by Ann Charles
The place we were looking for was another mile up the road from Crawfish Pie’s Alligator Lodge. It was more of a glorified shack than a house, with the plank siding long ago weathered gray. Mother Nature had added layers of varying greens over the years. Several large cypress trees bordered the old home. Spanish moss draped across their limbs to the roof, making it appear furry on top.
Gigi pulled into the limestone drive and killed the engine. “Now what?” she asked.
I frowned at a rocking chair up on the porch that was moving forward and backward without anyone sitting in it. “Now we find out if Donatello paid the owner of this place a visit recently, or if we’ve hit another dead end.”
Gigi popped the back hatch and we spent a minute tugging Bruno out of the car. He stretched his back and neck once he was free, eyeing the car’s roof racks. “Maybe you should tie me to the roof for the return drive.”
“Funny and hunky.” Gigi winked at me. “You’re a lucky shifter.”
When it came to having Bruno as my mate, sure—except when he was psychoanalyzing my moves in bed.
When it came to the bounty on my head, not so much. But that was a problem for another time.
The three of us approached the house at a slow pace, partly because the walkway was muddy with a healthy covering of leaf debris, but mostly because of the BEWARE OF GHOST DOG! sign.
I wasn’t sure if the owner was serious or had a good sense of humor. Personally, I didn’t feel like finding out, but after a few sniffs of the air, I knew the scents around the place were what I’d picked up on Donatello’s jacket earlier.
The porch boards groaned under our weight. There was no doorbell so I knocked on a rickety, wood-framed screen door. When nobody answered, Bruno knocked harder.
A metal creaking sound made me glance toward Gigi. She was peeking into a rusty mailbox nailed to the side of one of the porch posts.
“You know that’s illegal, right?” Bruno asked, frowning.
“Yes, and normally I wouldn’t peek in someone’s mailbox, but look.” She stepped aside and pointed at a piece of paper duct-taped to the outside of the box.
It read:
If you’re a pick-up customer, check inside the box for your order.
“Is there anything inside?” I asked, joining Gigi at the mailbox.
“No. It’s empty.”
“Shoot.”
“But look at this.” She lifted the lid all of the way.
On the inside was a piece of masking tape with a phone number on it.
“Do you have a cell phone?” I asked her.
“It’s in my purse in the car. I’ll go get it.” She headed back to the car.
“This place is sort of creepy,” I said to Bruno.
He shot me a flirty grin. “It reminds me of one of those scream-queen movies where the teenagers sneak inside the spooky house on a dare, get all horny and start screwing around, and end up skewered like shish kebab while they’re in the middle of knocking boots.”
I rolled my eyes. “You need to pick up a novel more often.”
He thumbed toward the house. “You want to go around back and act out one of the sex scenes from that book you’ve been reading?”
“Which one? One’s erotica and the other is a modern-day western.” Both were compliments of Eugene’s library.
“We could compromise with a bit of both.”
“Why, Bruno, are you trying to sex me up?” I whispered, fluttering my lashes at him.
He sobered. “Actually, I was trying to joke about screwing around, but I was probably being too crude. Maybe I should read some of Eugene’s romance books to see how those guys seduce women. I’ve never been very good at the flowers and chocolate sort of wooing.”
“Damn it, Bruno. You’re overthinking this again.”
He scowled. “Am I, though? You deserve the type of man who’d shower you with sonnets and expensive wine. Someone who’d take you out to fine restaurants.”
I moved closer, speaking for his ears only. “Listen, I don’t want any silly sonnets, and I certainly don’t need wine. The last thing I need is to be drunk while professional killers are hunting me.”
“Yes, but—”
I rolled my eyes at his but. “Bruno, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I stepped back, adding in a regular voice, “Let’s go back to blood and guts.”
“What about blood and guts?” Gigi asked, climbing the steps again, this time with her cell phone in hand. Her red hair gleamed in the dappled sunlight.
