Midnight Bayou

of his boot. Liquor and temper and guilt blinded him. Nor would he remember surging to his feet, striking out.
    He felt the blade slice through his brother’s flesh with a kind of wild glee. And his lips were peeled back, his eyes mad as he scented first blood.
    They struggled, Lucian through the pain and shock, Julian through the black haze, with the hilt of the knife slippery in their hands.
    And the bright, bright horror paralyzed him as Julian’s eyes widened when the killing point turned on him, into him.
    “Mère de Dieu , ” Julian murmured, and stared down at the blood on his breast. “You’ve killed me.”
    Manet Hall
    2002
    The heat had pumped in from the south. It seemed to Declan that even the air sweat. Mornings and evenings, when it was bearable, he worked outside. Afternoons, he sought the cooler regions of the house.
    It wasn’t as efficient, dragging his tools in and out, but he was making progress. That was the name of the game.
    He didn’t call Lena—he figured she needed to simmer and settle. But he thought of her, constantly.
    He thought of her as he nailed boards, when he studied paint samples, when he installed paddle fans.
    And he thought of her when he woke, in the middle of the night, to find himself curled on the grass by the edge of the pond, Lucian’s watch clutched in his fist and his face damp with tears.
    He tried to put the sleepwalking out of his mind in the daylight. But he couldn’t put her out.
    One more day, he ordered himself as he wiped sweat off his face. Then he was going into town, banging on her door. If he had to push her into a corner to force her to talk to him, that’s what he’d do.
    Remy’s wedding was coming up fast. Which meant, not only was he going to watch his best friend get married, but . . . his parents were coming to town.
    He was ridiculously grateful they’d declined his offer for them to stay with him. Everyone would be a hell of a lot happier with them tucked into a nice hotel suite.
    Regardless, he was determined to finish the galleries, and one of the spare bedrooms. In that way, the house would look impressive when they came down the drive, and he could prove he’d had the room he’d offered them.
    His mother would look to be sure. That was a given.
    He backed down the ladder, grabbed the cooler, and gulped cold water. Then poured the rest over his head. Refreshed, he walked across the lawn, then turned back to look.
    Dripping, already starting to steam, he felt the smile spread across his face.
    “Not bad,” he said aloud. “Not half bad for a Yankee amateur.”
    He’d finished the dual staircases. The sweep of themcurved up opposite sides of the second-floor gallery. The elegance of them negated all the nicks, cuts, scrapes, and the hours of labor.
    They would be, he realized, his pride and joy.
    Now all he needed was to bribe the painters to work in this heat wave. Or pray for a break in the weather.
    Either way, he wasn’t going to wait until he’d finished the rear of the house. He wanted the front painted, wanted to stand as he was standing now, and see it gleam in bridal white.
    To please himself, he strode back, walked slowly up the right-hand stairs, crossed the gallery, and walked slowly down the left. It gave him such a kick he did it again.
    Then he dug through his toolbox for his cell phone and called Lena.
    He had to share his excitement with her. What did it matter if he was a day ahead of schedule?
    The phone was ringing in her apartment when he glanced over and saw Lilibeth crossing his lawn. He pressed END , got to his feet and put the phone back in his toolbox.
    “I swear, this heat’s just wilting.”
    She beamed at him, fluttering her lashes as she waved a hand in front of her face. He noted the bracelets she wore were Odette’s.
    “And it’s barely noon. Look at you,” she said in a slow purr.
    She sauntered straight to him, trailed a fingertip down his bare chest. “You’re all wet.”
    “Impromptu shower.” Instinctively, he took a step back so her finger no longer touched his skin. “What can I do for you, Miss Simone?”
    “You can start by calling me Lilibeth. After all, you’re a good friend of my mama’s—and my little girl’s, aren’t you?”
    She wandered away a bit, let her eyes widen as she scanned the house. “I just can’t hardly believe what you’ve done with this big, old place. You must be awfully clever, Declan.” She said flirtatiously, “I can call you Declan,