Blood on the Bayou: A Cafferty & Quinn Novella (2 page)

“What’s that word again?” someone asked.

“Rougarou.”
And he was careful to sound it out phonetically. Ru-ga-ru. “Some say he’s French. Others make him part Native American. He’s the size of a man, but stronger. Some compare him to the Wendigo of certain local tribes. Now the Wendigo’s name has been translated to mean
cannibal,
and by some to mean
the evil spirit that devours mankind.
Most agree the name derives from the French,
loup-garou,
wolf-man. The creature is usually seen as bipedal, with the head of a wolf. Sometimes, he’s seen with other monstrous heads.”

Though he and Julian Henri had been in business for several years, this was their first time doing the Bayou Night Myth and Legends Tour. Even Mother Nature had cooperated. No snow on the ground, or even in the air, but the night still brisk. Southern Louisiana seldom received snow, and when it did fall it didn’t stay long on the ground. Out on the water, though, the cold rose like a mist, embracing the bayou and making everything seem all the more dark, chilling, and menacing.

Insects serenaded the gathering. An owl hooted beneath a full moon. Every now and then came the splash of a gator sliding down a mud bank into the water. Even the sounds of Highway 90 in the distance added to the eerie feel.

Julian’s family had long owned property and few people knew the swamp better. Both of his parents had passed away during the years he’d been at college. Once he returned, everyone had urged him to sell. Byron Grayson, the realtor, had advised keeping swampland was ridiculous. He’d be happy to take it off Julian’s hands. Victoria Miller, owner of another tour business, had offered Julian even more money for the property. Victoria’s significant other, Gene Andre, the son of an old Cajun family himself, had urged her to buy both the land and the business. But Julian had determined that he and David could make a real success of it.

Now David was convinced that they could.

So far, on their first outing, not a hitch, and people seemed to be loving it.

David, like Julian, also hailed from the low country, which added a bit of authenticity to everything they planned to do on this tour. Though they often faked their Cajun accents. Four years at Harvard had nearly caused David to “pahk his kah.” And Julian’s stint at NYU in the theater department had seen to it that he could switch into a Bronx drawl just as quickly as he could spit out his hometown
patois
.

They’d returned home from their respective universities four years ago, had a chance meeting at a favorite café on Magazine Street, then two years ago ventured into the tourist business. They’d started out doing history tours in the French Quarter, then added plantation visits. A day on the bayou had been next, and now they’d moved to the Night Myths and Legends Tour by lamplight.

As always, when they started a new tour, they led the first few themselves and played up their Cajun heritage. Thanks to reality TV, people pretty much expected them to be toothless and illiterate. But breaking stereotypes was fun.

Their pontoon boat afforded a seat for the captain and the tour guide. Tonight Julian served as captain and David the guide.

 “This swamp has often been a hideout place for pirates, smugglers, and outlaws,” David said. “The unwary who seek shelter here. Those who don’t respect the dangers because they’re in trouble. Legend has it that, from time to time, the
rougarou
has happened upon those who hid in the swamp. You have to be real careful here.”

A nearby alligator slid into the water.

One of the young women in front let out a short scream and jumped in her seat.

“That’s probably old Meg,” he said. “She’s an irritable bag. Been around a long time and just isn’t fond of tourists.”

“Is a gator as scary as that
rougarou
thing?” a man in back called out.

“Few things are as scary as the
rougarou
,” David said. “Remember, this region was largely French and the French were good Catholics. You know how it goes that if you’re bitten by a werewolf in the light of the full moon, you become one.”

Nervous giggling greeted his words.

“Down here, we’ve always mixed our monsters with religion. Part of the legend has it that the
rougarou
could enter the soul of a man who didn’t follow the traditions of Lent. That was a time of trying hard to be good and behave, with kindness and brotherhood toward your fellow man. Bad guys have bad things happen. Good guys get good. And, you see, if such a man had his soul stolen by the
rougarou
, he would kill all the decent men.”

