by Jan Eldredge
Evangeline recognized its contents as the blinding venom of the Acadian fang worm. “Do you think it was a rougarou that killed the New Orleanian haunt huntress?”
Gran pressed her lips into a straight line. “I do.” She set the bottle on the nightstand within easy reach, should a rougarou gain entrance into the room anyway. She then took a seat beside Mrs. Midsomer, whose breaths were again coming in short, agitated pants. She swabbed the woman’s feverish flesh with the saltwater cloth.
Her fingers trembling, Evangeline counted out thirteen beans and lined them up on a window ledge. She hesitated for a moment, dreading what Gran’s answer might be, then asked, “Can we help her, Gran?”
“I’m not sure.” Gran sat back and sighed. “I’m just not sure. Tell me what you know.”
Evangeline finished setting out the rougarou-repelling blessed beans. She joined Gran at the bedside and recalled what it was Gran had taught her about rougarous, lessons that’d seared themselves into her brain as well as her heart. She didn’t believe in hate, but the rougarou was one creature she truly despised, right down to the deepest depths of her soul. Vicious. Heartless. Senseless in their destruction.
A rougarou had stolen her mama’s life, and that kind of hate was hard to extinguish.
But there was a job to be done. She pushed the dark thoughts aside. Focus, Evangeline. Hate blinds. She took a deep breath. “Only an alpha can infect a victim. Mrs. Midsomer must have been bitten by an alpha on the night of the last full moon. Since then, she’s been in the throes of change as her body prepares for the metamorphosis that will occur”—she swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dirt dry—“the metamorphosis that will occur with tomorrow night’s full moon.”
“Continue.” Gran nodded.
“At the first stroke of midnight tomorrow night, her physical transformation will begin, turning her into a mindless, flesh-tearing, bipedal wolf, incapable of resisting her rougarou killer instincts.”
“And if she makes a human kill?” Gran prompted.
“But maybe she won’t, Gran. If we can prevent it, she’ll be miserable for sure. She might even gravely injure herself in her desperation to attack and draw blood, but—”
“Of course we’ll try to prevent it,” Gran interrupted, “but if despite our best efforts, she succeeds in making a human kill . . .”
Panic leaped inside Evangeline, nearly paralyzing her with a white-hot sense of helplessness. She shook her head, mentally begging Gran not to force her to say more.
“Evangeline?” Gran’s mouth was set firmly.
Evangeline took a shuddering breath. “If she makes a human kill tomorrow night, the metamorphosis will be set. And every full moon thereafter, she’ll transform into a rampaging beast of teeth and claws, filled with an overpowering taste for blood.” She twisted her hands together. “Oh, Gran, what are we going to do?”
“If she makes a kill, you know what we’ll have to do.” Gran’s unwavering gaze was fixed on Evangeline.
“No, Gran,” Evangeline whispered.
“We can’t knowingly let a rougarou run loose. If we can’t discover the alpha and destroy him right away, we’ll have no choice, Evangeline. We’ll have to destroy her.”
Evangeline glanced away, not wanting Gran to see the weakness brimming in her eyes.
“We’ll do what we can to keep her comfortable tonight,” Gran continued. “Tomorrow evening we’ll weaken-bind her and do our best to ease her pain. But when she morphs, if she proves too strong for the holy water–soaked ropes, if she breaks free, it’s over.”
Gran held out her hand. “Now pass me the infusion of cowslip and frog livers.”
The hours passed and they tended to Mrs. Midsomer, patting her burning skin with cooling potions, fending off her muscle spasms and seizures with assorted concoctions.
The foyer clock struck twelve. As it chimed the midnight hour, another wolfish howl sounded in the distance, calling to Mrs. Midsomer. This time, she wailed in return.
Goose bumps raced along Evangeline’s neck and arms.
Mrs. Midsomer’s eyes fluttered open. No longer the deep blue of a summer sky, they now blazed a fiery green. Evangeline gasped, and the woman turned her eerie gaze upon her, rumbling a low, rabid growl. Evangeline stumbled back, and Mrs. Midsomer gnashed her teeth.
