by Molly Harper
“Well, not nearly so much as in other towns. We’re not a true Cajun community. When the first creatures moved here in the 1800s, there was a small Cajun settlement, just a few humans. Some of them inter-married with our kind, others stayed separate. We kept some of the French sayings, and most of us have accents, to varyin’ degrees. We have some of the same food customs, but we’ve also mixed in our own traditions, our own flavors and our own languages from the places where we come from. It’s a big mess sometimes, but it works for us.”
Bael turned his gaze upwards. “Your bedroom is the first on the right on the second floor. The back door doesn’t always catch, so make sure you lock it at night.”
“So, this isn’t one of those small towns where people pride themselves on not locking their doors?” Jillian asked.
Bael shoved his hands in his pockets. “Our crime rate’s pretty low, but there’s a good chance of varmints gettin’ in if you leave the door open.”
Jillian’s expression was vaguely amused. “Varmints?”
He jerked his broad shoulders. “Nothin’ wrecks your mornin’ like findin’ that a possum’s tossed your kitchen. Speaking of which, Zed’s mama stocked the fridge with basics for you.”
Boone nodded toward a white-and-rust-colored icebox straight out of the 1950s. Frankly, she was surprised the floorboards would support that much weight. “That was very sweet of her.”
“Well, mama bears never want to see starvin’ cubs.”
Jillian wiped at her forehead, sticky with the day’s last layer of drying sweat. “I’m sorry, I’ve been traveling for almost twenty-four hours now and I’m having a hard time focusing. Is that a euphemism? Are there really going to be bears and possums outside my door?”
“Bears? No,” he said, though she noted he paused just a little too long before eliminating the possibility. “Possums? Maybe. Gators? There’s one out there right now.”
“What?” she glanced out the back window to a pair of reptilian eyes through a layer of green algae on the water. “Oh, no, no, no. That thing can’t get into the house, right? It can’t break through the floor boards or anything?”
He snorted. “I think you’ve been watching too many scary movies. Gators don’t want any more to do with you than you want with them. Just stay out of the water, unless you’re with someone who knows what they’re doing. And make sure you don’t change in front of the windows,” he told her, nodding toward the gator. “He could be a magie.”
She rolled her dark blue eyes a bit. “Very funny, hazing the over-tired new girl in town who doesn’t know any better.”
“I’m not kiddin’. The Beasleys are gator shifters and they’re known peeping Toms,” Bael insisted.
Jillian recoiled from him. “Oh.”
“But they live on the other side of town,” he added. “So…yeah, you shouldn’t change in front of the windows.”
“Thank you, I’m sure that will help me sleep at night.”
The corner of his lips twitched ever so slightly. And for a second, she thought he was going to make a remark about how she slept through the night, but he stayed silent, which was even more unnerving.
“Also, what does magie mean?” she asked.
“It means ‘magic’ in French. It doesn’t quite cover the nature of all of the creatures in town, but our ancestors considered anything that wasn’t human to be magical. It’s a lot easier to spit out than supernatural. And it prevents a lot of confusion and offense, because no one is left out.”
She nodded. “That’s nice.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Bael paused and handed her a pair of business cards. “Zed said he’d come in the morning and help you get into town. He thought it would be easier than you trying to drive yourself around for the first couple days. Don’t try to drive in to town on your own. You will get lost.”
“No problem. I’m stubborn, not stupid.”
He muttered, “Well, that’s a comfort.”
She pulled her phone out of her bag and frowned at the lack of bars. “If I try to call you on my cell, will I get a signal?”
“Closer to town, maybe, but not from here. You’re gonna need to use Lottie’s, er, landline.” He nodded toward a large wooden box hanging on the wall, complete with an ear trumpet and an honest-to-God hand crank.
“That’s intense,” she said, frowning.
“Miss Lottie was of the ‘if it works, don’t fix it,’ frame of mind. The phone worked for her mama and her mama before her, so why change?” he said.
Jillian’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Do I have to yell for the switchboard operator to connect my call?”
“I’ll be honest,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”
She walked out with him, to retrieve the last of her equipment from the van. Despite the last-minute change of plans, she’d carefully organized her equipment into boxes by rate of use, then attached a list to each box, listing its contents. It wasn’t much beyond video and computer equipment, but she felt better knowing that she could easily find what she needed.
“I’ll help ya.” He reached for the heavy camera bag she was slinging over her shoulder.
“I’ve got it,” she insisted. “I’m used to hauling it around by myself. Look, you seem to think I’m not prepared for this situation. I’m a professional anthropologist. I know enough not to cause trouble where I go, not to try to change anything, and not to offer insult when I can avoid it.”
“The problem bein’ that you don’t necessarily know what’s an insult here and what’s not.”
Her smile was sticky sweet as she asked, “Is it an insult to say ‘thank you for leading me to my house, now please feel free to…’”
Her voice trailed off as she stepped forward, her eyes wide as saucers as the red, blue and green bottles hanging from Miss Lottie’s trees lit up against the purpling twilight. Fireflies filtered out of the swamp grass, adding a touch of whimsical energy.
“Are those… That’s not electrical!” she exclaimed, glancing back at him, grinning wildly. “Those are ghost lights.”
