Under the Bayou Moon

by Gynger Fyer

  They were all bedding down inside the same house. If Jay was in there it would be impossible to get to him. He would be tied up and the men would be sleeping on the floor or maybe in hammocks. They certainly wouldn’t have him near the door. Sneaking into a room with six sleeping men and its creaking bamboo floor, well, just thinking about it blasted adrenaline-fired fear through her.

  She waited.

  For a long time.

  She dozed off with her head cradled in her arms. Jerking awake from a blurry nightmare, she instantly remembered what she had to do. She saw the thin crescent of the waning moon hung below the treetops. She guessed it was around two, maybe later. It was when people slept their deepest. The nightmare, she was in the Huck Finn drifting oarless on a midnight river and she was alone, alone, alone.

  It was totally quiet. The fire was dead, no movement. This was the time to go. She lay there; unmoving, filled with dread. She needed to at least try and find Jay. Okay, do it! She rose on all fours, her shaking arms feeling weak. She eased forward, feeling with a hand, then moved her knee to the spot. Keep moving, don’t hesitate, don’t stop without good reason.

  She crept from house-to-house beneath their shadows. As she crossed toward the last house next to her objective, she moved as slow as drifting fog, touch feeling her way with fingertips. From under the house she stared at the target house. No sound, no movement.

  Okay, go for it, now! Steeling herself, she rose and angled across the open space toward the stairs. She crouched at the foot of the seven steps leading up to the gaping door. Before mounting the steps, she pressed down on the first four. The second one indistinctly creaked. She’d feel her way up knowing that with the slightest sound from the ink-black room, she’d bolt like a rabbit. She was already quivering inside like a nervous rabbit.

  Before mounting the steps she scanned around her one last time. She peered into the dark underside of the house. And there was a lumpy shape. She froze, all her senses focused on the dark shape. A man? She eased back from the steps, moved to the right still staring. Something drew her. She looked at the door, then back at the shape. Edging slowly under the house, she silently drew out her flashlight. Cupping her fingers into a tunnel to shield the beam, she switched it on; aiming to the side so direct light wouldn’t hit the man’s face. Jay sat against a stilt, his legs stretched out before him, his arms behind the post, his chin resting on his chest.

  She switched off the light and listened for sounds above her. They were so close she could hear snoring. Jay’s ankles were bound with cord. Slinking forward, she eased her left hand over his mouth like she’d seen in countless movies, and gripped his shoulder with her right.

  Jay jerked awake with a muffled grunt. He struggled for only a moment as she whispered, “Karena,” in his ear. He didn’t move, but was breathing hard.

  She pulled the multi-tool out and looked around. Something caught her attention. Over to the left hung a bloated blob; an evil black cocoon. A hammock hung there. She froze. There was no movement. Her breathing quickened. Easing open the knife-blade, she felt Jay’s hands. His thumbs were tied together. She cut the cord. Then she cut his ankle bindings. She actually breathed easier despite the menace of the cocoon only feet away. If anything happened now, they had only to run for everything they were worth.

  Karen motioned Jay toward the back of the house. A few yards, they’d be in the trees. On all fours they crept out. Jay urgently crawled past Karen and rose to his feet, too soon. His head struck the horizontal log supporting the floor’s edge with a solid thump. Karen abruptly felt like her chest was hollow.

  “¿Qué fué eso?”—What was that?

  “¡Mario, alguien está afuera! ¡Despiérta!”—Someone is outside! Wake up!

  The cocoon stirred. “¡Ellos están aquí! ¡Alto!”—They are here! Stop!” There was a thump when the man rolled out of the hammock, still disoriented.

  Jay was crouching under the house rubbing his head. Karen darted past grabbing his arm and shouting, “¡Corre!”—Run! in Spanish for some frantic reason.

  There was crashing and shouting above them. Karen heard a thump behind them and turned to see one of the Others rising from the ground after jumping out the back window. More thundered down the stairs, shouting.

