“Wid Dat Marcel Chiasson free, dey slaves, dey start to disappear, one by one. And more suckheads like Marcel appear. Crazy in dey head dey was, each and every one, crazy.”
Despite myself I was drawn into the story. I ate onion rings and gator and drank the free beer, feeling the movement of the sun as it plummeted toward the horizon.
“De priest, Father Joseph, he made dem crosses to be everywhere, on every house and building, and most dey attacks in town stop. He teach dey townsfolk how to kill wid stakes and swords. Den de war come, and all de town boys go off to fight Yankees. Town was dying, it was.” Lucky was turning the stone bowl full of spices in his hands, which were strong and knobby from years of handling heavy sides of meat. He stared into the spice and salt mixture as if it had the answers to all the secrets of the universe. “Father Joseph was turn one night. But he strong in de faith. He rise and he come to the church, holding his craziness inside all by hisself, and he tell dem townspeople to cut off he head. Dey did. But it nearly kill mos dem all.”
His voice softened. “Julius Chiasson and he older brother—human was old man Chaisson,” he clarified, “old, old man by den. Dey know dey have to stop Marcel, cause he still crazy in de head. Dey set a trap. And dey kill dey own.” Lucky shook his head. “Julius’ wife, Victorie, her name was, she went crazy wid grief and attack and kill old man Chiasson, head of family, patriarch. Julius have to stake his wife.” Lucky shook his head and opened his own beer. Took a swig. As he lifted his arm, I saw again the tats, and the flames seemed to ripple and flicker with the motion.
“But he not cut off her head. She rise from de grave, she did, and she kill and kill and kill. Church got itself a new priest, Father Matthieu, and he lead a hunt to kill her. Dey take her head and burn her body in center of de streets jus’ befo dawn, nex morning.” He pointed outside to the crossing of Broad Street and Oiseau Avenue.
“Dem Bordelon sisters, witches all, dey come gather up de ashes for to make hex. And Julius, when he hear of all dis, he make war on dey witches. Kill dem mostly. Dem witches, dey make de hex, and de suckheads caint eat, caint drink. Sick-like. Dey kidnap Dr. Leveroux, kill him when he caint cure dem. Leave his body in middle of town, like warning.”
Lucky pointed at my plate. “Fried gator not good cold. Eat, you.” I shoveled food in my mouth, knowing I should get the heck out of Dodge—or out of Bayou Oiseau—but I was hooked. And I had no doubt that was what Lucky had intended.
“Dem witches join wid dem priests and fight dem suckheads. And war was everywhere, here, in de bayou” —he pronounced it bi-oh, which sounded odd to me— “in de swamp, in the north. In New Orleans, Flag Officer David Farragut was in charge; Louisiana territory was in control of de North. We had no help. Cut off from de rest of de world, we was.” Lucky stood and reached to a phone on the wall, picked up and dialed. “Miz Onie,” he said a moment later. “Dis Lucky Landry. Get you bes room ready. Town got Jane Yellowrock here for de night. Yeah, dat so. Dat room on front of de house, one wid porch out front and green. Purty room it is,” he added to me. “Yeah, I bring her over to you befo de sun set. Yeah, sure.” He hung up and sat back down. “Where I was?”
“Farragut in New Orleans, and war everywhere.”
“Ah. Yeah.” He picked up the bowl again, but this time sprinkled a little of the spice onto the table and set the bowl into the middle of the spices, so when the bowl turned on the surface, it made a soft scratching sound, as if grinding. “Amaury Pellissier hear of our trouble. He come on horseback, him and he nephew, Leo. He kill Julius for not runnin he clan like he should, for not keepin de secret of de suckheads. And den he leave. But he leave behind de swamp suckheads, ones made and set free while dey still in insane.”
He raised his brows to make sure I understood, and I did. Vamps went into devoveo, the insanity that followed the change, for the first ten or twenty years after they were turned. He didn’t seem to know the term, but he was aware of the insanity peculiar to vampires. I nodded that I understood and he continued, his voice as melodic as a song.
“Strongest suckhead, Clermont Doucette,” which came out Cler-mon Doo-see, “make hisself a new clan, become a blood-master. In 1865 dat war end and de slaves go free. Everythin’ change it did. Black folk take off for de north or into de swamp for freedom. Some join dem witches, some join dem suckheads, some leave, some stay, to make a free, human way here on land and swamp, in place dey know.”
And yet, they had problems, which part Lucky hadn’t gotten to yet. “When did the first Cajuns get to Louisiana? I asked.
“Moutons say dey get here in 1760, but my family, de Landry’s, land in New Orleans in April 1764, but dey don’ get here in dis town till 1769.” He smiled his pretty teeth at me and waggled his brows, lifting and shifting the stone bowl from palm to palm like a magician with nifty a trick or a ball player half-tossing his ball between innings. “My granmere one dem Bordelon sisters, Cally Bordelon.”
I began to see a glimmer here. Lucky Landry was way more than a butcher with a melodic quality to his voice. Here was a tattooed man from a witch family, a man with a rogue-vamp hunter suddenly stuck in his town, and in his power. And wouldn’t you know it, Lucky’s family had a Hatfield versus the McCoy’s feud going on with vamps. I narrowed my eyes at him
“Like my history, you do?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I grinned back and set the empty beer bottle on the table with a soft snap. “I’m waiting for you to get to the part where you need me for something.” Lucky’s smile got wider and he pointed a finger at me as if acknowledging a clever point in a debate. “But you’re trying to keep me here until it’s too late to leave town safely, even if I got my bike going again, which isn’t likely.”
“Smart lady, you.”
“If I was smart, I’d have pushed my bike back to I-10 and slept under a tree, where only the mosquitoes would have sucked my blood and the nutria chewed on my bones.”
Lucky laughed at that, his black eyes flashing.
And that was when it hit me. The history he knew so well, his nearly mesmeric story telling. His witch family origins. The flames on his arm that had seemed to waver. The tats were a lot like a scenic tat I’d seen on another man’s arm, chest, and shoulder. Spelled tats. “You’re a male witch,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “And you want me in this war.”
I caught a hint of movement from the corner of my eye, and everything went dark.
Beast’s claws flexed in my brain, waking me, yet holding me down. Through her memories, I knew instantly that I was in the best room of Miz Onie’s bed and breakfast, lying on the edge of the bed, my hands and feet unbound and hanging over the side. Even without Beast’s memories, I’d have guessed where I was, by the colors I could see through my tangled lashes: the emerald green bedspread, moss green walls, striped green drapery, and greenish fake flowers in a tall vase gave it away. That and the fact that Lucky Landry was sitting in a chair in a wide bay with tall windows and a door. That and the fact that I smelled his special peppers and spices in my hair. All that and the fact that my head was aching, yeah, that was a clue. “You sucker punched me,” I growled, Beast in the tone. “With a spice bowl.”
Lucky nodded. “Sorry bout dat, I am,” though he didn’t sound very sorry, and proved it when he added, “Ruin me a good batch of my special spice mixture.”
Yeah. Funny guy. I grunted and sat up slowly, holding my head with one hand. It was pounding like a bass drum interspersed with clanging cymbals, sharp pain in every pulse. “What do you want?” I snarled when I could, though it came out more like a whisper.
“I tried to call Leo Pellissier. Him no take my calls. I want you to call him and ask him for help.”