[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine

by Barbara Monajem

  “Zeb Bonnard!” Myra hollered, her ruddy complexion turning to flame. “I’ll wring your neck!”

  Something pinged in Constantine’s gut, like last night but not quite, and then was gone. What was that? And why?

  This kid matters, the bird said, whatever that was supposed to mean.

  The Idiot Pontificator joined in. “You damned hoodlum—you’re the one who made that crank call, sending me up here when it was too late!”

  “Roy, that’s uncalled for!” Lavonia cried. “You have no proof Zeb did anything.”

  “Zeb, Zeb,” said Eaton, “think of your poor father. Think how your mother would have felt.”

  The four of them surged toward the kid. He danced back, fists clenched. The Furious Pontificator let out a howl of rage and lunged.

  Constantine joined in the fun. One moment Zeb and the Pontificator were locked together in a death grip. Then the Pontificator was on his hands and knees on the grass, and Zeb was scrambling up, panting and heaving. Constantine nodded at Myra, winked at Lavonia, and said to Eaton, “We should talk some time, Professor Wilson.”

  The Pontificator got hurriedly to his feet. “Dufray! Finally, we meet! Your bodyguards don’t understand the importance of my work, but I’m certain you—”

  Zeb’s fist slammed into the Pontificator’s blathering face. “Fuck your work, you stinking bastard! Die, you scum-sucking sonofabitch!” He drew back his fist for more.

  “That’s enough, Zeb,” Constantine said.

  Zeb subsided immediately, his mask of hatred dissolving in a flurry of other emotions: resentment, shame, fear.

  Constantine motioned with his chin. “Get your guitar, and don’t leave it outdoors again. Let’s go.”

  Could it get much more embarrassing? The acting head of the Chemistry Department had crept up behind her while she was reading about the thirteen-inch penis. Her face hot, Marguerite clapped the paperback shut.

  “But if you’re really going out with that sleazy rock star,” Al Bonnard said, “why would you need to read that trash?” Since she’d never heard Al express an opinion about Constantine before, his choice of epithet came as a surprise. So did the mild sparking of his aura. He had a sharp tongue, but usually his aura was only marginally more emotional than a mannequin’s.

  She pulled herself together. “Damn it, did Lavonia already call and tell you everything? I thought she was somewhere with Eaton Wilson.”

  “Of course she called me, but I would have found out anyway.” Al sighed, setting down his espresso and pulling up a chair. He tossed a couple of the chocolate-cherry bonbons from which he got his nickname onto the table. “Eaton’s got some harebrained scheme about inducing visions. Even in Bayou Gavotte, science has to toe the line. He’ll never get funding for it, and no one will publish his results, so I don’t know why he wastes his time.” Pause. “Or Lavonia’s.” He took out his phone and ran a finger across the screen. “You seriously don’t know, do you? Marguerite, you’re all over the web.”

  She cringed. “Already?”

  “You’re not really having tantric sex with that fellow, are you?”

  “I’m not having tantric sex with anyone,” Marguerite said repressively.

  “It sure looks like you’re having some kind of sex with him.” Images popped up on the screen. Crumpled clothes, tousled hair, and a mildly annoyed expression. It wasn’t what she would have chosen for public view, but…

  The next picture appeared. Marguerite’s entire body heated at the sight of herself in a passionate clinch with Constantine Dufray. She covered her eyes with her hands. “Oh. My. God.” She got ahold of herself, externally at least. The Celtic knot that had taken up residence in her gut this morning was trying new and original twists, but she didn’t need to show it. She sighed and lowered her hands. It was just a kiss. No big deal—as long as they didn’t link her with her father. If and when they did, she would deal with it. Somehow.

  “What the hell got into you?” Al said.

  Constantine’s tongue? “I was caught unawares,” she retorted. “Somebody drugged me while I was at that impromptu concert last night at the mounds. I woke up to find myself in the middle of a publicity stunt cooked up between Constantine Dufray and a reporter.”

  “Even Dufray wouldn’t cook up this crap,” Al said. “A bunch of drivel about drugs, rape, and human sacrifice can’t possibly help his career, if anything can at this point. Did you call the cops?”

