[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine

by Barbara Monajem

  “Thanks, man. Keep an eye out till dawn, and then go get some sleep.” Jabez disappeared silently into the night, and they went into the house. Marguerite sank onto the couch, hugged her knees to her chest, and closed her eyes. Constantine took the guitar from its case, sat at the far end of the couch, and tuned it, watching her. Dark eyelashes showed stark against her pale skin. A tear welled up and rolled down her cheek.

  “Hey, babe, don’t cry.” He set the guitar down but didn’t dare touch her. “Just ignore Nathan and the rest. This’ll all blow over soon.”

  She shrugged and swiped at the tear.

  “I can leave now, and you can say you dumped me. The problem is, they’ll assume I dumped you because you went out with Tony. The alternative is to give me another day or two and then dump me. Whatever you like, babe. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear I won’t touch you again.”

  The spirit guide huffed in Constantine’s mind. Idiot! She wants you to touch her.

  Yada yada yada, fall into place, Constantine told it. I heard you the first time. And the second time. Go away.

  “You didn’t hurt me much,” she said. “You hurt yourself. A lot.”

  This was true, but how did she know? “I didn’t hurt you much?” he repeated, wanting to believe her, not sure he dared.

  “All I got was some fallout from the pain you were suffering and a huge dose of frustration.” She stood. “You decide. You drop me, I drop you, I don’t care which or when, as long as this is over with.” She went into her bedroom and closed the door.

  He blew out a long, slow breath. So… he needn’t have given her the one-touch. He needn’t have pulled away at all.

  Then she opened it again. “Alternatively, you could just tell me why you’re afraid to sleep with me.”

  For a horrified moment, he stood stunned, appalled at her insight, mortified beyond endurance, closing himself up tight, tight… He was not a coward, damn it. He’d been afraid before, and he’d handled it. He never gave up or gave in. He always found a way to fight back.

  This isn’t a fight, you muddleheaded twit.

  But before he mustered a response to either the bird or the girl, she closed the door. This time it stayed shut.

  Zeb woke to the sound of his father bitching downstairs. “Sorry, but we’re right out of ink and almost out of paper. Zeb’s been wasteful as usual. He can damn well replace them himself.”

  This was total bullshit. He hadn’t used the printer in weeks. A female voice answered his dad too softly for Zeb to recognize it. He dragged himself out of bed and headed for a cold shower in the hope it would wake him up. This crap had to end soon. A guy needed to sleep now and then.

  Bathed, dressed, and more or less functional, he folded his aura, arming himself in a light version of the Zone. The female turned out to be Juma. “Jesus God, not more French verbs.”

  “And a cheerful good morning to you, too.” Juma leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping iced tea—looked like strawberry-mango—from PJ’s. “It’s my mission in life—at least this week—to make sure you get the pluperfect right before school starts.” The corner of her eye flickered briefly.

  Whatever the pluperfect was, he didn’t need it now or ever. What was that sketch of a wink supposed to convey?

  Crap. She’d better not be ready for the great deflowering. Not happening—at least not now. Once this mess was over and done with… If he came through it alive…

  He had to come through it alive. He wouldn’t be able to protect anyone if he was dead.

  “Once I wake up, I’ll blow the pluperfect all to hell.” He dumped coffee beans in the grinder and switched it on. The noise never failed to irritate Dad. Since he had so few opportunities to get his own back, Zeb made the most of it. Not that he could make more than halfway-decent coffee with these beans or this coffeemaker. One of these days he would get himself an espresso machine like the one Constantine had used at the Impractical Cat.

  Unbelievable that after yesterday he was still idolizing Constantine Dufray. Although face it—after last night he didn’t blame Dufray one bit for wanting to torture the truth out of him.

  “I deactivated your phone,” said his father. “I may consider reactivating it if you behave yourself. After the French lesson, which will have to be done without the printout Juma wants because you wasted all the ink, go get a ream of paper and a new set of printer cartridges.”

