Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“Still neck to heels in all black, I see. Subtle.”
Baron La Croix let out a snort. “All my purple is, lamentably, getting cleaned.” He stomped toward her and Bette, who was doubtless enjoying a most entertaining morning, scattering vultures and rumpling his suit; Amara was petty enough to be glad.
And even pettier to wish he’d slipped and gone down on his ass.
“Amara Morrigan. Forgive the cliché, but it truly is always a pleasure.”
“We both know that’s a lie.”
“This guy your boyfriend or somethin’?”
In horrified unison: “Great gods, no.”
La Croix inclined his head: “Dear madam, I’m an old friend—”
Amara: “He’s one of my dad’s work buddies.”
Bette digested that, blinking. “Oh, yeah? Him and your dad work together?”
“. . . Yes.”
“Waste management,” La Croix added, ignoring Amara’s snort.
“Oh. Well. Gotta have that, right?” Bette nodded and motioned to the pizza boxes. “It’s not pretty, but it’s important.”
“The lady is wise,” La Croix replied, and swept Bette a bow while Amara rolled her eyes so hard she glared at her own frontal lobe. “We must speak.”
“We are.”
“I bear urgent news.”
“Sounds painful.”
“Gods help me.” La Croix straightened, grinning.
He towered over . . . everyone, really; Amara pegged him at about six foot five.
Long and lean and too many teeth and a mop of ridiculous blue-black wavy hair.
Blue eyes so pale, he looked blind, an especial irony since he could see in the dark like a jaguar.
“Still the smart-ass. It seems to be your default.”
“Takes one to et cetera.” She made a shooing motion and he laughed at her. “Could you scamper off? I’m working.”
“Er.” La Croix swept the dilapidated park with a long gaze, then shook his head. “Still with this, hrm, whatever this is? Your litany of jobs? Your tiny trips of vengeance?”
Amara shrugged. “A gal’s gotta eat.”
“Indeed. Allow me to take you out for a meal.”
“I just ate,” she lied. “And, again: working.”
His grin dropped away. She braced herself for Earnest La Croix, which was always worse than Smirking La Croix. And she’d take either over Scolding La Croix. “I bring urgent news from the Midwestern Fiefdom.”
“If it’s a tornado warning, we’ve got the Weather Channel for that. And a thousand, thousand apps. Also, it’s too early in the season for tornados.”
“Amara—”
“And if it’s a family issue, it’s none of your business.”
“Amara, it pains me . . .”
“Does it, though?”
“Your father is dying.”
Amara yawned. Bette, who had been watching their exchange like a tennis spectator, let out an odd sound: part gasp, part groan. “Aw, jeez. That’s too bad.”
Amara sighed. “It’s just another lie. My father isn’t dying. He doesn’t even get sick. He’s never caught a cold, never mind been at death’s door.”
“Oh, now how would that work?” La Croix cried, and she almost giggled at his exasperation. “Amara. I am quite serious, and you know how ill-suited I am to that.”
“I do know,” she admitted.
“Your family needs you.”
She was already shaking her head. “It’s just another trick.”
“Amara—”
“It’s not true. And you either know it’s not true, or you’re being duped. Whichever it is, it’s not a good look for one of the Gede.”
“Amara.”
“See? This is me being unmoved.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Literally and figuratively.”
“Amara Morrigan.”
“Stop that!” she snapped. “You’re not my father, though you’re old enough. My family business is exactly that: my family. I can’t believe you’re letting my father turn you into an errand boy. Where’s all that vaunted pride?”
“It’s not about him,” he replied sharply. “I am no one’s lackey. It’s about you. Turn around.”
Amara didn’t move. Bette did, and her gasp was telling.
Don’t do it. Don’t look. If you see them, it’ll be real. If you see them, everything changes.
She looked. Where there had been a dozen deer and a baker’s dozen of vultures, now there were ravens and crows and sparrows. They weren’t flying. They were simply standing. Looking at her. Thousands of them; an inky, rustling lake covering a quarter mile.
Amara let out a slow breath. “Well, shit.”
“Indeed.”
“Fine. Fine.” She rubbed her forehead and prayed this was some sort of fever dream instead of an oncoming migraine.
Best case, I’m trapped in my studio apartment with a raging temp of 106°, too weak to move, too weak to eat, losing brain cells for every degree my temp climbs .
. . heaven! “You can buy me a meal. Later. I want to finish my shift. Actually, I want to start my shift.”
“At last!” La Croix threw his arms in the air like an impossibly tall referee proclaiming the play was good. “She sees reason.”
Amara turned away from the silent leagues of birds. “Why don’t you go buy something purple and get someone to smoke a cigarette? I’ll meet you later.”
“I do like buying purple things,” he admitted. “And watching people smoke.”
“So there you go. Okay?” She could hear the hope in her voice, but there was nothing for it. “You’re leaving? Now? Right now?”
“Now I’ve got my way? Yes indeed. But you shouldn’t be surprised.
It is Monday,” he added with a sly smile.
Then he bowed to Bette again and spun on his heel, which was needlessly dramatic.
If La Croix could die, that’s what she’d expect to see on his tomb: Baron La Croix, lwa of the Dead, Needlessly Dramatic.
She and Bette watched La Croix leave and, with him, the psychopomps. Their numbers blotted out the winter sun as they took wing. In seconds they were gone, a lake-sized spread of bird shit the only indicator they’d lingered for a visit.
“Jeez,” Bette breathed. “It’s like magic.”
“Exactly like magic. Gross, inconvenient magic. Also, I think I might need some time off.”
“Yeah, I figured. Bad news about your dad, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
* * *
“Don’t! Please, it can’t be. It can’t be my time yet! It’s a mistake, please. Please, I’ll do anything. Take my mother. Take . . . anyone. Just not me. Please.”