by Bane, Lucian
The sight of blood on the bed drew his gaze to it and he involuntary went to her. He felt that anger from earlier stirring again. He was suddenly acutely aware of two things happening inside him. One part of him wanted to open the wound on her leg that produced the blood and let it pour until the wretched body was extinguished. The other part of him wanted to kill what caused it.
It all confused him and he remembered the words that he needed to say to her. “Help me.”
Waiting, he studied the woman’s eyes that matched the sky that peeked through the trees during the hottest part of the day. The sizzling in his brain happened again. He liked the feeling because he always understood things more after. He waited for the heat to do its thing, watching the movement of life at her neck without looking directly at it. The sparks raced around in his head from one thing to the next, almost too fast for him to follow as he stared deeply into her gaze.
He took an abrupt step back at finally getting what he saw. There was no name for it, only that it made the heat inside him swirl hot with the need to crush it. A deep growl began to vibrate in his throat and the look she had was immediately replaced with fear, making the heat worse.
He’d never had the need to take her head off, but he did now. And he was sure he would have, if the shards of ice didn’t war in his body, little knives of don’t. Ruin hurried to the window when that power expanded with need to release. It was somehow worse than it had been with that Jared human. The need to understand why, or not knowing why, wasn’t helping.
He was weak, that was the word, he was sure. And he didn’t like that. Didn’t like wasn’t the right words. There was another word more fitting, he could feel it, he just couldn’t name it because he didn’t know it.
He gave one furious glance back at the woman before jumping for the tree limb over the roof. She was the answer. He didn’t know how or why, he just knew she was. As he sought a place nearby to wait till morning, he contemplated that last look in her eyes. It had told him other things about her. It said she’d give him all the answers he needed. And that she’d give him whatever he wanted. He didn’t understand that part, but it gave him a good feeling.
****
Isadore eyed the swamp with caution as she made her way to her crawfish traps in her faithful canoe, riddled with patches, mostly made out of the miracle working chewing gum. She wasn’t looking for the alligator, but Tarzan. That’s what she’d nicknamed him until she had a name. And she would definitely be getting a name. “Help me.” She muttered the words he’d spoken. “How am I supposed to do that if you don’t ever come back?”
Giddy excitement tickled her stomach and she focused not on the man’s body or looks but on the other amazing things she should be focused on. Like…damn those eyes, she’d never seen any green eyes like that before. But really what required her scientific attention was what he’d done with the air in the room and how he’d done it. She pulled out her sticky note pad from the front pocket of her overalls and bit off the cap of her blue sharpie. “Felt like a hundred and twenty degrees,” she wrote on the pad. Holding the sharpie between her teeth, she tore off the note, folded it and put it in her front pocket then began drawing some of the symbols she’d remembered seeing. “I know those symbols. At least a few of them.”
She wiped the drool from her Sharpee and put the cap back on and returned her scientific tools to her large apron sized pocked gaping open at the top of her coveralls, getting serious with the oars until she reached her first trap location. She pulled it up, and the bait-war saga took the stage of her mind, front and center. “Fuckers,” she muttered. With a sigh, she looked around, feeling like the bastards who were robbing the bait out of her traps were hugging a tree nearby, whacking their legs and howling in silent laughter. She was the butt of the joke in town. Stupid city-girl trying to be a country girl. She’d never make it, they said, but ohhhh, look who was making it. Let them cram that in their pipes and smoke it.
“That’s okay,” she said loudly, hoping somebody was there to hear. “I’m just going to put up city cameras to take pictures of whoever is stealing my bait and then they are going to jail!” Stupid Cajun coonasses. She tossed the empty trap back into the water and yelled, “I was raised in these swamps! Did you forget that?” She snatched up her oar and jabbed it into the water. “I have a right to be here!” She made her way to the next trap, thinking it was time to relocate them again. “Buncha dumbfucks,” she muttered. “Maybe I will do the camera thing. I could put some fake ones, they’d never know the difference. Could probably put up one of them View-Master 3-D toys and the idiots would think it was a sophisticated modern-day-devil-contraption.”
