern, and neither is your brother. With that said, however, I would like to ask a favor of you without asking a favor of you.”

Ronain put his hand up to stop her. “I ain’t leaving,” he said before he could stop himself. “It wouldn’t be right considering Fitzgerald is hardcore crushing, like stalker crushing, on your not-so-little friend.”

She nodded. “But of course,” she agreed. “Camille is…it is not my place to say but he will do good to have someone around like Fitzgerald. He has lived a very contained and restrictive life.”

The excuses flowed freely from each of their lips. They weren’t lie but they weren’t their real reasons.

“I should apologize for what you saw earlier,” Bijou said, turning her back to him and started walking again, “however I will not. Fitzgerald needs to learn to defend himself, especially from inbred, white trash, racist, homophobic sonuvabitches like the Lone Wolves.”

Ronain didn’t miss her condescending tone as she spit the name.

“The things they wanted to do to him,” she snarled, shaking her head to clear the memories flooding her mind. “They wanted to kill him,” she informed him.

He nodded, well aware of that, and walked next to her, his hands shoved in his back pockets. “Haters are everywhere, as Fitzgerald says.”

“I suppose he is correct,” Bijou admitted, “however haters or not, they had absolutely no right to…well, I would rather not discuss it or dwell on it further. It is taking all of my conscious, and much unconscious, effort to keep from walking to 1787 Pemberline Drive, Jean Lafitte, to slice the throat of a particular vile beast,” she said with a soft snarl.

Ronain laughed. “How do you know where he lives?” he asked, overly amused.

Bijou looked over at him and smirked. “The question is, Master Chef, how do you know where he lives?”

He smiled. “Fair enough. His little buddies squat at a shit hole off of State Route 15 and Wolf Lane…don’t even get me started on the irony of that one.”

“Idiocy is more like it,” she informed him and he nodded his agreement. “Why did you do that?” she asked.

“What specifically?” he snorted, there are many things he’s done in the past sixteen hours that would warrant that particular question.

Bijou stopped so he did as well. She studied him again, trying to read him but it was impossible. There was something enigmatic about the man, but at the same time there was something telling her that she needed to stake him and run. The master chef doesn’t appear like much but Bijou knows that those that appear harmless are the farthest thing from harmless. And, like every other woman at Alice’s yesterday, Bijou will admit that there is something very attractive about the man. It goes beyond his delicious, dark caramel complexion and the apparent softness of his face, despite the soft shadowing of a day’s worth of dark brown stubble. His black eyes are mysterious, and the obvious protectiveness and intelligence burning in them is admirable and sexy. Never has she been a fan of dreadlocks, but the small, light brown and gold dreads resting on his shoulders work for him. Ronain’s fitted, long sleeve, knit sweater actuates his strong body; muscular, lean muscle with broad shoulders and long arms and hands.

All of that is very agreeable, but Bijou knows that it’s only agreeable because of her infliction, which is fast approaching its pinnacle, one that will cause bloodshed if she isn’t careful.

She sighed and forced a smile that fell before it even began, and turned on her heels and walked away from him and he followed. “I suppose there are many things,” she eventually said and leaned against a tree. “Why are you being nice to us…to me?” she asked pointblank, looking up at him, the three inches of height difference between them seemed like so much more at the moment. “You know that I am trouble. You said so yourself with the amusing pet name you have given me. So why continue to entertain trouble, especially since it could hurt and take away the one person that you have obviously forsaken everything for? That is not normal.”

“No, I suppose it is not,” he said and she blushed, getting the subtly of the joke. “Why do we do anything we do?” he asked.

“Orders,” she automatically replied and he raised an eyebrow. Now things are starting to make sense to him.

“You were in the military,” he surmised and she nodded, looking away from him. “You saw war?”

“More than you could possibly imagine,” she quietly admitted.

Ronain forced a smile, seemingly understanding what he’s presuming she’s been through. “Only the Devil knows,” he reminded her and the corner of her mouth twitched. “I do recall that I had a chocolate pecan pie date this morning,” he reminded her and a smile filled her face. “How ‘bout we make it a brunch date?”

“That sounds most agreeable,” she said. “But it was not a date,” she reminded him.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

“What is so amusing?” she asked, heading back towards the house.

“Your formality amuses me greatly, Trouble,” he said with a chuckle.

She rolled her eyes. “I like to think of it as my rigorously methodical character.”

“You would,” he agreed. “How do you feel about boats?” he asked, raising an eyebrow when she looked at him from the corner of her eye.

“Are you challenging me to something?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he said with a smirk. “The catch of the day should be catfish. Only problem is, I ain’t got no catfish.”

Her lips twisted into an annoyed pout before they relaxed and she nodded. “As long as you pack a lunch, I will humor you. Will poles be involved or will we be using our hands?” she asked, uninterested in the answer.

His smirk fell. That wasn’t the response he was hoping for. “Either,” he said. “You don’t have to fish. You can just keep me company if you want.”

“I have fished before, Master Chef,” she smugly informed him. “Even without poles. Were you under the assumption that I was like Leomie?” That thought amused her greatly.

Ronain shook his head. “Naw. I know you ain’t nothing like her. She’s…well…yeah. Let’s not go there.”

“Agreed,” she said.

“But I didn’t figure you for the perfume type,” he teased, inhaling deeply and she stopped in mid-step. “What’s wrong?” he asked when her eyes narrowed. “Did I say something wrong? It ain’t a bad thing, Trouble. It’s just surprising is all.”

To his surprise, she got in his face. “What does it smell like, Master Chef?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

He shrugged, confused by her sudden reaction. “Soft flowers and clean linen drying in the sun,” he said.

Again, her browns knitted together and the puckered indention formed between them. After a minute, she sighed and stepped back. “Goddamn mute,” she mumbled, softly flicking his forehead. “That was rude, and I nearly apologize,” she said and turned away from him.

“Uh huh,” he said skeptically, following her. “What got your panties in a twist?” he asked.

Bijou shrugged. “I do not wear perfume,” she said. “It is nothing to concern yourself with…I mean, I thought you were making a joke at my expense about unclean women,” she mumbled, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of rose.

“I’d never,” he assured her, remembering the comments he was making to Sydney last night that Bijou obviously heard. He isn’t the kind of guy that flips someone shit about that, but Sydney’s the one exception, and it irritates him that his loose lips and easily irritable nature made him appear to be that kind of guy. “You ain’t no Syd. Now that girl is an unclean woman and then some, but she’s white trash and uneducated and un…well, hell, everything! I think that’s why I let ya’ll come over…at least part of the reason why.”

That perked her interest. “What do you mean?” she asked.

He shrugged. “You’re different. All ya’ll are different, but there’s a sense of refinement about you that I miss. I ain’t from around here, regardless of what this ridiculous backwoods accent and drawl that slips in there might suggest. I came from a world of refinement and elegance and…everything Pointe à la Hache, Louisiana, ain’t. And I didn’t realize, until you walked in…correction, until you put Syd in her place with well thought out and educated words that were as sharp as any sword…blade, that I realized that I missed that, to a point. I didn’t mean to accidentally hurt your feelings, and I sure in the hell didn’t mean for you to get the impression that I was like that. Forgive me?” he asked, batting his lashes, pouting his bottom lip out.

Bijou nodded and continued walking. “There is nothing to forgive you for, Master Chef, thus my forgiveness you shall not get. And I assure you,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him, “give it time and you will discover that I am not nearly as refined as my mother wishes I was.”

A smile filled Ronain’s face and he hurried after her. “Nothing but trouble,” he whispered.

Chapter Eight: Strangers from the Road

2011-11-16T21:58:00.000-08:00

WARNING: THIS IS AN ADULT BASED NOVEL, NOT YOUNG ADULT AND CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT, ADULT LANGUAGE AND SITUATIONS. THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER IS RATED R

Chapter Eight

Strangers from the Road

The faded pink house was quaint, secluded, and not at all big enough to accommodate six additional people, but Fitz was hell bent on fitting them all in there. The guestroom was comparable to a closet with a small window, the full size bed nearly filling it completely, only a six-inch path of faded green carpet along the edge was visible. Dominick opened his mouth to complain but a quick jab to the face silenced his objections. As a compromise for assaulting him, and well aware that Dominick would never show any gratitude, Bijou offered him part of the bed, which he was quick to claim. Fitz graciously offered his bed to Camille and his sister. He would have loved to share it with only Camille but he’s attempting to get on Leomie’s good side...if there is one. Valentine smiled his way into their bed, leaving Fitz rooming with Ronain, not that he would have had an option.

Behind closed doors Ronain sat in a chair across from his bed, watching his Fitz sleep. He’s been mentally berating himself for hours. First he opened up his home to strangers, strangers that are obviously hiding as much as he is and could prove to be lethal. He engaged one of them, the one who is obviously the most dangerous of the group, and allowed her to consume him for a brief moment. Allowing himself to be distracted by the inconsequential, especially that which pertained to him, put Fitz in danger. The Lone Wolves aren’t a concern, but their homophobia-fueled savagery has put Fitz in their crosshairs more than once, and it’s taken all of his conscious, and sometimes unconscious, effort to keep from killing them himself.

Ronain keeps asking himself ‘what if?’ But the biggest what if is, ‘What if Trouble hadn’t protected Fitz?’ It’s plaguing his mind more than the possible repercussions of Bijou’s questionable interpretation of helping. Never has Ronain been more scared for Fitz than he was when he walked back in from outside, where he had been absently breaking down boxes while trying to unravel the mystery of the colorful woman in his mind, and heard the quiet murmurs coming from the bar and the unmistakable, pungent smell of blood. What he found confused him as much as the woman that’s in color to his black and white world. Bijou had Leroy on the bar, choking him out, her face in his, her satiny, pink lips moving but Ronain couldn’t make out the words over his racing heart. Élan stood next to Fitz and there was no mistaking that the blonde’s stance and attentiveness was protective. Alice was at ease, her aged hand wrapped around the hilt of a boot knife that Ronain had never seen before and still questions where she procured it from. Valentine was shaking his head in disappointment, quietly telling Camille and Leomie to stay back and that it wasn’t their fight. Even Dominick was wielding weapons like a pro, something Ronain would never have thought possible.

Even now, after everything that happened, Ronain still opened up his home to these strangers, and once again, put Fitz in potential danger.

“What in the hell am I doing?” he whispered under his breath, pulling his hands through his hair, giving his shoulder-length dreadlocks a tug in frustration. He looked around the room and shook his head. For the past six years they’ve called this stilt house home, and yet there is nothing that makes it a home. The dresser in the corner is empty; the small duffle bag sitting on top of it contains some folded clothes for him. The walls are unadorned and a runny egg yolk yellow that Ronain can’t see but Fitz complains about every time he steps foot in the room. In the bathroom the vanity and medicine cabinet are empty, a travel bag sitting atop the back of the toilet holding the bare essentials. To a visitor passing by, the home would appear as a rental property and nothing more and they never ask about the bare walls and personality-less home.

So of course Bijou noticed right away and commented under her breath that it was obviously a temporary residence, a stopping point in Ronain and Fitz’s journey in life, a place that they could up and leave without notice and leave nothing of themselves behind. She couldn’t argue the logic; she has lived her entire life with the same mentality so she can respect that on one level, yet it makes her paranoid on another.

Down the hall in the small guest room the others are still awake, asking much the same as Ronain, only they are asking those questions of themselves.

“Are you mad at me?” Bijou whispered, studying the profile of Élan’s face in the scarce light coming through the window.

He nodded, looking at his hands, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Permission to speak freely?” he whispered.

“You always have permission,” she reminded him, ignoring the intrusive erection jabbing her in the ass from the softly snoring man behind her who was desperately trying to get her to spoon with him.

“And yet I’ll keep askin’,” Élan said with a smirk, looking at her from the corner of his eye. “I’m grateful ya’ didn’t kill him,” he said. “I know ya’ wanted to...hell, everyone in dat place wanted to. So I’m proud of ya’ for controllin’ yer temper for once.”

“It was the hardest thing I have ever done,” Bijou admitted.

He nodded, already well aware of that.

“This is not the life I want, Élan,” she said softly. “I do not want to live an existence where I am bound by oaths, politics, decrees, hidden agendas...is it so wrong to simply follow my heart?”

“No,” he quickly assured her, turning to face the woman and softly snoring man behind her. “Dat’s all I’ve eva wanted ya’ to do, Frenchie. Follow yer heart.”

“My heart says to kill,” she amusingly informed him, ignoring the stinging in her eyes from the welling tears the truth caused to surface. “I am not a docile creature that embraces the world and longs for it to embrace her in return. I am a creature of action, of protection, of upholding what is right.”

“Right in whose eyes?” he countered, and she glared at him.

“The only world I have ever known, have ever wanted to know, has been taken from me like a thief in the night, and now I am left asking why. It is not fair.”