  Zeb had never thought of phone deactivation as a positive before, but at least Zelda wouldn’t text him at all hours of the day and night. He threw a glance at his father. “Sure, no problem, but it wasn’t me. I only use the printer during school.” Come to think of it, there was one advantage of death—it didn’t include school.

  “I suppose you’re not the one who’s been surfing porn either,” his dad said, pouring himself a glass of milk.

  “Nope.” What with all the running around protecting idiots, he didn’t have time to surf anything.

  Juma snorted, and his father rolled his eyes. “If it’s not you, and it’s definitely not me, then who do you suppose it is? The cat?”

  Zeb poured the coffee grounds into the filter and started the brew. “Maybe we have a poltergeist.”

  “That reminds me,” Dad said. “I need you to sweep out my lab, too.” He’d turned the spare bedroom into a home chemistry lab. More than once he’d asked Juma the super-student if she would consider going into chemistry instead of literature. “Two of my best beakers somehow fell on the floor and broke.”

  Lately, everything was Zeb’s fault, whether he was responsible or not. “Maybe another possum got in and couldn’t find a way out. Or a raccoon.”

  “If that was the case, we would have another dead animal stinking up the room,” Dad grumbled. “Don’t try to distract me, Zeb. We all know you surfed the goddamn porn.”

  Zeb remained in the Zone and took a mug off the shelf.

  “Maybe it was a demon,” Juma said. “A sex demon.” She took a peppermint candy from the dish on the table and popped it into her mouth.

  Or a murderer, Zeb thought wearily, wondering how long he would be stuck with Juma this morning. Much as he liked her, he had stuff to do.

  “Why would a sex demon need porn? Doesn’t get enough of the real thing?” Dad had being cool with cute young chicks down pat. Mercifully, he didn’t sleep with them, because it would blemish his perfect reputation. Oh, and get him fired, too.

  Juma sipped her tea, flirting from under her black eyelashes. “The only sex demon I know has to fight women off. Porn is safer. There’s nobody to get rid of when you’re done.”

  Dad shook his head in mock dismay. “Young women are so cold-blooded these days.” He downed the glass of milk, lifted his keys from the nail by the back door, and crammed a folder stuffed with papers into his briefcase. “I’ll be having brunch with Lavonia later. If you can’t get Marguerite’s lawn mower working, trim her hedges or weed her garden. Do something useful and legal, for God’s sake.”

  “What’s with him?” Juma asked, once Zeb’s father was safely out of the way.

  “He caught me working at the Merkin last night.” When she made a disgusted noise, he said, “No, I wasn’t prostituting myself. I was just playing messenger boy.”

  “That place is totally historically inaccurate. I’m surprised your dad didn’t ground you.”

  “He doesn’t believe in grounding,” Zeb said. “He very conveniently decided that after I ran away from home years ago. He knows it won’t work, so he plays the victimized parent instead.”

  “You ran away from home? Why?”

  This he wasn’t about to get into. “Life sucked after my mom died. As my shrink puts it, my father and I had different ways of grieving.”

  “Such as?”

  Trust a girl to want some emotional detail. “He buried himself in his chemistry lab. I got into a lot of fights at school and then ran away.”

  “Huh.” Juma eyed him from under her lashes.

  He guzzled so
me milk from the carton, then poured himself a cup of coffee and splashed more milk into it. If he fucked up and died, his corpse would have strong bones. “The answer’s no. Not today.”

  “It’s a good thing I have a thick skin,” Juma said, “or I’d take that for a major brush-off.” She chucked her empty tea container into the trash. “Anyway, what makes you think—?”

  “When a girl gets that look in her eye, it only means one thing. Not that I really mind being sized up like a piece of meat, but I’m not in the mood.”

  “Guys are supposed to always be in the mood.”

  “Come on, Juma. If anybody should know better than to believe all the usual myths, it’s you.” Juma was the weirdest girl he’d ever met—goth front and major attitude combined with an insatiable hunger for learning. “All the other freaks in the running for valedictorian just do it for the grades, but you actually like learning all this junk.”

  Juma grinned. She had a good smile. “Sure do.” Her face hardened again. “Okay, then. When?”