She aimed her canoe for the next trap and stopped to find the same moral felony as the previous. There was no point in checking any further, they’d robbed them all. A good thing she had money or they’d have robbed her back to the city. It had become a matter of principal. And maybe stubborn challenge, but these effers weren’t going to win. Letting them win was wrong. Not stopping them was wrong. She rowed her boat to Mr. Thibodeaux’s just for a quick hi and to check on him.
Dragging her canoe on land, she made her way along the skinny grass trail to the old man’s back door. “Mr. Thibodeaux?” She knocked loudly on the old screen door. “It’s Isadore, you up?” She could hear the sound of frying and by the smell of it, he had the day’s vittles on. Which could be any number of innards from any number of animals, all of which Isadore had no taste for. Anything that operated as a filter in any capacity in nature, was not only dirty, it was dirty tasting to her.
“Izzy? Come on in chile, the door open.”
She opened the flimsy door, mindful that it only hung by a top hinge. “Just stopping to say hi,” she called out, pulling the door shut so that it rested in the jamb. She passed through the closet sized room just before the kitchen and focused on the smell of fresh brewed coffee in the tiny kitchen. She pulled out the metal chair she’d given him. “Remind me to pick up that screen when I go into town tomorrow for that back door. One of these days I’ll find you carried away by the mosquitos.”
Mr. Thibodeaux turned with a coffee cup and loud laughing, shuffling his way to the table. “Dem skeeters don’t botha me, they can’t poke no holes in dis here ole hide. You comin’ from yah traps?” His gnarly hand trembled as he carefully set the cup down and then himself before leveling those gray eyes on her, lit up with the promise of mischievous gossip.
“You know it.” She always made him work for it and today was no different. She took the single spoon from the cream and sugar tray, another gift she’d given him—but for her when she came—since he sucked at accepting gifts.
“Well?” he cried. “Dem sonsabitches stealin’ from ya still?”
She nodded slowly, stirring her cup. “Yep. They are.” She sipped her coffee, noticing he’d finally put up the fly tape she’d bought him. Not a one damn fly on it.
“Well, I’ll be!” His old body jerked dramatically. “What you gone do, Izzy? Mebbee you could train dat alligator to hep you?” He cackled and rocked in his seat, delighted with his idea.
She nodded and shrugged, sipping her coffee. “Very funny, you know I don’t like alligators.”
“Meh why not, sha? You live in da swamp, das dare hometown! You gots to luv em!”
“No I don’t. I never read I had to love them alligators to live in the swamp. I may like to hunt one and et him up though.”
Mr. Thibodeaux got a kick out of that. “You gone hunt you an alligator? Now dat would be fun to watch fuh show! You hawngry?”
“No, I just wanted to say hi and ask if you’d heard of any newcomers in our neck of the woods.”
“Newcomer?” His eyes lit up again as he leaned back, regarding her. “Meh no.” He leaned in close then. “Why, you have a visitor?”
“Oh,” she waved a dismissive hand, “No, no, I just… wondered.” More coffee stirring now. “So, we expecting a hurricane this year?”
“Dis might be d
ah year, fuh sho,” he caressed his elbow, “I feel it in my ole bones.”
She nodded, hoping he was both right and not. “Are you ready? You said you’d come stay with me if we had one.” At seeing his absent expression, she pointed at him. “You promised Mr. Thibodeaux, I told you I was scared.”
He made a pained expression. “Meh… I can’t really leave mah house like dat.”
“Your house isn’t going anywhere!” she cried, acting desperate. Problem was, she was sure his house was going somewhere if a hurricane hit. Her dad had made their house to withstand storms and it had. “The last hurricane you went through nearly kilt you, those were your words, mister!” she aimed an accusing finger at him.
“Awww,” he pawed the air with his old hand before smiling at her with his chin nearly touching his nose. “Ima be alright chile.”
She sighed and shook her head then got up from the table. “Oh I’m sure you will because you’re staying with me. You said you would. You can’t go back on your word,” she reminded him.