Élan tenderly wiped away the tear that had rolled from the corner of her eye. “Life ain’t fair, Frenchie. Even when you were going through the motions of normality,” he said, speaking clearly so nothing was lost in translation to the upset woman or the eavesdropping man trying to round third base behind her, “it wasn’t normal for you or anyone. You have been so contained and restricted in the world that you have spent your entire life making...in building and protecting, and now you can’t see past the walls you built and are hiding behind.”

“I am not hiding,” she snapped at him.

“Yes you are,” he said with a small smile. “Every endeavor that you have taken on, have boasted success in, has never, not once, reaped any type of reward for you...for Bijou Bryn. You have been living simply for the gain and reward of everyone else, everyone but you. What will it hurt to simply let loose and just relax, to roll with the punches...without punching back,” he clarified and she rolled her eyes, “and take a much needed and overdue vacation? Obviously illusionaries are everywhere, even all the way in Pointe à la Hache, Louisiana.” The way he said it made her softly snort under her breath. “Just relax and let your hair down, Frenchie,” he said, smiling wide.

Bijou huffed. “That is so much easier said than done. I miss my weapons,” she pouted and he laughed. “Kick your shoes off,” she said and slammed her ass back into Dominick causing him to yelp in surprise, “and get your fine blond ass in here,” she said, pulling the covers back.

Élan smiled, kicking out of his shoes. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, sliding under the covers and Bijou wrapped herself around him, his fingers weaving through hers and he pulled them close to his heart.

Bijou rested her chin on his shoulder, her fingers absently tapping out the rhythm of his heart. “I fear that this will be the death of me,” she whispered. “The armies of man, resistance of illusionaries, the uprising of the primordial ranks, hell, even the Vrykolakas could not slay the unstoppable Bijou Bryn of House of Beauvais dit Sainte Jéme, and yet a hominal existence in Pointe à la Hache, Louisiana, will.”

Élan chuckled under his breath, bringing their hands to his mouth and softly kissed each of her knuckles. “It ain’t gonna kill ya’, Frenchie. Most likely you’ll be the one tryin’ to kill it!”

Content she sighed. “High hopes and empty promises,” she said and he shook his head before softly biting the base of her thumb, his teeth pressing into the abductor pollicis brevis, effectively stimulating the radial nerve. “What are you doing?” she asked, choking back a moan.

“Nuttin’” Élan murmured against her hand before sinking his teeth into it again, harder this time, causing her back to arch slightly, pushing her round ass against Dominick, and the hard and intrusive reminder of his presence in the overly crowded bed stabbed into her ass, her thin cotton panties offering very little resistance.

“We should not...” her words trailed off as thin ribbons of blood rolled down the length of her arm, staining her creamy skin.

Soft lips started working across her shoulder, teasingly nipping at her neck. “You heard her,” Dominick whispered, his voice deep and husky, laced with sexual desire and longing. “We should not be doing this,” he said with ill-concealed arrogance, his hand snaking across the front of her hip before dipping between her legs.

Bijou gasped, her eyes fluttering.

Élan pulled away from her hand, his lips and teeth stained a dark shade of red. “Yer probably right,” he agreed and softly kissed the inside of her wrist, inhaling deeply before his mouth moved along her arm in a combination of feathery kisses and painful nibbles.

Dominick smirked, watching the blond as he dedicatedly worked over the creamy body with his mouth, in the process maneuvering Bijou onto her back in order to fully appreciate the perfect, writhing body of untapped desire between them. Expertly, Dominick’s long, slender hand worked between her thighs, parting them enough that he could easily dip his long fingers between them and teased her body as she feebly fought against him and his intentions.

Élan’s large hands slid up under her thin tank top and a deep growl rolled from his chest as her soft, pink nipples perked under the friction of his callused hands against the frantically rising and falling soft mounds of neglected flesh begging for attention. “Well, what do we got here?” he said in a singsong tone.

“They look lonely,” Dominick agreed, his double set of canines elongating in his mouth, his light blue eyes turning to metallic amber, the pupils contracting and narrowing to black slits. “What do you suppose we do about that?” he smirked before sinking his teeth into the crook of her neck and she cried out, her back arching off of the bed.

Élan smiled, his cerulean eyes turning to liquid gold, canines elongating. “I couldn’t have said it any betta’ if I tried,” he amusingly agreed before savagely sucking one of her breasts into his mouth while he aggressively fondled the other, her perk, pink nipples hardening more and more with each roll between callused fingers and flick of the tongue.

Violently, Bijou’s hips bucked as Dominick rubbed harder, fingers dipping deeper and deeper until a primal growl rolled from the base of her throat and her body violently shook, but he was relentless in his mission of controlling the uncontrollable woman. Even with Élan’s added weight, her back arched off of the bed, giving Dominick unrestricted access and he took full advantage and aggressively slammed his fingers deeper into her in a frantic, steady rhythm until she was practically riding his knuckles.

Her hands clawed at the covers as she desperately tried to get away from them, one cottony handful at a time. Dominick hooked his fingers deep inside of her and she cried out in ecstasy-laced pain.

Élan pulled away from her breast, his mouth covered in blood. “Don’t ya’ go damagin’ her now,” he chuckled.

Dominick nodded and slowed to a vexing rhythm, and Bijou slumped back down on the bed.

“I ain’t have my fill yet,” Élan smirked, teasingly pulling his crimson coated tongue up the center of her chest, lapping up the pooling crimson life force profusely flowing from the puncture wounds littering the frantically rising and falling mounds of creamy flesh.

“And I have?” Dominick countered, jamming his fingers deeper inside of her and Bijou cried out, back arching off of the bed. “Would you like to flip a coin? Tails you get that firm untapped ass of hers and heads you get...well, you know how to play.”

Bijou slumped back down on the bed, feet and hands pushing against the bed, struggling to gain ground, inch by painstaking inch.

“Stop,” she gasped, her body contracting around Dominick’s fingers and a perverse moan of pleasure rolled from his throat.

Dominick pulled his tongue up the side of her face and shivered in anticipation. “No,” he hissed in her ear. “Tonight your ass is mine.”

The covers around her legs grew, taking shape before a dark caramel-colored hand snaked up the center of her abdomen and it was followed by another. “That ain’t no way to talk to a lady,” a deep voice scolded, a head covered in thin, golden brown dreadlocks shaking free from the sheets covering Bijou’s hips.

Élan and Dominick hissed, baring their fangs.

Bijou’s eyes widened and she struggled to get away from him, pushing against his strong muscular shoulders, her nails digging into his velvety taut flesh.

Ronain pulled himself up, his impressively defined upper body sliding up the length of hers, pinning her to the bed. His large black eyes worked over her face many times, admiring the flushing of rose rolling across her creamy skin, the way her swollen bottom lip glistens in the dim light. “I ain’t into audiences,” Ronain informed the hissing men, his eyes glazing over solid black and his canines elongated, “but there’s more than enough to share,” he purred before smashing his mouth into the side of Bijou’s neck, his teeth easily piercing through her thin skin.

Dominick and Élan smirked and in blurs of alabaster and black they were on top of screaming woman, sinking their teeth into whatever exposed flesh they could find.

Bijou’s eyes snapped open and she sat up in bed, sweat covering every inch of her, causing her cotton, long sleeve shirt and panties to cling to her like a second skin. She looked around the unfamiliar room, her hand clenching around the white oak with silver inlay handle of her knife, the slight burn against her skin not even registering with her at the moment. A soft snore caused her head to snap to the right and she looked down at Dominick stretched out next to her, hugging a pillow, hair standing up from sleeping on it wrong. Warm, callused fingers caressed against her knee under the covers causing her head to snap to the left. Élan laid stretched out on the edge of the bed, his fingers absently caressing her leg in his sleep, lips moving but only soft sighs escaping.

She pulled her free hand over her face, pushing her heavy, clinging hair off of her forehead.

“Now that is rather inconvenient,” she mumbled under her breath, slumping back on the bed.

Chapter Seven: Lone Wolves

2011-11-14T22:30:00.001-08:00

Chapter Seven

Lone Wolves

Élan looked from the pool table where Dominick was pouting, and ten grand down, as Bijou lined up her next shot, to his watch. “Quarta afta two,” he said. “Last call?” he asked, hopeful, looking up at the chain-smoking old woman behind the bar glaring at him.

“Nope,” Alice said, popping the P.

He forced a smile, well aware of her reservations; her boys are opening up their home to strangers and that doesn’t sit right with her.

“Would ya like me to help ya?” he offered. “Bus tables and whatnot? Dat way ya can close up when last call goes out and get to where ya’ be gettin’.”

Smoke rolled from her nose and she raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t payin’ ya.”

“I would neva,” he assured her. “Y’all have done more den enough already for us. Frenchie ain’t eaten like dat in a coons age. Much obliged to ya’ and yer boy for dat.”

“Uh huh,” she huffed. Still skeptical, she tossed him a bar towel. “Get to work, Boy.”

He chuckled and started wiping down the bar for her.

Alice watched him carefully, a beer in hand, cigarette dangling from between her lips. She knows that he isn’t like the others; she can sense it. The others, even the shy and introverted one, carry themselves with a sense of accomplishment and purpose. But Élan doesn’t. He knows his purpose, that much is clear, but he doesn’t carry himself as if it’s his only objective in life.

Bijou is linear in her outlook on life; everything is as linear as a line, but with many intercepting points that could possibly change the line she is on at any moment. Dominick sees the world in the way which will only be beneficial to him and only him. Valentine embraces the world around him and it can’t help but embrace him back. His fun loving and optimistic outlook translates to endless adventure being right in front of him. Leomie lacks an actual purpose in life but she is more than confident that the future holds much for her and she will stop at nothing to achieve the greatness that awaits her. Camille gets much enjoyment from simply watching the world around him, especially the people in it, that he is filled with contentment, but that contentment shadows the confliction in him.

Élan, however, is none of the above. He watches Bijou protectively but he doesn’t act in what he thinks is her best interest; he waits until she tells him to act. The attentive man is well aware that she can handle nearly everything thrown at her so he isn’t about to belittle the proud and proficient woman by fighting her battles for her, but he will fight them from next to her if she lets him.

“Ya ain’t from ‘round here,” Alice commented, popping the top off of a bottle of beer and slid it down the bar to him.

Élan nodded his thanks and took a drink. “Yes and no, maybe a bit,” he admitted. “I ain’t really sure.”

“Yer dialect is mixed from all ova the south,” she commented, trying to slip him up, to find a flaw in his story, but he was well aware of what she was doing so he nodded his agreement.

“I reckon I’ve been all ova the south at some point in time, but I ain’t rememberin’ most of my life. I only remember da past decade,” he said quietly.

Alice continued to look at him, trying to read him, to figure out if he’s bullshitting her or not. She’s very good at reading people, but she can’t read Élan in the least. “What brought ya’ out yonder?” she eventually asked.

Élan shrugged. “A pretty picture in a brochure dat ain’t so pretty in person,” he said with a chuckle.

“Uh huh,” she said in a clipped tone but a smile tugged at the corner of her thin lips.

Élan’s head snapped towards the entrance and he softly groaned under his breath. “Andrôn gàr epiphanôn pâsa gê táphos,” he called out.

Bijou nodded that she was well aware of that. “Deîmos kaì Phóbos,” she dryly replied, sinking the ten-ball in the corner pocket.

Élan rolled his eyes, not missing her anything but subtle sarcasm.

“Diaírei kaì basíleue,” Dominick purred.

“Alice, ya’ might wanna holla’ last call,” Élan warned, giving Dominick a warning look.

Before Alice could tell him to go fuck himself for telling her what to do, especially in her house, the bell dangling by the door rang and in walked six men dressed in leather and denim. The dancing couples stopped, the giggling and laughing, drunken girls stopped flirting, the loud men talking shit to each other quieted, and Alice groaned under her breath. “Sonuvabitch,” she hissed.

“Well looky here, Boys,” the obvious leader of the group bellowed. “We found the only hole open in Plaquemines Parish.”

Alice slammed her bat down on the bar. “Get the fuck outta my bar, Leroy. Ya’ ain’t welcome here.”

“Now, Alice,” Leroy mused, looking at the woman through heavy, sunken eyes, his full brows knitting together, “that ain’t very hospitable of ya’. Where’s that legendary Southern hospitality that I’ve heard so much about?”

....’I’ll show ya hospitable ya little cocksucking sonuvabitch!’...

“Last call,” Alice said instead, and the gawking locals started for the door. The last time the Lone Wolves came through Pointe à la Hache, three people ended up in the hospital and there was over twenty grand worth of damage to Alice’s Restaurant, keeping it closed for three months while repairs were made.