  The man recovered from his leap and lunged at Karen clipping her hard enough to make her stumble. She went into a roll and bounded to her feet. The guy threw himself at her again, caught her around the knees and brought her to the ground with a numbing crash. The breath was knocked out of her in a vision-blurring blow. She rolled, trying to twist out of his grip. She couldn’t. He was shouting. The flashlight was in her hand. She hammered it on his head. The light flashed on. He let go with one arm and tried to grab her hammering wrist. She twisted again and hammered for everything she was worth; a scream paralyzed in her throat, crazy flashlight beams somersaulted all about. She was on her back now, broke her left leg free and jerked her knee up. She kept hammering. She was free!

  There were men’s shouts. She scrambled backward like a crab. She leapt to her feet and another man slammed into her. Breath exploded from her with the jarring blow. Her flashlight flew. There were grunts and gasping breath. She kicked, hard, and rolled away. Legs flashed though the flashlight’s dust-hazed beam. She bounded to her feet, kicked at someone, turned, and stumbled. A man dashed by and plowed into the man behind her just as he grabbed her wrist. She yanked her wrist free, but she stumbled to her hands and knees.

  A shadow lurched up. Jay! He kicked at the man he’d knocked to the ground. “Run!” he shouted.

  She ran like a greyhound.

  A shape in a patch of moonlight came at her, but she outdistanced him driven by utter fear. She was in the trees. There were sounds of men crashing in the undergrowth behind her. Jay wasn’t with her.

  The shotgun boomed behind her. She hit the ground, then was up and slamming herself through face-lashing brush. The Others were shouting. “¡Puta!”—Not a very nice name to call a girl. A flashlight came on, but swung wildly.

  She tangled in brush and then shoved her way through. Where’s Jay? She hoped he had the sense to head for the river. A shrieking thought split through her mind. Had he been caught, again, or shot? She’d left him, again. The shouts and yells seemed to fall further behind, then more to the left, like they were angling away from the river. Super!

  She broke into a little clearing and a man came at her. She dodged, turned, and as she’d been taught in self-defense class, stiff-armed him with the heel of her hand, right into his face.

  “Oh no!” She knelt beside him where he had fallen. “Jay, I’m sorry.”

  He rubbed his chin with a startled look, but grinned.

  Pulling him up, they eased back into the brush. She motioned him to sit and placed a finger to her lips. “We wait.” If they kept moving the Others might hear them, she knew that from capture the flag. When she grabbed the flag she’d run like mad and then hid and listened. Once pursuers gave up, she’d creep back to her line. Karen wondered if the shotgun blast had awakened Tía. If so, she’d be freaking out.

  Both of them were sucking in deep breaths like race horses. Her fists were clutching with nails digging into her palms. She couldn’t stop shaking and had to fight to keep from jumping up and running again.

  In all her turmoil, she realized Jay was no better off. He was rocking back and forth, hands gripping his legs, fighting for breath.

  After a spell, she managed to gasp out, “You okay?”

  “No.” A long pause. “How about you.”

  “Not…so good. What happened?”

  Jay didn’t answer. Sitting cross-legged, their knees touched. His hand brushed hers. She started to pull back, but he took her hand.

  “You came back.” He sounded disbelieving.

  “I, I couldn’t just row away. I had to see if there might be some way to get you back.”

  “I thought I’d never see you…or anyone again.”

  Her face warmed with
embarrassment. “They do anything to you, beat you up or anything?”

  “They pushed me round some, slapped me a few times, trying to scare me I guess.”

  He was trying to sound tough she guessed.

  “They sure did,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Scare me.” He paused. “They kept yelling questions at me. I didn’t know what they wanted.”

  “I heard them. They wanted to know how you got there and if there was anyone else.”

  “Some went to the river.”

  “I made it back in time to row behind a fallen tree.”

  He wasn’t shaking any more. He was still holding her hand. She wasn’t shaking either.

  “Jay, I…thought about leaving. To protect Tía and Lomara. But I couldn’t.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah. And you came back for me.”

  “You didn’t leave me much choice. I couldn’t run out on you after all.”

  “Just because I came back for you?”

  “No, ’cause you didn’t teach me how to clean a chicken yet. And I don’t want to do all the rowing.”

  In spite of herself, she chuckled.

  They heard occasional shouts, but they became less frequent. After twenty minutes of silence, she nudged Jay.

