Dead on the Delta

Eleven



When I see Hitch fighting his way through the water, my first thought is that he’s as handsome as I remember. The old Hitch was a smooth, Southern sex god of epic proportions. Despite the slightly crooked teeth and too-thin lips, his sleepy blue eyes and lean boyishness made women crazy.

All kinds of women. Old, young, married, single, straight, gay—heads turned when he walked down the street. But I was never jealous of the attention Hitch received when we were together. I understood it was impossible not to look. I was just grateful that I was the one who woke up beside him, who watched his lips move while he sang and his eyes light up when my clothes came off. The new Hitch, though physically the same, and admittedly better dressed, lacks that ineffable irresistibility.

Or he has until now.

Now, his eyes spark with that old … something, that quality that makes you certain there’s a brilliant man with an amazing heart and a hell of a sense of humor lurking beneath the handsome exterior. A man enchanted by love and life, a man who will make you believe in magic when his skin is hot against yours. Making love to Hitch is a soul-deep experience, like stepping through a secret door into a world of pleasure, where powerful forces are at work healing the universe one orgasm at a time.

The memory of those orgasms might be to blame for how long it takes me to realize what’s wrong with the picture before me. Or maybe it’s the blow to the head or the white specks still flickering at the edge of my vision.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Hitch is waist-deep in swamp water, wearing nothing but his dress suit and an “oh shit” expression. He has a gun, but that isn’t going to help him now; he’s too far from the flashing lights spinning atop Cane’s car. He might be able to take down one or two—maybe even ten—of the itty-bitty targets flying his way, but not a swarm of a hundred or more.

There really are hundreds of them. Hundreds.

They surge from every corner of the bayou, drawn by the smell of unprotected flesh. The reflection of fairy glow turns the water into rivers of molten lava that stream through the night from the north, south, east, and west, racing each other for the first bite.

It’s that afternoon with Cane all over again, but so much worse. There’s nothing I can do, no way I can get through the water fast enough, no way to reach Hitch before—

“Look for my gun!” Hitch sucks in a breath and plunges under the water seconds before the swarms collide above his head in a mess of battered wings.

The screech of so many small voices raised in one combined wail of frustration brings home the threat humanity faces in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. After a few years, you learn to live with the terror of knowing there’s no safe place in your world. You push it aside and ignore it, blunt the sharp edge of reality with comforting lies. Or God. Or sleeping pills and alcohol—whatever it takes to get through the day and the long, fearsome nights.

Even as one of the immune, the Delta is terrifying. Sometimes it’s more terrifying to know you might be left alone, to realize the people you love are perpetually on the verge of losing everything. Their freedom, their minds, their lives …

Hitch. I have to get to him. Now. Ten seconds ago.

I jolt into motion, churning through the water, using my hands to help me move faster, faster. Above my head, tiny bodies knock against each other, wings bending and bruising. Dozens of fairies fall into the water with the delicate plops of skipping stones. They break the surface and sink, but bob quickly back up. Fairies can’t hold their breath for more than a second or two. They won’t be able to dive down into the swamp to feed on Hitch.

He’s bought himself a few precious moments. Now it’s up to me. How fast can I make it through the heavy swamp that sucks at my legs and feet? Will I be able to spot the tip of Hitch’s gun poking up from the water in the maddening flash of white and blue light? Do I have the—

“Shit!” Pain, sharp and fierce, cuts away at my right ring finger, making every nerve ending from my hand to my shoulder scream.

I pull my fingers from the water and shake my wrist, trying to dislodge the fairy that clings to me, without dropping my gun. The thing is pink and green, a young female with tiny breasts and only the slightest hint of golden hair between her legs. From the glassy look in her eyes, she’s already dying, but her damned teeth are sunk too deep for my frenzied shaking to do much good.

Finally, I reach over and squeeze the place where her detachable jaw connects to her face, shivering at the feel of her skin. It’s unbearably soft and hot, like a newborn baby born in a rush of blood. Our contact is brief—her jaw pops wide and she falls into the dark water a second later—but it leaves me shaking. I’ve never touched a live one before. I didn’t realize they felt so different, so … human.

When they’re dead, fairy skin is scaly and hard like an insect’s shell. Why didn’t anyone tell me they felt any other way? Did they assume I knew? Did anyone? Surely other people who have been bitten had to—

The gun. I see it six or seven feet away, moving steadily through the water, back toward the police car. Hitch isn’t waiting for me to come save him, he’s doing his best to save himself. Unfortunately, he isn’t going to be able to hold his breath long enough to reach the shore, and the cop lights aren’t going to scare this mob away. There will be a few Fey who will brave the glaring light for fresh, human blood, just as there are a few who are stupid enough to feed on an immune woman.