I noticed another red feather mixed amongst the tresses and smiled. “We were just discussing our favorite horror flicks,” I lied, not wanting to share the current struggles Bruno and I were having when it came to mating. “Are you ready for the number?” At her nod, I lifted the metal mailbox lid and read the phone number to her.
She set the call on speakerphone so we could listen with her. After four rings, a husky female voice with a Cajun accent started talking:
Hey y’all. Dis is Patooty herself from Patooty’s Booty Voodoo shop. If ya got dis message, den I’m on vacation at my sista’s home in Haiti fa da whole month. Leave me a message an’ I’ll call ya when I git back ta good ol’ Crawfish Pie.
“Ah, hell,” Bruno said when the message ended. “Of course she’s on vacation. I bet she won’t be back until our train jumps to the next town.”
“Where are you heading next?” Gigi asked, tapping out something on her phone’s screen.
“Armadillo, Texas,” I told her, glancing back at the house. Bruno was probably right. Patooty hadn’t left a number, so we’d come to the end of the line on this spur. “Well, on a high note, now we know what Donatello dilly-dallied with that landed him in that trunk. It was some sort of voodoo hoodoo.”
“Hey, listen to this,” Gigi said, reading from her phone’s screen. “According to Patooty’s website, she offers several spells and curses for purchase. Maybe Donatello bought one online and then came here to pick it up instead of having it delivered, since you guys are always rolling down the tracks.”
“What kind of spells and curses?” Bruno asked, bending down to look over her head at the screen.
“Let’s see, there are love spells, of course.” She smiled at us. “Love Potion #9 would be at the top of my list.”
“What else?” I pressed.
“Uhhh. Money spells. Luck spells—good and bad. Wish spells. Weight-loss spells. Protection spells. Transformation spells. And—wait!” She looked up. “Has Donatello been having any trouble with shapeshifting? Maybe he needs a boost to shift when the moon isn’t full.”
“Not that I know of,” I said, turning to Bruno. “I would imagine that the monkey brothers would have come to me if so. They both confuse me for some kind of sorceress, thinking I have powers in addition to the gift of sight.”
“Maybe they know something you don’t,” Gigi suggested.
I huffed. “I don’t think so.” Witchcraft and sorcery were not part of my DNA. “What about you, Bruno? Did the monkey brothers mention anything about trouble with shifting?”
“No. Nothing at all.”
“Well, keep that spell in mind as a possibility,” Gigi said. “Especially considering he’s stuck in his wereape form at the moment. It could be why he came to Patooty.”
“Good point.” However, while that might explain why Donatello was playing wereape for so long, it didn’t give a reason why he was taking up residence in that trunk. I crossed my arms. “What are some of the curses Patooty offers?”
Gigi scrolled her finger up her phone’s screen. “There’s a Revenge curse. It’s listed near the top, so that must be a popular one. Here’s a Banish Your Enemy curse.” She grimaced. “Banish how, I wonder?” More scrolling on her part. “Here we go—the rest of the list. Patooty also offers an Ex-Lover’s Rash curse, a Weight Gain curse, a Nose Growth for Lying curse, and a Constipation curse.”
“Constipation and weight gain?” I wrinkled my nose at Bruno. “You’d better
not piss me off, tough guy. Now I know where to go for payback curses.”
His smile was wicked. “Yeah, but maybe I’ll hit you with a love spell first so you’ll find me adorable even when I’m being extra unruly.”
“You two are cute,” Gigi said. “What breed of shapeshifter are you?” she asked Bruno.
He hesitated, his eyes narrowing for a moment. “I’m a hybrid. My mother was a St. Bernard shifter and my father a full-bred werecoyote, like Electra here.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. I knew from our pillow talk that the burr Bruno had about his father leaving before he was born still didn’t sit well with him. Although he was less touchy about not being a purebred since we’d become a couple.
“Do coyotes mate for life like macaws do?” Gigi asked. “I can’t remember that from my studies.”
“I do,” Bruno said. His eyes held mine, the love warming them spurring my heart to howl at the moon.
