Evangeline of the Bayou

by Jan Eldredge

  From out in the hallway came the sound of the hairy, yellow-eyed graveyard creature scrambling away, its claws clicking and clacking and fading as it retreated out the front door and down the porch steps.

  Evangeline stood silent for a moment. Then she stepped over to the door, pressed her ear against it, and listened carefully, but there was no sound of the big creature’s return. It must have decided the shadow croucher was an easier meal to catch. And that meant she wouldn’t have to worry about capturing and calming it anymore. “Poor little thing.” She sighed. But that was the way of the swamp. One critter always eating another.

  She took the kerosene lamp from the mantel and eased the bedroom door open. She peered into the dark hallway. Still nothing. She hurried out to the kitchen, found a piece of paper and a pencil nub, and left a quick note for Mrs. Arseneau:

  The banshee has been banished, and the shadow croucher is gone. Unfortunately, a raccoon ate the pecan pie, but that’s okay. There won’t be any charge for my services.

  Evangeline Clement

  She thought of adding an offer to sew a new set of bedroom curtains, but recalling her previous failed attempts with a needle and thread, she decided a pair of store-bought window coverings might be more appreciated instead.

  No longer hungry, she pulled her knife from the pie and wiped its blade on the leg of her kerosene-soaked, soot-stained jeans. Outside, she retrieved the bell and juniper stick and donned Gran’s red cloak. Then she set off for home.

  As she trudged down the path, something rustled through the palmettos and wild azaleas alongside her. It might have been nothing more than that six-legged hydrangean lizard she’d seen frequenting the area, but she didn’t stop to investigate. She picked up her pace and hurried onward.

  Evangeline reached home in the predawn hour, aching, and reeking of smoke and kerosene and sweet, sticky root beer. She climbed the porch steps and dragged herself inside, where she hung Gran’s red cloak on the hook. Gran had retired from the front room rocking chair. Her snores drifted out from her bedroom down the hall.

  In the tiny bathroom, Evangeline tended to her wounds. As she drew the tin of calendula salve from the medicine cabinet, she caught sight of her reflection in the age-spotted mirror. Her eye was blackening to a purple-plum color, and an angry red scratch from the shadow croucher’s back claw ran down her cheek. A jagged gash from the broken lantern lay across her palm. She looked like she’d been on the losing end of a catfight with a cougar. She felt like it too. She applied the greasy salve to her cuts and bandaged her hand, then cast a glance at the claw-footed tub. But she was far too tired to take a bath, even though she desperately needed one.

  In her bedroom, she removed her satchel and gator-skin boots. She rummaged around in the pile of dirty clothes on the floor, pulled out a T-shirt, and used it to wipe down her boots, frowning at the gouges left by the shadow croucher. Those boots had been her first barter payment, and she’d worked hard to earn them, assisting Gran with the eviction of a tizzy of blood faes from Old Man LeBlanc’s tannery shed. Unfortunately, the other half of that job payment had involved a barbeque lunch of undercooked venison, the outside blackened crispy, the inside bright bloody pink. Evangeline didn’t consider herself to be a picky eater, but there were a few foods she simply couldn’t abide. Undercooked meat was one of them.

  She fell onto the bed, still dressed in her soot-stained jeans and camouflage T-shirt, right on top of the faded patchwork quilt that’d been the first barter payment Gran had earned, back when Gran was a fresh new haunt huntress, her youthful skin still smooth and unscarred.

  Gran was just about her age when she’d earned the quilt all on her own, though Gran had long since had her familiar by then. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t a race. She’d find her familiar soon, and she’d prove she had heart.

  The combination of those two things would ignite a strong magic inside her. Her new powers, combined with the skills she’d been learning all her life, would make her a haunt huntress just as talented as her mama and Gran.

  But what if those things don’t happen? a slithery voice murmured from the back of her mind. What if your thirteenth birthday comes and goes with no sign of your familiar, and with not even a spark of your powers emerging? What if you’re nothing more than a . . .

  “No!” Her whispered denial burst out with such force, she half expected it to wake the snoring Gran across the hall. A rock-hard lump swelled in her throat.

