Page 14 of Bonded to The Boo Hag

“The Gullah people were correct in that we are red, as I’ve said, but we aren’t just raw muscle. We do have skin. The supernatural midwife who attended my birth, after wiping me down, realized the red wasn't blood and that I was like my mother. As soon as she presented me to my parents, they knew I was a girl and that keeping my skin a secret would be hard to do in the city. Glamours were hard to come by in the north. Not a lot of the fae settled there because the big cities were full of iron. And even if they were lucky enough to find a fae who made glamours, the chances of baby me keeping it on and not accidentally exposing my heritage were slim. So they decided the best course of action would be to leave.

“While my mother’s first three husbands never discovered her true form, many of her boys figured things out by the time they reached their teen years. Which meant she was able to still have contact with much of her family. Some of her sons married supernaturals, and a couple even became monsters themselves. Mother wrote to her surviving children and asked if we could move back home. They agreed and told her about the community they had been building for monsters. We relocated, and I grew up amongst my nieces and nephews, running wild and getting into mischief.”

“And that’s the story of Palmer Duvall?” he asked, a soft smile on his face.

“More or less,” I agreed, even though there was so much more. But perhaps not for tonight.

Gatlin rubbed a hand along his chin, his fingers caressing his five o’clock shadow.

The poor man is tired. I should––

“Our history is pretty simple when you get into how we immigrated here,” he said, tracing the pattern on the pillow he was holding. “You are right that most of my ancestors are from Europe. I want to say we had it pretty good, considering. I can’t speak for Gemmy, but she’s only ever risen above everything thrown at her. We’ve honestly never known how to live any other way. It was awesome growing up knowing ASL, like an extra layer to that whole ‘twins have their own language’ stereotype. We were just always there for each other. If anyone messed with her, I kicked their ass, and she made sure I studied for tests, encouraged my reading habit, and told me I wasn’t allowed to be the ‘airheaded twin.’

“Then our parents were killed in that car accident, and I–– I just feel so fucking stupid,” His eyes were glassy; his hands were gripping the pillow tightly.

I reached out, moving closer, my hands landing on his before I could stop myself. I knew he abhorred my touch, and yet I couldn’t watch him do that to himself. “You have done your best.”

I sighed, gently loosening his grip on the cushion. “I had a little brother, Clarence. Human, of course. He was always out there trying to do things on his own. Clarence was twenty-seven when he died of consumption. He lived far enough away that I didn’t notice when he started to cough. By the time we knew, it was too late for magic. I tried anyway. I made stupid deals. In the end, I could only feed him enough lifeforce to keep him comfortable when he died. I failed him.”

I’d managed to keep him from mangling the pillow and was holding his hands, our fingers loosely intertwined. “Pardon,” I murmured, moving to withdraw my hands.

He flexed his hands, his grip firm but not bruising. “It’s okay,” he said, looking into my eyes. He made a decision; I could see something reflected in those blue depths before he pulled me to him. Shocked, I let him cradle me in his arms, his cheek resting on top of my head, my ear positioned just over his thumping heart.

My eyelids fluttered closed; tears trailed down my cheeks for the first time in decades, and Gatlin Rose held me while I cried.

Oh, you darling, dangerous, sweet man, you are going to break my heart, and I am going to let you.

6

Palmer

Something gave that night between Gatlin and me. For the next week, I clutched it to me, hoarding his goodwill like a dragon protecting the jewel of her collection.

For six days, he’s wandered through our home, haunting the library and lying on the chaise in the sunroom, watching the frost melt in the sun. Sometimes I found him asleep in some nook I had forgotten about, a window seat in the parlor, a chair on the third floor with his sketchbook open to a rough drawing of Prue kissing Juni on the cheek. I never moved it and always pretended I didn’t see him. Perhaps that’s why he grew comfortable enough to sneak into my office and sketch me.

I wonder how I was portrayed.

I am a fool, I thought, sending my regrets for dinner that evening from my bedroom.

I was starving, hunger carving out my insides, scraping me hollow. I knew I had to feed; I was a Boo Hag—we always had to feed. The story I told Gatlin was true; we were ravenous. Maybe we were supposed to have died in the Old Place. Races go extinct. Perhaps we were cursed for coming to Earth and this was our punishment for evading death and surviving.

I hadn’t wanted to feed. I didn't want him to look at me like he had before our dinnertime sharing. I don’t want to be the monster.

I let loose a frustrated growl. I’m too old to be such an idiot. If I keep this up, I’ll become a waif like my ancestors. I marched over to my closet, threw open the door, and walked to the section where I kept my club attire. Tossing off the gold Abaya, I pulled out black leather pants, a black leather spaghetti-strapped crop top, a black lace-covered push-up bra, and a matching black lace thong. I dressed in a whirlwind, pulling on black leather boots with more buckles on them than necessary. Continuing with that theme, I found a black choker with a silver, diamond-studded buckle. Touching the ring on my middle finger that held my glamour, I envisioned the makeup I wanted: a fierce smoky eye and bold red-lined lip.

I checked myself in the mirror. The makeup was as I envisioned it, my abs and toned shoulders on display. The glamour was fashioned in a way that I could look however I wanted, so I chose to be as close to how I looked without it as possible. I was proud of my ability to be as toned as I was. The secret was consensual exchange, lifeforce for pleasure. It could be as simple as a kiss or as complex as a multimillion-dollar deal. Whatever the exchange was, it had to please the other party in some way, and they had to happily, willingly give me their lifeforce.

This was more complex than what my ancestors had to do in the Old Place, but it worked. It kept the hunger in check, even if it couldn’t completely vanquish it. No one would ever say that Palmer Duvall razed towns to sate her hunger.

I went to the doors that led out to my balcony, my hand gripping the handle with the intent to throw the doors wide and glide down to the lawn, then sneak over to the garage and drive myself to Club Nyx. I would dance. Dancing was the easiest form of exchange. It would curb this hollow feeling, and Gatlin wouldn’t have to see, wouldn’t have to feel––

A knock at my door had me cursing. I strode across the room, opening the door to find Prudence with a plate from dinner.

“Gatlin was worried,” she said, holding out the plate of BBQ ribs, corn on the cob, collard greens, and baked beans.

“I don’t need that,” I sighed, taking the plate from my friend.

“No, you don’t. You need to feed,” she scolded, taking the plate back from me and gliding into my room.

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