Leroy sat at the bar and his buddies joined him. “Bartender!” he called out, knocking on the bar. “Me and my boys here will take some beers and a bottle of Jack.”

Alice continued to stand in front of him on the other side of the bar, bracing herself against the counter, bat at the ready, glaring at the smug asshole. She keeps picturing, over and over in her head, beating his head in with her bat, dragging him behind her truck by the neck until nothing but greasy hair and scalp remained before turning her attention to his precious motorcycle, burning his precious Lone Wolves to death while they’re seated on their loud, obnoxious toys.

Dominick laughed. “I like her! She is morbidly creative!” he beamed.

Élan rolled his eyes and Bijou smirked, nodding her agreement.

“He ain’t gonna ask again,” Bob, the Enforcer for the Lone Wolves, growled, pulling a switchblade out. “Get the drinks before someone gets cut.”

Élan moved down and stood next to Alice, brushing his hand against the side of her hip and she looked down and raised an eyebrow. She nodded once and covertly took the boot knife that Élan was offering her.

“Ooh, what’s this?” Leroy laughed. “Another faggot orphan to add to your ever-growin’ collection?”

The Lone Wolves howled with laughter.

Bijou lined up her shot, eight ball middle pocket, and Dominick smirked. “Obviously the urban legend is true and excessive masturbation has caused you to go deaf,” she said, slamming the cue into the ball, “because Alice called last call.” She turned her attention to Dominick. “That’s fifteen you owe me,” she informed him.

“I could suggest a way I can work it off,” Dominick seductively offered and she cocked an eyebrow. Instantly his face dropped. “Fine. Would you like a wire transfer or small, un-sequential bills?”

Bijou nodded. “Sarcasm noted, and excellent suggestion. Small currency would be appreciated, and give it to Alice to cover any possible damage that might come to her club tonight. You have two days to get the funds,” she said, turning to face the fuming bikers. “And yes, I am a bitch,” she agreed before the words could leave their lips. “A very well-funded bitch that has absolutely no problem in paying for the damages she might cause to this lovely establishment this evening. However, if you do what you are entertaining it will close Alice’s until the repairs from where your bodies get embedded can be made, and if you must know, I have a chocolate pecan pie date in the morning that I would surely like to keep. You heard the matron of the establishment,” she said again, her voice losing the polite and melodic tone, and it turned slightly huskier and menacing—there aren’t enough opiates and Viagra in the world that can keep the bloodlust of the Strategos of the Fear at bay—“Last call has come and gone and it would be in your best interest if you took your leave before you are asked in a not-so-polite, very bloody way to do so.”

Leroy looked to his buddies before turning back to the cool and collected woman and bellowed with laughter. “Little girl, you don’t know who in the fuck you are messing with.”

A smile filled her face and the encroaching men stopped in mid-step. “Bentley Leroy Jones,” Bijou said and his eyes widened. “You go by Leroy since it is less obvious of the cotton money you actually come from. That expensive motorcycle you have outside, which you tell everyone you built yourself over a ten-year span, is, in actuality, a custom ordered bike from New York that you paid more than a hundred grand for. It is your third of that particular bike since you wrecked the first when you missed a gear and drove into a roadside produce stand, and the second got impounded for outstanding parking tickets that you did not want to deal with so you simply ordered a new bike to replace it. While your pack lives in impecunious conditions, you live in a southern plantation home with three servants, the home has been in your family for more than two hundred years. You even dye your hair black because no one can take a redhead, a ginger, seriously...I will admit, I am the one exception to the rule,” she mused.

“Your fearsome motorcycle pack is called the Lone Wolves,” she continued, “which is an asinine contradiction since Lone, in itself, means alone, singular, by oneself, and wolves is pluralized, meaning more than one. So technically, you would be the Lone Wolf, which would mean you would not have these middle school dropouts hanging around with you and hanging on every bullshit-laced word that leaves your lips. If you want to continue with the pack mentality, and that entire ridiculous premise, Accompanied Wolves would apply; however, I will admit, it does not have a pleasant ring to it. So I suggest, once again, that you take your leave, unless of course you would like to continue to argue semantics...I guarantee it will not be one that you win,” she warned, “Ivy League education or not.”

Leroy sat there with his back to Bijou, glaring at Alice, nostrils flaring, hands balled into fists on the bar, grinding his teeth.

“Is dat true?” Bob whispered.

“NO!” Leroy snarled at him, scrambling to figure out how she knew all of that, but most importantly, how she was right about everything. “See boys,” he said loudly with a smile, getting to his feet, “it’s just like I said. The only thing bitches are good for is fucking and sucking.”

Alice smirked. “Neitha’ of which yer gonna get here so get the fuck out!”

The Lone Wolves looked around the bar. Ronain was notably absent so that worked in their favor, in their opinion, and the two women, including the redhead that is well informed, would be fun to pass between them; teach the redhead some manners. The males didn’t look like much. All but one appeared to be sporting manicures and highlights in their hair—sissy boys.

Bijou smirked and strolled towards them, tossing the pool cue to Dominick. “Teach this redhead some manners?” she mused and their eyes widened. “You are not man enough,” she snarled in his face. “Élan, what would you say about what he is entertaining?” she asked.

Élan chuckled under his breath. “Dat he couldn't find a Dixie coonskin wif a hooker holdin’ dat pathetic excuse for a prick, wif one of his boys showin’ him the way.”

Dominick rolled his eyes and Bijou gave him a look, not entirely sure what that means in the least.

Élan rolled his eyes, not enjoying being forced to use such language in front of women. “Ya wouldn’t be able to find, raping her or not, the honey pot wif dat pathetic excuse for a dick ya have between yer legs,” he said and Bijou nodded.

“Back the fuck up, bitch,” Leroy warned. “You don’t know who you’re messing with,” he hissed.

“Funny,” Bijou said, “I was going to say the same to you.”

“Come on,” Fitz said, trying to keep the peace, coming up to stand next to them, looking around for his brother, “there’s no need to fight. How about some drinks for the road, on the house?” he offered with a smile.

“Faggot,” Leroy snarled, his hand snapping out to the side, going for Fitz’s throat, but stopped when Bijou’s hand wrapped around his wrist and rolled it back, causing it to crack loudly.

“You will not touch him,” she informed him in a level voice. “You will never touch him, ever. In fact, I think you should apologize,” she suggested.

The closest Lone Wolves came to their leader’s aid but stopped, their bodies flying through the air in the opposite direction when a pool cue slammed into their faces in a blur of movement, the cue snapping in two. “Batter up?” Dominick smiled wide, spinning the pieces of wood around his hands, positioning himself between Bijou and the other Lone Wolves.

“Apologize,” Bijou said again.

“I’ll kill you,” Leroy snarled, his top lip pulling upward, exposing a set of defined canines.

Élan hopped over the bar, his foot connecting to the side of another of the Lone Wolves’ faces, shattering his nose, sending him smashing into the others. Automatically he went to Fitz’s side to protect him just as his Strategos would order.

Leroy swung at Bijou with his other hand but she caught it before it could connect and rolled both of his hands backwards, each wrist snapping. The stunned man cried out in pain but quickly recovered; the pain a distant thought to the murderous rage he was now seething with.

“Apologize,” she said again.

“I will enjoy ripping your throat out,” Leroy snarled. “And when I’m done with you I’ll kill that fucking faggot and his little friends.”

Bijou released one of his wrists and in a blur of movement she wrapped her hand around his throat, effortlessly picking him up off of his feet, lifting him high above her head before slamming him down on the bar with such force that it shook the ground, the bottles displayed on the back wall vibrated and shook, stacks of glasses fell over, shattering against the floor, and she pinned him to the wood. His eyes were wide in shock and disbelief, his complexion blanching from lack of oxygen and fear. “You will not lay one hand on him or any of them,” she informed him in a low, menacing voice. “In fact, you will never show your face in this parish again.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Leroy informed her, once again lying through his teeth. “I will kill you,” he hissed.

She smiled. “You and what army?” she purred. “In case you have not noticed, it is not a full or new moon.”

His eyes widened.

“You are nothing but an illusionary asshole that thinks that they are someone of importance, someone that the masses should bow down and worship. Guess what, fuck face,” she hissed before smiling wide, the two inconspicuous sets of canines in her dazzling white smile elongated and her eyes turned from green to solid amber, the pupil contracting, narrowing to a vertical slit, “lunar cycles do not hinder me in the least. Now, apologize,” she said politely, her eyes returning to normal, and the canines returning to size.

“Never,” he snarled.

Dominick laughed. “You really have to admire his tenacity,” he said.

“Usually I would agree,” Bijou said, “however, this is not one of those times. If my estimates are correct, you have less than ten seconds of air left before your mind succumbs to the caress of unconsciousness. And when it does, we will do what we see fit with you. Though I must warn you now, Alice has an amazingly twisted and very demented imagination and what she is entertaining with the pool cue in my associate’s hand.... Well, allow me to paraphrase: no spit or lube will be involved and your ass will be violated with a pool cue prison style. Do you understand?”

Content, Dominick sighed. “I love it when you talk dirty.”

She smirked.

“Five....four...three...” Dominick counted down.

“Sorry,” Leroy choked.

Bijou moaned. “What was that?” she asked, looking up to Fitz and winked at the stunned man. “I do not think those in the cheap seats heard you. What was that?”

“Sorry, you fucking fag,” he yelled but his words choked out when she pushed on his larynx with her thumb.

Fitz giggled with a face-consuming smile. “Did you hear that, Bro?” he asked, turning to look at Ronain who was standing across from them, watching, mentally scrambling to figure out what happened while he was out back breaking down boxes, obviously lost in thought. “He apologized to me!” Fitz beamed.

Absently Ronain nodded. “I heard,” he said quietly.

“He is turning blue,” Dominick sang, blindly kicking the stirring man on the ground in front of him in the face, causing his body to lift off of the floor and fly across the room, smashing into the side of a booth.

“I suppose he is,” Bijou amusingly agreed, studying the rapidly turning blue face in front of her, admiring the thin ribbons of blood staining his face from his mouth and nose.

Élan shook his head. “It ain’t yer place, Frenchie,” he reminded her.

Softly she snarled, her hold on Leroy tightening causing the whites of his eyes to streak with red spidering from subconjunctival hemorrhaging.

“Come on, Frenchie,” Élan whispered. “Let it go.”

She shook her head, struggling to silence the voices flooding her mind, to ignore the relentless questioning and unspoken accusations. Countless images were flashing in her head, going in and out of focus faster than she could register them, memories of her past, and the memories of those around her. The softly murmured warnings from one of her companions, and the other quietly inciting her simply to satisfy his own boredom and bloodlust, pushed and pulled at her already fragile mind.

All but one voice echoed in her mind and that pulled her entire attention.

A large hand rested on her shoulder. “Come on, Trouble. Let’s get you a hot shower and then tucked into bed,” Ronain said with a small smile, his large black eyes moving over her face many times, admiring the soft blushing of rose along her cheekbones, how the small beads of sweat dotting her hairline looked like sparkling diamonds in the dim overhead light, and the flushing of blood to her trembling lips caused them to darken slightly. “Let’s take out the trash and head out,” he suggested.

Bijou closed her eyes, loosening her hold on Leroy and a tear rolled down her cheek.

Dominick gasped, covering his mouth with his hands, his complexion blanching.

Ronain was quick to wipe the tear away. “There’s nothing to cry about, Trouble,” he assured her. “He’s a dick that’s only projecting his repressed homoerotic tendencies. There’s no need to lose your temper over someone beneath you in every way possible. Okay?”

She shook her head. “I want to kill him,” she whispered, her hand tightening around Leroy’s throat. “I have never wanted to kill someone more than I do him.”

Ronain nodded, looking to Fitz and the stunned young man nodded and grabbed one of the unconscious men’s legs and pulled him towards the door. Soon Élan, Valentine and Camille were helping with the task of taking out the trash. “Trouble,” Ronain said softly, wiping away another tear, “what would killing him solve? Hiding a body is easy and taking a man’s life is even easier, but looking at yourself in the mirror after the fact,” he shook his head, “that ain’t so easy to do. No matter how many times you wash your hands that blood will always be there. It goes beyond the surface, Trouble. It taints your soul. Can you live with that?”

A choked burst of amusement broke past her lips and she opened her eyes and turned to face him. “You have no idea what I can and do live with,” she said, loosening her hold on Leroy’s throat and threw him to the floor. “He will be back,” she coldly informed Ronain. “And he will not come alone.”

He nodded, already well aware of that. “It’s a vicious cycle. But I’m assuming that you’ll be here to kick his ass when he shows his ugly face around here again.”