Gran spritzed the air with a vervain mist, causing Mrs. Midsomer to hiss, but her eyes were already returning to their sky-blue color. A trembling took over her body, and her forehead broke out in sweat. Gran blotted Mrs. Midsomer’s face dry then held her hand out to Evangeline. “Markers, please.”
Evangeline dug through the valise and handed her a package of felt tip pens.
The two of them worked quickly, and when they’d finished drawing a series of multicolored protective symbols, Evangeline packed the pens away.
“The worst is over,” Gran murmured. “At least for this night.”
Evangeline was not comforted, though. They were certainly going to have their hands full enough taking care of Mrs. Midsomer, but what of the alpha that infected her? What of his pack? They would have to be dealt with, and they’d have to be dealt with soon.
As night faded into dawn, Mrs. Midsomer’s symptoms subsided like the passing of a storm. Outside, a catbird chirped in a nearby tree. Evangeline could barely keep her eyes open; they burned with exhaustion, as did every muscle in her body.
Gran dabbed Mrs. Midsomer’s forehead with fragrant, calming lilac water, careful not to smudge the protective symbols she and Evangeline had recorded up and down and across her face. With a weary groan, Gran collapsed onto the bedside chair, wincing and rubbing her hip and bad leg.
“You shouldn’t have stood on your feet so long,” Evangeline chastised. “You should’ve taken more sit-down breaks.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Gran waved a hand at her. “I’m tough as an old mule. With a head as hard as one too.”
Evangeline was too worn-out to argue. The two of them gazed at Mrs. Midsomer, now resting peacefully.
“She’ll sleep soundly through the day,” Gran said. “We’ll get some rest ourselves. Then we’ll prepare the binding ropes and the other provisions we’ll need for tonight.”
The bedroom door swung open, and Camille breezed in. “Good morning, ladies!” She carried a tray topped with a glass of water, a covered ceramic dish, and a white linen napkin. “I have Mrs. Midsomer’s breakfast.” She set the tray on the dresser. When she turned toward the sleeping woman, she gasped. “What have you done to her face?” She snatched the napkin and dipped it into the glass of water. “Oh, he won’t like this at all,” she muttered as she set about scrubbing Mrs. Midsomer’s cheeks.
Evangeline couldn’t imagine Mr. Midsomer would be all that upset. Maybe a little shocked, but he’d said she and Gran were his last hope, and sadly, he was right. He surely wouldn’t question such a harmless preventative measure.
“It’s only washable marker,” Gran said. “It’s not permanent.”
Seeming to collect herself, Camille offered them a smile, then shooed them toward the door. “Go on. Go get some rest. The two of you’ve had a long night.”
As Gran packed her valise, Evangeline plucked up the few white rose petals that had dropped from the bouquet atop the dresser, being mindful not to grasp any of the stems themselves. If a petal were to fall while she was holding one of the roses, it’d be a clear omen of death. She reached into her satchel, pulled out a plastic Baggie, and slipped the velvety pieces into it. They’d come in handy for creating aphrodisiac sachets later.
“There, there, my lady.” The maid busied herself wiping off the last of the protection marks from Mrs. Midsomer’s cheeks. “Everything’s going to be just fine. Camille’s here now.”
Yawning, Evangeline gathered their bags. As they left, she waved over her shoulder. “Have a good morning, Miss Camille.”
They made their way up the staircase, Gran stopping every few steps to rub her leg. Evangeline frowned. The sooner Gran got
off her feet, the better.
Inside their room, Evangeline set their bags in the corner, went straight to her bed, and collapsed face-first onto it. Sleep was settling upon her like a warm blanket when a stray thought scuttled by. Why was Camille so afraid of the docile Mr. Midsomer? A darker thought followed after it. Did Mr. Midsomer have a hidden side, a bloodthirsty side with a taste for raw flesh? Her eyes flew open. He certainly had a taste for raw steak.
