Page 3 of Bootleg Love

Despair threatens to swallow me whole.

My old life lies shattered behind me. The elders' decree rings in my ears, an ominous portent of the dark and unknown path stretching before me.

Exhaustion weighs down my limbs as I drag myself through the muck to the shelter of a gnarled cypress. The damp, fetid air clings to my skin. I shiver, only partly from the chill.

Leaning against the rough bark, I squeeze my eyes shut, but there is no escaping the flickering visions - blood staining still waters, shadows twisting into impossible shapes, beckoning male figures cloaked in darkness.

I force down the rising tide of panic. I can't go back. There is nothing for me in Babylon but the pyre and flame.

The future yawns before me, a terrifying void. Where can I go? What place is there in this world for a monster like me? The weight of my ignorance, of all the secrets kept from me, crashes down. Hopelessness threatens to smother me.

No. I will not succumb. If I am to burn, let it be on my own terms. Lifting my chin, I haul myself up, brace my shoulders, and take one shaky step into the unknown.

Then another.

And another. Until the swamp swallows me and it all fades into a memory.

I am reborn in this fetid place, baptized in muck and fear-sweat. What I am, I know not.

But I will meet my fate as mistress of myself for the first time.

The thought is... exhilarating.

Let them come.

I am done running.

2

LUCIEN

NEW ORLEANS, FRENCH QUARTER. 1923.

Igaze balefully across the smoky expanse of Le Voile de Sang, my speakeasy and underworld fiefdom. The air hangs thick with the mingled scents of contraband whiskey, expensive French perfume, and the lingering copper tang of spilled blood from the night's earlier altercation. Mellow brass notes stroke the air, insidious and beguiling, from the house band's improvised riffs.

Something is off kilter tonight, the very air itself seems to hum and spark with dark energy. It sets my teeth on edge, like the looming sense of a summer storm's oppressive static charge. All the predators are out in full force, circling and maneuvering, sharks scenting fresh blood in the water.

My lupine senses prickle with unease, hackles raising at some imperceptible threat thrumming beneath the raucous din of laughter and jazzy musical notes. The mystical menace coils around my neck, pricking at my skin until my jaw clenches with the effort of not snarling a challenge into the murky shadows.

I lean back against the polished mahogany, taking a deep calming breath and letting my gaze sweep the room. A politician glad-hands, slipping bribes to a judge. In the corner, painted dollies play up to a table of rising mobsters, their shrill laughter grating the air. Just another Friday night in the City that Care Forgot.

"Auguste." I jerk my chin at my brother playing cards with some big-shot out-of-towners.

"Take care of that little errand we talked about." Well, he may as well be my brother.

He catches my eye with a slow, vicious smile. I look away. Let the streets run red, what's it matter. We're all just puppets dancing on strings for those mysterious big-shots that really run this town.

And I'm fool enough to let them pay me for the privilege.

A drunken flapper staggers up, her beaded dress clinking discordantly. At first glance, she seems just another lost soul seeking a bit of oblivion. But as her fingers dig into my arm, a chill races through me that has nothing to do with the bayou night.

Her kohl-smudged eyes roll back to reveal only whites. Then, in a blink, they flood obsidian black, gleaming like polished river stones. No iris, no sclera, just endless dark pools.

Her voice thrums with an eerie resonance I feel in my bones.

"The blood moon rises, shugah," she rasps, crimson lips peeling back from sharp little teeth.

"Devils gon' wake, and lawd help y'all when she does. Hexeblood's coming, ol' Scratch's own daughter. She got the witchfire in her veins, the black magic, the bloodsongs of the damned. Ain't no hidin', ain't no runnin, no sir!"

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