“Good answer,” I said, patting him on the chest. “You’re so well-trained already.”
Bruno laughed and leaned against a porch post. “Tell me something, my sensationally seductive psychic. If Donatello was here and picked up a spell or a curse from Patooty’s box, how will we find out what it is if he can’t talk?”
I thought about that for a second.
“You know,” Gigi said, stuffing her phone into her lab coat pocket, “I had an ex-boyfriend who swore his grandmother was a voodoo priestess and told me that she would often have her clients follow detailed written instructions.”
I nodded. “Patooty’s voice message said she’d be gone for the month, which is half over now. So maybe the spell or curse she left for Donatello was written down, which means we need to find where he put it.”
“We have a plan,” Gigi said, raising her fist in victory.
“Bruno, did you notice anything that looked like instructions for a spell or curse in the trash can where you found the address for this place?”
He shook his head. “The rest of the garbage was accounting-related paperwork and junk mail.”
Prickly pears! “Let’s head back to the circus. We still have time to search through Donatello’s personal belongings before the gates open for tonight’s show.”
“Four hours and counting,” Bruno said, pushing off the porch post. “I sure hope those bunnies in Finn’s tent didn’t eat Patooty’s instructions when Donatello climbed into their trunk.”
I crossed my fingers. “Me, too.”
Chapter Seven
We made it back to the circus after one pit stop—a muscle in Bruno’s lower back cramped and he had to stand up straight for a few minutes to stretch it out while I massaged away the pain.
“I’m never riding in that tiny tin can again,” he said a few minutes later as we walked through the circus’s employee entrance. “No offense, Gigi.”
“None taken,” she shot back with a grin. “Although I think the three of us crawling in and out of my car would make a great addition to the clowns’ segment of the opening show.”
“The little bird thinks she’s funny,” Bruno said to me. “I’m contemplating barking at her.”
Gigi and I both laughed.
The sight of Eugene standing off to the side of the monkey brothers’ food stand made us all take pause. It wasn’t so much Eugene, who was still wearing his cutoff shorts with bulging pockets and T-shirt from earlier. It was his entourage, which now included a heron standing next to him with one leg raised and a barred owl perched on his shoulder. The skunk, two raccoons, and squirrel were grouped around him as he fed them French fries.
“More new friends, Eugene?” I asked, keeping a safe distance from his critters, especially the one with the long pointy beak.
Herons were deadly. I read an article once about how they took on alligators up to three feet long, stabbing them through the head with their beaks and then gulping them down whole. I might be outside of this bird’s swallow-in-one-gulp range, but I had plenty of respect for that deadly sword attached to its face. I preferred my brain without holes in it.
“Yep. This guy flew into my tent after I returned from breakfast.” He pointed a French fry at the owl on his shoulder. “He brought me a mouse for a snack, which I politely declined and set free.”
“And the heron?” Bruno asked.
“Oh, she walked into my tent an hour ago, carrying the socks I was line-drying outside my tent. Then she picked up all of my dirty clothes from the floor and put them in my laundry basket. She’s really handy, saving me from having to bend down. Watch this.” Eugene dropped his paper napkin. The heron strolled over on its long spindly legs, skewered the napkin, and then dropped it off at the trash bin.
“Amazing,” Gigi said. Only her eyes were on the werebear, not the heron.
Eugene nodded, smiling down at her. “I don’t think we’ve met, little lady. I’d remember a face as beautiful as yours.”
“Eugene, this is Gigi. She’s a veterinarian who specializes in shapeshifters. Marco called her to come and take a look at Donatello.”
“You’re a vet?” His smile widened even further. “Well, call me pretty in pink. Before I was smitten, but now I’m in love.”
Gigi’s cheeks reddened, complimenting her hair. “Ah, you’re just a really big flirt.” She laced her fingers together in front of her. “Please, don’t stop now.”
“Your hair reminds me of the sun when it sits on the western horizon.” He held up his bag of food. “Want to share some of my French fries?”
