Page 4

Chapter Four

M y eyes snapped open. What had woken me?

I turned my head to read the faint glowing numbers on my nightstand clock.

Three a.m. I closed my eyes and assessed what could have startled me out of a deep sleep.

Not the gentle nagging of my bladder, or even the distant hooting of one of the Great Horned owls that live in the bayou.

Maybe I’d been jumped awake by a dream, although I couldn’t recall said dream.

Then I heard something. A sharp, clear sound—a single, unmistakable crack echoing through the house.

My eyes shot back open in the dark. For a long moment, I still just lay there, holding my breath. Etienne slept beside me, arm slung across my waist, his chest rising and falling in even, slow waves. He hadn’t stirred.

Maybe this was still just a dream. Or simply the old house and all the odd noises it made. Every night it settled, whined, popped, and hissed, a lullaby of structural complaints. But this sound was different. It didn’t belong.

I carefully rolled over onto my back and stared at the ceiling, waiting. Five seconds. Ten. Then another sound—a low, hollow thud from somewhere below, like a banging on the wall. Or maybe the door. Was someone here?

I nudged Etienne’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

He opened his eyes instantly. “What’s wrong?” No sleep in his voice. That’s how you knew he was a predator at heart.

I whispered, “Did you hear that?”

He listened. The house was totally silent as if it was holding its breath with us.

Then another noise. Not as loud, but eerily closer. That seemed to rule out someone knocking on the front door.

Etienne leapt out of bed in a flash, quickly pulling on his pajama pants. “Stay here,” he said, voice low and serious.

I started to argue, but he shook his head. “Please, Mally. Just this once.”

He kissed my forehead, then slipped out the bedroom door. The heavy wood panel closed with a soft click that still managed to sound like a death knell.

I stayed put for a grand total of thirty seconds before my nervous energy boiled over. I couldn’t just lay here, listening. I needed to know what was going on. Plus, Jocko was in the guest bedroom. Alone.

I grabbed the nearest weapon-like object—a crystal geode paperweight from my nightstand—and tiptoed to the door, opening it just wide enough to peer into the hallway.

Etienne hadn’t turned on any lights, but in the heavy darkness, I got no sense of movement. The air felt different though—electric, almost. As my eyes adjusted, the very shadow stretched a little too far in the watery moonlight warped by the ancient glass panes.

I crept down the hall, bare feet silent on the hallway runners. Adrenaline swished in my veins. As I neared the staircase, I heard another noise, this one higher pitched. Glass on tile? Or claws on wood?

My mind helpfully supplied a list of possible culprits: a raccoon, maybe one of Tristan’s ghost friends, hungry vampire, leftover cousin from the last family gathering.

Or maybe it was The Grunch—terrifying creature that lived in the bayou.

They had claws. Big claws. I knew that one firsthand. I decided to go with raccoon.

I paused at the landing and scanned the first floor. Nothing seemed amiss—until I saw the faintest glimmer of movement in the front parlor. I gripped my geode like a grenade and crept closer, heart beating so loudly I worried it would give me away.

Something scuttled across the rug.

I nearly screamed, but then the “something” muttered, “ Putain de merde ,” and I recognized the silhouette of my favorite crustacean.

“Jocko?” I hissed. “What are you doing out of your tank?”

His antennae whipped around. “You are supposed to stay in bed.”

“Says the crawfish who just made me think there was a burglar.”

He skittered closer. “I figured I was going to have to save myself. There is something in the house. I heard it. Not just you two snoring like freight trains.”

I scowled. “I do not snore.”

He clicked his claws. “Whatever you say, mon petit . But I swear, I saw a shadow moving in the kitchen. I am not the only one up tonight.”

That last part sent a chill crawling up my spine. I scanned the dark room, every nerve screaming that we were being watched.

I considered calling out for Etienne, but if there really was someone—or something—in the house, I didn’t want to make myself a target. I leaned down to scoop up Jocko, who only grumbled slightly at being manhandled, then tiptoed through the dining room, every floorboard groaning in protest.

We reached the kitchen. The only light was the green digital glow of the microwave clock. The back door was locked and the windows shut. But the pantry door stood slightly ajar, just enough to see inside.

I gripped my geode and reflexively also squeezed Jocko.

He wheezed, but didn’t swear at me in French.

That made me realize he was truly scared.

That realization did nothing for my own bravery.

But I took a deep breath, raised the geode, and nudged the door open.

Nothing but flour, beans, and my ever-growing collection of hot sauces.

The air was still, except for the faint, unmistakable smell of… cigarette smoke?

Jocko snorted. “I told you.”

I shushed him and listened. Now I heard it too—breathing. Heavy, irregular, just on the other side of the laundry room door.

My mouth went dry. “Climb up to my shoulder,” I whispered opening my palm so he could use my arm as a ramp.

I was afraid if I kept him in my hand, I might crush him.

Or throw him at whatever was on the other side of that door in my panic.

He got situated, holding onto the material of my baggy tee with both claws.

We edged closer, my grip tightening on the geode. The breathing stopped, replaced by a slithery sound. I hesitated, then pushed the laundry room door wide.

At first, I didn’t see anything in the dark.

Then I spotted a hunched shadow loomed by the back window.

For a split second, I thought it was a person, but then it moved in a way that was just…

wrong. A ripple ran through its body, and the moonlight caught illuminating pale, gauzy skin that seemed to almost dance away from its body. Not human. Not even rougarou.

It made a low guttural noise.

Jocko squeaked, “Run,” and that was the only sensible thing he’d ever said.

I sprinted back through the kitchen, Jocko clinging onto my shirt for dear life, slamming the swinging door between us and the thing. I didn’t stop until we reached the front hallway, breathless and wild-eyed.

Jocko looked up at me, his shell trembling. “Told you we should have left the salt at the door.”

“I did. You know that, but I guess that thing used the back door.” I wanted to laugh, but mostly I wanted to puke. But I didn’t have long to think about my newest wave of nausea. I could hear footsteps, coming quickly and coming from the direction of the kitchen.

I scurried into the front sitting room and hid behind a large chair in the corner. Not the best hiding place, but all I could find in my panic.

And that is where Etienne found me and Jocko crouched in a ball, hyperventilating and armed with absolutely nothing but a decorative geode and Jocko’s claws which held out in front of him like a karate master.

Etienne took one look at us—wide-eyed, panting, possibly feral—and immediately went into husband/pack leader mode.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, hands scanning me for wounds I didn’t even have.

“Not hurt, just… startled,” I managed, voice way too high.

Jocko dropped his claws and flopped onto his back, gasping. “I think I’m having a heart attack, but nobody cares about the crawfish.”

To punctuate that point, he slid off my shoulder and landed on the carpet with an, “oof.”

Etienne ignored him. “What happened? I heard you running, but I saw nothing.”

I tried to collect myself, but the image of the thing in the laundry room kept flickering behind my eyelids. “There was something in the house. Not a person, not a rougarou. It was… I don’t even know.”

“It was a zombie,” Jocko said, still laying on his back on the carpet.

Etienne frowned, his skepticism visible despite the dim light. “You are sure it was not an animal?”

“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.