Page 11

“Unless the local raccoons grew and lost all their hair.”

He considered that, then glanced at Jocko. “Did you see it too?”

The crawfish nodded solemnly. “It looked like a zombie to me.”

Etienne exhaled, then grabbed my hand as I grabbed Jocko. He did swear this time. We started a circuit of the first floor, checking every lock, every window, every inch of possible entry. Nothing was open, nothing broken, not even a loose screen.

We circled back to the laundry room. The only sign anything might have happened was a window in the laundry room was open. A breeze from the bayou fluttered the white curtains out into the room. Each time it danced in the cooler night air the material clung to the ironing board leaning against the wall near the window.

Etienne studied it, then turned to us. “Could that have possibly been your zombie?”

Jocko and I exchanged a look, then I admitted sheepishly, “Maybe.”

Etienne shook his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. “I think we’ve all just had an exciting but exhausting day and our imaginations went into overdrive.”

“But I did hear noises. You heard those too,” I pointed out.

My husband had the good grace to still look concerned about that. “I guess it must have been the house. Or maybe something outside. Maybe some of the nutria Shifters doing a little nighttime fishing or something.”

I knew I looked dubious about his explanation.

“And I did see someone in the house,” Jocko insisted. Then he burped and even as small as he was the sour smell of liquor wafted around us. A crustacean with a drinking problem might not be the most reliable eyewitness.

But my husband was not one to dismiss my concerns. And he could tell I was shaken.

He held up a finger to tell me to wait as he left us in the kitchen. I could hear him taking the stairs two at a time. Soon, he returned with his cell phone. He texted someone—I assumed Marcel, who was his brother who worked closest with the Rougarou Guard—and within minutes, a pair of hulking shapes appeared at the back door, both sporting the distinctive look of rougarous on the job: jeans, muddy boots, and the grim determination of supernatural bouncers. They swept the house twice, then settled on the porch with thermoses of chicory coffee and what looked suspiciously like shotguns.

Etienne led me upstairs, past the ancient portraits and the persistent sensation of being watched. Back in our bedroom, he double-checked the locks and drew the heavy velvet curtains.

Jocko took up residence the bathroom sink, making a comfy bed on a loofah with a washcloth as a blanket. I didn’t blame him for not wanting to go back to his tank in the guest room.

Etienne took a seat on one of the velvet bedroom chairs, his tall frame dwarfing the piece of furniture.

“You don’t have to stay up,” I said. “You need rest too.”

Etienne smiled at me, his gaze soft but intent. “You are more important than sleep.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I wanted to argue, to tell him I wasn’t helpless, but after tonight, I was rattled enough to accept the offer. And even though I had a major independence streak, it was hot to have him protect me.

I laid down, but every creak of the house made my skin crawl. Etienne must have sensed my nervousness. He climbed into bed and held me close, whispering old French lullabies, his breath warm against my ear.

It was almost enough to make me believe nothing could hurt us.

Almost. But something nagged at me, but I didn’t say anything to Etienne. The window in the laundry room. It had been open. I couldn’t recall that window ever being opened.

Chapter Five

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of something sizzling in the kitchen. My first thought was that the house was on fire, but then I remembered I married a man who considered breakfast an art form. I heard the clank of a pan, which confirmed my suspicion. Etienne was working his own culinary magic.

The sunlight streaming through our bedroom window was a soft gold, filtered through Spanish moss and the haze of early June humidity. I stretched, and every muscle in my body ached in the good, post-adrenaline way, as though I’d run a marathon instead of just… being extremely overwrought for the last twelve straight hours.

Then my stomach growled loudly. And I realized I was ravenous. And not nauseated. Miracles did exist.

I found Etienne in the kitchen, standing over a cast iron skillet, shirtless, hair slightly damp from his morning shower. He looked like a calendar photo for Hot Bayou Royalty. I imagined what the photo of his month would look like. Arms crossed, tattoos peeking out, wearing absolutely nothing but a very smug expression.

I walked up behind him, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder.

“Bonjour, sleeping beauty,” he said, flipping an omelet one-handed. “You were making the noises of a contented cat when I left the bed.”