Bael slid a Mystic Bayou Sheriff’s Department baseball cap onto his head. “Let’s just say that any spirits that tried to trespass around Miss Lottie’s got put to good use. She said it was her way of being ‘environmentally conscious.’”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she breathed. “That’s amazing.”
Bael cleared his throat and opened his car door. “Yeah, well, so much for ‘professional and prepared.’”
Her jaw dropped as he slid into his seat and turned the key in the ignition.
“Zed will be by in the morning.” He rolled down his window as he backed down her gravel drive. “Get inside and lock your doors, Miss Ramsay.”
“It’s Doctor Ramsay!” she called after him. She sighed. “Eh, he didn’t hear me.”
Though she was an independent, capable woman fully in command of all of her faculties, Jillian rushed to the front door of the house and locked it behind her. Capable was one thing. Alligators were another.
She leaned her head against the solid wood of the door. Without competing noise pollution, the sounds of the bayou closed in around the house—the grinding hum of cicadas, the tap of mosquitoes throwing themselves at her windows, the throaty chorus of bullfrogs. It was an interesting contrast to the sirens and traffic noise she was used to in DC. Then again, she wasn’t sure she could sleep in total silence. She hoped her brain would accept bugs and frogs as a substitute.
All she wanted was a shower and something resembling food and then a bed. She would sort through her equipment and clothes tomorrow. She double checked the back door to make sure it was locked, picked up her computer bag and suitcase and carried them up the rickety wooden stairs to the bedroom. She paused on the stairs and hung her head. She hadn’t even asked if there was a shower. What if all she had was a metal washtub and a sponge?
A search of the second floor, and then the first floor again, confirmed
that there was a “water closet” tacked on behind the kitchen, but no tub. She thought about going to the third floor, but the markings on the door told her that had been Miss Lottie’s ritual space and it was better not to mess around up there unprepared.
“Dr. Montes, wherever you are, I hope your unicorn wound is very itchy,” she grumbled, scrubbing a washcloth over her face and arms before stomping back into the bedroom.
Miss Lottie’s old room was another challenge. While it was a very pretty room with a high ceiling and the big bay window, her bed was a swing. She wouldn’t necessarily call it a sex swing. It was a simple wooden frame, hanging from silvery-white ropes suspended from the ceiling. The frame was covered in a feather tick mattress and a beautiful old log cabin quilt. It did however make Jillian wonder about what Miss Lottie got up to in her golden years.
She sighed, rolling carefully onto the mattress, yelping as it swayed back and forth. This was only slightly less ridiculous than a waterbed. Who even came up with this idea? This could not be good for a senior citizen’s back.
She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips, waiting for her bed to still. How was she even going to begin this project? She’d given Bael Boone a reasonably good speech about her professionalism, but she’d planned a small study on a single species. This was a large-scale study of multiple species, cultures and how they interacted. And she had no idea where to start.
Every day brought the world closer to the discovery that humans were not alone on Earth. The International League for Interspecies Cooperation, a cooperative organization founded centuries before by a particularly open-minded group of shifters and humans under a far less corporate name, was hoping to hold on to secrecy for just a little bit longer. They were preparing for the worst. The administrators at the League wanted to use Mystic Bayou as a template for other communities on how to live cooperatively with multiple species and cultures. The League wanted to show humans that there was nothing to fear from the otherworldly. That shifters and fae and other creatures had lived among them for centuries and for the most part, humans had been unscathed. Her study would provide guidance for communities all over the world. It would be cited in academic journals and discussed in anthropology classes for decades to come. This was a huge opportunity for her. So why did she have such a bad feeling about it?
Why had the League chosen to send her? There were several other qualified anthropologists on staff. Yes, Dr. Montes had technically been her mentor, in that he’d led the review committee for her doctoral project, but he hadn’t given her any practical training. The most interaction they’d had was when he read the first few chapters of her thesis on how the internet would eventually affect the how people saw ancient folklore, and he directed her to an online database called faefolkwiki. Why wouldn’t they send someone with more field experience?
She took a long, deep breath and forced herself to focus on the positives—the professional opportunity, Zed’s cooperative attitude, the comfortable house as opposed to the tent she was expecting. She would be fine. She knew the interview techniques. She knew how to archive. She knew how to organize her information. It was just like her old friend, Mel, said, when life sends storms your way, smile and whisper, “fuck off” in the storm’s face, then go on your merry way.
Mel’s advice was not like other people’s advice. He said that his proverbs didn’t translate well from the original ancient Japanese. Jillian suspected it was his liberal use of the F word.
She’d like to tell Bael Boone to jump directly into the nearest creek. Who did he think he was, devaluating her research before she’d even started? If Zed supported her efforts here in the bayou, who was Bael to tell her to get done and get gone? And the way he’d looked at her when she’d seen the spirit lights, that disdain and contempt for her enthusiasm, had sucked the joy out of witnessing her first bit of real magic. Sure, she’d read about witchcraft in theory, but this was the first time she’d seen a spell actually work. It was everything she’d hoped for, beautiful, useful, harmless. How dare he take that away from her?
