Page 5 of Bootleg Love

“Of course,” I breathe. “The riverboat.”

A howl shatters the heavy silence, far too close. Icy talons of fear rake down my spine.

They're coming. Abandoning all caution, I run, crashing through the underbrush towards the promise of escape. Thorny vines grab at my legs and low-hanging branches whip my face, but I pay them no heed, intent only on putting as much distance as possible between myself and my pursuers.

My dress begins to unravel as I race through the unforgiving terrain, the coarse fibers disintegrating with each brush against jagged bark and prickly palmetto fronds.

But I would gladly run naked through the swamp if it meant making that boat.

At last, I stumble onto the bustling wharf, awash in golden lantern-light that burns my shadow-accustomed eyes. The Crescent Queen rises before me, a floating confection of whitewashed filigree and cut-glass windows. Moneyed pleasure-seekers swathed in silks and gemstones throng her decks, their dulcet chatter and chiming laughter a surreal counterpoint to the primal terror nipping at my heels.

I falter, abruptly conscious of my wretched appearance. Caked in muck and clad in the tattered coll of a dead man, how can I hope to pass unnoticed among such finery? As my gaze darts around, I spy a distracted debutante wearing a froth of lemon organza and cream lace.

Moving with a desperate swiftness, I steal a delicate lace parasol and sweep towards the gangplank, hoping the scrap of netting and a hefty dose of bravado will bluff my way to freedom.

I keep a low profile in line, keeping my eyes down until I reach the hulking enforcer guarding the gangway, his stony mien wavering between suspicion and disdain as he takes in my ragged finery and wild-eyed mien.

“Alright, where’s your ticket,” he demands, stepping in front of me and denying me passage.

"How dare you, sir!" I hiss, voice dripping with icy disdain. "I am Mademoiselle Simone Delacroix, of the Natchez Delacroixs. Surely even a lummox like you knows better than to keep a lady of quality waiting on a rickety gangplank!"

I draw myself up with a haughty sniff, praying my pounding heart won't betray me. I thrust the old ticket at him as if it were a royal decree, hoping he doesn’t notice how old it is. "I trust this will suffice as a reminder of your place. Now kindly step aside before I take my business to a more genteel establishment."

He blinks, nonplussed by my sudden transformation from bayou ragamuffin to haughty debutante. He glances at the money, then back at my unwavering sneer. With a grumbling sigh, he steps back and gestures for me to pass.

I silently thank the old and new gods that the only thing to do at home was read and sweep past him with a dismissive toss of my tangled hair, willing my knees not to buckle. The gangplank creaks as I hurry across, fighting the urge to glance over my shoulder.

A towering figure prowls past, a slip of shadow against the inky night. He grips the rail, his broad shoulders speaking of coiled power and ready violence. For a queasy instant, his profile seems to waver between man and beast, but I blink and the illusion passes, leaving only another denizen of the dark, drawn to the New World's promises.

I pause to catch my breath, marveling at the riverboat's unexpected elegance. Gleaming brass fixtures and polished mahogany rails hint at a world of privilege I've only glimpsed through the cracks of my tumbledown existence. The decks bustle with dapper gentlemen and ladies in frothy lace, their tinkling laughter and clinking champagne flutes a jarring contrast to the blood and terror still fresh in my mind.

I hug the shadows, weaving between strolling couples and liveries porters until I spot a narrow door marked "Staff Only." With a furtive glance, I slip inside, finding myself in a dim service corridor. The comforting scents of linen and cedar envelop me as I sag against the wall in relief.

Creeping down the passage, I spy a small linen closet and silently thank the gods.

Burrowing behind a stack of crisp sheets, I make myself a hidden nest, wincing as I peel the ruined dress from my bruised skin. Mud-streaked and shivering, I cocoon myself in the clean linens, desperate for their whisper of refinement against my wounds.

As the riverboat's mighty paddles churn to life and we cast off toward an unknown fate, I curl into myself, lost in a daze of prayers and desperate schemes. The elders' damning decree reverberates in my skull. Hexeblood. Abomination. The words taste like bile, singeing my tongue.

But beneath the terror pounding in my ears, something new kindles - a spark of furious determination. I will master this curse. I will find a way to turn their hatred back upon them tenfold.

4

AUGUSTE

“It’s always so humid,” I grumble. Though that is to be expected in New Orleans, even at night.

The air hangs thick in the Le Voile de Sang with the mingled scents of cigar smoke, the dampness of the Mississippi river, and the cloying sweetness of the absinthe favored by my eccentric patrons.

Candles in wrought iron sconces cast flickering light over the faces of criminal riffraff, corrupt politicians, besotted artists and world-weary aristocrats all seeking escape or intrigue under my discreet aegis.

The burnished mahogany bar gleams under the muted light, its surface reflecting the array of crystal decanters filled with amber liquors and jewel-toned cordials. Smoky mirrors line the walls, multiplying the room into an endless labyrinth of shadow and intrigue.

As I mix a Sazerac, the ritual soothes me - the precise measures of rye, bitters and absinthe, the fragrant curl of lemon peel. I listen with half an ear to the whispered conversation of two grifters at the bar, filing away mentions of a lucrative con.

Information is the true currency here. Everyone is on the make, the hustle, looking to get ahead or just stay afloat in the city's churning underworld currents.

I make sure my trusty thompson is close.

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