“So the bad guy became badder and the good guys paid?” a teenager asked him. “Maybe it’s cool being the
rougarou
.”

“Not really. Because the good guys would hunt down the
rougarou
, bash his head and slice his throat,” David said. “Then they cut off his head and chop out his heart.” He smiled. “So,
rougarou
, watch out.”

He allowed his story to sink in before telling them more about their surroundings.

“A swamp is defined as low-lying, uncultivated ground where water collects. A bayou is a body of water lying in flat lowland, an offshoot of a slow moving river or marshy lake or wetland. It’s low water with all kinds of creatures and trees, with civilization far away. But not so far anymore, as you can almost see the lights of the highway from here.”

He grinned.

“1756 to 1763 are the important years. The English and French are fighting. The French from Acadia, in what is now Canada, came south to escape persecution from the English. Cajun culture comes from that time. French fur traders first came to this area in the late 1690s, and it was the French who founded New Orleans in 1718.
Nouvelle Orleans.
”

“Viva la France,”
one of the teens shouted.

David smiled. “Absolutely. However, the city and surrounding areas were ceded to the Spanish as a secret provision of the Treaty of Fontainebleau after the Seven Years’ War. It took a long time for the Spanish to gain any kind of control, and the flavor of the city remained French, though slowly mixing with Spanish. Then fires ravaged the city. When the area was rebuilt it all became Spanish.”

“Bravo Spain!” another said.

“Again, absolutely,” David said. “But in 1801, another treaty gave it all back to the French. By then the Americans had arrived with permission to use the ports. I’m telling you all this to explain the mix of cultures and culture clash. The French had their
rougarou
. When the Americans came, they added the Anglo church, and though the fear of witches had died out, it was resurrected here. We already had our African-Caribbean voodoo thing going. So we just added all the new stuff in to our own legends.”

He pointed out in the dark.

“Just to the right, ahead, is the site where the Good Witch of Honey Swamp lived in the early 1800s. Her father had been a Scottish sailor, her mother a voodoo queen. She cured people, and it was claimed she could control the weather.”

He shifted everyone’s attention in another direction with a hand gesture.

“Back over there you’ll see some old houses built up by the bayou. They look close, but they’re about a mile apart. They’ve been there all these years, owned first by the rich, and now by us working stiffs. Our good captain, Julian Henri, lives up there.”

“A working stiff, I assure you,” Julian called out.

Laughter rose among the passengers.

Julian pointed far to the left. “Right over there, friends, that old shack on the water is my place. I grew up around here as an only child. Alligators were my pets.”

Of course, not a word of it was true. But it sounded great.

David started to speak, then paused, a bit puzzled. He could have sworn he saw lights flashing by Julian’s place. Though he owned it, Julian did not live there. He stayed in the French Quarter, where they kept their offices. He did keep a few lights on in the place, but they didn’t flash. Maybe it had been a trick of the moon.

“Alligator for a pet,” someone said. “Really?”

“Not much to cuddle with at night,” Julian teased.

“It’s so creepy out here,” one of the young women in front said. “Weren’t you always scared?”

“When you grow up out here, you don’t think about it,” Julian explained. “It’s just home.”

“Even with old
rougarous
and witches and voodoo and whatever else?” someone asked.

“Now that’s the thing. When you’re from here, you’re protected.”

Then Julian shrugged at David, turning the group back over to him.

David took the cue and said, “Some say that the Good Witch of Honey Swamp offended a powerful slaveholder who called himself Count D’Oro. He owned one of the houses, like Julian’s, on the water. The Good Witch had no interest in becoming his mistress or performing her magic for him. So one night the Good Witch of Honey Swamp was dragged from her home, tied to a tree, and burned alive. She made it rain, and the rain kept putting out the fire. But finally, the flames consumed her. As she died she cursed the count and all who knew him. It’s said that her curse backfired. Count D’Oro turned into a
rougarou
and slaughtered dozens of people before he was caught, before he had his head bashed in and his throat ripped out, before being tied to a stake and burned to nothing but ash. They still say if the witch’s curse is repeated, the soul of D’Oro will come back. And the
rougarou
will roam the swamp once again.”