“I could eat one or two.” She strolled toward where he sat on the bench. His animal entourage parted, leaving her a path to the spot next to him. “French fries are my second favorite finger food.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “What’s your first?”
“Crackers, of course. I like all kinds of them.”
“I like crackers, too.” His smile lit up his big face.
Ha! Eugene liked everything he could fit between his jaws. Now it appeared, he liked Gigi, too.
“We need to get moving,” Bruno said in my ear.
“Gigi, we’re heading over to the monkey brothers’ tent,” I told her. “You coming?”
She waved us off without taking her eyes off her seatmate. “You two go ahead. I’ll join you later.”
Bruno caught my wrist and pulled me along. I glanced back once to see Gigi leaning in as Eugene hand fed her a French fry.
“Oh, boy. How’s that going to work?”
“They’ll find a way,” Bruno said. “Just like we did.”
I smiled at him. The romance blossoming in the air between my friends filled me with the sweet scent of love, but then I remembered why we were heading for the monkey brothers’ place. Reality smacked the hearts right out of my eyes.
Too bad I couldn’t have picked up an enlightening spell from Patooty in Crawfish Pie to help me “see” a clue about whatever curse or spell that dang monkey purchased. How long did we have until Donatello’s situation became dire? I couldn’t imagine Marco continuing in the business without his brother, and while the two of them were pains in the ass when it came to bookkeeping, their hearts were kind and they came up with delicious recipes for their food stand. I’d hate to see them abandon the circus, leaving the rest of us to break in yet another new manager.
“Marco?” Bruno called when we reached their tent.
“Come in,” Marco said, holding back the flap.
Inside, Finn stood in the middle of the main room while the monkey brothers’ two tiny show bunnies hopped around his furry rabbit feet. The bunnies were making a high-pitched humming noise that almost hurt my ears. My excellent coyote hearing wasn’t always a blessing.
“Did you make your deal?” I asked Finn, noticing his eyes were red rimmed, which I figured was from a few too many tokes last night.
Since the bunnies were back, I assumed Marco and he had come to some agreement about Finn’s show remaining a once-a-night act. Although I was a little surprised that Finn didn’t hold out longer to
make the deal.
Marco’s thick eyebrows raised. “What sort of deal?”
“I didn’t bother,” Finn answered. He glowered down at the bunnies. “After spending a night with these two assholes, I’m happy to give them back. No strings attached.”
“What did they do to you?” Bruno asked, bending down to scratch one of the bunnies between the ears.
“It’s what they didn’t do, which was zip their lips and let me get some sleep.” Finn rubbed his eyes, yawning before continuing. “All night long they crooned and chirped and caterwauled. At first I thought the high-pitched sound they were making was some sort of singing, which I initially found funny and cute. But after a couple of hours of it, that shit got old. So I put them in a box and turned off the lights, thinking about how the monkey brothers housed them in that dark trunk. But did they go to sleep? Oh, no. They made even more noise.”
Marco scoffed. “These two are nocturnal.”
“I noticed.” Finn crossed his arms and thumped his back leg on the ground. “As soon as the lights were off, they started whistling and chattering, squeaking and grunting. They’d wait until I’d almost fall asleep, and then they’d start with a new rhythm. I finally figured out that they were performing actual songs.”
I looked at Marco. “I’d heard you and your brother had taught them to sing, but I figured it was just a note or two.”
“Oh, they know all sorts of songs—from holiday tunes to ‘Camptown Races.’ “ Finn yawned again. “These little buggers take that ‘Goin’ to run all night’ line serious. They didn’t shut up until the sun came up.”
“Donatello has worked with them for months,” Marco told us. “He’s trained them to perform multiple solos and duets. They’re a rare breed of rabbit hailing from a region of Russia’s far north that are known for their wide range of vocalization abilities.”
“Well, wherever they’re from, as far as I’m concerned you can ship them back home.” He wiggled his whiskers at Marco. “You tell Donatello he needs to teach them the word ‘quiet,’ before someone else decides to silence them for good.”