  “When I’m not preoccupied with other crap.”

  “But you will do it.”

  If I’m still alive. If I’m still sane. If my libido returns after I commit murder. So many ifs. “Seems likely.” Not.

  “Cool. I think.” Unaccustomed nervousness quivered across her face. She was an interesting-looking girl, dark tousled hair, firm features, plenty of leg and boob. He could do without the black lipstick.

  “But there are conditions,” he said. You wash off the lipstick, for one. On second thought, maybe he’d do it for her. There were plenty of ways to get a girl turned on, and this girl would certainly require work.

  She crossed her arms over her breasts. “What conditions?” She was putting on attitude to defend herself; she didn’t really want to have sex. She might even be a little frightened. Maybe he could change that. He might not get to finish what he’d started, but what the hell.

  “For one thing,” Zeb said, “we’re going to do it more than once. In fact, several times.”

  Juma’s eyes widened for a second before she managed to roll them. “Trust a guy.” She got a mug from the shelf.

  “Believe it or not, this is for your benefit,” Zeb said. At her huff, he added, “Mine, too. I mean, let’s face it, ‘getting it over with’ isn’t much of a turn-on. You have a lousy attitude about sex.”

  Juma poured herself some coffee. “This is true.”

  “My mother told me there are two reasons for sex. One is—”

  “Your mother discussed sex with you? How old were you? She’s been dead for ages, right?”

  Zeb winced, as he often did when people spoke of his mother’s death. “I was twelve. I asked and she answered. It was just before she was killed.”

  “Well,” Juma said, “since one of them is to procreate, which I have no intention of ever, ever doing—”

  “She wasn’t giving me the birds and bees, Juma. She was talking mind and emotions. Procreation is physical, but sex is all in your head. Surely the super-student knows that.” He almost burst out laughing. He’d actually gotten her looking uneasy.

  “I’ve read that, of course,” she said. “I’m not so sure I like the idea. Or that I even agree.”

  “You will,” Zeb said, grinning affectionately at her. “Now hold onto your rampaging emotions and don’t freak out. The first reason is to express love.”

  Juma made mock gagging sounds. Definitely unnerved.

  “To reinforce the bond between a couple with a deep emotional commitment,” he added. “Fortunately for you, that’s not us.”

  “Whew,” Juma said, taking refuge in her coffee.

  “The second reason is to have fun. That’s what we’re going to do.”

  Her eyes widened even more, but then her cell phone chimed. She looked relieved. “It’s Zelda. I promised I’d text her as soon as I saw you. I didn’t come here to discuss sex, although I’m glad we did, because it proves she’s nuts.” Entirely herself again, she punched in a message. “She sent me to make sure you’re okay.”

  “What is it with that girl? She texted me five times yesterday. The last one was—” He glanced at the kitchen clock. “Less than four hours ago, asking if I was down. And she keeps saying if I need life advice, I should talk to Constantine Dufray. What is up with her?”

  “She thinks you’re depressed and maybe suicidal. Since Constantine acted suicidal for a while several months ago and then got over it, she thinks he might be able to help you. She says you’re a lot alike.”

  “She’s nuts if she thinks that. Whatever gave her the idea that I want to kill myself? Oh. That damn vampire hearing will get you every time. She read into something I said. It’s nothing.”

  “Uh-huh.” She eyed him appraisingly. “Well, something’s going on. You definitely could use some beauty sleep, and you’re too preoccupied to want sex.”

  “I’m not suicidal.” A ghastly thought hit him. “You didn’t tell my dad, did you?”

  “Now you have hurt my feelings.” She did look quite peeved. “My skin’s not that thick.”

  He didn’t have the energy for apologies. “Give me a break, Juma. I know you wouldn’t rat on me, but I’m tired, I’m stressed, and I’m in deep shit.” He paused at her expression. “No, I’m not dealing drugs, and I’m not planning on killing myself. Tell Zelda to butt out. No, that would hurt her feelings. Tell her my dad deactivated my phone. Tell her I already talked to Dufray, and we didn’t get along.”