  No. She was not a middling. She was a haunt huntress—descended from a long, proud line of haunt huntresses. Her mama had passed the basic powers along to her just as all their female ancestors had done for more than two hundred years, genetically handing those powers down from each mama to her only child, always a girl child. She was not the end to Gran’s line. She was not one of those rare and random descendants born without any magical abilities. She was sure of it. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing sleep to fall over her, knowing full well the dark doubt would return tomorrow, clawing to be let back in.

  Eventually, consciousness slipped away like muddy water through her fingers, and sleep overcame her.

  It seemed like she’d dozed for only a few minutes before she awakened to the sounds of Gran clattering around in the kitchen. The aroma of strong coffee drifted into her bedroom. Her stomach growled irritably, but her exhaustion was more powerful.

  She dropped back into wonderful, deep, dark sleep.

  Something scratched at her windowpane, making a frantic squeak-squeak-squeaking. A desperate yowling joined the desperate scraping.

  “Fader . . . ,” Evangeline grumbled. She pulled the pillow over her head, but it did no good. The cat’s yowls penetrated the feather-filled barrier like arrows through her eardrums.

  Tossing the pillow aside, Evangeline sat up, her eyelids as heavy as Gran’s cast-iron gumbo pots. “Stupid cat.” She stumbled out of bed and raised the window, and Fader shot in. He scampered through her bedroom and out to the kitchen.

  She plopped back into bed, just drifting toward sleep again when Gran rapped the silver handle of her ash-wood cane against the doorframe. “Evangeline!” She stuck her gray-haired head into the room. “We’re needed.”

  “Want sleep,” Evangeline muttered.

  “Coffee’s getting cold.” Gran left, her cane tap-tapping as she hobbled up the hallway.

  Evangeline groaned.

  “And for the love of Lilith,” Gran called out, “wash up. You smell like a polecat that’s been steeped in sewer water.”

  Yawning, Evangeline dragged herself upright. Her knee itched something fierce, and she scratched it, a sure sign she’d soon be kneeling inside a strange church. Not a welcoming omen. Churches she loved. Unfamiliar places, not so much.

  “Evangeline Clement!” Gran called.

  Her words would have carried more weight if Evangeline’s middle name had been included in the command. But she didn’t have a middle name. She was just Evangeline Clement.

  “Get your carcass moving. We’re needed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” With a groan, Evangeline swung her feet over the side of the bed. “We’re needed,” she reminded herself, the two words as commanding to a haunt huntress as a fire alarm to a fireman. Yawning and scratching her knee again, she tottered out to the bathroom.

  Freshly bathed and no longer reeking like a skunk dunked in a cesspool, Evangeline took a seat at the table. The dreamy aroma of egg bread floated over from one of Gran’s skillets. Sausages sizzled in the pan beside it. She inhaled deeply, and her stomach rumbled expectantly.

  Gran set a full plate before her, then returned and plunked a steaming mug alongside it. She took in Evangeline’s black eye, wounded cheek, and bandaged hand. She raised a gray eyebrow but asked no questions.

  Evangeline provided no answers. She grasped the mug with both hands and drank. The strong coffee and chicory coursed through her veins like magic. The world came into focus, drawing her one step closer to consciousness, one step closer to tackling wha
tever new case they were needed for. She tore into a slice of egg bread, barely giving it a chew before swallowing. A night of haunt hunting always left her famished.

  “Slow down.” Gran frowned. The faded scar running down the side of her face seemed to frown with her. “Dignity. Self-control. Those are the traits of a haunt huntress. Not gobbling and snuffling like a wild boar.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Evangeline murmured around a mouthful of egg bread. She swallowed, then cleared her throat. “The Arseneaus had a banshee problem last night, but I took care of it, along with the shadow croucher under their bed.”

  Gran fixed her eyes on Evangeline. “Did you leave the surroundings as you found them?”

  Evangeline took a huge bite of egg bread, and then another, her cheeks puffing like a nutria with a maw full of marsh roots. It was bad manners to speak with your mouth full.