  Let’s get back. Tía’s probably going nutzo.”

  She let his hand loose, like it was no big deal. She had no idea how far they’d come or where they were in relation to the boat.

  “That’s another reason I came back. Didn’t know if I could find the boat.”

  All they had to do was walk until they hit the river, then turn right and follow the bank back to the boat, she hoped. It was easy to become disoriented in a dark dense forest. Woods shock it’s called.

  It took longer than she’d expected, but they found the boat, manned by a very alert and nervous Tía.

  Tía was rattling excitedly and Lomara awoke. Karen cautioned them into silencio with a finger over her lips. They were beyond joy and hugged and kissed Jay. He chugged water, but Karen didn’t take the time. She cast off letting the current pull them out from under the limbs. Turning into the current, Karen rowed away, fast. She couldn’t help it. She raised a middle finger in farewell to the Others.

  The 45th Parallel by Maureen Hand

  The crisp morning air made Kat’s throat tighten as she inhaled. The dream she had the night before played over and over in her mind. It was a dream she’d had many times before.

  A woman in a tattered nightgown stands on the edge of a roof looking down at the ground, seven stories below. Her brown hair hangs limply over her shoulders. She hears Kat walking toward her and turns to look. In the dream, Kat is always startled by her mother’s appearance. Her face is ashen and the dark brown circles around her eyes give them a sunken, haunted look. When she sees Kat, she smiles slightly before letting herself fall over the edge.

  Kat pumped her legs harder on the bike, making her quads ache in protest. She kept up the pace for another two miles until her chest heaved from exertion. She had not had the dream since she was a child. It started again as soon as she arrived in northern Michigan, two weeks ago.

  Why did I come back to Northport? She explained to her friends staying at her father’s house in Florida was not an option. His new wife, Betty, had two children of her own and felt the house would be too crowded. Aunt Mary offered to let Kat stay with her, rent free, allowing Kat to save enough money to pay for her last semester of college. Although this sounded logical, Kat knew, deep down, something else was drawing her back…some dark, unanswered question.

  Kat spent her early childhood in northern Michigan, her mother having grown up in Northport. After her parents married, they stayed in the Traverse City area until her mother’s suicide when Kat was eight. Kat moved with her father from job to job, and city to city, as he tried to run from his grief. Funny thing about grief, it always manages to find you no matter where you hide.

  Kat recognized the bend in the road ahead, squeezed the brakes and stopped her bike. It should be just beyond this curve, Kat thought, unsure if she should continue. She looked around at the dense woods that lined either side of the road, catching glimpses of white blooms from wild trillium scattered the forest floor. The dreams have started again, but what about the visions?

  “I’m twenty-three now, not twelve, I don’t see things anymore,” she mumbled to herself.

  Kat took a deep breath and began to ride. As she rounded the sharp bend, the woods fell away. Now, to Kat’s left, was an apple orchard, the trees still dotted with fragrant pink blooms. Kat exhaled slowly and looked ahead, to her right.

  Old Man Crowley’s farm looked exactly the same. It had not changed in eleven years…since that last summer spent here with her cousins. She let her bike coast to a stop at the top of the gravel drive and stared at the property, mesmerized. The two-story house stood quietly, its faded white paint peeling while the front porch slumped, weary from years of neglect. Behind the house an old, weathered barn rose up from fallow fields. Adjacent to the barn, dilapidated farm equipment protruded from the waist high grass. The buildings stood in silence. Nothing moved behind the darkened windows. It was like they had been frozen in time, waiting for her return.

  She could hear one of the barn doors banging rhythmically in the breeze. Kat imagined herself walking down the drive, stones crunching under her feet, past the house to the barn. The barn window would be dirty, but she could wipe it off with her sleeve and clear a spot just big enough to look in…

  A car sped by pulling Kat out of her trance. Not yet, not today. She hopped up on the seat and continued down the road. Finally she turned off on a side street that ended at the beach. She coasted on the bike and let her breathing slow. The sweet scent of pine and wet earth drifted on the breeze. When the street disappeared into white sand, Kat stopped the bike, unclipped her bottle and chugged down half the contents. She let her bike rest against a tree and continued by foot along the sandy path lined with cedar and birch trees.