Bijou opened her mouth to assure him that she would take care of it and that it’s her responsibly and birthright, her sole purpose for living, but the words stuck in her throat. She shook her head, turned away from him, and headed for the door. “Regrettably I will not and cannot,” she said in a cold, detached tone. Dominick was quick to her side. She pulled her shoulders back, smoothed out her fitted sweater, and held her head high. “The vile creatures stirring in Pointe à la Hache’s underbelly are not my concern,” she said, fighting back the bile rising in her throat as the inconceivable, to her, lies left her lips. “It would be in your best interest if you loaded the shells for those sawed off shotguns under the counter and in the kitchen with lunar caustic...nitric acid silver salt,” she instantly corrected. “We will be waiting outside until you have closed up. Élan will assist you with whatever closing duties this little inconvenience has forced you to postpone,” she said in a monotone voice and gave a slight nod of the head before pushing through the door to join the others outside.

Chapter Six: Strangers from the Road

2011-11-13T13:37:00.000-08:00

Chapter Six

Strangers from the Road

“How many is that?” Dominick whispered.

Élan shrugged. “Almost three,” he whispered back.

“I do not like him and I think we should hide the body,” Dominick suggested for the hundredth time. “She’s still slightly stoned so we might be able to get away with it.”

“No,” Élan said, shaking his head. “Orders are orders, and she gave us explicit orders to preserve life, to keep ya’ out of trouble, and to make an attempt and effort. Besides, he can cook.”

Dominick snarled, rubbing his hand. “Do not remind me.”

Élan laughed. “Hand still hurt?” he mused, eying the bloody napkin wrapped around Dominick’s hand. “I warned ya’ not to touch her mac and cheese,” he sang.

“That you did,” he reluctantly agreed, still pissed off that Bijou stabbed him with a fork for trying to sample the mac and cheese she was moaning over. “Do we have a mutual understanding that this cook needs to be taken care of?” he asked, hopeful.

Again, Élan laughed. “No. He ain’t nuttin’ but a child dat can cook. And in case ya’ ain’t understandin’, Frenchie has put down nearly three hundred thousand calories tonight. I ain’t able to singlehandedly maintain a menu to supplement dat. The woman can eat.”

“When was the last time she ate?” Dominick asked, examining his hand and the nearly healed pink prong marks still blemishing his creamy skin.

“Few days ago,” Élan admitted. “She knew something was comin’ and dat always affects her appetite. I just don’t think she thought it’d be dis extreme.”

“Agreed,” Dominick said, throwing back another shot of Vodka. “You know what really amuses me?” he asked but never gave him a chance to answer. “There are at least a hundred people crowding this shit hole and yet it is ridiculously quiet. The loudest thing in here is the moaning coming from the redhead at the bar chomping on fried marrow. If she gets fat you can keep her,” he mumbled, pouring another shot.

Élan chuckled. “She ain’t gonna get fat. I’ve seen her eat ten times dat. She’ll sleep like the dead for twelve hours, give or take, before wakin’ up hungry. It’s a vicious cycle. Do ya’ got an appetite like dat?” he asked genuinely curious, taking the shot of Vodka his usual dinner companion was offering him.

“No,” Dominick admitted. “She’s always had an appetite. Even when we were children she would eat twice her weight in food. She did go through a chubby stage when she was thirteen. It only lasted six months before she grew ten inches...coincidently, that is when she got breasts. Ooh, maybe those perfectly round B-Cups will grow into Ds!”

“I highly doubt it,” Élan mumbled. “Dere ain’t no hotels to crash at tonight,” he said, changing the subject. “The closest is nearly thirty miles away and they ain’t got no vacancies.”

“Lovely,” Dominick groaned, throwing back another shot. “Camp out in the swamps, what fun.”

No one missed his sarcasm.

Bijou pushed away her twentieth plate away and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Compliments to the chef,” she said.

Ronain cleared the plates and chuckled under his breath, wiping down the bar around her. “It ain’t often that I can cook without worrying about meeting commercialized tastes,” he said, setting dessert down in front of her and she squealed with delight. “Most people freak out about marrow and sweetbreads, chit’lins, gizzards, bloodsausage...so your open mindedness about non-mainstream culinary delights is refreshing.”

“Cause she’s a goddamn vampire!” someone called out from the other side of the restaurant and some others shouted their agreement.

“Mainstream suckhead my ass! They’re going to kill all of us,” another shouted.

“Simmer down now,” Alice warned, pulling a wooden tee-ball bat from behind the bar, slamming it down on the counter. “I’ve busted yer head open before, Charlie, and I’ll do it again.”

“Get ‘em, Mama!” Fitz called out, raising his glass of sweet tea.

Bijou continued to sit there tapping her toes with the music playing on the jukebox, shoving large bites of dessert in her mouth, alternating between the lane cake and buttermilk pie, completely oblivious to the derogatory comments echoing throughout the establishment.

“Ya’ let dang vamps in yer bar now?” Father Mitchell accused. “Just because dem Yankees have embraced dese demons ain’t mean da sons of da south gotta!”

More cheers erupted from the riled up crowd. Fitz motioned for Camille, Valentine and Leomie to follow him to the safety of the kitchen while the three were still under the drunken radar. Élan motioned for Dominick to follow the others but Dominick rolled his eyes, throwing a shot back. He might be self-centered and completely egotistical, but he doesn’t back down from a fight when it threatens to prematurely force his hand in the bigger picture, one that he has been patiently implementing for more years then he’d like to admit.

“I cannot decide which is better,” Bijou said, a fork in each hand, a bite of each dessert at the ready, looking between the delectable desserts, pulling Ronain’s attention from the others. “The pie is so rich and creamy. The tanginess of the buttermilk mixed with the tartness of the lemon zest is heavenly. But the lane cake is so robust and full flavored, savory even, yet light and airy in my mouth. I cannot decide which has won over my heart,” she admitted, shoving the bite of pie in her mouth before repeating with the cake. “Simply sinful,” she mumbled with her mouth full, peppering the bar with partially masticated morsels of cake and pie.

Ronain laughed, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed over his wide chest, watching her, shaking his head at her absurdity. Why he ever thought she was menacing or dangerous initially is beyond him. She reminds him of an excited little girl, a diabetic fat kid getting pie and cake for the first time in their life, a starving child getting their first hot meal, Christmas morning where the only gift is food. There is nothing offputting about the woman in front of him, at least that is what he wishes he could believe. The pit in his stomach tells him otherwise and he’s never ignored that silent warning before and he isn’t about to start now...especially now.

“Did you want another piece?” Ronain asked when Bijou set the forks down and sighed contently. “I got a chocolate pecan pie I pulled out of the oven a couple hours ago, just in case.”

The small, soft smile was back on her face and she shook her head. “That will not be necessary, Master Chef. Tomorrow perhaps,” she graciously said.

“It’s a date,” Ronain said with a smirk.

“Wait, what?” Bijou stammered, her head tilting to the side. “That is not what I meant,” she informed him.

Ronain smiled wide, enjoying her sudden discomfort and the beautiful flushing along her cheekbones from embarrassment.

“That is not what I meant,” she argued through a yawn.

His smile fell. “Where y’all staying tonight?” he asked, grabbing two white mugs and filled them with coffee. “There ain’t a hotel in thirty miles and they’re usually filled with crack heads.”

Bijou shrugged, looking over her shoulder to Élan and he nodded his agreement with an apologetic smile. “That is rather inconvenient,” Bijou mumbled, dumping six packs of sugar in her coffee.

“Trouble,” Ronain whispered and she looked up at him, “I’ll see what I can find for y’all. It might be sleeping on couches or an air mattress, but it’s better than camping in the rain.”

She shook her head. “You do not have to do that,” she argued. “I do not mind camping; however, Leomie might feel otherwise.” She mumbled the last part, realizing that the irritable French woman was going to complain regardless of having accommodation or not. “I recant my statement that there will not be bloodshed tonight.”

Ronain looked at her curiously. “What do you mean, Trouble?”

“That annoying French woman is going to get assaulted, this I foresee,” Bijou informed him, cracking her knuckles, trying to ignore the silent complaining that has yet to cease from the young woman in the kitchen.

He nodded his understanding. “I’ll see what I can do to keep you from assaulting anyone this evening.”

“High hopes,” she said and dismissively waved him away.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head and headed back to Fitz and the other three hiding out in the kitchen. “How goes it?” he asked, packing up the prep area for the evening.

Fitz shrugged. “Why don’t you three go grab a beer or something,” he said with a forced smile.

Valentine smiled. “Don’t keep us waiting, Fitz!” he beamed before turning to Ronain. “Your brother is an amazing host and liaison for tourists. He promised us a tour of the parish tomorrow.”

“You couldn’t get a better guide,” Ronain assured them with a fabricated smile which quickly fell once the faded black door was swinging behind them. “That ain’t wise,” he said under his breath, scrubbing the counter down.

“I know,” Fitz admitted to both of their surprise. “I don’t know, Bro. There’s something different about him! He’s so cute and quiet, and reserved and contained in this shell of confusion...I don’t know. I’m so confused now,” he whined, stacking the clean dishes. “Can I...damn it, is it okay if I show them around the parish tomorrow? I promise not to leave the lines and I’ll be back before dark. I promise. Please?” he begged. “I’ll even bus tables tomorrow night!”

Ronain raised an eyebrow. “It’s your job to bus tables,” he reminded him.

“Yea, but this time I’ll actually do it,” Fitz said as if it were obvious. “Or...well, I’ll attempt to. Anyway, please? Pretty please?” he begged, batting his lashes and pouting his bottom lip out.

“Stop,” Ronain groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, struggling to keep an impending migraine away. He knew this was coming, not the strangers, the new meat as Fitz calls it, or the media drama about vampyres and vǫlur going mainstream. Fitz was getting progressively more and more restless and it was only a matter of time before he needed to stretch his legs. For six years they’ve been cooped up in this podunk town and it’s a surprise Fitz lasted as long as he has. It hasn’t been easy, for either of them, but Ronain has to give the young man credit, he is trying.

“Okay,” Ronain said.

Fitz’s eyes widened. “Wait, what? Are you...yes? Did you seriously just say yes?! As in yes yes?”

He nodded.

“Really?” Fitz was skeptical.

“Really,” Ronain chuckled. “You know the rules. If you break them you’ll be on house arrest for longer than you could possibly imagine. Stick to the surroundings that you are used to and always have a contingency plan. Got it?”

Fitz nodded quickly with a face-consuming smile.

“When you’re done busing tables tonight, have a bit of fun so Ma doesn’t start beating on people purely out of boredom, and turn in around quarter after one in order to set up the guestroom and pull out. We’re having company.”

Fitz’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open. “Are you screwing with me?” he asked suspicious.

“I ain’t screwing with you,” Ronain assured him, shutting down the grill for the night. “There’s a couple hours till closing time, I’ve cooked enough for a small army tonight and am ready to go to bed. Go and have some fun but keep it clean so I ain’t gotta fall off of the wagon. Okay?”

Fitz smiled wide. This was a first. Usually Ronain is all about privacy and keeping their home, their sanctuary, under lock and key. The young man can’t remember the last time they had company that wasn’t of the chain-smoking, bat-wielding variety.

“Let me get this straight,” Fitz said, suddenly suspicious. “You’re letting me have a slumber party?”

Ronain shook his head. “You’re a grown ass man, Fitzgerald.”

“That didn’t answer my question,” he sang, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Men don’t have slumber parties,” Ronain clarified. “But we’ll be having houseguests since the police have custody of their home for the night, and the closest hotel is thirty miles away and full of crack heads and pay-by-hour hookers.”

Fitz hugged him, planting a big kiss on his cheek. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! You are my favorite brother in the whole wide world!” he gushed, hurrying to the swinging door.

“What did I tell you about that?” Ronain scolded.

“Sorry,” Fitz mumbled. “I recant my gratitude,” he said making a face before disappearing out the door and Ronain laughed.

“Is dat wise?” Alice asked from the backdoor, smoke rolling from her nose.

Ronain shrugged. “If I didn’t give him the go ahead he would have snuck out, and if you must know, I really don’t feel like looking for that little shit in the rain again. He’s a sneaky little fart.”

Alice snorted. “Dat he is but dat ain’t what I was talkin’ ‘bout and ya’ know it.”

He turned to look at her, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning against the stove. “To know one’s enemy is to be able to predict your enemy. To keep the enemy from getting the upper hand, to keep from being stabbed in the back,” he informed her, “you sometimes have to open your home to them so you know exactly who your enemy is. Think of it as putting a face to the shadow that’s stalking you.”

“Bah!” she hissed. “Knowin’ is knowin’, but if what ya sayin’ is true, dat means it’s perfectly aight to get yer throat sliced in yer sleep,” she countered. “Dat girl is trouble. Ya sensed it yer self, Boy.”

He nodded his agreement.

“Yer puttin’ yer brotha’ in danger ‘cause of a pair of green eyes,” she accused.

“You know I’m color blind,” he reminded her with a smirk, finally having a name for one particular mystery of the evening.