“Lemme walk you out, chile.” She nearly protested but the old man loved company so she waited the ten seconds it took him to complete the simple task. “You still comin tomorrow to get me my stuff?”
“As scheduled,” she saluted, walking to the back door.
“Aaaaaas schedule,” he said, following.
She opened the rickety screen door carefully, holding it open for Mr. Thibodeaux. “You’re riding with me this time?”
He held on to the jamb, navigating the treacherous two steps she needed to fix next. “Shoooo, you know I get sea sick on dat lil crazy boat.” Laughter laced his every word then cackled out after.
“We can go in the truck, you said you would.”
“I will, I will, chile. Soon.”
“Soon.” She made her way down the small path to her canoe, pretending to let Mr. Thibodeaux guide her steps as she held his forearm. “You’ve been saying that for three years.” She scoped the area for any out of the ordinary movements resembling Tarzan.
“Meh, it still early, sha. I gots time, me.”
She laughed. “You got time? You don’t even have your time teller on.”
His old gray eyes widened. “Ohhhh, meh das right, I gots to—”
“I know, I know,” she said, “it’s on my list. A battery for Mr. Thibodeaux’s time teller.”
“Keee-yaw, you smart wit dem lisses you make.”
Carefully climbing in the boat, she chuckled. “I am the list maker.”
He gave one of his best cackles and lit up gazes. “Dah Lisssss Makah.” He wagged his finger, nodding his head. “Now das some fancy stuff.”
She looked around and pulled out her sticky pad and bit off her blue sharpie cap. “Add screen to Mr. Thibodeaux’s list,” she mumbled around the cap in her mouth, scrawling quickly then ripping the note off. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” She folded it and put it in her pocket and angled a squinted gaze at him.
“Okay sha, be careful, now.”
She tossed a wave up then stabbed the oar into the mud, pushing off, looking out of habit for that alligator. Although, it was the land that her eyes kept roaming over. And the trees. For Tarzan.
Back at the house, docking the canoe proved to be vexing, what with the whole trying to scope the area without actually appearing to be looking. It didn’t help that she had to fulfill her obsessive canoe tying ritual. Rear had to face north, paddles together, spanning both seats, rope knotted exactly right or there would be no damn sleeping at night. The canoe tying task done, she covertly reapplied her hair clamp, using the opportunity to scope the area. What was wrong with looking? That was a normal thing for a woman to do living alone in a swamp.
Grabbing hold of the pier post, she climbed out of the canoe and hung the rope, docking her swamp truck, then heading toward the house. Again she found herself trying to act uninterested and unintimidated all at the same time. “Just…casually checking for rogue alligators,” she mumbled, glancing about. “Not half naked men, roaming the swamp. Loaded with tats.” She found herself worried about what she looked like suddenly as she headed inside. Geeze, she really, really, needed to get out more.
She eyed the closed storm shutters along the house wall facing the swamp. No guilt there. She had warranted reasons. All of them were shut, in fact. Especially the upstairs ones. Pulling her key from one of the pockets on her outfit, she unlocked the padlock on the front door. She didn’t need a purse with her attire, she had more pockets than her grandmother’s purse. And that was a lot of pockets. Isadore went in, slid the deadbolt home, then sagged against the door with a sigh. You’d swear she’d swam sixty miles per hour through quicksand with how tired she was.
The bruise on the back of her thigh throbbed, reminding her of that which she’d been fighting hard not to remember. It was one of the reasons Tarzan had been so easy to think about. Anything to avoid that fresh nightmare. She was necessarily stupid to contemplate not showering. What had she become out there? A dirty white swamp lady?
Putting water on for coffee, she headed to the small bathroom and turned on the shower. She needed to make it quick, the hot water heater was made for one tiny midget person with very short hair, not a compulsive woman who had to wash herself exactly thus and so.
