Blood on the Bayou Read Online Free PDF Page B

the initial emergence.
    And now he’s scared again. It brings home the danger we’re facing in a meaningful way, but I’m still not as frightened as I should be. But then I don’t have a great job, a beautiful fiancée, or a baby on the way. I have less to lose, and magic on my side.
    On our side.
    That’s part of the reason I agreed to help Hitch. I know I have something to offer aside from the dumb luck of being immune to fairy bite. Too bad I can’t tell him anything about that. Tucker made it clear the FBI is at the top of the list of people who do not need to know about the Invisibles or the things I’m learning to do with my newfound magic. Not that Hitch would believe me, anyway. The old Hitch, who came from bayou people and grew up on folktales about fairy lights at midsummer and enchanted alligator men, might have at least considered it, but this new Hitch is all facts and logic.
    “This isn’t going to be easy, or safe,” he warns.“But it matters to me. A lot. I have to find out who did this as quickly as I can.”
    “I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. “I should have met you earlier.”
    He shakes his head. “I really did have some other business to take care of. It’s good you pushed us back until nine. And you don’t have to be here at all, you know. You can still walk away. I won’t hold it against you.”
    “No. I’m here.” Even slackers have codes, and being there for the people I care about is part of mine. “I’ll help however I can. As long as you need me.”
    Relief makes Hitch’s shoulders sag. He steps forward and for a second I think he’s going to take my hand, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers curl into fists that he stuffs in his pockets. “Thank you,” he says, studying the gum-pocked asphalt. “I’m . . . glad.”
    Me, too. Glad he didn’t touch me. Simply standing this close to him is enough to make my chest ache.
    “No worries,” I say, voice as light as I can make it. “What’s the plan?”
    He searches the alley behind me and then casts a glance over his shoulder in true paranoid spy fashion. “I have two supervisors I can trust. If we get the name of the FBI operative involved in this or even a firm location on the cave, I’ll feel comfortable turning the investigation over. But I can’t risk it right now. Even if they believed me, we’d waste time with preliminaries and give whoever killed Steven a chance to cover his tracks.”
    I nod. “If someone in the organization killed him,you can’t let them know you’re looking into the murder until you have real evidence.”
    “Right.” The tension around his eyes eases. “So I thought you could take a trip out to the docks this morning. In the information Steven sent me, he included the shipping manifests from the Gramercy port, just south of here. They’ve had a lot of discrepancies in the past few years. At first it was the usual stuff—a few leather coats gone missing, a box of designer purses that fell off the barge, that sort of—”
    “I remember that. One of the Junkyard Kings was selling Coach crap last Christmas.”
    He lifts a brow. “The Junkyard Kings?”
    “The men singing down the street from my house last night,” I say, remembering the way the Kings’ song drifted through the muggy air, weaving Hitch and me closer together. “They live in the junkyard.”
    “And have delusions of grandeur.”
    “Don’t we all?”
    He rewards me with a tight smile. “I don’t know. Do we?” His eyes meet mine and I see a hint of the old Hitch, my Hitch, the one who didn’t have everything in the world figured out and secured with a regulation knot.
    “I don’t know.” I shrug and look away, wishing every other moment with this man wasn’t an exercise in extreme discomfort. “But the purses and crap . . . Isn’t that part of doing business in the infested states? Don’t most companies expect to lose stuff?”
    “Sure. Some skimming is expected,” he says, nudging a smashed paper