A scratching sounded at the door, and Gran let Fader in. He meowed up at her, rubbing circles around her feet and bumping his face into her ankles as she made her way to the bed.
While Gran took a seat and pulled off her work boots, Fader jumped onto the foot of the bed, wrapped his gray tail around himself, and settled down into nap mode.
Evangeline opened her mouth, about to mention her budding suspicion regarding Mr. Midsomer, then thought better of it. Clear thoughts seldom bloomed in exhausted minds. She’d rest on it first. And when she awoke, it might very well prove to be a ridiculous notion.
Yawning, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
Evangeline dozed for a short while, only to be awakened by the rumblings of her empty stomach.
She sat up, stretching her arms over her head. She glanced at Gran, sound asleep, snoring with one eye open, her face so etched with lines. And that scar. She hadn’t ever bothered to question her about that injury either. Evangeline frowned. When all this was over, she’d sit down and ask to hear the story about that. She’d ask to hear all Gran’s other stories too. Because now that she thought on it, there was so much about her she didn’t know.
Fader, still curled up at Gran’s feet, peeled one green eye open and glared at Evangeline. She stuck her tongue out at him and climbed out of bed.
Now that she’d made a favorable first impression, she no longer needed to wear the awful, itchy dress. She slipped into her jeans and camouflage T-shirt, tucked her mama’s talisman inside her collar, then pulled her boots on and fixed her bowie knife to her left leg. She peered into the dresser mirror, pleased to see the calendula salve was doing its work and that she no longer looked like something the cat had dragged in. The shadow croucher’s scratch had gone from angry red to shy pink. She unwound the bandage from around her palm and nodded her satisfaction at the pale wound lying there. Her stomach growled again, and she set off to search for breakfast.
The tantalizing smell of coffee and chicory met her at the bottom of the stairs. Another aroma floated alongside it, sweet and sugary.
She followed her nose to the dining room and stopped short at the unexpected sight.
Two strange men sat at the table, one burly and bushy browed and uglier than homemade soap, the other handsome and genteel. Mr. Midsomer and Julian, dressed in his school uniform jacket and tie, were seated there too.
“I’m glad to hear next season’s float design is on schedule,” Mr. Midsomer said from his chair at the head of the table. He was about to speak again when he caught sight of Evangeline standing there. “Oh!” He set down his china coffee cup, and it clinked against the china saucer. “Miss . . . uh . . . Evangeline. Good morning.”
“Good morning,” she mumbled. She wished the strangers would stop staring at her. Julian paid her no attention whatsoever. He sat hunched over a comic book, completely absorbed in reading, and in eating what looked like little golden-fried pillows blanketed with powdered sugar. A jug of milk, a bottle of chocolate syrup, and a half glass of chocolate milk sat before him.
“John.” The handsome and genteel man turned to Mr. Midsomer. “You didn’t mention you had houseguests.” He smiled pleasantly.
Mr. Midsomer’s cheeks colored pink. Evangeline spared him the lie. “I’m one of Mrs. Midsomer’s nurses.” She started to curtsy but wasn’t sure if it was the appropriate response. She did her best to bring up a polite smile instead.
The stranger fixed his dark-blue eyes on her and motioned to the empty chair beside the oblivious Julian. “Join us.” He nodded toward the big, scowling man at the other head of the table. “Randall here has brought enough Café Du Monde beignets to feed the entire city of New Orleans. Isn’t that right, Randall?”
Randall, who had the build of a heavyweight wrestler and the weatherworn face of a pirate, stared silently at her.
She didn’t really want to join them, but the sugary-fried aroma of the doughnut-like pastries drew her like a bear to a beehive. She sat beside Julian, grateful for the full vase of white roses shielding her from the handsome and genteel stranger across the table. He pushed the vase aside and smiled at her. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Evangeline.” She reached for a beignet, doing her best to behave in a most mannerly manner that would make Gran proud.
“Evangeline,” he repeated, rubbing at the shadow of a beard on his pale-complexioned face. He pursed his delicate lips, then closed his eyes and bowed his head as though trying to recall a lost thought.