“What were the witch’s words?” a teen asked.

A shrill scream pierced the night.

From one of the young women toward the front of the boat.

For a moment, it seemed that David’s heart stopped. Had they been moving too close to shore? Was another alligator aiming toward the pontoon boat?

“The
rougarou,
” the young woman screeched, moving from her seat.

“Careful,” he warned.

The pontoon boat shouldn’t flip, but with such a sudden shift of weight he wasn’t sure. “Please, please. What is it? If you saw something in the trees—”

“No,” the young woman cried, looking over at him with huge eyes. “Blood. There’s blood on the bayou and a man. He’s dead.”

David carefully moved to her side of the boat.

They were close to the shore.

And he saw it.

A dead man.

Feet still tangled in the grass, head battered, blood dripping.

“
Rougarou
,” someone else shouted. “They’re moving in the trees.”

And there was someone out there.

Gone in a flash, racing away, thrashing through the underbrush.

Rougarou
? No way. They weren’t real.

Not like the corpse.

And the blood on the bayou.

Chapter 1

Michael Quinn heard the hysterical crying the minute he entered the police station. The young woman creating the commotion was inside Detective Jake Larue’s office. Someone else was trying to soothe her while not becoming hysterical herself.

“This one is right up your alley,” Larue told him as he approached.

“My alley?”

“That young woman is certain she saw a
rougarou
. She was on a bayou tour in Honey Swamp last night.”

He smiled. No kid grew up in Southern Louisiana without hearing about the
rougarou
. Every region of the world had their own particular brand of monster. The
rougarou
belonged to the Cajun region of Southern Louisiana, stretching right into the city.

“Honey Swamp?” he asked. “Doesn’t a problem in that area go to the Pearl River police?”

“Yep,” Larue said. “But she’s here because she believes the
rougarou
followed her home, showing up in the window of her hotel last night.”

He arched a brow at the ridiculousness of the statement. “I’m assuming there’s more.”

“A dead man in the swamp. Head bashed in, throat ripped.”

Which grabbed his attention.

“I want you to talk to them,” Larue said. “I told them that you’re a
rougarou
expert and that you’ll get to the bottom of things. They were out on some night ghost tour in the bayou and their boat came upon the dead man. Right now, she’s so hysterical that she’s not making sense. But you
rougarou
experts are used to dealing with that.”

He shook his head at Larue’s sarcasm. He was no more a
rougarou
expert than someone was a ghost expert. Once upon a time, he’d worked with Larue as partners in the NYPD. Before that, Quinn’s life had been anything but normal. He’d actually been a pretty horrible person, not as in deadly or criminal, but as in vain and egotistical. His prowess in sports had led to excess, which eventually led to him being declared legally dead.

Which changed everything.

While clinically dead, he’d seen a strange personage, who told him it was time to turn around. An angel? Maybe. But the experience had led him to the military, then the police—and then to Angus Cafferty. When Angus died, neglecting to tell his own child, Danni, what he really did on and during many of his buying trips, Quinn had brought her up to speed. It hadn’t been easy. She’d not believed anything he’d said, nor had she much liked him.

In fact, she’d loathed him.

He’d never imagined how hard it would be to make her
believe that all things in life were not what they seemed. But most legends had their roots in truth. She’d both grown up with Angus and wanted to believe that the world was filled with good. She was, however, her father’s daughter. So when she finally came around to realizing what they were sometimes up against, she’d been brilliant.

And still exquisite.

Five-feet-nine-inches of willowy perfection, vitality, and intelligence. A mane of sleek auburn hair and the kind of blue eyes that seemed endless and could steal a man’s soul. He always smiled when he thought of their rocky beginning.

She was both stubborn and opinionated.

But he couldn’t imagine life without her.