Page 5 of Who’s Your Crawdaddy? (Hoodoo and Bayou #6)

Chapter Five

T he 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.”

“Did I purr?”

“A little. It was very sexy.”

I plopped myself at the counter, eyeing the breakfast spread with suspicion. “Is there any possibility that isn’t alligator sausage?”

“Zero chance,” he replied, plating my omelet with a flourish. “Jocko said it was the only way to build a proper foundation for the day.”

I smirked and took a bite. It was delicious, obviously. Everything Etienne cooked was. He poured two coffees, then sat across from me, gaze intent.

For a while we just ate, sharing quiet looks and little kicks under the table. I was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, I could pull off this motherhood thing. With Etienne beside me, nothing felt impossible. Difficult, sure, but not impossible.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence with his classic ‘I have news you’re not going to like’ voice, “there is one more thing we must discuss.”

I groaned. “Let me guess. You want to announce the pregnancy on social media.”

“Better.” His eyes glinted. “We must host a gathering for the entire pack. A royal celebration. It is tradition.”

I nearly choked on my coffee. “Like, the whole pack? Every single rougarou in southern Louisiana?”

He nodded, looking way too pleased for my liking. “It is important for the pack to feel included. Especially with news this significant. A new heir, so to speak.”

I hadn’t thought about that. “Isn’t Hugo the next heir?”

Etienne nodded, taking another bite of omelet. “But this baby will still be royal.”

That was true. Heck, I was royal now. Talk about crazy.

“Do you think we should invite the witches and Fue Follet? I mean, this baby is a part of their heritage too.”

Etienne nodded immediately. “Absolutely.”

I tried not to look too overwhelmed, but after a moment, I said, “This celebration is going to be huge. I always feel like an imposter at these big events.”

He leaned in, all warmth and mischief. “You will be perfect. The pack adores you. You saved my life, you saved the truce with the witches, and you always interact with our Rougarous with regal elegance and class.”

“Lie,” I said. “You know that’s a lie.” I gestured to my goth black hair and what I was sure was smudged black eyeliner all around my eyes. I did like me goth look and couldn’t quite shake it.

He laughed. “Alright, you are a unique princess, but you always greet our people with charm and beauty and the biggest heart of any person I’ve ever met.”

I bit my lip, his words making my insides go a little melty. “It just… seems like a lot. I’m barely processing the news myself, and now I have to face an audience of supernatural Cajuns?”

He reached for my hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my palm. “I will be by your side.”

I tried to smile, but anxiety nipped at my insides. “What if the pack doesn’t want a hybrid baby as heir? Or what if the witches get mad about it?”

He was quiet, but not troubled. “There will be some who resist. There always are. But most will see it as a blessing. A sign of peace between our people.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

He squeezed my hand. “It will not be easy. But nothing worth having ever is.”

`I gazed out the window at the rippling surface of the bayou, thinking of all the things that could go wrong. My brain supplied a dozen disaster scenarios, each more dramatic than the last. But underneath all that, there was a thin, steady pulse of hope.

“We’ll have to buy more folding chairs,” I said finally.

Etienne grinned. “And lots of champagne.”

I looked at him, this man who’d changed my entire world, and decided that if I had to stand in front of a crowd of monsters and misfits, I’d rather do it with him at my side than anyone else.

“Alright,” I said. “Let’s throw a party.”

He rose and leaned over to kiss me. Then he booped my nose. “But first we have to tell all our families.

I did groan. “Two parties. This is torture.”

Etienne laughed as he cleared the dishes away.

I never thought breaking world-altering news to two children would require so much logistical planning.

Or baked goods. I had spent the morning writing out the pros and cons of telling Hugo and Lisette at different outings.

All typed out on my computer with bullet points.

The zoo had potential, but monkeys and elephants could be too distracting.

And Lisette always ended up crying about the animals being in cages.

That might create a negative association with the baby.

An amusement park was definitely not a good place.

Too crowded and I might vomit even on a carousel.

“What about a camping trip?” I said seeing potential there. I started to type that one into my document.

Etienne simply closed my laptop and pronounced, “We are taking them to the bayou. With snacks. They love snacks more than they love us, anyway.”

He wasn’t wrong. If you asked Hugo, age nine, to list his top five favorite things in the universe, cheese-filled snack crackers would place above “both my parents” as well as “jumping my bike.” Lisette, at six, oscillated between a fierce loyalty to her family and an all-consuming obsession with anything in the amphibian phylum.

The entire Dubois clan had agreed long ago: if you needed to butter up the children, you led with Goldfish and a shoebox full of frogs.

Now, at ten in the morning, I’m huddled at the kitchen island with Etienne, prepping our bribe-based outing.

There was homemade lemonade, three kinds of cookies (only one from a store-bought mix, but you can’t tell unless you taste them side by side), and sandwiches wrapped in brown paper and twine like we were in an episode of Little House on the Prairie.

Etienne wasn’t sure why I had poo-pooed sandwich baggies, but I think the paper was more quaint and memorable.

“Do you want me to carry the lemonade, or the bucket of bug spray?” Etienne asked, propping a sandwich basket on his hip.

“Can you do both and also carry me?” I said, stretching my arms out in what I hope is an irresistible, winsome way. I was tired—whether from pregnancy or my interrupted sleep last night, I wasn’t sure.

He grinned. “Always, chérie .” He gathered up all the picnic gear with supernatural grace, then bent to whisper: “You’re overthinking this. They’ll be happy.”

I snorted. “You think so?”

“They’re still kids. They will care more about catching frogs and eating cookies than about another sibling. Even a magical one.” He squeezed my hand. “You’ll see.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t convinced. I couldn’t remember a time when Hugo didn’t rule his little world, and Lisette, despite being the sweet one, had a ruthless streak honed by years of being the “baby.”

The kids were in the backyard when we finally emerged.

Hugo hung upside down from a tall oak by his knees, a feat requiring considerable strength and, in his case, a flexible relationship with gravity.

Lisette sat below, building a mossy throne for the aforementioned frogs.

I called out, “Who wants to go on a picnic and catch some monsters?”

Hugo dismounted with the flourish of an Olympic gymnast, landing on both feet, and yelling, “Me!” before I even finished the sentence. Lisette scurried over, curls bouncing. Within sixty seconds, both kids were racing along the edge of the bayou, headed to the best place to catch monsters—or frogs.

St. James Bayou was not a destination for tourists, and that was exactly why it was perfect.

A path winded its way along the water, bracketed by endless cypress.

Green water stretched out into the wild, making it feel like stepping into another realm.

Spanish moss hung from every limb, and a heron stalked the bank for brunch.

There was a dock. A wobbly canoe. It was magical.

We reached our destination and unpacked the lunch while the kids dashed off toward the water’s edge, shrieking at a turtle sunning itself on a log.

“Remember not to get to close to the edge of the water!” I shouted after them, but my warning floated away on the heavy, humid breeze.

I arranged our blanket on a patch of grass, and Etienne sat beside me, his thigh pressed warm against mine. “Look at them. They haven’t even noticed you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous. I’m—” I almost said “terrified,” but Etienne is right. They were having the time of their lives, and I should try it for once.