Tiny, razor-sharp teeth dig into my shoulder and another set nip at my elbow. I dispose of them the same way I did the first, but by the time I reach Hitch, I have half a dozen throbbing bites, jangled nerves, and am well on my way to full-blown hysteria.

If my smell isn’t keeping the Fey off of me, how am I going to protect Hitch? A little sweat behind his ears isn’t going to work. The fairies are too hungry, angry, riled up and feeding off the fury and frustration of their comrades. The mob mentality has taken over. Hitch is as good as dead; there’s nothing I can do.

Another fairy dives for my neck. I slap at it with a wild sound, sending a drop of blood flying from the wound on my hand. The dive-bombing fairy—and several others circling nearby—retreat with staccato howls different than their usual screeching. The sharp barks almost sound like language, like … a warning.

Blood. My poison blood.

Hitch surges from the water, gasping for air. The fairies dive, but I dive faster. My bloodied arms wrap around his neck, smearing red. I drive my fingers into his hair and around to his face, finger painting frantic trails down his cheeks before reaching for his hands. He tries to shove me away, but I hold on tight.

“I have to go back under,” he gasps, nostrils flaring as his body seeks to pull every bit of oxygen from the air.

“No, you’ll wash it off!”

A confused look. More pulling away. Not good! I tug him in tight. “They don’t like my blood. I’m putting it on you,” I yell, sounding as crazy as I feel. I swipe at the wound near my elbow and reach around to his back. I dab spots across his shoulders and down his arms and pray it will be enough. “If you go under, I don’t know if I’ll have enough left to get you to the car.”

Thankfully, my words penetrate before Hitch takes another dive. He looks up, scanning the swarm. They’re still close, but not nearly as close as they’d like to be. A few of the braver bastards buzz a foot or two above our heads, but none dare get closer than that. The feeding—and dying—on Annabelle frenzy seems to have come to an end.

The older Fey are angry with the ones who bit me. They bark threats into the darkness, spraying venomous spittle and rage. One ancient man with a wee face like a wrinkled white raisin shoves at the younger fairies, sending them spinning.

Back, back, you stupid fools, back!

Strange. So, so strange. To date, researchers have no evidence of a fairy language. The Fey exchange information, but their communication is primarily based in body language and scent cues used during the mating season. I’ve certainly never heard anything from a fairy’s lips but earsplitting screams.

But now … I swear I can read the meaning of their “words,” that a part of me—

“So this is your blood?” Hitch lifts a hand to his cheek, and his fingers come away red. There are streaks all up and down his face, painting him like some tribal warrior. Jesus. All thoughts of fairy chatter fade. He’s covered in blood, dripping with it. I didn’t realize I was gushing that much. Immune or not, I should probably seek medical attention. “Why are you bleeding? Did—”

“They bit me,” I say, taking a slow step toward the shore that Hitch mirrors.

“They—Are you okay?” The concern in his eyes makes me acutely aware that our faces are only a few inches apart, that his hands have found their way around my waist beneath the water, pulling me close.

“I’m immune. I’ll be fine. We just need to get you to the car.” We take another two-step toward the shore, dancing just as Cane and I did, but nothing about our contact reminds me of my father.

Our hips bump together, our stomachs kiss as we pull in deep breaths, and when he hugs me tighter, my breasts flatten against his chest. Despite the danger, my body reboots a million memories I was certain I deleted.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I heard the gun fire.”

“Yeah … it did,” I mumble, fighting through all the wretched feeling. I’m drowning in it.

How did I convince myself I was over this man? That I don’t long for him every day, with everything in me? Time, distance, general assholishness on my part and his—none of that matters when his forehead drops to mine.

“Just talk to me. Are you okay?” He cups my face, pressing our skulls tight. He always did this when we hit a rough patch and I wasn’t talking as much as he would like. It’s as if he thinks he can tap into my brain via our connected skin and bone. There were times when I was sure he did.

I hope now isn’t one of those times. I don’t want him to know how much I miss him, or that I’m thinking about things like love and the way he used to kiss me. His life is still in danger. I should be focused on saving him, nothing else.

“Why did you fire the gun, why—”

“Why did you get out of the car without your suit?” I ask, suddenly angry. None of these feelings or worries would be relevant if he’d just stayed in the damned car. “What were you thinking?”

He swallows, licks his lips. “I heard the shot and called your name and when you didn’t answer … ” He shakes his head, evidently as shocked by his behavior as I am. “I thought you’d been shot. I thought … And I just … ”

“I wasn’t shot.” My heart races faster. He cares. He still cares. The knowledge fills me up like helium, making me dizzy. “Neither was anyone else. But there was … something out there.”

