Author’s note: This story takes place after Raven Cursed, but before the start of Death’s Rival.
Bitsa’s atypical roar and black smoke from her exhaust flowed down the bayou in a noxious, rough-sounding echo as I crossed the rickety, picturesque bridge into town. The bike’s shudder had me worried. The Harley had undergone an engine and full system rehab as well as a touch-up paint job recently in Charlotte, North Carolina, and she should be running like a top. But the misfire was getting worse, and I knew I’d never make it over the Atchafalaya River Basin and into New Orleans before nightfall without a mishap. The idea of a breakdown after dark on the stretch of I-10 in southwestern Louisiana’s mostly bayou/swamp/wetland or acres of farmland was not appealing. I hadn’t seen a nice hotel in miles, and the mom-and-pop joints I had seen in the last five miles looked like bedbug-infested roach motels.
The little town I’d pulled into was called Bayou Oiseau, on the banks of the bayou of the same name. The weatherworn sign back on 10 had advertised TASSIN BROS AUTO FIX, OPEN SIX DAYS A WEEK, EXCEPT IN GATOR-HUNTING AND FISHING SEASON, which sounded better than nothing. There was no telling if the Tassin brothers could work on a Harley or not, and I had no idea if it was gator-hunting or fishing season; but I had a few tools with me, and the shade of a nice live oak, an ice-cold Coke, and a chocolate bar would hit the spot, either way. I could always call someone from New Orleans for a lift, but I was miles out, and owing a favor of that magnitude was not something I really wanted. I had a few hundred in cash on me, enough to grease the oil-stained palms of most motor mechanics—under the table, of course—for a bit of advice, supplies, and maybe some actual help. Though that last part was unlikely.
The town itself was quaint in an unlikely way. Bayou Oiseau, which I thought meant “bird bayou,” looked like the love child spawned by the producer of a spaghetti Western and a mad Frenchwoman. At the crossroads of Broad Street and Oiseau Avenue (neither name appropriate for the narrow main street and its ugly, single-lane cousin), the architectural focal points were a mishmash of styles. As I thought that, Bitsa died. I spent a moment trying to kick-start her to no avail and finally sat, as the single traffic signal turned from red to green, balancing the bike and taking in the town in greater detail.
At my left, to the south, there was a huge brick Catholic church, the bell tower revealing a tarnished, patinated bell mostly hidden with decades of spiderwebs and home to dozens of pigeons. The large churchyard was enclosed by a brick wall with ornate bronze crosses set into the brick every two feet. On top of the wall were iron spikes, also shaped like sharp, pointed crosses. To the east of the church, across the road, was a bank made of beige brick and concrete, with the date 1824 on the lintel and green verdigris bars shaped like crosses on the windows and door. To my right was a strip mall that had seen better days, made of brick and glass, featuring a nail salon, hair salon, tanning salon, consignment shop, secondhand bookstore, bakery, Chinese fast-food joint, Mexican fast-food joint, and a Cajun butcher advertising andouille sausage, boudin, pork, chicken, locally caught fish, and a lunch special for $4.99. It smelled heavenly. Every single window and door in the strip mall was adorned with a decal cross. The Chinese place also had a picture of nunchuks and a pair of bloody stakes crossed beneath.
“Well,” I muttered. “Wouldja look at this.”
Inside, my Beast purred with delight and peered out at the world through my eyes. My Beast was the soul of a mountain lion, one I’d pulled inside me in a case of accidental black magic when I was about five years old. She had an opinion about most everything, and ever since she came into contact with a fighting angel and demon, she’s been . . . different. More quiet. Less snarky. And though I’d never admit it to her, I missed her.