Stripping out of her baggy blue-jeaned overalls, she folded them and tossed them into the grass green hamper then yanked open the shower curtain and stepped into the hot water. Shit, the bandage. Whatever. She’d tend it separately, after. The notion to wash her hair hit like a brilliant idea and she hurried without question before the water got cold. She didn’t want to scare potential company away that might happen by her house for help.
Halfway through rinsing her hair, she was rejuvenated by the hot water she’d plum run out of. She really should break down and buy a bigger hot water heater. She was a cheapskate just like her father, and a procrastinator like her mother.
Grabbing the bar of Ivory soap, she lathered the green puff-ball as fast as she could and washed her body, face to toes, then back up again and rinsed. By the time she was done, she’d adjusted to the cold temperature and reached that familiar point of this really isn’t so bad, actually exhilarating, no need to spend money on a hot water heater.
Images of Tarzan’s tattoos returned for the fiftieth time and her brain itched to get a closer look at the odd scrawl. Something was familiar about it. Just who the hell was he though? She kept ruling out angel since Jared had seen him. Did angels appear that way? They did in the Bible, Paul said, be sure to entertain stranger, because many had entertained angels unaware. If he never showed up again, she’d be inclined to think she’d hallucinated the entire thing, Jared and all. But if he was real…she’d like to thank him at least. She’d been too freaked out that night to think about it.
The bruise behind her leg throbbed in answer to the hallucination theory. But… maybe she’d had a nightmare and slept walk out the window?
Geeze. The idea that she’d be crazy enough to do that was a scary notion. Yes, trauma did things to people, but it was hard to accept that for herself, an intelligent scientist with an IQ of 156.
Shutting the shower off, she jumped at hearing the whistle of the kettle. Wrapping a towel around her, she hurried out to the hot plate and shut it off. “Shit,” she whispered.
“Can you help me?”
Chapter Three
Isadore screamed and spun to see him sitting on the loft stairs. “Oh my God, how did you get in here?”
“The…” he seemed to contemplate and struggle for the word before giving up. “I need your help.” He came toward her and she backed up, hitting the stove. He still wore the black pants and no shirt, which drew her gaze to those tats until she realized it was rude to stare and snapped her gaze up. Thick black brows furrowed in what seemed like… annoyance before he opened a kitchen chair and sat. “You said… you would help.”
“I did?”
He gazed at her, those bright green eyes making her st
omach knot. “Yes.”
She shook her head a little. “I don’t…remember saying that.”
“Not with your words.” He pointed to his eyes. “With these… you told me.”
She swallowed hard, worried about the man’s mental state. “Are you? Are you sick?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are you from?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know that either.”
She gasped, realizing. “You have amnesia?” That was a stupid question. “Never mind, don’t answer that.” She pointed at the ceiling. “You mind if I go upstairs and get clothes on?”
He suddenly lowered his gaze. “If you…think you need to.”
His lack of knowing that she should get clothes on was disturbing. That was some serious amnesia if he didn’t remember it was wicked bad manners to stand in front of a stranger in only a towel. “I think I need to, yes. I mean yes, I need to.”
He nodded and she hurried to the loft. Chancing a glance at him on her way up, making sure he stayed put, she found his brutal green gaze riveted on her. She attempted a relaxed smile that threatened to shake right off her damn lips as she entered her room with a sobered gasp. Her hands trembled as she fought her brain to think. Clothes! She suddenly cared about her selection and chose more normal ones. A pair of soft cotton black shorts and a plain white t-shirt. Nothing fancy. She hurried back down, worried he’d disappear again.
Descending the loft stairs, she found him again watching her, maybe worried she’d not come back? At that moment she became aware of her hair and detoured toward the bathroom. “Excuse me a second.” Once in, she snatched her hair clip from the towel bar then exited with it in her mouth, eyeing him as she twisted up her hair before working the plastic teeth securely onto the wad of hair. “Would you care for some coffee?”
He gave a slow nod, his gaze still locked on hers, like he was constantly taking readings on her. She busied herself, grabbing two of her blue willow cups from the in case you ever have company ha ha part of the curtained cabinet and set them down. “So,” she said lightly. “I wanted to thank you for the other night.”