“Something?” he asks, hands at my neck, warm, soothing fingers kneading the knots there. I press even closer, fisting his shirt in my hands, hanging on to him for dear life. His dear life. We’re getting closer. The water drops to our knees and then our shins.

Still, I’m almost afraid to believe we’re going to make it to the car. The cloud that pulses and hums and hisses above us is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. The fairies fill the sky, blocking out the moon, replacing its cool light with a toxic mix of pink and gold. Surely they’re not going to let such a big, juicy food source escape just because he’s donned a little war paint?

“Something big.” I pause, swiping blood from one of the free-flowing bites on my arm and dabbing it on the wet fabric of Hitch’s pants. A few more steps and we’ll be out of the water.

“Something big like what? A person? An animal?”

“Let’s talk about it in the car.” My words are a whisper. What am I going to say? I can’t tell him the truth, especially since there’s a good chance it isn’t the truth. It was dark; I have a head injury. I’m probably just … confused. There’s no such thing as invisible men.

Just like there was no such thing as killer fairies a dozen years ago.

No. This is different. Fairies have always existed; we simply lacked the technology to observe them until after their mutation. An invisible man reeks of magic, or science so advanced it might as well be magic. Humans aren’t capable of making a person invisible, and I don’t believe in voodoo.

So what hit me out there? And how to explain that voice in the dark?

“Let’s get in on the passenger’s side,” Hitch says, the tension in his grip increasing as we ease from the water and start the slow sideways shuffle back to the car. Six feet have never loomed so large. The Fey press closer, swooping down to investigate the ground at our feet, though they keep a safe distance from Hitch’s blood-smeared pants legs. “Then you can crawl over to the driver’s side.”

“Too shook up to drive?” I ask.

He laughs, a short, breathy sound. “Yeah. A little shook up, a little high on life. I thought I was a dead man.”

“You almost were.” I don’t say what we’re both thinking, that he still could be a dead man if the fairies get up the guts to attack before we make it to the car.

I glance toward the cruiser, squinting into the bright blue and white. Three more feet. I turn back to Hitch, stare up into his eyes, breathe his breath, will a shield of safety to surround him. His fingers dig into the skin at my hips and his head tilts just the slightest bit closer to mine, making my breath come faster.

“We’re almost there,” he says.

“We are.” The urge to hurry him to safety presses in, but I force my feet to keep step with Hitch’s slow, steady pace. Rushing the last few feet will only attract the fairies’ attention, make them realize their chance at a big feed will soon be gone. Instead, I concentrate on keeping my body as close to Hitch’s as possible, trying to ignore the way the feel of him pressing against me makes me shiver.

Finally, my ass bumps up against the cool iron and steel of the police car. I fumble behind me, finding the door handle and pulling it open the barest crack. I glance over Hitch’s shoulder, scanning as much of the ground and air as I can see. “I think we’re clear. Mostly. Probably.”

“Good. Let’s go back to front, you slide in sitting on my lap,” Hitch says, spinning me carefully around, keeping his vulnerable non-bloodied front covered.

His arm comes tight around my waist and then, suddenly, I’m in the air, stomach lurching as he hauls us both into the car with a speed that makes my head spin. The door has barely slammed closed behind us when splashes of pink and gold thud against the window, fairies dashing in too late and ending up eating glass instead of human flesh.

“Holy shit,” I gasp, flinching when another fairy hits and then another before they seem to realize they’re not getting through police-grade glass.

“Sorry.” Hitch’s breath comes fast and shallow. “Adrenaline overload.”

“It’s okay.” I search the car, making certain nothing has followed us inside before turning back to the door and hitting the power locks. Outside, the fairies are starting to disperse, flitting away in twos and threes and batches of fifteen or twenty.

They’re leaving. We’re safe. Hitch is safe.

For the first time in the past half hour, the tension level in my body cruises down to something near normal. Ready for a break from the flashing lights, I punch off the white and blues, the subtle movement reminding me that I’m sitting in my ex-boyfriend’s lap. His arm still circles my waist, his strong thighs cradle mine, and my ass nestles close to where I swear I feel the beginnings of something …

Maybe I’m not the only one thinking of the way we used to be, the ways we used to move together.

“Thank you.” His breath is hot against my neck, lips so close they kiss at my skin when he speaks. My pulse picks up, throbbing in my throat. “You saved my life.”

“Thanks for trying to save mine.” I turn to look at him, knowing I should hurry into the driver’s seat, but enjoying this brief intimacy too much to end it. As I move, our noses almost touch and his hand slides lower, trailing into dangerous territory. Long fingers curl over my inner thigh with an air of possession, and something at the heart of me catches fire.

