[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine

by Barbara Monajem

  Constantine cocked his head to one side, his voice amused, his aura telling her—nothing. “Go ahead, then. Confess away.”

  “I don’t know what he’s talking about,” she said. “I don’t have anything to conf—” Al tugged on the rope, and she gagged.

  “Get it over with,” Al snarled. “Tell him who you really are.” He tugged again.

  She choked out the words. “Please! I don’t know what you mean!” Constantine might have been made of wood for all the interest he showed.

  Al grabbed her arm and yanked her close. “Tell. Him.”

  Constantine yawned. “You don’t need to pretend, Marguerite. I already know about your uncle.”

  “My—my uncle?” Her brain whirled, tilted. Settled. Oh. “The cop in Baton Rouge?”

  “Duh,” Constantine said. “Before Nathan died, he passed that juicy bit of news to Lep.”

  “But I’m not—that’s not—” She stopped. Al chuckled, but Constantine’s vibe was more bored than ever.

  Stay calm, he telepathed. Out loud, he said, “I’ll miss Nathan. Did he dig that up himself, or did he get it from you, Bon-Bon?”

  Al laughed. “Nathan was such a trusting soul, and not very bright. He never figured out who I was.”

  “But it’s not true,” Marguerite said. “Yes, he was my uncle, but he was—” She stopped again. “I don’t want revenge. I—” Al snickered beside her, and Constantine’s aura remained cold and closed. Once again, he didn’t believe her. Tears scorched her eyes and burned her throat.

  “You were saying?” he asked politely, but his aura shut her out, making it clear that he didn’t really want to know. On the live oak tree, the owl hovered, still and silent, its talons sharp and cruel on the bough. Was that his guide, the same guide whose feathers had caressed her and Constantine while they slept?

  Fear and despair washed through her. If Constantine didn’t care enough to do something soon, she was going to die naked with a rope around her neck.

  But she would keep one small shred of dignity. “Forget it. I’ve had it with not being believed.” She’d spent her whole life not being believed, even when it mattered most. “I thought you were different, but for all your talk about lies, you can’t even recognize the truth.”

  Al snorted. “That was a pretty good speech, but it’s not enough. He might save your ass if your explanation sounds plausible enough.”

  “He’s right,” Constantine said. “It’s worth a try.” I’m going to save you.

  “It’s not a plausible explanation,” she raged. “It’s the truth, and you don’t deserve it.”

  “Uh-huh,” Constantine said, and the bird agreed. Emotion slammed against the floodgates of his mind. Desperately, he held them shut.

  She let out a long, low keening sound of rage, or terror, or grief. He’d buried all emotion in order to face his father. Judging by Marguerite’s reaction, he’d succeeded too well.

  Hadn’t she heard his reassurances? Did she really think he would take his own petty revenge and let Bonnard kill her? Marguerite, I will save you, I swear.

  The horned owl loomed menacingly on a bough above. Get on with it. There’s not much time.

  Constantine began tossing out images of the kind that had excited Bon-Bon so many years ago. He threw out a coyote and telepathed to Marguerite: Hold onto the rope. She clutched the noose at her throat. He conjured a cougar. Tentatively, the rain began to fall.

  Constantine eyed his father, whose grip on the rope was still too tight. “Now that Marguerite’s confession is over with, what do you want, old man? Are you enjoying the magic show?” He sent up a vision of a writhing snake. Up, and up, and up.

  “I’m not interested in childish games,” Bonnard said, but judging from the way his eyes followed the illusion, he sure was. Always had been.

  Now, the horned owl said, spreading its wings. The hair on the back of Constantine’s neck stood up. Here’s your chance.

  Constantine scattered the illusion. “We can do some weather magic if you like.”

  One, two… The owl dove from the tree, skimming the surface of the mound.

  Constantine opened his hand and threw a vision of dancing light toward the huge oak behind him. It exploded in time with the thunder, a dazzle of fireworks high over their heads, as true lightning struck the tree with a horrendous crack. Constantine shot forward. He separated Bonnard from the rope, kicked him in the nuts, and sent him screaming to the ground.

