Have Stakes Will Travel: Stories From the World of Jane Yellowrock by Hunter Faith

Author:Hunter, Faith [Hunter, Faith]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Roc
Published: 2012-09-04T07:00:00+00:00

Author’s note: This story takes place after Raven Cursed, but before the start of Death’s Rival.

CAJUN WITH FANGS

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 systems’ 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 lovechild spawned by the producer of a Spaghetti Western and a mad French woman. 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, patinaed 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.

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