circle of sand, naked, but the lower half of his body was inhuman. He had the tail of a fish, iridescent and straining with long, rippling muscles. His body glistened with water, and his hair was wet, plastered against his face, framing eyes so anguished, so heartbroken, Kit could feel his pain like a punch in the gut.
There was blood on him. Bite marks. Nothing held him down, yet he seemed unable to sit up. Kit listened to him scream. Felt herself begin to do the same.
The dream changed. Kit staggered, temporarily blind to everything but M’cal’s voice inside her head, begging for help. Not her help. Not the help of any one person. But just someone. Someone, please.
Kit choked back tears, terrible inexplicable grief. She felt seared to the soul by his pain, by his impossible appearance, which had no precedent in her life or mind even if it was just a dream. She knew it was just a dream. It could not be more. Not after what she had just seen. It was too impossible.
Kit smelled mint. Her dream changed. M’cal’s voice died away, replaced by John Fogerty’s “Born on the Bayou,” turned way up on some radio. Beneath the pump and brawl of the song, she heard her grandmother singing along.
Old Jazz Marie, a woman of round curves, perched on a stool on the veranda, with the hot summer wind blowing through the cypresses from the swamp. Kit held her breath, staring. It had been a long time since she dreamed of her grandmother. A year, to be exact. The last time had been on the night of her death.
“Storm coming,” said the old woman, a thick bone needle in her hand. She threaded a narrow leather cord through a piece of hide. In front of her, on the battered table, Kit saw herbs and roots; a chicken foot, some bits of fur; a cup brimming with soft, rich dirt. Little stones. Little dolls. Little bones.
Kit watched her grandmother’s face, studying the high, wide cheeks, the polished amber undertones of her dark skin. Her hair had been gray for years—as steely and sharp as a thundercloud—and she wore it wild, held back only by a dark red scarf.
“You always say that,” Kit said. “There’s always a storm.”
“Hush. Don’t go twisting words on an old woman.” Her grandmother stopped sewing and looked at her, straight and clear. “You caught the mark on this one, Kitty Bella. Got eyes on you, for sure. Knew it would happen eventually. Women like us can’t go ‘round without drawing attention. Bad and good.”
“I’m nothing like you,” Kit said gently. “Despite what I see.”
“Because of what you see.” Old Jazz Marie spat into the leather, rubbing it hard with her thumb. “Because of what you do. You got power, little cat. And you’re gonna need it.”
“Tell me. I don’t understand.”
“You never did. Enough talent to choke a volcano, but you still don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground. Hell, child. Come here.”
Kit did as she was told, and watched her grandmother pierce her thumb with the bone needle. Blood welled. Just enough to smear across Kit’s neck wound. Old Jazz Marie’s breath quickened, and she mumbled a string of words in some indecipherable patois. She ended with a high mighty cry that cut Kit right down to the bone.
The old woman slumped over, closing her eyes. She looked tired, weary, as she had only days before her death. Kit reached out to touch her, but her grandmother knocked away her hand. Her eyes were still closed.
“Get going,” she murmured, breath whistling through her teeth. “Get gone. You been dreamin’ too long.”
“No,” Kit said. “I miss you.”
“No time.” The old woman’s shoulders hunched even more. “You gotta be strong, girl. Strong in the heart. Trust yourself. Trust him.”
“Him?” she echoed, startled; but it was too late. Her grandmother died again, slipped away with a breath, and Kit opened her eyes, awake. Her cheeks were wet. She was still crying.
Morning. Light outside. Kit stared at the ceiling and
There was blood on him. Bite marks. Nothing held him down, yet he seemed unable to sit up. Kit listened to him scream. Felt herself begin to do the same.
The dream changed. Kit staggered, temporarily blind to everything but M’cal’s voice inside her head, begging for help. Not her help. Not the help of any one person. But just someone. Someone, please.
Kit choked back tears, terrible inexplicable grief. She felt seared to the soul by his pain, by his impossible appearance, which had no precedent in her life or mind even if it was just a dream. She knew it was just a dream. It could not be more. Not after what she had just seen. It was too impossible.
Kit smelled mint. Her dream changed. M’cal’s voice died away, replaced by John Fogerty’s “Born on the Bayou,” turned way up on some radio. Beneath the pump and brawl of the song, she heard her grandmother singing along.
Old Jazz Marie, a woman of round curves, perched on a stool on the veranda, with the hot summer wind blowing through the cypresses from the swamp. Kit held her breath, staring. It had been a long time since she dreamed of her grandmother. A year, to be exact. The last time had been on the night of her death.
“Storm coming,” said the old woman, a thick bone needle in her hand. She threaded a narrow leather cord through a piece of hide. In front of her, on the battered table, Kit saw herbs and roots; a chicken foot, some bits of fur; a cup brimming with soft, rich dirt. Little stones. Little dolls. Little bones.
Kit watched her grandmother’s face, studying the high, wide cheeks, the polished amber undertones of her dark skin. Her hair had been gray for years—as steely and sharp as a thundercloud—and she wore it wild, held back only by a dark red scarf.
“You always say that,” Kit said. “There’s always a storm.”
“Hush. Don’t go twisting words on an old woman.” Her grandmother stopped sewing and looked at her, straight and clear. “You caught the mark on this one, Kitty Bella. Got eyes on you, for sure. Knew it would happen eventually. Women like us can’t go ‘round without drawing attention. Bad and good.”
“I’m nothing like you,” Kit said gently. “Despite what I see.”
“Because of what you see.” Old Jazz Marie spat into the leather, rubbing it hard with her thumb. “Because of what you do. You got power, little cat. And you’re gonna need it.”
“Tell me. I don’t understand.”
“You never did. Enough talent to choke a volcano, but you still don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground. Hell, child. Come here.”
Kit did as she was told, and watched her grandmother pierce her thumb with the bone needle. Blood welled. Just enough to smear across Kit’s neck wound. Old Jazz Marie’s breath quickened, and she mumbled a string of words in some indecipherable patois. She ended with a high mighty cry that cut Kit right down to the bone.
The old woman slumped over, closing her eyes. She looked tired, weary, as she had only days before her death. Kit reached out to touch her, but her grandmother knocked away her hand. Her eyes were still closed.
“Get going,” she murmured, breath whistling through her teeth. “Get gone. You been dreamin’ too long.”
“No,” Kit said. “I miss you.”
“No time.” The old woman’s shoulders hunched even more. “You gotta be strong, girl. Strong in the heart. Trust yourself. Trust him.”
“Him?” she echoed, startled; but it was too late. Her grandmother died again, slipped away with a breath, and Kit opened her eyes, awake. Her cheeks were wet. She was still crying.
Morning. Light outside. Kit stared at the ceiling and
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