  Not the weakness I was thinking of. The bird sounded amused but pleased.

  Constantine thrust Marguerite behind him. He tucked his emotions in tight. “Take off the noose.”

  She struggled with the rope. “He says he has proof that Zeb killed Nathan.” She got the noose over her head. Her voice sounded rough and unused. “He says the police will get it if anything happens to him.” She held out the rope. “I think it’s a knife with Zeb’s prints.”

  “Thank you.” Briefly, his eyes met hers and held, and a crack opened in his emotional shield. It was too late, but he had to tell her anyway. I love you. I’m sorry. Hurriedly, he sealed the crack again and said aloud, “Take the rope with you and go away.”

  He didn’t wait to see whether she obeyed. Jabez and Zeb were both close by, so she wasn’t in danger of anything but embarrassment.

  Or of watching an execution take place.

  From overhead, the owl called again for haste. You are what you are. Do you think she doesn’t know? Wind ripped the surface of the mound. Fat drops of rain spattered the lawn. Constantine picked up the mask, shaking off the water. “Now it’s just you and me, Bon-Bon. What do you want?”

  Bonnard got painfully to his feet. “I should charge you with assault.” His voice shook; he paused and got it under control. “I wasn’t going to hurt Marguerite. I’m a respectable citizen with only a few kinks. Entirely normal by Bayou Gavotte standards.”

  The time is ripe, the owl insisted.

  Constantine had to finish this first. “I repeat: what do you want?”

  “An exchange,” Bonnard said. “Something I want for something you need.”

  “And that would be…?”

  “Your little brother,” Bonnard said. “More than anything in the world, you want your little brother back.”

  “The brother I loved is dead,” Constantine said coldly. “He can never be replaced. If you’re referring to Zeb, why would I care about him one way or the other?”

  “Because you want redemption.” He said the word as if it were poison. “You think if you take care of Zeb, you’ll be forgiven for the death of your other brother.”

  The floodgates of Constantine’s emotions shook under the strain. How did the bastard know?

  Bonnard put up a hand. “Oh, I’m not saying you fired the shot, but you killed him as surely as if you’d done the deed yourself. He needed to die so you could become a skinwalker.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Marguerite croaked from close by.

  Skinwalker walker walker… The word echoed off countless surfaces in Constantine’s mind, over and over, as it had done for years, always in his father’s terrifying voice. The gates burst, but he wasn’t a child anymore. He projected a ravening wolf, teeth and jaws, slavering fangs, advancing upon his nemesis.

  Bonnard put up the other hand, backing away. “Tsk, Marguerite. You need to read up on Navajo lore. To become a skinwalker, one must sacrifice a family member—usually a sibling.”

  “There’s no such thing as a skinwalker,” Marguerite cried. “It’s just superstition.”

  Constantine shot a glance at her; she’d hardly retreated at all. “Go away, Marguerite.”

  “Deny it all you like,” Bonnard said, “but it was inevitable, whether you wanted it or not. You were born to be a skinwalker, and what you were given proves it—the fame, the fortune, the power.” His voice quivered on that last word. He was as power hungry now as he’d been way back when.

  The great horned owl was back on the tree, hovering sil
ently above them at the tip of an enormous bough. Circle in. Dive for the kill.

  Not with her here, Constantine retorted

  Bonnard sneered. “You’ll never be a good guy, Dufray, but if having a little brother makes you feel like one, you’re welcome to him. He can move in with you. Be your little buddy.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “We finish what we started years ago. You teach me skinwalker magic. Everything you know.”

  “What?” Marguerite shrieked. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Beat it, girl!” Constantine yelled back.

  She’s not going to leave, the bird said. And she’s not the only one listening.

  And just like that, it all fell into place. He knew what to do. He faced his father. “What about the evidence Marguerite just mentioned?”

  “Marguerite will say anything to get back in your bed. If I had any such evidence, would I admit to it? I’m a responsible citizen. I would never risk being an accessory to murder.”

  “No, you’d commit it yourself,” Marguerite hollered. She’d retreated toward the edge of the plateau.