  Jeez. “No, because I’d already told the reporter I was up there waiting for Constantine. I don’t want to look like a complete idiot.” She unwrapped a foil-covered bonbon.

  “It didn’t occur to you that saying you were sleeping with Dufray was idiotic?”

  “All that occurred to me was that the reporter was trying to make me say horrible things without any proof at all. When it comes to reporters, I have a knee-jerk reaction at the best of times.” She fumed silently for a minute, slowly consuming the candy. She scrunched up the foil wrapper and dropped it into her pocket. “Please don’t tell anyone about it. I had Lavonia check me, and I wasn’t raped, so it’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay.” Al frowned at her, then put up his hands in a typical male gesture. “However, what you do about it is your business. The one small mercy is that the media don’t have your name. So far you’re just his mysterious new love—though why they insist on calling the unfortunate participant in every celebrity’s latest sexual exploit their ‘love’ is beyond me—but somebody’s sure to recognize you and let them know.”

  Marguerite shuddered. “But when they realize I’m not having a relationship with him, it’ll blow over.” She hoped.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Al said. “Even though we’re in Bayou Gavotte, it doesn’t exactly enhance the dignity of Hellebore University.” He made a face as she handed the book to the cashier. “You’re actually buying that trash?”

  She bristled. “Why not? Now that I’ve met him, I’d like to learn more about him.” She exchanged grins with the cashier.

  “What a waste of money,” Al tsked. “Be a fan if you must, but don’t forget that the man’s not safe.”

  “Don’t be a mother hen, Al. I get enough of that from Lavonia.” Time to change the subject. “Does Zeb have a job at the moment? I need someone to mow my lawn.”

  “No, he lost his last job and failed a drug test at the next place he applied,” Al said, his tone morphing from concern to exasperation. “His grades last year were terrible, and his French is so abysmal that I had to hire that little goth girl, Juma, to tutor him. To top it off, I just got a call from Myra at the mounds. She caught him running there this morning, for which I would ground him if there was the least likelihood he would obey me. He got into a bar brawl a few days ago. With my luck, he’ll get caught in one of the clubs next. He’s completely out of control.” He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “At least his poor mother isn’t here to see it.”

  “At heart, he’s a good kid,” Marguerite said. “I know it’s hard being a single parent, but he’ll turn out fine. You’ll see.”

  “I wish I could be so sure.” Al shook his head wearily.

  “He won’t come to harm mowing my lawn.” Marguerite signed the charge slip and picked up the book and her coffee. “I’d be happy to pay him to weed the garden and trim the hedges, too. Pauline used to do all that.”

  “I’ll mention it to him, but I can’t promise anything.” They made their way toward the door. “From what Myra said, he went berserk and attacked Roy Lutsky right in front of her, Lavonia, Eaton Wilson, and Dufray.” He blew out an exasperated sigh. “Lavonia told me much the same story, but she says Lutsky started it. Typically softhearted of her to stick up for Zeb, but I’ll be fortunate if Lutsky doesn’t charge him with assault.” Another sigh—this one even more irate than the last. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, next he went waltzing off with Dufray.”

  A chill shimmied down her spine. “Zeb went someplace with Constantine?
Why?” Now Al’s annoyance made more sense.

  “Because Dufray crooked his little finger,” Al said explosively. “I don’t know what to do about that boy, Marguerite. He’s developed a violent temper since his mother died. If he gets under the influence of a vigilante like Dufray, anything could happen.”

  Right. Anything at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  You didn’t argue with Constantine Dufray, Zeb told himself. If he hadn’t been so mad at Lutsky, he would have laughed at the others: Myra glaring but throwing up her hands, Professor Wilson dithering and apologizing to everyone on Zeb’s behalf, and Lavonia gawping at Constantine—for once at a loss for words.