  Gran’s expression hardened. “Evangeline . . .”

  Evangeline chewed, then reluctantly gulped down the clump of egg bread. “Well, it’s not like I burned the entire house down.”

  Gran closed her eyes, murmuring a self-reminder that she’d have to smooth things over with Mrs. Arseneau.

  Before Gran could ask for more details, Evangeline jumped up and raced off to retrieve the sample of black hair she’d collected from the oak tree.

  “I found this last night.” She offered the vial to Gran and sat back down to her breakfast.

  Gran took the top off the vial and sniffed the contents. She pursed her lips. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Near St. Petite’s graveyard.”

  “Oh.” Gran nodded as though Evangeline’s answer somehow explained everything. She placed the vial on one of the shelves and went back to her chores. “Finish up. We have a case to prepare for.” She plunged the skillet into the sink, her strong arms disappearing up to her elbows in sudsy water.

  “So, who’s the job for?” Evangeline asked, taking another bite.

  Gran gave the pan a good scrubbing, then ran it under a cool stream of water. “A family in New Orleans.”

  Evangeline stopped in midchew, her appetite shriveling like a frog carcass on a sun-baked highway. “New Orleans? Why us?”

  “They’re without a haunt huntress.” Gran paused for a moment, her shoulders drooping ever so slightly. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat before continuing. “And until her daughter grows to age, we all take our turns helping out when needed.”

  Evangeline didn’t want to be insensitive to the plight of the young and motherless New Orleanian haunt huntress. Her own mama’s absence still left her with a gaping emptiness, even though she’d been too young to know her before she’d been killed in the line of haunt huntress duty. Evangeline swallowed the lump in her throat. “Can’t someone else do it?”

  “Finish up,” Gran repeated. “We have a lot of preparations to make before Percy fetches us this afternoon.”

  Gran had spoken. And that was that.

  Evangeline turned her mouth down and pushed her plate away. The city was noisy and crowded, with too many people and too many tall buildings. And it smelled funny. She didn’t feel comfortable in cities, and she most definitely didn’t feel comfortable around city folk with their fancy cars and their fancy sense of style. She’d much rather stay here in the swamp, where things made more sense and where life abided by a peaceful order and hierarchy.

  “Stop pouting,” Gran said as she wiped the pan dry with a dish towel. She didn’t have to look at Evangeline to read her expression.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As Evangeline carried her empty plate and mug to the sink, Gran tossed a leftover sausage link to Fader, but he stayed hunkered beneath the table, his tail tucked between his legs and pouting as severely as Evangeline. Normally he’d be weaving between Gran’s feet, yowling up at her for a morsel of meat. It was a wonder Gran never tripped over the stupid cat.

  In a flash of gray, an ankle-high yimmby shot out from under a kitchen cabinet. It dashed across the floor on its two stick legs, its little potbelly bouncing, the wiry white hairs on its round head swaying like a tuft of weeds in a breeze. It seized the sausage out from under Fader’s nose and then ran its saucer-round gaze about the room, mapping the quickest route of escape.

  Evangeline dove beneath the table, grasped the yimmby by its skinny leg, and yanked it off its feet. The sausage flew from its clutch and rolled to a stop back beneath Fader’s nose.

  Gripping its ankle between her forefinger and thumb, she carried the squirming creature to the front door and threw it out. She and Gran never minded sharing food with a hungry critter in need, but a yimmby would eat you out of house and home if not kept in check.

  The yimmby jumped to its long feet and rounded on Evangeline, uttering a high-pitched kik-kik-kiking sound and shaking its little fist at her. Leaving it there to scold, Evangeline fetched the sausage, tossed it outside, and slammed the door shut.

  Gran arched an eyebrow at Fader, still crouching immobile beneath the table. Then she turned and dunked Evangeline’s cup and plate into the suds-filled sink and gave them a scrub.

  “What’s our job in New Orleans?” Evangeline asked.

  Gran rinsed the dishes, set them into the drainer, and dried her hands on a towel. She crossed the room, her cane clumping against the floor. She rummaged through a large trunk and took out a beat-up brown leather valise that had witnessed many a hunt.