  Constantine telepathed to her: Keep talking, keep fighting me. He focused on his father. “No deal without the evidence, Bon-Bon. I want my brother free and clear.” Say it all out loud. Everything he’s done.

  “He’ll never give him to you,” Marguerite scoffed. “He wants control. He kills anyone who crosses him. He killed your grandfather and your innocent little brother.”

  Rage and relief spiraled together. “That clears the Navajo people.”

  Bon-Bon made a derisive snort.

  “He killed your wife,” Marguerite said. “He killed my roommate. He killed your fans.”

  “What a load of bull,” Bon-Bon said, his mocking laughter echoing through the night.

  Who else? Constantine telepathed.

  Move in for the kill, the owl said. Its curved beak glinted in another flash of light. Constantine turned the mask in his hands, around and around. Raindrops shivered across the copper in the rising wind.

  “He killed Dufray, your mother’s husband,” Marguerite proclaimed, arms upraised, a naked, avenging goddess with hazel eyes and honey-blond hair. “He killed the Indian he’d bribed to spread the word he was dead. He killed Nathan, and he was going to kill me.”

  “Anyone else?” Constantine asked, dancing now. Bonnard’s eyes flicked back and forth between him and Marguerite.

  “He killed Zeb’s mother,” Marguerite said. “He drugged Roy Lutsky, causing the accident that took her life.”

  The hair on Constantine’s arms stood up. The beads rattled; the feathers shook. “You hear that list, Bon-Bon? No self-respecting skinwalker would bargain with such a freak.”

  “Then you won’t get your brother at all, Dufray.” Bonnard picked up his duffel bag. “He has no guts. He’ll be stuck with me, at my beck and call, for ever and ever, amen.” Electricity built in the sky, yearned toward the ground.

  Constantine raised the mask. The bird spread its wings. Now!

  “Like hell I will!” Zeb lunged over the crest of the mound. “You killed my mother. I’m going to kill you!”

  Bonnard whirled, snarling.

  “Stay back!” Constantine, too, lunged at Bonnard, but the bird got there first, a missile of wings and claws, driving them apart as the lightning struck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Marguerite flew across the grass and knelt beside Constantine. She saw no aura at all. She ran her fingers over his face, bent her ear to his chest.

  His heart beat back at her, strong and firm. Oh God, thank God. She kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. He muttered, stretched and groaned, his aura pulsed into life, and he seemed almost to wake but then subsided. She lifted his head, pushing his wet, tangled hair back from his face. All the confusion that had crowded her at Ophelia’s house had resolved into a single truth. “I love you,” she said. “How could you believe I ever wanted to harm you? I’ve loved you for years.” But he didn’t hear her. Tears burned behind her eyes. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  She shivered in the windblown rain. They had to get out of the weather, get dry and safe. She heard distant shouts; maybe help was on the way.

  Something was burning. She got up and glanced around. Zeb was nowhere to be seen. Al Bonnard lay flat on his back not far away. What if he, too, were alive? She crept reluctantly toward the motionless body, needing to know for sure. Then she realized where the burning smell came from. She gagged and swallowed it down, recoiling from the stench.

  The tree creaked ominously above her head. A bat swooped from among the branches. The tree creaked again, louder…

  Marguerite ran back to Constantine and grabbed his shoulders. “Help! Zeb! Anyone!” She wasn’t strong enough to both lift and carry. She took ahold of his feet and tugged him away from the tree. “Wake up, damn it!” she sobbed, and heaved and dragged and heaved again.

  A bough cracked, more bats dove; she hauled Constantine’s helpless weight another yard and another. Suddenly Zeb was there, heaving Constantine’s shoulders off the ground. Together they stumbled away from the tree. A massive branch of the oak crashed down, its base thudding across Al’s body and its outermost branches quivering inches from where they stood.

  They lowered Constantine to the ground, and Marguerite keeled onto her knees, her arms and shoulders shaking. Zeb limped away, toward the edge of the mound. She sat on the wet grass and lifted Constantine’s head onto her lap, sheltering his face from the rain. He breathed, in and out, and so did she. At least they were both alive. The wind sighed softly over the grass.