  Zeb avoided looking at Lutsky, who was still struggling to stand, because he would only want to deck him again. Instead, he obeyed orders and retrieved the guitar. No way was he going to apologize to Lutsky or to anyone else. Fortunately, Constantine didn’t seem to expect him to. He motioned Zeb forward with a flick of the chin and jogged ahead of him toward the stairs and on down. Zeb tried to explain about the guitar, saying he’d left it on the mound because his dad would confiscate it if he brought it home, so he had to find a friend to take care of it for him—which was true. Dad would say a guitar would distract him from his schoolwork, which was bullshit. He didn’t do his schoolwork now, so what difference would it make?

  He’d meant to retrieve the guitar while on his morning run, and instead he’d bumped into Marguerite and all that shit up on the mound. Finding that had been pure luck—something he was short on lately—and he’d gotten away with the knife, the only thing that really mattered.

  Constantine not only didn’t respond to his explanation about the guitar, but he didn’t speak the whole way into downtown. No, you didn’t argue with him, but what about lying? Once the questions started coming, Zeb would have no choice. He needed to fold his aura tight and get into the safety of what he called the Zone, because there nothing fazed him. No matter how bad things were, once in the Zone he could make himself sound polite and cooperative and with luck be uninteresting enough that he could slip away.

  Zeb followed Constantine through a wrought iron gate into the courtyard behind the Impractical Cat and suffered a pang at the sight of the concrete benches beside the fountain. Marguerite had done the faux finish, and Zeb had delivered them himself a few weeks earlier, when his father had finally let him get his driver’s permit.

  Zeb liked Marguerite. She never tried to tell him what to do. Never tried to make him talk about his mom. Not only that, she understood stuff about him that no one else did. He’d never even realized he was manipulating his aura until she explained it to him. But asking if she was okay was tantamount to admitting he’d been up there on the mound, and if Constantine had seen him take the knife… Life was hell, and it was getting worse by the minute.

  They were greeted by soft Caribbean music and two wilted and sulky girls sitting on the only bench still shaded by the wall of the neighboring building. The girls straightened, widening their eyes and giggling at the sight of Constantine.

  “Here for the waitress jobs?” He sounded bored.

  They nodded and giggled again, and he unlocked the back door and motioned them through. “Help yourselves at the soda fountain. Sooner or later somebody will show up to interview you.”

  The girls cast longing glances at Constantine as he led Zeb into the kitchen. Leopard—drummer, restaurateur, and head of the underworld that kept the clubs in Bayou Gavotte safe—glanced up blearily from his coffee, grunted at Constantine’s brief intro, and flicked a hand toward the coffee urn.

  Constantine filled two glasses with ice water and passed one to Zeb. “Drink Lep’s pigwash if you like,” he said, “or have one of my cappuccinos.”

  Zeb flicked a glance from Constantine to the indifferent Leopard. “Um… both?”

  Expressionless, Constantine shoved a coffee mug toward him. Zeb set the guitar against the wall, served himself, added sugar from a bowl on the table, and huddled around the mug.

  He wasn’t a kid anymore. He’d gotten away with decking a pervert in a bar a few days earlier because the guy couldn’t risk bringing himself to the attention of the cops, but Lutsky might well charge him with assault. Dad would already be plenty pissed off when Myra called to rant about him running on the mounds. Zeb didn’t much like Lavonia, who thought fucking the old man gave her the right to act like she was Zeb’s mom, but she would probably tell Dad that Lutsky had gotten physical first. For what it was worth.

  He tried to get into the Zone, but it didn’t work. He’d let himself get too riled, and not knowing what to expect next didn’t help one bit. He’d gotten reasonably good at dealing with his dad, but he couldn’t predict Constantine’s behavior, and the rock star was every bit as intimidating as people said.

  In silence, Constantine made him a very dry cappuccino. In more silence, he fired up the grill and produced two huge plates of eggs, tomatoes, home fries, and toast. He set one in front of Zeb and dug in.

  “Shit, man,” said Leopard, who had for several minutes been staring out the window with a glazed expression, “here are a couple new ones. Did you let those other chicks inside?”

  “Too early in the morning for eye candy?” Constantine speared some home fries and proffered the fork to his friend.

  Leopard batted the fork away. “Those chicks don’t qualify as any kind of candy.”

  “Poor jaded Lep.” Constantine nodded toward Zeb. “My friend here beat on the Pontificator this morning.”