  “You didn’t get on with Constantine? I thought you were his biggest fan.”

  “I like his music,” Zeb said. “That doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

  She eyed Zeb again. “Now I understand what Zelda means. For a second back there, you reminded me of him.”

  “You’re as bad as Zelda. I’m nothing like him.” Although once he’d committed murder, he might well be.

  Juma kept on talking. “She said you were safe like him, but I’m beginning to think you’re not safe. Like him.”

  “Good.” He took her coffee and set it down. Fortunately, she’d drunk away most of the lipstick. He kissed her once, and then, when she smiled, he kissed her again, thoroughly. She seemed to like kissing, which was an excellent start. “You’re right. I’m not safe at all.”

  He’d meant to tease her, but something in his eyes seemed to worry her instead. “Zeb, what’s going on? If you’re up to your neck in something dangerous, you should talk to Constantine again. It doesn’t matter whether you like him or not. Zelda and I want you alive and safe.”

  Me, too. “Tell Zelda that before I do anything desperate, I’ll talk to Dufray.” An even better idea surfaced. “In fact, tell her to tell Dufray that.” With luck, that might even keep the rock star off his back for another day or two.

  After that, if he hadn’t got up the guts to take care of things himself, he’d have to go to Dufray.

  Marguerite woke in broad daylight but lay still on her back, eyes closed. The house was quiet except for the click of Lawless’s claws on the wood floor. Her eyelids felt glued together. She rolled over to go back to sleep.

  She heard Lawless slump to the floor with a doggie sigh.

  Which meant her door was open. She’d fallen asleep with it closed and Lawless on the other side.

  She opened her eyes. Lawless lay in the doorway, head on paws, in not-really-patient dog mode. Maybe he wanted breakfast, but no way could he have opened that door.

  Where was Constantine? If there were an intruder in the house, Lawless wouldn’t just lie there. But why would Constantine open her door? To see if she was awake? To just watch her? But she didn’t see him anywhere…

  She blinked, wiped the sleep from her eyes, and surveyed the room. Everything was as it should be… dresser, laundry basket, bookshelf, and her towel and robe hanging on the closet door, clothes in the closet… back to the towel and robe.

  They’d never had an aura before. She sat up. If she really, really looked, the towel wasn’t qu
ite the right shape, and…

  “Gotcha!” Suddenly, not just the aura but the rest of Constantine was visible. Why hadn’t she seen him before? “You found me right away. What do you see that other people don’t?”

  “How dare you trick me like that?” She got out of bed, grabbed the robe and towel, and stomped to the shower. She didn’t know what pissed her off more, being watched (not really), being tricked (clever of him), or being outed and therefore obliged to explain (yeah, that was it).

  Served him right if he didn’t like what he was about to hear. Too bad the prospect of unveiling herself made her feel ill. In the shower, she considered how to vanilla-coat her invasive ability. To make it as uninteresting as possible.

  It was her own fault, of course. She should never have let on that she’d seen his fear, but she’d been exhausted and scared and disappointed and furious, none of which were conducive to self-control. She’d humiliated him, so why should he hesitate to do the same to her?

  She emerged and dressed to the aroma of coffee and the hiss of steaming milk. She went into the kitchen armed with a pot of deep-pink nail polish.

  Constantine had raided the fridge for mushrooms, peppers, and tomatoes, which he was chopping into neat little piles. “Cappuccino?” he asked.

  “Uh, sure,” she said. “Where did that espresso machine come from?”

  “Lep brought it over. He wanted to meet you, but you were still asleep. Gideon confirmed that Eaton Wilson’s van was stolen from the mechanic’s parking lot, but so far it hasn’t been found.” He set shot glasses under the machine. Espresso dripped through while he steamed the milk. She’d expected an angry vibe, but although his aura was more guarded than yesterday, it was tinged with excited little fizzles, like a kid expecting a present. He set before her an absolutely gorgeous cappuccino with a swirl in the froth and sprinkles of cinnamon. “Fair’s fair. I let you in on one of my secrets. Now you tell me how you read me so well.”