Evangeline noticed his brown hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, and she suddenly recognized him as the man who’d driven away from the Midsomers’ house yesterday evening in the fancy little convertible.
He glanced back up, steepled his fingers, and spoke. “‘Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey; Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.’”
Evangeline gaped at him in mid–beignet chew.
“A line from Longfellow’s epic poem Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie.”
Her thoughts dried completely up. She had no idea how to respond.
He gave her a slight grin of embarrassment. “I have a passion for classic literature, as well as French history. Longfellow’s poem combines the best of both worlds.”
Mr. Midsomer cleared his throat. “Evangeline, these are my uh . . . associates.”
“We’re krewe members,” the ponytailed man explained. “The krewe is like family to me. I don’t have any parents or children, not even a wife, at least not yet. Perhaps there’s still hope for me, though.” He gave her a friendly wink. “Family is the most important thing there is. Don’t you agree?”
Evangeline did indeed agree.
Mr. Midsomer motioned toward the man. “This is the multitalented Mr. Laurent Ardeas. In addition to knowing classic literature and French history, he’s also an expert on Greek mythology and is an accomplished thespian, herbalist, genealogist, and I don’t know what else.”
Laurent Ardeas waved away the words of praise, keeping his eyes on Evangeline. “Please. Call me Laurent.”
Mr. Midsomer nodded toward the silent, scowling man at the other end of the table. “This is Mr. Randall Lowell.”
The dark-eyed man grunted a greeting.
“Oh, good morning, Miss Evangeline.” Camille bustled into the dining room carrying a pot of coffee with her, its fresh-brewed aroma wafting over to meet Evangeline’s nose. “I’ll bring you a plate and a glass.” She refilled Mr. Midsomer’s cup and returned a moment later, setting a glass and a china plate before Evangeline. She filled the glass with milk. “Chocolate syrup?”
“Yes, please,” Evangeline murmured, very much preferring a cup of coffee instead, but not wanting to make more work for Camille.
Camille topped off Julian’s glass then added a squirt of syrup for each of them.
“Excuse me.” Julian looked up from his comic book. “Camille, I believe there’s been some sort of oversight. This is not my chocolate milk spoon.” He held up the stainless steel utensil that had been sitting alongside his china plate. “This is not my antique English silver teaspoon with the mother-of-pearl handle, the one my mother gave me that I specifically use to mix my chocolate milk.”
“Now, that spoon you have there will stir your milk just as well.” Camille gave him a patient smile.
“But this isn’t my chocolate milk spoon,” Julian repeated.
Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Evangeline wanted to blurt out. Instead, she glanced over at Camille and rolled her eyes.
“It’s out in the kitchen
with the rest of the silver. Today’s polishing day.” Camille gave Julian a pat on the head. “I’ll bring you your special spoon in a few minutes, as soon as I’m done cleaning it.”
Randall Lowell pushed his chair back and climbed to his big feet.
“Well, it seems we must be leaving.” Laurent stood and plucked a long-stemmed white rose from the vase. He gave it a sniff with his slightly large nose and handed it across the table to her.
Not wanting to appear rude, she took it.
“A wish for your good health. That’s what the white rose symbolizes: good health.”
He was wrong. That wasn’t the correct meaning at all. White roses were given in recognition of new beginnings, as expressions of hope for the future. That’s why they were often used in wedding bouquets. But she couldn’t tell him that. Gran would have given her a sour frown for even entertaining the notion of correcting him. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
Leaving their coffee and beignets untouched, the men shook Mr. Midsomer’s hand. He escorted them to the front door, chatting politely along the way.
Evangeline relaxed, relieved to see them leave, even if it left only her and Julian at the table. She returned the rose to the crystal vase.
With his eyes focused on his comic book, Julian continued chewing and reading.
“Good morning, Julian,” she said, unable to keep the trace of disapproval from her tone. Recalling the fate of his mama lying in the room just down the hall, a flood of shame washed over her. She summoned the brightest voice she could and continued, “I’m happy to report your mama is doing well this morning.”