She flipped him off. “Only when lookin’ at da surface,” she shot back, her gravelly voice getting louder with each word. “Nuttin’ but trouble dat one is,” she repeated and flicked her cigarette butt towards the dumpster and headed back down to the back entrance by the bar.

Ronain sighed and turned around, and looked around the restaurant. The quiet crowd was starting to liven up some—the more they drink the less vampyre-laced their conversations get—and the bar was starting to come alive with dancing couples. Valentine was dancing between two women that are over a head taller than him. Fitz is hootchie dancing in front of Leomie and Camille—she’s glaring and he’s trying to keep from laughing. The Shelly twins are seductively dancing together, desperately trying to steal the attention of Élan and Dominick from the quiet woman sitting between them and Sydney is dancing from table to table, shaking her barely-covered ass.

Each of them are in shades of gray to Ronain’s eyes. Throughout his entire life everything has been like a black and white photo, a moment captured by aged film, only the photographs are moving memories and moments that he has never fully appreciated or experienced because they were nothing more than dreary, monochromatic snippets of the actual happenings. For years, especially when he was younger, he’s hated it. There was always a sense of longing that consumed him but there was never anything to satiate it. No matter what he did or tried, even the words of scholars and poets that beautifully describe the world around him that he can’t fully process, has never filled that void.

Ronain’s smirk fell when he looked to the woman sitting at the bar between her cautious and attentive companions, watching the steam from her coffee dance in the air. There is something about the way the dim overhead lights makes her hair appear. It’s what he imagines blood-coated metal looks like, the vibrant highlights seemingly shimmering every time she runs her hand through her hair, pushing the falling strands off of her cheeks; it makes her appear ethereal in Ronain’s opinion. But the fire and passion burning in her green eyes, how they smolder with intensity and vulnerability shadows the heavenly comparison, causing her hidden horns to become evident to him. What concerns him is that there appears to be a faint white aura around her, something that no one else apparently notices but him, and he isn’t specifically looking for it. But what concerns him more than anything is the unfamiliar tones flooding his vision and mind when he looks upon her.

"Why are you in color?" he whispered to himself.

Chapter Five: Nothing but Trouble

2011-11-12T22:12:00.001-08:00

Chapter Five

Nothing but Trouble

“How ya’ll doin? I’m Sydney and I’ll be yer waitress,” the woman purred, sucking her stomach in and pushing her chest out.

All three sat there looking at her with identical, apathetical expressions on their faces.

The confused waitress looked around before turning her attention back to the table. “Okay, can I start ya’ll off wif somethang to drink?”

Dominick smirked. “What would you suggest, Sydney?” he asked, but the way he said it and the tone made it the most menacing thing she had ever heard and she took a step back with wide eyes.

Élan shook his head. “We’ll take some bottled waters and three Alabama Slammers, heavy on the comfort, it ya’ catch my drift,” he said with a smile and she hurried away to the empty bar to place the order. His smile fell and he turned to the smug man sitting across from him. “Can’t ya’ reel it in for ten gosh darn minutes? We already gettin’ more attention den any of us can afford to have right now,” he whispered.

Dominick rolled his eyes. “I am not some backwoods hick that will simply sit on the front porch whittling wood to pass the time between lynchings. Is that not how the South works?” he mused. “I will find ways to amuse myself, and if that means a body here or there, or making your life a living hell–and I am exceptionally supportive of the latter–so be it. Your happiness is not a priority of mine. In fact, you in general are not my concern, and your well-being is at the very bottom of my list of concerns. Do you understand?”

“You two sound married,” Bijou said with a dark chuckle that was evil and slightly sexy. “No bodies,” she said, turning to Dominick, “and I mean it. And it is near impossible,” she said, turning to Élan, “to stay under the radar in a shit hole with the population of two hundred. Arrange for quarterage for the evening, and tomorrow get some contractors over to the estate once the police release it. I do not care the cost. I want it completed in a timely manner. I will take the west wing, and I am assuming that you will as well, and you,” she made a face, looking at Dominick and he smiled wide. “I do not want it ostentatious. I want something that fits into the area seamlessly...yet more refined,” she added with a shiver, eying the crowd of hygiene challenged patrons staring at them. “You,” turning back to Elan again, “will also put together a list of possible employment opportunities in the area in case the cover that Dom pulled out of his ass does not work out. Understood?”

Élan nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

....there’s no way they just found a damn body like dat! It had to have been dem....

....hot pieces of ass like that can’t be human. Does fucking a vampire count as cheating?....

....I wonder if that dude in La Fourche Parish is still paying for suckheads. Three at six hundred bucks each is..uh..six and six is..uh, carry the one..twelve and six is...fuck it, a lot more den I have....

....if I hike up my skirt a bit more I should be able to get a decent tip. They got money and I need some. Goddamn Valtrex is expensive. I swear to god I’m gonna kill that sonuvabitch if I eva see him again. Fucking herpes infested cocksucker....

“What was in dem pills?” Élan asked. “Dere ain’t anythang dat’ll mix poorly wif alcohol, right?”

Dominick looked around the bar, thoroughly enjoying the vampyre talk and drama silently brewing. “There was this and that. I do not really remember. However, with her genetically superior system she will be fine. I suggest getting her some food though. She is already starting to drool on herself and if my heightened sense for drama is correct, which it always is, we will have an exciting night of backwoods hullabaloo of epic proportions...I believe that is the correct, modernized way to use the term epic in modern society.” He said the last part as more of an afterthought while looking contemplative. “I think I need to watch more television in order to acclimate to this Americanized existence we have been dumped into.”

Bijou snorted. “I have not watched television other than the Dusk based news channels,” she admitted. “I hear that I have missed out on much, including a channel named after music videos and yet it does not play music videos at all. Hominals truly are imbecilic, not to mention moronic, creatures that are not even worthy to be a means to feed. And to think that they are still under the disillusion that they were God’s first perspicacious, and favorite, creation. If only they knew,” she mused, biting her bottom lip.

Dominick roared with laughter. “Opiates,” he said. “That’s what was in that tin! Our lovely Bijou is stoned off her ass on opiates and Viagra.”

She smiled wide.

“Viagra?” Élan choked. “Is dat gonna hurt her since she ain’t got a penis?”

Dominick roared with laughter. “No!” he said, wiping away the tear that had formed at the corner of his eye. “Viagra does not work like that in our systems. It is more of a binder for those of the opiate variety. It slows down the rate at which the opiates metabolize in the system. Instead of having a high for an hour she will have one for five to eight hours. Once again, order her some food and it will help to speed it along...no, not speed it along. It will make it more manageable. I suggest something high in carbohydrates, that always helps me,” he said with a smirk, thoroughly enjoying Élan’s discomfort.

“Can we get some goddamn service?!” Bijou yelled, slamming her hand down on the table, knocking over the napkin dispenser and condiments.

“Here, here!” Dominick agreed before laughing.

“Don’t encourage her,” Élan groaned.

Alice headed over with the drinks and quickly set them on the table. “What can I get ya?” she asked.

Dominick laughed. “Holy shit! We waited for service for so long that our waitress is now collecting social security. Brilliant!”

“I’m Alice and I’ll be ya’ new waitress since the otha’ is a dumb shit.”

“The Alice?” Dominick purred. “Ooh, aren’t we special?! We get the man...nay, woman, the myth, the legend. This...” he paused to find the words.

“Shit hole?” she said, undeterred.

“Yes,” he said with a smile.

“Yup. This questionably to code establishment is mine,” Alice said. “Ya gonna order or continue fuckin’ wif me ‘cause ya’ think ya’ can?”

Élan smiled at Dominick’s sudden discomfort. “Alice, it’s a pleasure,” he said and she cocked an eyebrow. “We’ll take the mac and cheese, as much of it as ya’ got, ham hocks and cabbage, braised oxtails with a marrow based gravy ova’ rice, some hoecakes prepared in pork cracklins, grits, fried okra...heck, let’s throw some fried green tomatas’ in dere as well. All dat times three, leave the tab open. Frenchie got an appetite on her and I can hear her breadbasket raisin’ a ruckus from here.”

Alice nodded. “I ain’t wantin’ trouble,” she warned, eying Dominick before heading to the window to put in the order.

“Do we look like hooligans?” Dominick mused, looking around the eerily quiet establishment. “You do realize that they think we are vampyres, right?” He turned back to Bijou but she was face down on the table gently snoring. “Hmph,” he huffed. “If she somehow gets an erection I am so asking for my favor back.”

Élan shook his head. “You’re a goddamn child,” he hissed under his breath, using proper English so nothing was lost in translation, and carefully pulled Bijou’s hair back from her face, checking to make sure her breathing was still normal. “The only reason they are entertaining the notion is because of you. Is it so hard to grasp the appearance of normality? We are stuck in the middle of the South in one of the biggest racist shit holes on the planet with a loud, rude and obnoxious French Asian-African...you know what they will call her...them I should say? Blue-gummer, nigger, Jap, gook, nip, slopehead, chink, slant-eyes...those are just the ones floating around here already! Just because it’s the twenty-first century, and regardless of the century you were born, hominals don’t evolve and these good ol’ boys will not think twice about lynching them simply because of the color of their skin and shape of their eyes. Do you understand? You might not give a damn about anyone other than yourself, but I know that Bijou will go out of her way to protect them because they are her people. Ordered to abandon her position in our society or not, she will follow her heart, and in her heart she knows to protect her people at all costs. Is your need for theatrics and entertainment at the expense of others so severe that you would risk Bijou’s life and well-being just to supplement it?”

Dominick jutted his chin out, trying to ignore him.

“I have pledged my life to Bijou Bryn,” Élan said in a low voice, “and I will die to protect her. There is nothing that I will not do in order to keep her safe, and if that means killing you, which we both know I am more than capable of, so be it.”

They both know that Élan speaks the truth. The man of a questionable, hidden past, who can move with the speed and agility of a Primordial, and speaks with conviction and passion, that knows his role in their society and his peonage, is lethal to sempiternals and illusionaries alike. In the decade that he has been dedicatedly at Bijou’s side, Dominick has seen him kill those of all worlds without remorse or question, his movements and fluidity surpassing Bijou’s tenfold, only reiterating that Dominick would not win in a fight between the two of them....in a fair fight; Dominick has never been known for playing fair.

“I am still going to kill you,” Dominick eventually said.

Élan chuckled, leaning back. “I welcome yer attempt.”

Across the restaurant, the murmuring and accusations were getting louder and spreading from booth to booth, table to table, like wildfire. Fitz is oblivious to it, still rambling, telling his new friends all about the parish, town, locals, who to watch out for, and who has crabs or frequents the clinic two towns up. Fitz has the attention span of a gnat with A.D.H.D. hopped up on meth.

“Trouble,” Ronain reiterated, filling the counter at the service window with plates of savory and rich food.

“Payin’ trouble,” Alice corrected.

“Always thinking about your pocket book, huh?” he accused, smacking the bell.

“Someone’s gotta,” she smirked, carrying the first tray of food over to the waiting table.

He shook his head, tossing two more plates up in the window and smacked the bell. “Order up!” he called out. When no one came he hit the bell again. “Fitzgerald, get your bony ass up here and bring this to table ten!”

Fitz flipped him off. “I’m busy. Take it yourself,” he shot back. “Sorry about that,” he said, apologizing to Camille and Valentine. “He just doesn’t understand that there’s more to life than just working.”

“Syd!” Ronain called out, slapping the bell again. “Table ten!”

“I’m on break,” the irritated waitress informed him from down the side hall leading to the restrooms where she was choking down a cigarette and drinking a beer. “I’m gonna call the union on y’all ‘bout these workin’ conditions,” she informed him.

“You are a fucking idiot,” Bijou snarled, appearing behind the counter in front of the service window, glaring at the woman now cowering in the darkness. “In order to form a union in this country you need to have at least thirty percent of the workers in the bargaining unit sign union cards. Then, and only then, are you entitled to submit them to the National Labor Relations Board, which views thirty percent as a sufficient number to warrant an election that, if won, will certify the union in your workplace. However, you need to have sixty percent of the bargaining unit vote yes to unionize. And as I see it, you herpes infested cum receptacle, you are only the voice of one of four, and in case your elementary school education missed it, that is twenty-five percent.” She turned to Ronain. “If you ring that bell again I will shove it so far up your ass it will ring when you swallow. Do you understand?”

Ronain leaned forward, resting his arms across the window, his warm black eyes moving over her face many times. He smirked and hit the bell again and she snarled, slamming her hand down on top of his and squeezed it.

“You don’t scare me, Trouble,” Ronain informed her.

Bijou’s head tilted to the side. “I am not trying to scare you,” she admitted. “If I wanted to do that I would surely succeed. I came around the counter to see if you had any more mac and cheese since Alice is indisposed at the bar.”