  Zeb appeared again, cradling something in his arms. “The lightning killed the owl. Is—is Constantine all right?”

  “He’s still unconscious,” Marguerite said. “Are you okay?”

  “I got thrown halfway down the hill, but I’m all right.” Warily, he glanced around.

  Her eyes went involuntarily in the direction of the huge oak bough. “Your father’s under there.”

  “Is he dead? What’s that smell?”

  She tried to form the words. It turned out to be unnecessary.

  “He got fried? And then crushed like a roach?” Zeb’s voice shook a little. “Good. He got what he deserved.” He laid the owl gently on the grass next to Constantine and shucked his T-shirt. He held it out. “Put this on. I asked my girlfriends to bring you some dry clothes, but right now they’re calling Gideon O’Toole and helping Jabez fend off the reporters.”

  The media was here?

  Oh, what the hell. After tonight, she could deal with anything, but at least she wouldn’t have to face them naked. “Thanks,” she said, moving Constantine’s head gently off her lap.

  Constantine groaned and opened his eyes. “Zeb okay?”

  “Thank God you’re awake.” She stood, pulling the wet T-shirt over her head.

  “I’m fine,” Zeb said, adding a fervent, “Thank you.”

  “Bonnard dead?”

  “Yes, he’s dead,” Marguerite said. The T-shirt stuck stubbornly to her skin, but it almost covered her butt.

  “Thank you,” Zeb said again.

  “Mission ’complished.” Constantine’s voice was mildly slurred. “Damned bird. Still not sure what its plan was.”

  Oh, dear. “Constantine, your bird is dead, too,” said Marguerite, pointing out the limp, scorched remains of the owl.

  Constantine rolled slowly to the side and ran a gentle finger over the wing feathers, plastered together in the rain and wind. “A willing sacrifice. Damn, that can’t be what it meant to do.” A nightjar called plaintively from nearby, and a screech owl cried. “Maybe one day I’ll get it right.” He sighed and sat up, turning wearily to Zeb. “Where do you think he would have put that knife?”

  “I’ll find it,” Zeb said. “I know all his hiding places. He was bullshitting you if he said it would be sent to the cops. He would never take that kind of risk.” His eyes went to the massive limb under which hi
s father lay. “I can’t believe I’m finally free.”

  “I can’t believe I have a little brother.” Constantine stood, his aura shaky.

  “I—I couldn’t do it myself,” Zeb said. “Mom said he had all this anger, and I should be kind and considerate, and then she was gone, and it got worse and worse, but I—”

  Awkwardly, Constantine put an arm around Zeb and pulled him close. “Hey, there,” he said. “It’s over now.”

  Zeb shook violently, and his aura wept.

  “Your mom couldn’t have had a more loving son,” Constantine said. “And I couldn’t ask for a better brother.”

  Marguerite turned away, a huge lump in her throat. The skies let loose, and she walked to the edge of the mound, blending her tears with the rain.

  Constantine went down one end of the mound to deal with Gideon and the media, while Zeb escorted Marguerite down the other and through the woods. She’d never seen Zeb’s aura so relaxed and confident. They retrieved her wet clothes and shoes and rendezvoused with his girlfriends in the parking lot. Zeb and the girls went away to search for the missing knife, while Marguerite drove to Lavonia’s.

  For once, Lavonia had very little to say. After exclaiming at the news of Al’s death, she listened in devastated silence to Marguerite’s catalogue of Al’s crimes. Afterward, she ran to the bathroom, was violently sick, and then huddled on the couch, wrapped in the lavender throw. “He was sleeping with Janie, too, wasn’t he?”

  “It looks that way,” Marguerite said. “From what Zeb tells me, it was an on-and-off thing. Al had sex with her whenever he needed something, such as free concert tickets. He also gave her cookies to hand out at the concert the other night, but it’s unclear whether she knew what she was doing, since only a few of them were likely laced with drugs. We think she freaked out and left town when she heard Nathan Bone was dead. She was involved in setting up a meeting between him and Al, so I guess she put two and two together and feared for her own life.”