Page 4 of Bootleg Love

A guttural cackle rips from her throat, the sound skittering up my spine. Her head lolls at an unnatural angle, mouth stretched in a rictus grin. I wrench away, lip curling in disgust as she skitters back into the crowd.

I toss back a hefty belt of bourbon, relishing the familiar burn. Probably spouting nonsense, too much of that bathtub gin rotting her brain. But I can't quite shake the eerie imagery. Hexebloods, witchfire, the Dark's daughter?

Nothing I need to dwell on.

Though an icy trickle slides down my spine at the eerie certainty in her voice. I watch where she weaved back into the crowd, the words echoing in my head. The band strikes up a mean stomp and I try to shake it off. I pour another bourbon, ignoring my shaking hand.

A feline shadow glides onto the stage, the new dark fae canary Etienne hired from some two-bit backwoods salon. What was her name...? She looks right at me, eyes glowing like a cat's, and I'd swear on my mama's grave she's thumbing through my head like a dime-store novel.

Another pull of whiskey but it's lost all taste.

“I hate this fucking town,” I mutter under my breath and take another shot behind the bar, sweet juniper and liquid fire searing down my throat. I make sure my shotgun is still hidden within reach.

Something feels off tonight, alright. The energy is alive, charged like blood in a gator's mouth, the air thick with sweat and secrets. Laughter slices through the smoky din, too brittle, too bright - like chum hitting the water, stirring up the predators.

And damn if they aren't out in full force tonight. I can practically smell the hunger rolling off them, see the unsheathed claws behind their glad-handing smiles as they work the room.

Sizing up marks, scenting weakness.

They're out for blood. But hell, ain't that always the way in this festering swamp they call a town? Only difference is, something tells me there's a bigger game afoot. The stakes are rising and the shadows have grown teeth.

Auguste returns through the crowd, a satisfied smirk on his rakish face and the knuckles of his right hand busted and bloody.

"Message delivered, boss."

I clap him on the shoulder in approval. "Good man." But my gaze is drawn irresistibly back to the smoky-voiced lounge singer, her smile sharp as a switchblade in the dark. "Say, what d'ya make of the new girl? Can't shake this weird feeling about her."

He snorts, "You're just jumpy, is all. When's the last time you took a day off?"

I raise a derisive eyebrow, "And what would I do? Starting to feel like they'll bury me in this damned town." I shake my head as if to dislodge the thought.

Another shiver rakes its icy claws down my spine as I sense unseen forces gathering beyond the tawdry lights and whiskey-soaked laughter. Wheels within wheels, the gears of some great and terrible machine grinding into motion.

A storm is coming, all right. One that will rattle the very foundations of our gutter kingdom. And heaven help the sorry bastards who get caught.

But then again, maybe that's just what it means to live and die in N'awlins. Laissez les bon temps rouler... straight to hell.

3

SIMONE

“Ihave to get out of here,” I mutter under my breath.

The dense foliage of the bayou presses in on me, a choking green shroud that seems to swallow all light and sound. Spanish moss hangs from the gnarled cypress branches like witch's hair, dripping with the same dank moisture that soaks my tattered shift and plasters it to my skin.

Every breath is thick and labored, the humid air coating my throat like swamp water. My bare feet squelch in the muddy earth as I stagger forward, each step a herculean effort.

The soft ground sucks at my soles, reluctant to release me, as if the very swamp conspires to hold me in its clammy embrace. Around me, the standing water is dark and listless, marred only by the occasional ripple as some unseen creature disturbs the surface. Each splash makes my heart lurch, imagination conjuring gators, snakes, or worse - the furious pack on my scent.

Finally, a weathered shack materializes out of the gloom and I lurch towards it, grasping the splintered wood like a lifeline. Dragging myself to the sagging porch, I paw through the detritus littering the interior, desperate for anything to cover myself.

Miraculously, I unearth a moth-eaten calico dress and a pair of men's brogues two sizes too large. Tugging them on, I wince as blisters rub raw against the stiff leather.

Turning to leave, a glint catches my eye - an old coin purse, half-buried in the dirt floor.

Inside I find a few tarnished coins and a crumpled ticket stub. I smooth out the faded scrap.

"Crescent Queen Riverboat to New Orleans" it proclaims in an elaborate script. A spark of hope flares in my chest.

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