  “Gran?” Evangeline prodded.

  “Go pack your things, Evangeline.” Gran went to one of the shelves and ran her finger along the bottles and jars lining it.

  “Yes, ma’am.” When Gran was ready, she’d tell her more. Nonetheless, an uneasy feeling unfurled in the pit of her stomach. Gran was seldom mute on matters, and when she was, it didn’t bode well.

  Mumbling to herself, Gran pulled the large valise open and began filling it with a variety of pastes, powders, and ointments. Frowning and absently rubbing the silver haunt huntress talisman around her neck—always a sign she had something weighty on her heart—she moved to her bedroom to add more supplies.

  Evangeline went to her own room, trying not to sulk every step of the way. Fader trotted along after her with his fur bristling. He leaped onto the window ledge and stared outside. Two of his four ears bent back, and his tail swished. He whispered a fang-baring hiss, then jumped down and scurried underneath Evangeline’s bed.

  “What’s gotten into you, you four-eared chicken?” Evangeline peered out the window, and her heart stopped.

  There among the side yard spider lilies and the muscadine grapevine, just below the tallow tree, stood a huge black dog. It waited not more than six feet away, its droopy jowls and broad snout pointing toward the house. With its massive head, thick neck, and muscular legs, it had to weigh at least two hundred pounds. The creature gazed at Evangeline through mournful yellow eyes, the same yellow eyes she’d seen reflected off the Arseneaus’ front window last night.

  If her boots hadn’t been rooted to the floor, she would have dived under the bed with Fader.

  “A grim.” She could barely whisper the dreaded words. It was this beast, its shaggy fur matted with twigs and mud, that had watched her from St. Petite’s graveyard last night, followed her to the Arseneaus’ house, then burst open their front door in its determination to get to her. And if she wasn’t mistaken, it was this very beast that had skulked unseen through the palmettos and wild azaleas alongside her as she’d made her way home. The tuft of black hair she’d found clinging to the tree near St. Petite’s graveyard had no doubt come from this grim.

  Her legs went weak, and she grasped the windowsill for support. The presence of a black grim could mean only one thing.

  She was about to die, and it was here to escort her soul to the other side.

  What else had Gran taught her about grims, besides the fact they frequented the final resting places of the dead? She searched her memory.

  Sometimes they appeared at the scene of an accident. They also showed u
p when someone had a bad illness and would soon be passing on. But she felt perfectly fine. She cast a worried glance in the direction of Gran’s room, and then she knew with a sinking certainty. The creature wasn’t here for her. It had come for Gran.

  She should have known. It’d been only yesterday that she’d noticed the silver tips of her boots needed polishing, a sure sign someone close was near death. She gasped as another thought hit, punching her right in the gut and nearly doubling her over. She’d been wearing Gran’s red cloak last night. The grim must have mistaken her for Gran. It was only when she’d yelled out her own name to the fleeing shadow croucher that the grim had left the house. Her heart sank to her feet. Gran must be sick, life-threatening sick. And if Gran believed her time was up, she’d follow the creature without a fight.

  Well, there was no way she was going to alert her to the grim’s presence. She’d keep it a secret. She wasn’t about to let Gran leave her, at least not anytime soon. She’d get her some healing help, and then everything would be okay. And with her haunt huntress talent and powers igniting any day now, maybe she’d even be the one to cure Gran.

  But first, she had to get rid of the beast.

  She hurried out of her room, casting another worried glance across the hall at the mumbling Gran busily packing her valise.

  From the supply shelf, Evangeline grabbed the squirt bottle of chupacabra repellant. Grims and chupacabras certainly weren’t the same creature, but it was worth a try. She was hurrying back toward her room when she stopped. A white envelope lay on the kitchen counter, a white envelope bearing the broken wax seal of the council. She flipped it over. It was addressed to Gran, who would have told her to mind her own beeswax, but Evangeline didn’t. She pulled out the letter and scanned its contents, furrowing her brow at the document’s first line.

  It is with unanimous agreement that the council approves your request to undertake the New Orleans case.