Ronain looked out the window and everyone in the place was looking at them. “I got another pan in the oven,” he said. “It’ll be done in ten minutes but it’s gotta’ cool for twenty otherwise it’s like molten cheese and separates all over the plate like runny fondue. I can bring it out when it’s done if ya’ want.”

She nodded once. “I do want. The caloric intake will be what?” she asked, looking around him to the kitchen.

“Fifty-six hundred calories per serving,” he said with a chuckle and she nodded. “A pan is a hundred and twelve thousand calories.”

Bijou looked back to him and nodded that she heard him. “Do you have any other protein delicacies? Perhaps some fried marrow?” she asked, hopeful. “The marrow-based gravy was most indulgent.”

Ronain chuckled. “That can be arranged,” he assured her. “Are ya’ starving or something?”

She shook her head. “No...yes but no, not like that. It has been strongly suggested that I regulate the excessive amounts of opiates and erectile dysfunction nostrum in my system with high protein and carbohydrate rich foods. Usually I would tell someone what they could go do to themselves for telling me to do something, but at the moment I am not feeling like myself and I do not like it.”

Ronain’s smirk dropped, he was pained by her admittance but he doesn’t know why. “You look like you’re about to keel over,” he whispered. “You should sit down.”

Absently Bijou nodded. “I suppose you are correct about that,” she admitted, looking around the kitchen once again, “however, if I sit down I will become a target,” she said, her eyes snapping to his causing him to jump, startled. “They want to kill me,” she said in a dark tone, her light green eyes narrowing.

“Oh shit,” Ronain mumbled. “No one wants to kill ya’, Trouble. They’re just dumb rednecks,” he assured her. “They’ve threatened to lynch me more times than I can remember and yet here they sit, eating my food, mumbling about how the nigger behind the counter can somehow make grits as good as their grandmamma. I’m not even black!” he informed her and her head tilted to the side. “I’m South Pacific Islander and French,” he explained. “The tan skin and dreadlocks tend to give it away.”

“Oh,” was all she said about that. “These people are insane!” she whispered, leaning into the window, closing the distance between them, ignoring the whispering and stares from everyone in the establishment. “I want to kill them. Every last one of them,” she admitted, her warm breath washing over his face.

Ronain swallowed loudly, studying her face. “Are you going to?” he whispered.

Bijou chewed on her lip, her eyes studying his while she struggled to find the answer through the thick opiate-laced fog in her head. “I do not want to,” she eventually said and he breathed a sigh of relief. “But I will kill those that try to hurt me,” she informed him in a dark tone that made his eyes widen. “Are you going to hurt me?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe,” he admitted, feeling compelled to tell her the truth.

Her sculpted dark auburn brows knitted together, forming a small puckered indention between them as her pale lips twisted into a pout.

“Everyone hurts everyone now and then,” Ronain explained. “Usually it ain’t intentional, but unintentional hurting is always the worst and hardest to get over. Sometimes we can’t bounce back from the unintentional like we can the intentional...if that made sense. It’s weird how that works, Trouble. But no, I ain’t gonna hurt you intentionally...unless of course I kill you via clogged arteries. As Ma will attest, that could very well happen with my cooking, so I apologize for that ahead of time.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, fighting to contain something that very rarely finds its way on her face, especially without condescension being the sole purpose behind it.

Ronain smiled warmly at her. “It’s aight, Trouble, you can smile. I won’t tell anyone,” he whispered, winking at her.

She chuckled and looked away from him, a small smile finding itself on her face. A soft flushing of rose surfaced along her high cheekbones, and a loose strand of dark auburn hair fell from behind her ear, resting against her cheek. Ronain gasped and fought to stay upright as his legs shook. He couldn’t help but notice that the small, simplistic, involuntary action and the pleasant sentiment behind it, somehow made the strange woman appear slightly softer and more surreal. There was a sense of intrigue about her, an aura of enigmatic sensuality that is hidden under layers upon layers of fear, pride, confusion, and honor. He knows, he can feel it in the pit of his stomach, that she’s deadly and dangerous, and that he shouldn’t be talking to her, it could very well put everyone in danger, but he knows, can sense, that she was telling him the truth when she said she didn’t want to hurt anyone.

Bijou’s smile fell and she opened her mouth, and Ronain longed to hear the words that were fighting to break past her reservations. He prayed it was an explanation. “You are burning the okra,” she said.

“Huh?” he asked, confused.

“The okra in the fryer,” she explained, motioning with her chin behind him to the smoking deep fryer and removed her hand from his and the bell. “Unless blackened okra is on the menu and I overlooked it, you might need to put some more down. I look forward to seconds of the mac and cheese, and whatever other marrow delicacies you create tonight,” she said, turning and headed back to the booth where Dominick and Élan were sitting, watching.

Ronain shook his head to clear it, blinking rapidly, and pulled his hand from the service window, turning it over, and looked down at the crushed service bell in his hand. “Nothing but trouble,” he mumbled under his breath, throwing the crushed bell against the wall.

Chapter Four

2011-11-11T20:47:00.001-08:00

Chapter Four

Alice’s Restaurant

*RING*

The blare of the ancient, pink plastic rotary phone on the counter mixing with the sound of bubbling oil in the fryers, the sizzling of meats on the grill, the clanking of cheap porcelain knocking into each other as they move through the loud dishwasher, the boisterous drunk crowd of dinner patrons, and the discordant chomping of gum from one of two waitresses in the place created the aria of Alice’s Restaurant.

*RING*

The aged building isn’t overly large or fancy, or updated to modern standards, and it isn’t all that clean either, but it’s the only diner-slash-restaurant-slash-bar-slash-hangout in a twenty-mile radius and the food is surprisingly good. Over the years, they’ve added to it, most recently a karaoke set up in the corner that only one person uses and a jukebox that plays the same four southern songs over and over due to popular demand. The walls are littered with artwork from the locals, pictures from backwoods sporting events, impressive gators pictured with the fisherman that caught them, framed newspaper articles of importance, anti-war propaganda from the sixties, anti-Bush buttons and bumper stickers, even family photos spanning over a hundred years.

*RING*

Alice’s had been in the family since it opened sixty years ago, and the same waitress-turned bartender stakes claim to it. Her ‘baby’, she calls it. The gray-haired woman that is never without a cigarette between her thin lips, skin wrinkled and aged from too many days stretched out on the roof with a cigarette and bottle of Jack Daniels while working on her tan, consignment store glasses sliding down her nose only offering clear vision in one eye while slightly blurring the other, works the bar like a seasoned pro. Alice knows everyone’s name, their family, who’s sleeping with who, especially those they shouldn’t be, and the comings and goings of nearly everyone in the parish within reaching distance. Her boys accuse her of being a ‘busy body’, but she calls it ‘being well informed of the assholes pissin’ and shittin’ in my home’—Alice has never been known for her subtly and most would call her surly and brusque and she doesn’t argue that. Being a tiny old woman in an establishment full of ruffians and good ol’ boys, no one crosses her and she carries a big stick...literally. Alice’s word is law and is final.

*RING*

“If you don’t answer that goddamn phone I’m going to shove it up your ass,” the cook called out, slapping his metal spatula down on the bell, its high-pitch twang mixing with the aria.

Fitz smiled at his brother’s discomfort. “If you would invest in a cordless that vibrated, I’d gladly bend over and let you shove away,” he said, singing the last part, shaking his ass at him.

*RING*

Ronain threw a hamburger bun through the service window at the dancing man, hitting him in the back of the head.

Fitz dusted the sesame seeds out of his hair and continued dancing. “Temper, temper,” he scolded. “Whatever would your support group say?” he taunted, picking up the ringing phone and set it on the counter of the service window. “It’s for you,” he said with a smirk and danced away with a tray of food in hand.

“Goddamn child,” Ronain mumbled, answering the phone. “Alice’s, the special is livermush and ramps from the mountains,” he said.

“Ronain, its Sheriff Deeds. Is yer...ramps, really?” he asked.

“Yup,” he said, holding the phone against his shoulder, flipping over some hoecakes. “Brought ‘em back this morning.”

“Hot damn,” Sheriff Deeds said. “Save me some, if ya’ can. Is yer mama around?”

“She’s out back choking the white raven,” Ronain said, eying the aged woman on the other side of the restaurant stocking the bar, cigarette bouncing between her thin lips while she mumbles about useless ass motherfuckers under her breath. “What can I help ya’ with, Sheriff?”

There was a moment of silence on the other line, one that Ronain knows can only translate to trouble.

“I ain’t my brotha,” Ronain reminded him. “You know that whatever information you share with me will be in the strictest confidentially.”

“True,” Sheriff Deeds admitted. “Ya’ know dat place up on Oak Haven Drive?” he asked.

“Not personally,” Ronain admitted, plating some dishes, slapping the bell. “I’ve heard of it but ain’t had the pleasure of touring it.”

Sheriff Deeds chuckled. “You ain’t missin’ much. It was sold,” he explained and Ronain stopped and looked to his brother across the restaurant. “The new owners found a body in it. Ain’t human though. Maybe one of dem suckheads dat came out to the public or somethang. I ain’t eva seen anythang like it before. Can ya ask yer mama when ya see her if she was aware of any vamps bein’ in da area?”

Ronain absently nodded. “Will do, Sheriff. How do you know it’s a vampire?” he asked, not really caring about the answer but the mention of vampyre got Fitz’s attention from across the restaurant and he raised an overly sculpted light brown eyebrow.

The sheriff laughed. “It has fangs.”

“Every carnivore has fangs, including humans,” Ronain reminded him.

“True,” Sheriff Deeds admitted. “But he was...what do they call it, I mean, how’d they say ya’ kill a vamp?

Ronain rolled his eyes. “A stake?

“Yea! The boys are chalking it up to vamp suicide by stake,” Sheriff Deeds laughed.

“That is interesting,” Ronain mumbled. “The new tenants, you know ‘em?”

Fitz’s eyes widened and he smiled. He loves new meat.

The sheriff snorted. “Naw. Foreign exchange students or somethang from some fancy European school. I ain’t understandin’ any of the languages they was speakin’.”

“Did they have something to do with this, you think?” Ronain asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Naw. One of dem girls was on da roof takin’ measurements for repairs or somethang and fell through it and da floor below, embeddin’ herself right next to da body. She ain’t seem too upset ‘bout it but I think dat’s ‘cause she was doped up on pills. Besides, I had da boys check deir passports and call da airport to confirm dat dey came in on dem flights dey said dey did...I saw dem do dat on an episode of CSI.”

“But of course,” Ronain agreed.

“I sent ‘em yer way since we only got da scene for twenty-four hours. Can ya’ have yer mama keep an eye out on ‘em? I ain’t trustin’ foreigners.”

Ronain softly growled under his breath. “Of course,” he said with a fabricated smile.

“Have yer mama call me, aight?” Sheriff Deeds said.

“Will do, and I’ll keep some ramps for ya’,” Ronain said before hanging up the phone.

“Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me!” Fitz begged, hopping up and down with excitement.

Ronain raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yea!” Fitz laughed and hurried around the counter and ducked into the kitchen, the faded black door swinging behind him. “What’s going on? Tell me!”

“Give me a min,” Ronain said, plating the last tickets and slapping the bell. “Order up!” he called out.

“Hold yer horses!” Sydney yelled before turning her attention back to the two truckers she was flirting with. Short skirts, makeup, hair done up, and perfume equals bigger tips in her experience.

“No!” Ronain barked before heading out the back door with Fitz on his heels, the screen door slamming shut behind him. “The goon squad found a body,” he said in a low voice, heaving two large garbage bags Fitz tossed by the backdoor into the dumpster.

Fitz rolled his eyes. “That isn’t gossip,” he reminded his brother, leaning against the wall.

“A vampire body.”

“Again,” Fitz sang, “not gossip worthy.” Bored, he studied his nails, mentally going through his schedule to fit in a manicure. “Death happens, vampires die all the time, the planet spins, it orbits the sun, and blah blah blah.”

Ronain pulled his hands over his face in frustration, giving a slight tug on his shoulder length dreadlocks. “This might cause some problems,” he explained. “With the recent mainstreaming, every backwoods asshole with a shotgun and toothpick is going be jumping at anything they perceive as a threat. Outsiders, insiders that are different….” he emphasized the last part and Fitz glared at him but it quickly turned it to a pout. “It ain’t safe, Fitzgerald. And you know as well as I do that half the parish already knows about the body they found and the other half will know before closing. Do you understand?”

Fitz made a face. “Yes,” he mumbled. “It would have been nice to play with new meat though.”

“It’s nothing but drama. You know that.”

“But drama is fun!” Fitz whined, kicking a rock. “I’m so bored and you promised that we’d leave once it was clear. Why can’t we leave?”

