Blood on the Bayou (19 page)

“There are other immune people who have been bitten and had the same reactions,” I say. “They created the medicine in this injection. As far as I know, it helps control the negative side effects of immune infection and keeps me from going crazy like Grace Beauchamp did before she was murdered. She was immune and had been bitten, but her sister stopped giving her the shots.”

Hitch’s eye twitches.

“But that’s another story.”

It twitches again, a prolonged quiver that would be funny if anything were funny right now.

I screw my courage to the sticking point and push on. “Libby and her brother didn’t follow the rules. So the man in charge of handing out the shots killed them.” I lower my voice. Just thinking about the Big Man is enough to scare the crap out of me. “And he’ll kill you, too. Unless you give me this, walk out of here, and never say a word to anyone about what I’ve told you.”

Hitch sighs. The frustration and sadness in the noise says it all. I know he doesn’t believe me, even
before he mutters, “Annabelle . . .” My name is the first note of the saddest song ever sung.

My fingers slip from his wrist and my gaze drops to the ground. I study my bare feet and the long knobby toes Hitch used to make fun of back when all my parts were a source of endless fascination. Now all my parts add up to nothing. At least in his eyes.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I
am
a crazy person who’s throwing her life away. I shouldn’t be standing here explaining myself to a man who’s proved he doesn’t have any faith in me. Or planning to spy on a man with lying on his Sunday to-do list, or imagining that I might be better for Deedee than the group home, or that Fernando would miss me if I left, or that I might be able to change the course of the Delta’s fairy-plagued history.

I should be in the car on my way out of town, with the wind in my hair and my cat in the passenger’s seat.

I’m
seriously
thinking about it. Seriously considering grabbing a pair of jeans, my sunglasses, and a pair of flip-flops, and heading next door to “borrow” Bernadette’s Mustang with no intention of bringing it back.

And then Hitch whispers, “I love you,” and my heart stops beating.

A
choking sound gurgles in my throat. “What?” I must have heard him wrong, I must have—

“I love you,” he says, soft and sure, his expression telling me he’s been thinking about saying those words for a while. “I never stopped loving you. I thought I did, but I . . . I was so angry. And hurt . . . I’m not angry or hurt anymore.”

The light in the kitchen is getting brighter and my headache never really went away, but that isn’t why I blink. Then blink again. And again. He loves me. I love him, too. But what difference does that make? And more important—

“What’s love have to do with telekinesis?” I cross my arms, huddling against the weird vibe he’s giving off.

“What is love if
not
telekinesis?”

“Um . . .” Maybe I’m not the crazy one.

“The direct influence of the mind on a physical system.” Hitch’s hand moves to rest on the same hip Cane touched less than an hour ago. “A force that makes your heart beat faster because one person is standing next to you instead of another.”

His head dips closer to mine, but I keep my eyes on his chest. I’m not ready to look up. I have no idea what’s happening here, but I’m sure it’s not a good thing. “I’m not talking about pheromones,” I say. “I’m talking about lifting the banana out of my fruit basket and floating it across the room.”

“And yet you chose the banana.”

He’s got to be kidding. I pin him with a tough look. “Really? Now?”

“You’re the one who brought up the banana.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Not a very good one. Sorry.”

I blink again, befuddled. “This is not how I expected this conversation to proceed.”

“The expected is overrated.” His arm wraps farther around my waist. I waver, torn between leaning in and pulling away. Finally I settle for a hand on his chest, contact with a degree of resistance.

“What about everything I just told you?”

“What about it?”

“Do you believe me?” I don’t bother trying to hide how much I need him to believe. If he can . . . if he does . . . it could change everything. Absolutely everything.

“I don’t know what to believe,” he says. “There are a lot of things I don’t understand.”

“Are you going to try?”

“Try to believe that you have superhero mind powers and that similarly powered immune people have provided you with medicine to support your ability, but will kill you if you share that information?”

I laugh. A sad laugh. “Of course not.” Stupid, Annabelle.

But in a way it’s a relief. That moment of blinding hope was exhausting.

“How did we get here?” His arm tightens, hugging me close, tempting me to drop my head onto his chest. “You and me?”

He’s not talking about this cramped kitchen with the motorcycle on the floor. He’s talking about being so close, but still so out of reach. Of knowing so much about each other that we’re worse than strangers. We’re people who knew older versions of each other too well to ever see the new person standing in front of us.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

“Will you let me take this?” Hitch holds up the shot with his free hand. “I can send it back to New Orleans. A good friend of mine works at a lab.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

“He’ll keep the results confidential. Just between him and me. And you, of course. And then we won’t have to—”

“No.” I push at his chest, slip out of his arms. “The people who gave me the shots know how many I have. If one goes missing, they’ll find out. And then I’ll be dead.”

“Annabelle, I—”

“Do you want me dead?” I snatch at the shot. Hitch jerks it away, up over his head. “Do
you
want to end up dead?”

“I don’t think it has to—”

“And what about Stephanie?” I cross my arms. “How can you say what you said to me when you have a beautiful, smart, successful, kind woman who’s pregnant with your child waiting for you in New Orleans? Who you have asked to marry you?
Marry
.”

His lips thin. “The pregnancy wasn’t planned.”

“Does that matter?”

He ducks his head, but the shot stays up in the air, out of reach. “No. It doesn’t.”

“How can you do this to her?”

He laughs, a sound as desperate and confused as I feel. “What
am
I doing? Can you tell me?
I
don’t even know what I’m doing. I love Stephanie. I’d do anything to keep her and the baby safe, but I . . . I don’t know.” He breaks off with a curse. The shot falls to his side as he runs a frustrated hand through his hair, but I don’t reach for it. I feel frozen, so completely repulsed and excited that I think I might be sick.

