Page 76 of Blackwood

The one who saw me puking behind their pool house after my first party, handed me a Gatorade, and didn’t tell a soul. Just sat next to me in silence while I swore I’d never drink again.

And let’s not forget the part that he’s also gay. With a boyfriend. And I’m supposed to be on a mission. Focused. Untouchable. Not melting over one text from a guy I’ve known forever.

Get it together, bitch.

“Somethin’ good, chérie?”

I look up fast, slipping the phone into my pocket. “Fine,” I lie. “Let’s just make sure your men are where they’re supposed to be.”

Sabine arches a perfectly penciled brow, lips curling like she already knows I’m full of shit.

“They’ll be there. Long as I get my piece like we agreed.”

I nod once, sharp. “Stick to your end and everything will go fine.”

We climb into the SUV, just the two of us. No Tex. No Nate. Not this time.

Sabine looks like something out of a dark fairy tale. The kind where the witch doesn’t die, she wins. Head-to-toe black layers of silk and something sheer that moves like smoke. Silver rings on every finger, some sharp enough to draw blood. Her hair’s twisted into this chaotic braided crown, feathers and beads threaded through like spells. Eyes lined in gold and charcoal, lips painted the color of dried roses. She doesn’t walk, she glides. And when she looks at you? It’s like she already knows how you’ll die.

Sabine Marchand is the head ofLe Serpent Noirand a fellow Black Book of mine. The Serpents control elite auction houses and the chemical black market. Basically, if you need a stolen Van Gogh fenced for a private bidder or raw supplies for a dirty bomb, she’s your girl. And bonus points… she makes the best damn jambalaya in the entire world. The best.

The leather creaks under us as the doors shut and she starts the engine. The scent of something earthy clings to her, voodoo oils, if I had to guess.

“When I got your boy transferred outta there,” she says, eyes still on the road. “I did it clean. But my men… well. They got a little excited.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “A trail of corpses usually doesn’t screamclean, Sabine.”

She hums, low and lazy. “Made it look like he ran. Slicked the scene with just enough blood to make the feds think the ol’ fool blew the doors and hit the road.”

Her eyes glint as she cuts me a wicked smile.

“They’re scouring highways and rest stops like damn fools. Meanwhile—” she leans in, voice syrup-sweet and smug, “—he’s chained up in my bayou. Right where I want him. Waitin’ on youchérie.”

“You better be right about this, Sabine.”

“Oh, sugar. I’m always right when it comes torevenge.”

I look out the window, watching the moss-laced trees close in as we leave the city lights behind. My fingers twitch toward the blade tucked under my jacket.

We roll to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires as the last sliver of road disappears behind us. Sabine kills the engine and turns to me, eyes gleaming.

“We walk from here, honey.”

“Of course we do.”

The air outside is thick. Cypress trees loom overhead, branches draped with Spanish moss that sway like ghosts. The mud squelches beneath our feet as we step off the path, following a narrow trail through the swampy dark. Frogs croak in the distance. Something splashes near the bank.

“That better not be a gator,” I whisper, narrowing my eyes at the water.

“If it is, let him watch. Gators carry souls, chérie… and this swamp’s got stories to tell.”

I shoot her a look. “Great. Just what I need. A soul-snatching reptile watching me.”

We reach a cabin, or what used to be one. The thing looks stitched together from driftwood and bones, weather-beaten and warped. A single yellow bulb buzzes over the door, casting everything in a jaundiced glow. Wind chimes made from bullet casings clink softly in the breeze.

One of Sabine’s men stands on the porch, casually leaning beside the door with a cigarette in his mouth and a shotgun in his hands. He straightens when he sees us.

“He’s all tied up for you, ma’am. Just like you asked.”