Ronain shook his head. “I’m not having this discussion with you right now,” he said, heading back inside and Fitz followed, “or anytime soon for that matter. I’m the one that will decide when it’s clear, not you. Got it?” He quickly washed his hands before taking his place in front of the grill and spun the creaky metal carousel, stopping it at the new tickets. He struggled to ignore his pouting little brother, to drown out his soft whimpering, batting lashes and pouting bottom lip. “Fine,” Ronain groaned, throwing a couple of steaks on the grill. “If you can behave, and once the potential shit storm from the current situation blows over, we’ll take a vacation....” his words abruptly stopped when the front door opened, the dangling bell signaling customers.

Fitz stepped up next to his brother and looked out the service window. “What? What is it? What do you see...oh shit….” his words trailed off.

In walked a dark-skinned woman, the look of disgust more than apparent on her beautiful face. Behind Leomie, Valentine walked in, smiling and clicking pictures, rambling quietly about the true, deep southern aesthetic of the building and décor, and he wonders if they would allow him to contribute to said décor—it would be a way to immortalize his stay in the area for generations to come. The last of the trio watched his feet as he walked, hands shoved in his pockets. For being nearly a foot taller than his sister, and eight inches taller than Valentine, it’s more than apparent that he’s trying to hide behind his attention-worthy companions, to stay out of everyone perceptions.

“Dibs!” Fitz squealed, jumping up and down clapping. “I so saw him first!”

Ronain shook his head. “The damn death of me,” he mumbled under his breath, turning the steaks over.

“Maître d',” Leomie called out, snapping her fingers. “Une table trios,” she said, looking around.

“Fitzgerald, take care of it,” Ronain hissed, shaking his head.

Fitz squealed again, quickly kissing Ronain on the cheek before hurrying out of the kitchen, grabbing some menus in passing. “Welcome to Alice’s! I’ll be your manservant for the evening. I’m Fitz...but you,” he said, turning to Camille, a business card appearing in his hand, “can call me whatever you want. Grrr,” he growled, handing him the card.

Leomie made a gagging sound but Camille blushed, taking the card.

Fitz leaned over. “That’s my only card so if you aren’t going to call me can I get it back?” he whispered.

Valentine laughed, handing his companions the menus.

Camille handed the card back with a forced smile, looking away from the smiling waiter.

Reluctantly Fitz took the card back and slipped it in his back pocket. “The special is livermush and ramps from the mountains,” he told them, pulling the pencil from behind his ear, ready to take their order. “Can I start you off with some drinks? Mama makes the best sweet tea in Plaquemines Parish, and if you really wanna get three sheets to the wind, add some Moonshine to it.” He leaned into them and whispered, “She makes it herself. They say it’ll put hair on your chest,” he said with a chuckle.

Camille smiled, a bona fide smile for once, finding everything about the strange waiter interesting; his light gray eyes and the way they sparkle, his beautiful white smile that appears to be a permanent fixture on his face, medium tan skin that looks unbelievably soft, his strange accent that sounds like something from a bad community production of Gone with the Wind, the lead being played by a European thespian. He admired his lean muscular physique that is expertly presented in his slightly fitted shirt and jeans, and the way the horrible overhead light makes the blond streaked through his light brown hair look like golden flax in the sun.

“That’s nothing but trouble,” Ronain mumbled, watching his brother flirt and ramble on and on about the inconsequential with Valentine while the snooty French woman struggled to understand what they were talking about, and the introverted man with them took it all in with a soft sigh of contentment. “Order up!” Ronain called out, slapping the bell.

“I’m comin’!” Sydney snapped at him. “Goddamn it, Ronain, ya need to learn some patience.”

“Orders are backing up and you’re playing grab ass with some broke truckers,” he said.

“I need the money,” she informed him, taking the orders.

“Syd, the only tip they have to offer isn’t of the monetary variety,” he amusingly informed her and her eyes widened.

Alice laughed, taking the phone, putting it back on the counter. “They wanna play just the tip wif ya’,” Alice explained and Sydney’s face flushed a brilliant shade of red. “What do ya’ expect when ya’ wear a skirt so short it’s a goddamn violation of the health code.”

“It is not!” Sydney snapped at her.

Alice smirked, lighting her cigarette. “Yer skirt’s so short I’m surprised yer snatch ain’t catch a cold yet, ya’ goddamn syphilitic cock cozy.”

“This is sexual harassment and I ain’t gotta take it,” Sydney informed them and hurried off with her orders.

Alice flipped her off. “Goddamn high school dropouts and dere ‘understandin’ of labor laws. Remind me again why I ain’t fired dat bitch?” she rhetorically asked.

Ronain chuckled. “She’s your niece.”

“Oh yeah,” Alice mumbled. “What’d Sheriff Dickhead want?” she asked, refilling some salt dispensers, the falling ash from the cigarette dangling between her lips mixing with the ubiquitous food seasoning. “The only time ya’ tell people I’m chokin’ the white raven out back is when ya’ want to know somethang ya’ ain’t supposed to be knowin’. And ya’ have the nerve to call me a busy body. Goddamn hypocrite.”

He chuckled. “You ain’t nearly as dumb as your elementary school education would suggest,” he said and ducked to avoid the saltshaker she threw at him. “You know I’m playing, Ma.”

“Uh huh,” she huffed, throwing another saltshaker at him, narrowly avoiding his head.

“Stop trying to assault me and I’ll tell you,” Ronain said and she stood there with saltshaker in hand, ready to hurl at him. “They found a body up at that estate on Oak Haven Drive.”

Alice rolled her eyes, putting the saltshaker down. “Dat ain’t worth a call from Sheriff Dickhead.”

“Vamp,” Ronain mumbled and her head tilted to the side. “Simmer down,” he scolded. “Deeds and the goon squad are thinking vamp suicide by stake.”

She snorted. “Dat man and his squad of GED recipients wouldn’t know their ass from a hole in the wall, let alone what a goddamn murder or suicide looked like.”

He nodded. “I know. I gotta keep an eye on him, Ma.”

“I agree,” she said. “Dem three found da body?” she asked, watching Fitz who was now sitting at the table with the three strangers, his hands waving through the air in overly exaggerated sweeping movements as he tells a tale, two of the three smiling, Leomie glaring.

“In theory.”

“Mama will take care of it,” Alice said.

“Don’t,” Ronain said and she looked at him curiously. “They called the cops when they found the body. That ain’t something that someone killing vamps would do. Don’t you agree? I think it was coincidental is all. And if that’s true, we got a bigger problem than some rich kids from Europe setting roots down in Pointe à la Hache.”

“Like what?” Alice scoffed but she wasn’t really arguing with him, she was just being her typical defiant self.

The bell at the door jingled and everyone in the place turned, and Ronain groaned. An irritated woman pushed the smirking grab ass into the wall causing him to give her a dirty look. But the look he got caused him to lean back with wide eyes.

The restaurant went quiet. Even the jukebox stopped playing.

“Well this is not awkward, at all,” Dominick haughtily commented.

“No shit,” Bijou agreed before emptying a tin of pills in her mouth, swallowing them dry. “If you grab my ass again I will rip your arm off and shove it so far up your ass that you will be able to pick your nose from the inside out. Do you understand?” she hissed in his face before pushing past him.

Dominick grabbed his crotch. “It is all foreplay to me, Bee.”

Élan shook his head in passing. “Gosh darn child,” he mumbled, following Bijou to an open booth on the opposite side of the restaurant from their companions, and the full booths on both sides of it instantly cleared, the patrons taking their plates and beers with them as the three strangers sat.

Ronain shook his head. “This is going to end badly,” he mumbled under his breath. “Ma, bring them some drinks and keep Syd away. She’s like a goddamn dog in heat when it comes to humping anything with cash and that’s a walking dollar sign to that girl.”

“Too late,” Alice mumbled as Sydney seemingly appeared out of nowhere in front of their table with a smile.

Chapter Three

2011-11-10T20:25:00.001-08:00

Chapter Three

The drive up the winding, compacted dirt road was promising. Tall oak trees, each massive trunk three times the girth of a stocky man and covered in creeping moss, bordered the road on each side, their thick limbs bowing together creating a dark canopy of vegetation leading to the light at the end of the tunnel. Dense fog wrapped around each trunk and lingered at mid-tree level creating an ambiance of captivation and mystery.

That, however, was the extent of the promise, intrigue and mystery.

For the past twenty minutes, five of the six, road-weary pilgrims have been standing in front of an ancient plantation-styled home. The windows are all boarded up and littered with spray paint, the door is nailed shut from the outside with two-by-fours, and portions of the porch floorboards are rotted, some missing all together. The vegetation surrounding the once lush and lavish estate appeared to be swallowing the house whole. The exterior walls were once white lap siding but now are covered in menacing green and brown thorny vines and leaves canvassing midway up the second story. The roof is missing portions of it from the violent winds blowing in from the Gulf, and only one of the five chimneys partially remain. The grassy knoll the house sits upon is surrounded by deceiving bogs littered with oak trees and Bald Cypress trees stretching nearly two hundred feet into the air, their roots deeply burrowed into the thick silt, their wispy canopies swaying in the breeze creating haunting shadows across the dark water.

Élan scratched his head. “This ain’t what the brochure looked like,” he said with a strained chuckle and the other four turned in unison and glared at him.

“I recant my temporary ceasing to kill you compromise,” Dominick said and grabbed for him but only found air.

“I imagine so,” Élan said appearing on the other side of the Thing and leaned against it. “I know y’alls as mad as a hornet right now, but this ain’t my fault!” he laughed.

Leomie snarled, her full, glossy, bole-colored lips pulling back over her white teeth, her small hands balling into fists at her sides, almond eyes narrowing to black slits of murderous rage. “This is completely unacceptable!” she shrieked, her thick French accent flooding her overly proper English. “Not only am I pulled from my home and prestigious schooling to come to this disgusting pissoir, and have to leave my family and servants, my designer wardrobe, but now my stilettos are ruined! What is this merde?” she demanded, looking at her shoes.

“Just dat,” Élan said with a chuckle. “If I were a bettin’ man I’d say dat’s gator scat.”

“Excusez-moi?!” she gasped.

Élan smirked. “Gators potty, pee-pee and poop through an openin’ called a cloacae at the same time,” he explained. “It makes the consistency comparable to bird poop.”

The other four stood there with their mouths hanging open, not entirely sure what to say about that.

Eventually Dominick raised his hand. “There are many things wrong with this picture,” he said. “First, what kind of grown ass man, an immortal at that, calls...I am not going to lower myself to the level of stupidity that you have now reached with that one.”

Élan smiled wide.

“Fucking child,” Dominick sneered, making a face. “The juvenile excrement and urination thing aside, for once I was able to understand everything out of your...why can you not speak clearly like that all of the time?”

“Rhetorical?” Élan chuckled.

“Yes,” he hissed. “How did you know that about the alligator? You’re a complete dumbass!”

“I dun cuss in front of ladies,” Élan reminded him, motioning towards Leomie with his chin. “And I...” he stopped and shook his head. “I dun know,” he whispered. “Frenchie,” he called out, trying to ignore the accusatory look from Dominick. “Come on, Frenchie. Stop sittin' like a bump on a log.” He looked in the back seat and his eyes widened. “Frenchie!” he called out, his head snapping from side to side.

Instantly Dominick was at his side. “Where in the hell is she?” he demanded, sniffing wildly.

Élan shook his head, closing his eyes and concentrated.

“If you lost her I’ll fucking you,” Dominick snarled.

.... Je ne comprends pas. Tu plaisantes? Je suis perdu....

....Alligators pee and poop out the same hole? That’s crazy. I guess it’s true, you learn something new every day! I hope the fog sticks around. I want to get some shots of that lingering fog around the trees....

....This is going to end so badly. I feel very exposed here. Do they know? Oh God, please don’t let my father find out....

“Shut the heck up!” Élan yelled, startling the others, sending birds scattering into the air. “I can’t hear wif y’all runnin’ yer mouths like dat.”

The three looked at each other confused.

“We didn’t say anything,” Valentine said.

Dominick grabbed Élan’s arm and dragged him towards the house. “Stay!” he barked at the others when they started to follow. “And keep an eye out for alligators, like the one behind you.”

Hissing was followed by Leomie’s scream. In a blur of movement, all three slammed the doors of the BMW in unison, locking them.

“Goddamn children,” Dominick mumbled. “They do not know about that little hiccup of ours.”

“I dun care,” Élan spit, ripping his arm from Dominick. “I gotta concentrate so I can hear her!”

“You can’t hear her just like I can’t,” Dominick snorted, looking around, minding where he was stepping.

“Not her head, her heart!” Élan snarled in his face, pushing past him.