“You shouldn’t be saying these things to me,” I warn.

“I shouldn’t be promising the rest of my life to someone when I can’t . . . I just can’t . . .”

I don’t want to ask him, I don’t want to say a word, but I can’t keep myself from whispering, “Can’t what?”

He looks up, taking my breath away. “I can’t forget you. Ever.” His eyes meet mine and all the bullshit he’s shoveled to cover up the real Hitch is flushed away. It’s him. It’s
my
Hitch, the one who remembers what is was like to be us, who’s still a part of me
no matter how I try to deny it. And he isn’t lost or erased and I’m so happy to see him that it makes me miserable.

Because what can we do? Where do we go from here?

“But I think you’re insane.” His voice is heavy, thick.

“I know.” But it doesn’t make me angry anymore.

Hitch would be crazy
not
to think I’m crazy. And he’s not. But he
is
conflicted. And he loves me. He said the words. That he wasn’t sure he was ready to promise his life to someone else. Because of me.

Way down deep inside where my happily-ever-after wishes are locked away in a prison made of hope-resistant stone, I’ve been dreaming about this. About Hitch realizing he’s made a mistake and coming back to me. But now that it’s actually happened, all I feel is . . . sad. Sad for me and Hitch and Cane and Stephanie and the baby and all the people who will be hurt if Hitch and I let our feelings get the better of us.

And sad about the feelings, too. They shouldn’t be here. They had their moment and that moment is over. Letting love be a possibility in the here and now is—

“Crazy,” Hitch says, as if he’s been reading my mind, following my thoughts through the maze of pointlessness and gloom. “You’re crazy. You always have been. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t find crazy sexy as hell.”

Oh dear. There’s
that
look, the sex eyes that make
me take a step back even as my heart beats faster. “Hitch—”

“I don’t want to be the man I’m becoming, and I can’t be the man I was,” he says. “I don’t know what to be or believe anymore. But I know I love you and I want to help you. If this is drugs, you can beat it.”

Aaaannd
we’re back to this. Again.

“And if it’s not,” he continues. “You can still beat it. They have some great medications on the market right now. People with mental illness can be well without losing who they—”

“Jesus!” My shout turns to a burst of hysterical laughter. “I don’t have a mental illness! Okay? I really don’t.”

“You don’t have to lose yourself. You’ll still be Annabelle. I wouldn’t want you to be anyone else.”

I grit my teeth, muffling my scream of frustration. That’s it. I can’t take this anymore. I need Hitch to wake up and smell the magic.

I turn my attention to the bike on the floor, willing it to rise. To tilt back onto its wheels and poke out its kickstand and stand upright and shove the truth in Hitch’s face. If he thinks he’s troubled now, wait until he gets an eyeful of what’s
really
going on around here.

I have some very vivid, very brief, fantasies about Hitch falling to his knees and begging for my forgiveness for being such a close-minded fool. And then I realize the motorcycle isn’t moving.

Not moving. Not at all. Not a wiggle, not a twitch.

What the . . . ?

Hitch starts talking again, but I silence him with a hand in the air as I step around him to get a better view of the bike. It’s on its side, but it doesn’t seem to be caught under the counter or stuck on anything. There shouldn’t be any problem. I mean, it’s a heavy bike, but I moved a
Land Rover
yesterday.

I squint and flex my base-of-the-brain muscle, but the only result is a flash of pain behind my eyes.

Oh my god. Oh. My. God
. Ohmyfuckinggod
.

My pulse kicks into a rapid-fire beat that would make the drummer of Fairies Will Die proud. I’m broken. My mind powers aren’t working. And proving to Hitch that I’m not crazy is the least of my problems.

I can avoid the bayou for a while, but I’ll eventually have to venture outside the gates. And when I do, I’m going to die. If I can’t control the fairies, they’re going to kill me. Violent, skin-peeled-from-my-flesh-while-I’m-still-alive kind of kill.

And then there’s the fairy in my bathroom that I smugly assumed was mine to control. But here I am. No control. And the only thing that might help me gain it is being held captive by my ex-boyfriend. There’s no way Hitch is going to let me pick up a shot and inject myself.

I have to change the plan. I have to play nice. With Hitch and, more important, with Grandpa Scary, who I’ve already royally pissed off. “Shit!”

“Annabelle?”

“Don’t tell me you love me again.” I run a shaking hand through my hair, wincing as fingers catch in tangled curls. “I can’t do that right now.”

His hand brushes my shoulder. “Can I ask if you’re okay?”

I shrug him off and stumble toward the bedroom. “I need a shower.” I stop in the doorway and spin back to pin him with a shaking finger. “Wait right there.” I hustle into the bedroom, grab the safe I use for my gun, and carry it back to the kitchen, dropping it on the table with a clank. “Put all the needles in there, lock it up, and stick it under the sink. We’ll talk about where to put the shots that’s agreeable to both of us later. But there is
no way
I’m letting you send them to a lab or anywhere else. That’s not an option. Do you understand me? This has to stay a secret.”

He nods. “Okay. For now.”

I want to tell him “for forever,” but I don’t. He doesn’t understand the danger. I do. My best hope of keeping him safe is to get the shots hidden and then come back and get them when he’s distracted by other things. Like investigating that cave . . .

If I can get the fairy to talk, there’s a chance . . .

“After the shots are locked up, pick up the bike and make yourself some coffee. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” I start to go again, but then I think about Hitch and his total lack of respect for my privacy and personal space and his driving need to catch me using drugs and I spin back around. I cross the few feet between us and cup his chin in my hand, bringing my face uncomfortably close to his before whispering, “If you hear me talking to myself in the bathroom, do
not,
under any circumstances come in
to check on me. No matter
what
you hear, or I swear to god, I will kill you myself. If something else doesn’t get you first.”