  When she reached the end of the path, she stopped at the edge of a deserted beach and stared, with wide eyes, at the vast waters of Lake Michigan. The deep rumbling of the surf hinted at the lake’s raw power and potential for violence. As Kat moved closer to the water, she had a familiar rush of exhilaration and fear.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The lake air felt shifty and unstable. She opened her eyes as a cool breeze blew past her, chilling her moist skin. Then she heard a sound she had not heard in many years; the distant beat of Indian drums. Kat felt her invisible wrapping begin to loosen.

  “We all have a part of ourselves we put in a box, wrap up tight and hide deep inside,” Kat’s Aunt Mary once told her. Kat started to wrap up her box the day of her mother’s funeral.

  “You have the ability to see things other people cannot,” her mother used to tell her. The day of her mother’s funeral, the first time the dead woman in the gray dress came to visit her, this ability began to terrify her. Kat put that part of her in a box and bound it up tight for fear that, if she let it loose, it would destroy her sanity as it had destroyed her mother’s.

  Kat quickly turned away from the lake and ran back to her bike, her heart pounding in her ears. She felt fear and adrenaline course through her body. Before each visit from the dead woman, Kat would always hear the distant beat of Indian drums.

  The Fox’s Mate by Elaina M. Roberts

  “And where is mine, you slinky little ermine?” Maximus leaned against the doorframe wearing a loose towel and a charming smile. Zoya turned with an excited squeal and leaped into the vampire’s embrace. Her legs wrapped around his waist as they shared a deep, long, and extremely passionate kiss. Draike’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline at the soft sounds of pleasure emerging from the shifter. When Maximus’ hands disappeared under her body-hugging top, Draike had seen enough.

  “If you two will allow me to pass, I will relieve you of your audience.”

 
“Oh, don’t be such a stuffed prig, my boy. We were merely saying hello. Weren’t we, amicae?” Zoya nodded as her hands, lips, and tongue wandered the vampire’s impressive torso.

  “Call me old-fashioned, but most people wave, shake hands or, at most, hug. They do not copulate in the middle of a kitchen with a reluctant audience.” Draike paced the small room, keeping well away from the lusty ermine shifter and her chosen partner. The more he spoke, the louder he became. “Speaking of which, why do you even have a kitchen, Max?”

  “What?”

  “No, really! Why do you have a kitchen? You don’t have to eat like others do. I’d think you’d need, at most, a refrigerator and some cabinets, perhaps a sink, but—”

  “Draike.” Maximus set Zoya aside and stalked toward the agitated shifter.

  “—you have a range, a microwave, even a dishwasher! And what the bloody hell is up with the curtains? Seriously, Max. What kind of barmy blood-sucker hangs a mess of lace-bloody-curtains in a completely unnecessary kitchen? I’d expect heavy drapes or—” The slap echoed in the small room. Draike glared at his friend, fur sprouting along his arms as a low growl rumbled deep in his chest. Maximus hooked a chair with his foot and pushed him into it, holding him down when he would have risen.

  “Sit down! No, get up and I’ll box your ears. I did it once when you were thirteen and tried to run off with a silver platter, and I’ll damn sure do it again.”

  “You hated that thing,” Draike mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. “Gave it to a homeless man the next week.”

  “Not. The. Point,” Maximus hissed out between elongating fangs. “I owe you a lot, son. Even more, I like you. You’ve grown into a fine man and a good alpha, but no one talks to me like that, especially in my own house.”

  “Then stop screwing about so we can look for Olivia!” Draike tried to rise, but Maximus shoved him back into the chair so hard it skipped a few inches across the porcelain tiles. The press of sharp talons to his chest stopped him from making a second attempt. He glared into the vampire’s crimson eyes but wasn’t about to remain silent. “Every minute we wait gives that sadistic bastard more time to hurt her. You didn’t see what he did to her. You didn’t see the bruises on her face. The marks on her back. She’s got scars on her hands from her fingernails, Max! He has hurt her so badly she cut herself with her own fingernails.”