“Swa cwæð eardstapa, earfeþa gemyndig, wraþra wælsleahta, winemæga hryre,” a loud voice echoed across the quiet estate, carrying on the wind, echoing throughout the trees.

Dominick and Élan followed the sound above them and they groaned.

“Oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce mine ceare cwiþan,” Bijou said, appearing on the ridge of the roof. “Nis nu cwicra nan þe ic him modsefan minne durre sweotule asecgan,” she continued, her voice cracking, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Oh shit,” Dominick mumbled.

“Dis is bad,” Élan agreed.

“She hasn’t recited her father’s poetry in centuries,” Dominick said more to himself than anyone else. “The Wanderer is one of her favorites.”

“Dat ain’t so bad,” Élan argued, looking for a safe way up to the roof, one that would support the extra weight.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Dominick said. “Favorites when in mourning,” he explained in a tone that was belittling, his way of reminding Elan that he may have monopolized this past decade but Dominick has sixty-four decades on the blond.

Bijou punched the side of her head, struggling to find a coherent thought through the thick fog swirling in her mind, the onslaught of foreign emotions threatening to completely take her over. “Oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce mine ceare cwiþan. Nis nu cwicra nan þe ic him modsefan minne durre sweotule asecgan-” her words were choked out in a shriek of surprise as the roof under her gave way and she disappeared.

“Shit!” Dominick and Elan said in unison.

“I’ll take the front,” Dominick said in a rush, waving his hand through the air and the front door exploded inward, the two-by-fours snapping in two.

Elan stared wide-eyed and absently nodded, watching the blur of alabaster and ebony that was Dominick’s movements. It would appear, to Elan, that he has been greatly underestimating the irritable man, a mistake he won’t continue to make. Shaking his head to clear it he hurried around the estate, scaling the side of the house, pulling the boards off of the windows as he went, looking inside for his Strategos.

Dominick rushed through the front door and hurried up the staircase to the second floor, following the sound of maniacal laughter. “Bee! Are you alright?” he called out, heading down the hall, throwing doors open as he went, checking inside each room. “Bee?” he whispered, throwing another door open. “Are you....” His words trailed off.

In the middle of a small room, body embedded halfway through floor, legs sticking out of the ceiling of the room below, was Bijou, laughing hysterically. Elan was squatting in the window on the far wall, eyes wide, mouth-hanging open, tan complexion extremely pale.

There was nothing amusing about the situation. Yes, the woman stuck in the floor, playfully kicking the chandelier knocking into her knee in the room below, is rather amusing. But what isn’t amusing is the petrified body next to her with a stake sticking out of his chest. His mouth was open wide, affixed in perpetuum, elongated upper cuspids stained with creeping blackness—necrosis of the means, they call it— the lower cuspids were missing, his skin was pulled inhumanly taut, texture comparable to tanned leather, each bone appearing to be trying to break free from the exsiccated dermis. His rigor mortis hands were stuck in the process of mid-claw, dried ribbons of blood and tissue embedded in the gouges in the hardwood floors. His legs were bent and broken at an awkward angle and it seemed as though chunks of hair had been ripped out from the scalp prior to the deathblow.

“I don’t think that was in the brochure either,” Dominick mumbled.

“I reckon it ain’t,” Elan agreed.

“You know,” Bijou laughed, poking at the sunken cheek of the desiccated body, “they moved us all the way to Pointe à la Hache, Louisiana, population less than two hundred, without a presence of Dusk dwellers, and, low and behold, we find a suckhead turned into a slab of vampyre jerky. The irony does not cease to amuse me.”

Elan shook his head disapprovingly and climbed in the window. “You’ve made dat quite clear, Frenchie.”

Dominick smirked, readying a card to play. “You know what this reminds me of, Bee? Perillos of Athens,” he said in Greek and Bijou nodded her agreement. “The brazen bull,” he said with a longing sigh.

Bijou sighed contently, resting her face in her hands, elbows propping herself up on the floor, legs freely kicking back and forth one floor below while the images of the past played over and over in her head; peasants and presumed criminals being locked inside giant metal bulls, fires being lit under them, cooking them alive. The screams resonating from within sounded much like an ox in heat, Dominick used to comment, and it always made her smile.

“Roasting was such a unique and truly admirable form of torture,” he purred, licking his lips. “It got exceptionally theatrical when a certain young Lokhagos suggested adding a bit of water to the belly to get steam from the nose of the metal beast.”

Bijou giggled.

“You are an evil little genius when it comes to getting people to talk. Aren’t you?” Dominick moaned.

Elan glared at him, well aware of what he’s doing.

“I am,” Bijou agreed with a content sigh. “Oh how I long for the days when my hands were not tied and I had an arsenal at my disposal, where I did not have to worry about morals and politics, and all I had to do was cleanse the territory, the world, of those that opposed us, that threatened our very existence.”

“Time are a changin’, Frenchie,” Elan reminded her.

She sniveled. “That they are, and not for the better. This is proof enough.”

Dominick pushed Elan out of the way and squatted down next to Bijou and tenderly brushed her falling hair out of her face, waiting for the assault that usually accompanies the action, but it didn’t come. “Jerky has been dead for six, maybe seven, years. He lacks the second set of fangs so obviously he wasn’t a primordial or someone of importance. Maybe a sempiternal? Obviously a dumb one if he allowed himself to get caught and martyrized. By the looks of it he was tortured for days, maybe even weeks, and the stake brushing against his heart....” His words trailed off and he shook his head, thoroughly impressed. “I surely would like to meet the sick sonuvabitch that did this and commend him on his flawless form. It truly is a work of art. Don’t you agree?”

Bijou looked at the body. She had already deduced everything that Dominick had and she knows that he was only saying it aloud to prove to Élan that he is superior to him, but something feels off about this. “Call the cops,” she said.

“What?” they choked.

Bijou smirked. “The Brotherhood wants us to embrace a human existence, to stop protecting our people, our kin, our friends and family. They want us to sit idly by and do nothing so that is exactly what we are going to do. Pathetic, weak humans call for help when something like this happens, when something slightly disturbing and troublesome is at their doorstep. They need a college dropout with a fifty cent metal badge and a gun to hold their hand and tell them that everything is alright. That’s the human thing to do,” she repeated. “Now get me out of this fucking ceiling,” she snapped at them.

While the police marked the house off with yellow police tape and scratched their heads and asses, Bijou sat in the backseat of the Thing with a book in hand, a tin full of an assortment of pills in every color of the rainbow, bottle of water in hand, in her own little closed off world. The haze is lifting from her mind. The concoction that Dominick coined Delirium in a Box, is causing the irritation of the situation to surface to the forefront of her mind and it’s making her extremely irritable.

Élan is standing guard next to the Thing, keeping an eye on everything going on around them, his mind speculating while keeping an ear on the badge-wearing hominals lingering around the estate.

“Ridiculously mundane, are they not?” Bijou absently commented, turning the page in her book. “The mind of man is as linear and simplistic as a shoestring. It has a specific functionality, as simplistic as it may be, and when you pull it taut it becomes that much more linear, and yet completely useless. It has a purpose. In the hands of the creative they can be used for various means, and yet they never stretch past their limitations. And when they do, they simply snap and are completely useless. Oh that which the Brotherhood has reduced us to….” she snarled the last part, snapping her book shut.

“I suppose truer words ain’t eva been spoken,” Elan quietly said. “Howeva’, the lips which speak dem ain’t speakin’ dem from the heart. If I may be so bold to say, ya lookin’ at dis all wrong. When was the last time ya’ took a vacation? Just sat back and chilled for a bit? Take a breatha and just enjoy a change of scenery?”

Bijou gave him a look. “I have travelled the world many times over,” she reminded him.

“But did ya’ eva take a moment to stand der and look ‘round and take it all in?” he softly countered, his cerulean eyes burning into hers. “When we were in Barcelona, walkin’ along the beach even....” He shook his head. “For Christ sakes, Frenchie, ya wore leather armament and combat boots to the friggin’ beach!” he hissed under his breath.

She rolled her eyes and looked away from him.

“Dis is a blessin’ in disguise,” he assured her softly, trying to steal her attention from the mindless ramblings of the lackluster police investigating, what they call, a suckhead suicide. “Ya deserve a break more den anyone. Dere ain’t nuttin’ wrong wif livin’ a life without agendas, orders, bloodshed and war, Frenchie. It’s what everyone lives...everyone but Bijou Bryn.”

Bijou glared at him from the corner of her eyes. They both know he’s right but one will never say it and the other never expected to hear her admit it. Bijou’s whole life has been orders, agendas, hidden agendas that she had to discover and find the purpose for, war, bloodshed, a political balancing act that she had no interest in, and protecting her people. The old saying ‘If you’re doing what you love for a living then you will never work a day in your life’ is true in the case of Bijou. She loves what she does. If it weren’t for Dominick taking her pay and investing it for her she wouldn’t have accepted a paycheck for it. Sometimes it was difficult but it was as if she was made to do it, and because of that she never questioned it.

However, now the only world she’s ever known has been ripped out from under her and she is left exposed, confused, and extremely irritated, neither of which is good, and will end badly for someone, possibly all of them if they are not careful.

“Good evening, Sheriff Deeds!” Dominick called out, his fabricated smile starting to falter. When he turned on his heels, turning his back to the Sheriff, his smile fell and he glared at Elan. “I am holding you personally responsible for this,” he hissed under his breath.

Elan nodded but didn’t regard him, instead keeping his attention on Bijou. “Just think ‘bout it, Frenchie,” he quietly pleaded.

“I will take it under advisement,” she hissed, turning her attention to Dominick. “What is the verdict, Dom?” she asked.

He climbed in the front passenger seat and snapped his fingers, pointing to the driver’s seat. “You are even more delusional than I initially gave you credit for if you think that I am driving this piece of shit,” Dominick snarled and Elan nodded, joining them. Once they were back on the road, the BMW following them, Dominick finally answered the initial question. “We are using the education cover,” he said. “European exchange students from the University of Lukos in Greece.”

Bijou laughed. “Very nice,” she said and he didn’t miss her tone.

“I thought so,” he said, brushing his falling black bangs off of his forehead. “We are all studying various environmental sciences, and through the same grant we are researching each said field of study in the aftermath of Katrina, and the idiot that sounds like the rest of the backwoods assholes is our tour guide, in a sense. Even with my overly creative head and glowing personality I couldn’t make up a lie and back story to explain him. Once he opens his mouth our cover would have been blown. You can’t fake refinement, as you well know, Stray.”

Elan nodded, not really agreeing with him but he didn’t want to argue either, especially since he’s silently arguing with Bijou at the moment. There are no words being exchanged between them, it’s simply of looks in the rearview mirror, but through a single look hundreds of passionate and sometimes heat-filled words are exchanged.

“How long before we can unpack?” Bijou asked, glaring at Elan and he smirked.

“We’ll take ownership of the house tomorrow at five,” Dominick said, oblivious to the silence exchange. “I gave them twenty-four hours. They only need one, in all honesty. There is nothing that these backwoods, high school dropouts turned police force will be able to deduce from the scene.” He laughed. “They are leaning towards vampyre suicide!” he said and roared with laughter.

She chuckled with a nod. “I heard. It was rather amusing to say the least, watching them run in circles trying to find something to preoccupy themselves with while spying on us. You know, it kind of reminded me of that time in Guadalajara when we tied those barbed chains to their tails and watched them run in circles.”

Dominick moaned, adjusting himself. “Never again did the Cartel violate your space when you were in town.”

“Quick learners they are,” she agreed. “They think we’re vampyres,” she said but they were both already well aware of that. “Since the Primordials are not mainstreaming, and only the illusionary immortals are, we should be able to...I believe the proper idiom for it is nip it in the bud.”

Dominick roared with laughter. “The redneck impression is appreciated,” he said and she nodded with a smile. “The only problem I foresee is from Princess High and Mighty behind us. Leomie wears her immortality on her sleeve. Camille understands, he is a quick learner, and if I didn’t know any better I’d swear that he was ashamed of what he is. Weird...I’m not entirely sure why someone would be ashamed of that-”

“He isn’t,” Elan and Bijou said in unison. “It is something else.”

“I am well aware of that,” Dominick snapped at them. “However, being a complete prick or not, that is not something I would flip someone shit about.”

“Moments of maturity are far and in between with you, Dom,” Bijou said. “It strangely suits you.”

Dominick nodded. “Don’t get used to it. Valentine,” he said, changing the subject, “has been to schooling outside of the Dusk before. He will seamlessly blend into it...as long as we can keep it in his pants,” he quickly mumbled the last part under his breath.

“Explain,” Bijou said in a clipped tone.

Elan chuckled. “Master Coldwater enjoys the companionship of women. From what I saw he was sent wif us ‘cause he slept wif someone’s wife. Someone on da Brotherhood. “

The other two laughed. “This shall be interesting,” they commented before smirking.