  Zeb sputtered. Pontificator? Dad would love that one.

  Leopard brightened and reached across to high-five Zeb. “Well done, my man!” He made a face out the window. “Let ’em suffer a bit longer.”

  Constantine went on eating, and Zeb tried to gauge how soon he could leave. The longer he stayed, the more uneasy he became, and the more he felt like he needed the Zone, the more it eluded him. In any other circumstance, he would have been dying to talk to Constantine, like any other fan. As it was, the best he could hope for was to get the hell away.

  “So tell me, Zeb,” said Constantine.

  Zeb’s hope evaporated.

  “What’s your grudge against Professor Lutsky?”

  Relief surged up, resentment in its wake. “It’s no big deal. I can’t stand him, and I lost it.” The lack of sleep lately wasn’t helping his self-control either.

  “I can’t stand him either, but I haven’t beaten him up. What’s the story?”

  Zeb sliced at his eggs and said nothing. Constantine waited. Zeb raised his fork to his lips, glanced at Constantine, and threw it down. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. If you really must know.” He seethed a few seconds more, struggled, and spat it out. “The bastard killed my mother.”

  “Say what?” Leopard grimaced at Constantine. “Shit, man, I told you we should have done him.”

  Constantine showed nothing but mild interest. “He didn’t literally kill her, I assume. Indirectly, though?”

  “Maybe, but it was his fault, the stupid jerk.” Zeb took a deep breath. “He hit on my mother, and she told him where to go, but I guess you know what he’s like. Once he gets an idea in his big, fat, stupid head, he never lets go. He kept pestering and pestering her, trying to get her to run away with him. Anyway, they were at the same conference in New Orleans. She got a ride home with him, and their car went off the road. It hit a tree, and my mom died, and that bastard only got a few bruises.”

  “He’s the one who should have died,” said Leopard.

  Grateful, Zeb nodded. “I freaked out, and I wanted to kill him, and I tried, too.” He shrugged. “I was, like, only twelve. I didn’t stand a chance. Now, though, I might be able to do some damage.” He shoveled a mouthful of egg and potato. “I’m going to be in such deep shit over this. And for running up and down the mounds,” he added glumly, spreading strawberry jam on his toast.

  “Training for the Classic?” Constantine’s eyes were almost sympathetic. “I ran it a couple of times.”<
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  “Cool,” Zeb said, surprised.

  “Running’s a good way to burn off rage,” Constantine said.

  Bullshit. What was this, a frigging therapy session? The only alternative to rage was the Zone. If he folded his aura, rage couldn’t get at him—not his own rage, not anyone else’s. If he folded it tightly enough, nothing could get at him. He stayed in the Zone most of the time, because once there, he could avoid thinking—about his father and his dead mother, about decisions, about life and death—and just do what had to be done.

  But his aura wasn’t doing what he wanted, so he let resentment take hold again. People usually got that just fine. “Better than anger management classes, that’s for sure. Lutsky says I should go through forgiveness therapy so I won’t hate him anymore. Not that my dad gives a flying fuck about Lutsky or Myra and the stupid mounds, but he plays all the standard hypocrisy games like everyone else, so he’ll make me go.”

  “Lutsky kills your mom and then gripes at your dad ’cause you don’t like him?” Leopard rocked with laughter. He shuffled toward the coffee urn to the gentle reggae beat, dreads bobbing.

  Zeb decided Lep was okay. “Well, it wasn’t his fault, of course. It was just an unfortunate accident. And everyone was in love with my mother because she was a vampire.” Not that he usually let this information slip, but the underworld knew all about vampires, so it didn’t matter. “You know what people are like with vampires. Can’t help themselves, although with a little discipline and self-control, it’s not that big a deal.”

  He was getting off track. He was probably even trying, deep down, to impress Leopard and Constantine, which was mortifying. “What with Dr. Wilson worshipping her and a zillion other assholes wanting to sleep with her, who could blame poor, poor Dr. Lutsky for going off the deep end? And he was so devastated afterward. So terribly sorry. What a tragedy. Shit!” He banged his fist furiously against the palm of his other hand.