The real fly in the proverbial ointment was that he was so damned attractive. While the mayor’s hulking frame and craggy good looks certainly weren’t repulsive, Bael’s leaner build and diamond-sharp cheekbones were more her speed. If she was the gooey romantic type, she would probably fall in love with his voice alone. There was a soft purring timbre to it, like he was telling her secrets while on the edge of falling asleep. The man was seduction personified in polyester uniform pants.
And that was a difficult look to pull off.
But cautionary tales abounded during her internship with the League, tragic examples of researchers of either gender who got involved with their subjects. In fact, there was even a capstone seminar at her internship, entitled “Strategies to avoid getting intimately involved with your subjects.” When fairytale creatures and humans got involved, it never seemed to work out well for the human. The human usually ended up cursed or pregnant with a baby that would try to eat them.
And then there was the Tate of it all. She couldn’t ignore the Tate issue. He’d really done a number on her ability to date like a regular person.
Watching the ceiling sway over her head, she took a deep breath and counted to ten. She could do this. She could get through this study, make connections within Mystic Bayou, while living in a fairy tale witch’s cottage, write a stunning report, and provide help to hundreds of communities. All while avoiding under-the-pants involvement with Bael Boone.
As she drifted off to sleep in her swinging bed, Jillian made a list of tasks for the next day. She would call Sonja and try to get more information about Dr. Montes’s “medical problem.” She would talk to the mayor and work up a list of important families to interview. And she would buy one of those noise machines that played traffic noises and sirens because the bugs were not getting the job done.
3
Bael
Bael leaned back in his office chair, eyes sore from staring too long at his computer screen.
A series of smoke rings rose above his head, a sure sign of frustration in a Boone. He’d researched for weeks to prepare for Dr. Montes’s arrival. He’d done a full profile of the anthropologist, becoming deeply acquainted with the man’s professional and personal history. Dr. Montes had been arrogant and pompous, like a lot of academics, but he didn’t seem to have any agenda beyond advancing his own career.
Bael had been comfortable with that. A greedy man could be trusted because he could be counted on to be greedy. Dr. Montes would do what was best for Dr. Montes. He would do nothing to risk his ability to stay in Mystic Bayou and continue his research, even if it meant surgically attaching his lips to Zed’s ass cheeks. Bael knew how to direct that sort of energy.
This woman, Dr. Ramsay, pretty as she may be, was an unknown quantity, and that made her dangerous. While she had several articles published in all the right academic journals, her online presence told him very little about her private life. Her only social media footprint was a spartan Facebook page, but her personal information was limited to her hometown in Ohio and where she went to school. She didn’t even list a workplace, because the general public wasn’t aware that the League existed.
Her timeline seemed exclusively devoted to keeping up with old school friends, referencing their weddings and children and moving for new jobs. There was nothing about her own life, no pictures out with friends, no selfies from her favorite travel spots or posts waxing poetic about her favorite overpriced coffee. There were no mentions of her spending habits. Her relationship status was “Nope.” He didn’t know Facebook did that.
How was he supposed to predict the behavior of an unknown quantity? What sort of havoc could she wreak on the town? Bael had expected a middle-aged, balding greedy man with a strange predilection for posting on not-as-anonymous-as-he-believed fetish forums for pony play. Instead, he’d gotten a fair maiden with golden hair and a smart mouth.
Still, she’d been out of her element in M
ystic Bayou’s City Hall. That much had been clear. Between her fatigue, the rough environs, and Zed being, well, himself, she’d clearly been uncomfortable. But she hadn’t been rude or cold, as some city folk were wont to do when they visited the bayou. And she hadn’t let Bael push her around. He had to give her some grudging respect there. He’d tried not to be charmed when she explored Miss Lottie’s house, but she had that look on her face, the look of someone seeing magic for the first time. That was pretty rare in a town where everybody was some sort of magical.
But again, that sincere curiosity could be dangerous without constant monitoring. He wouldn’t interfere with her studies because Zed wanted her there and Bael respected the mayor’s decisions when it came to the town’s well-being. Bael just had to get her out of town before any of his people got hurt. That was his job, protecting those who lived in Mystic Bayou. And if that required some none too gentle nudging to help speed her on her way out of town, well, so be it.
“Are you cyber stalkin’ our fair doctor?”
“What in the furry fuck?!” Bael shouted, turning to find Zed standing over him. He snarled at his old friend, who never failed to point out that he was technically his boss.
Zed grinned and made lazy swipes at the smoke rings, reducing them to nothing. For a big guy, Zed was way too quick and quiet on his feet. It chapped Bael’s ass that he never heard Zed sneak up on him. That was another problem with living in a town where everybody was special. No matter how responsive your senses, someone else was quieter.
“What? No, I was just tryin’ to get some sort of feel for her!” Bael exclaimed.
Zed’s lips curved into a smirk beneath his thick dark beard. “I’ll bet you were.”
Bael tossed an empty coffee cup at Zed’s stupid face, which, of course, he caught before it could do any damage. Bael scoffed. “Couillon. I’m just trying to understand who she is, so I can keep her from making too much trouble before we ‘encourage’ her out of town as quick as possible.”