“I don’t deserve thanks.” His eyes watch my lips and I fight the urge to slip my tongue out to wet them. “I wasn’t even thinking, I just … I had a moment of clarity.”

“An unthinking moment of clarity?”

He smiles, a flash of teeth that’s quickly absorbed by the darkness. It’s harder to see without the strobes, but I prefer the shadows. They’re safer, more inclined to keep my secrets. “If I’d thought about it, I would have taken the time to suit up. But when I heard those gunshots … ” He shrugs, shifting me slightly on his lap, bringing me closer. When he speaks again, his voice is a whisper that feathers across my lips. “I didn’t want to think of a world without you.”

“Hating me is that much fun?”

His fingers squeeze my leg; I pull in a shaky breath. “It wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying if you were dead.”

“So you really do hate me?” I try to keep my voice light, but fail. It’s impossible to sound carefree when asking him the question I’ve held inside all these years. A part of me wants to know if I have a chance to be forgiven, if maybe someday we might be friends. The other part of me doesn’t want to hear the truth, doesn’t want to know that I hurt a man so deeply that he hates me six years later.

Hitch’s index finger traces a gentle path back and forth across my soaked pants, making me burn.

Who am I kidding? Hitch and I will never be friends.

“I don’t hate you.” He sounds so sad. Hating me is a commandment he’s broken. Thou shalt hate the girl who broke your heart: it’s right after Thou shalt not sleep with your boyfriend’s relatives.

A sour taste rushes into my mouth. I try not to think about Hitch’s brother, but I can still recall the smoke and salt smell of his skin the morning I awoke naked in his bed, whiskey scalding my stomach and pain all over.

I raced to the bathroom and was sick until it felt like my insides had been scooped out with a shovel, but purging did nothing to banish the self-loathing, to blunt the disgust when Anton shuffled into the bathroom wearing nothing but a smile and told me I was the best he’d ever had.

The wildest, the most shameless, the dirtiest little slut.

I didn’t say a word, just clenched my legs to hide the dried blood on my thighs, gritted my teeth against the bruised feeling inside, grabbed my clothes, and rushed out the door. I couldn’t remember the night before. Maybe he was telling the truth and I’d banged his brains out by my own free will. Maybe he was lying and I’d fought him the way my body told me I had. There was no way to know for sure. Just like there was no way to know if Hitch would have believed me if I’d told him what really happened, if I’d met his anger the night after he found out with truth instead of my own misplaced rage.

It’s too late, and that memory is a rotted piece of the past that should stay dead and buried.

Too bad the past feels so present with Hitch’s arms around me, Hitch’s lips so perilously close to my own.

“No, I don’t hate you,” he says again. “I should, I guess, but I don’t.”

I swallow, willing my throat to loosen. “You don’t sound like you’re too happy about that.”

“Happy.” His voice fondles the word before chucking it toward the bayou with a soft grunt. “I haven’t been really happy in awhile … ”

Me either. Despite my beautiful, sweet lover, my charming hometown, and my well-paying job, nothing has felt truly good for so long. So, so long. I haven’t allowed it to, I haven’t dared. But maybe I could … if I could get up the guts to tell Hitch the truth, to tell him I don’t remember, and that I’m sorry. So sorry.

“I know it was … a long time ago.” My heart slams in my chest, fear and exhilaration rushing inside me. “But I’m sorry, and I want you to know I—”

“Shut up.” And then he kisses me, soft and slow and so, so sweet.

Hitch’s kiss is morning sunshine creeping through the window to warm the sheets, it’s honey in smoky tea, it’s a blues song that oozes through your mind and leaves more space for your soul behind. But tonight, it’s also a bucket of tears, rain that will never quit falling, an ocean that gobbles up ships and sucks them down into the depths.

There’s always been sadness hidden at the core of Hitch, but it’s never been big enough to taste. Occasionally, I’d get a whiff of it, salty on the wind, but it never pressed in between us like it does now, threatening to drown us both. His tongue flicks against mine, his teeth nibble at my lip, his hands wander over my body with an easy familiarity, but beneath every wave of desire, every swift breath, there is the pain.

Pain and hurt and betrayal.

Our past and present are tainted, poisoned and wrong despite the fact that touching Hitch feels so right. His hand up my shirt, sliding to cup my breast, is like coming home—and being kicked out onto the street—all at the same time. And then there’s Cane. I never promised him anything, not even exclusive dating privileges, but he deserves better than this. I care about him, I care about Hitch, and a part of me even cares about myself. This isn’t a good idea for any of us. No matter which way you turn it.

From this place, there is no future, no way out to anything better.

I was going to pull away and tell Hitch so, tell him we had to at least try to talk. I really was … even before he ripped his mouth from mine and vomited into the driver’s seat.