Chapter One

Early evening in the darkening depths of the Louisiana bayou had Eddie Dunne’s mind spinning with delight. He’d made it into the remote swamps outside a small village community. Most people would never see places like this, and Eddie owed it all to the guide who’d offered to take him out on a private tour.

The guide, who Eddie thought of as “Boggs” because the guy looked like he’d risen straight out of the swamp, sat beside him. Boggs steered his airboat through the channels with practiced ease. Eddie had hoped he’d tell stories—the folklore and mythos that would form the bulk of Eddie’s dissertation.

But between the dull thrumming of the motor and his guide’s stoic nature, Eddie had learned exactly nothing so far.

He cleared his throat and turned to face the older man. Boggs met Eddie’s eyes before refocusing on their path through the swamp.

Here goes nothing.

“Are we, um…getting close to any places that hold significance for your community?”

Boggs shook his head and had opened his mouth to speak when a spasm rocked him, jerking his gaze to the left. His eyes widened as if something impossible had stepped out of the shadows.

Eddie followed the man’s gaze to a particularly warped and twisted tree, its branches bowed under heavy moss.

Boggs muttered under his breath as he fixated on the moss-covered tree, as if he were conversing with it.

Eddie’s heart jumped with anticipation. This could be the story he needed, from a primary source, to form the basis of his research. He could barely breathe, but whether from excitement or the bayou humidity, he couldn’t tell.

Inhaling the damp and sticky air was like taking deep breaths through a straw lined with syrup.

Ignoring the discomfort, Eddie took out his phone and lavalier microphone, making sure his guide noticed. They’d discussed the idea of recording their conversation before heading out, but the man’s standoffish behavior now had Eddie feeling uncertain.

“Would it be okay to start recording?”

Boggs eyed the microphone and nodded. “Y’ever hear o’ da Rougarou?”

Of course Eddie had heard of the werewolf creature based in the swamps of Louisiana. But his internet searches lent no merit, provided no excitement compared to the authentic stories his guide might share. So Eddie shook his head and played dumb. “Rougarou?” He inched the mic closer.

Fortunately, they were moving with the engine at a low idle, so the background noise wasn’t as obnoxious as it might’ve been. Eddie would still have to scrub some off the recording before submitting it to his advisor for approval, though.

“Rougarou’s what city folk might call a werewolf. ’Cept the monster’s always in the man. Comes out when called. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with a moon. That’s city nonsense. Out here, it’s the bayou. Rougarou’s a guardian that way.” Boggs brought them against an embankment, cutting the motor and leaning against the cage that housed the boat’s fan blades.

“A guardian from what?”

“From disobedient children.” He blinked, shifting his gaze to Eddie. “Children’s a metaphor. We’re all chil’ren o’ the bayou, born o’ da mud. Rougarou protects his mama from the ones turned mean or willful. Ones mean her harm.”

“You speak as if the bayou is alive.”

Boggs nodded. “She very much alive and whole. An’ she gon’ stay dat way.” The statement felt ominous, almost a threat.

An unsettling chill rattled down Eddie’s spine as silence consumed them.

Eddie soaked in the soupy stench rising off the water, breathing in as much as he could.

His wife hadn’t joined him for a number of reasons, including the smell. Florence had been on the group tour earlier, though. A nice start, but floating in isolation with a local expert giving him the real story was the only way to get to know the swamp.

Eddie’s research was going to be a hit with his advisor.

He inhaled again. Decay, algae, wet wood, brine, and the lingering exhaust from the now-silent motor braided together, yet his head already swam with dreams of returning.

“Dem bald cypress.” Boggs gestured to the trees hemming their narrow route on both sides, their roots buried in the thick water. “Dey whisperin’ to each other. You hear?”

Eddie closed his eyes and listened to the wind rustling. He shivered with delight from the bayou surrounding him, almost encasing him.

“And dat’s Spanish moss hangin’ from dem branches.” Boggs tapped him on the shoulder, and Eddie opened his eyes. Every branch held heavy drapes of gray-green Spanish moss, like ectoplasm left to dry in the Louisiana sun.

“It’s like,” Eddie tried to grasp the thoughts, to assign a description to something so incredible, “humanity has forgotten this part of the world. My project will help people remember that all this beauty exists.” Even that sentiment cheapened the antiquity of the small, unincorporated community of Bayou Dernier that his guide called home.

The man merely grunted. “Project?”

“I’m a graduate student at Notre Dame. Studying human psychology. That’s why I’m here. For my thesis.” Boggs remained silent, which propelled Eddie to further explain his reason for booking a private swamp tour. “‘Folkloric Monsters as Reflection of Intergenerational Trauma.’ That’s what I’m researching. With an emphasis on rural Southern communities.”

Boggs squinted against the dying sun. “Swamp too still t’day. Air real thick. Birds too damn quiet.”

“Does that mean something?”

“Dat’s when da Marais shows. Waitin’ an’ watchin’. Like da water itself got eyes. You feel dat?”

Eddie knew of the Père du Marais from Cajun folklore, and he thought he could feel something. The sensation was ominous, if not outright unsettling. The sun stumbled down the bruised horizon, and dark shadows stretched over the bayou, making strange shapes of the trees, of the moss.

“Now dat dere’s pickerelweed.” Boggs pointed toward a carpet of glossy green flora with spiky purple flowers growing on the surface of the dirty water. “Swamp use it like curtains, hidin’ what don’ wanna be seen.”

He fired up the motor, and the fan blade whirled and roared as the boat moved into the channel.

Eddie squinted at the water passing the hull, mentally drawing pictures of the Marais’s silhouette beneath the murky surface.

Finally, after the horizon swallowed the sun and they turned through several channels with the motor at full bore, Boggs brought them to a stop, letting the current buoy them in the still, dark water.

Eddie encouraged the conversation by probing the man’s earlier comment. “What doesn’t want to be seen?”

“Lotta t’ings. Gators, mostly.”

In the distance, an owl hooted. Eddie about jumped from his skin at the sound that shattered the muted night.

The guide scanned the trees. “Hear dat?”

How could I not?

“Just an owl, isn’t it?”

“Barred owl. We call it da ghost bird. Big ol’ t’ing is ’bout yea wide.” He spread his arms. “Dey nest high up in dem cypress hollows, stay real quiet most days. But come dusk, dey start talkin’. Some folks say da bird’s just askin’ for supper. Me, I ain’t so sure.”

Eddie frantically pulled his phone back out and held up the microphone. “What do you think it wants?”

Boggs smiled. “When you hear dat owl call three times, means death’s knockin’. Somebody close to you gon’ pass. An’ if you hear it answer itself, same voice but ’nother location, don’t go lookin’ for dat second one. Dat ain’t no owl respondin’.”

Eddie scanned the treetops. A cold sweat gathered on his forehead. “What is it?”

The owl hooted again.

Had that come from a different spot?

Eddie couldn’t tell. But he had what his wife liked to call “a case of the willies.”

“My pa used to say Rougarou ride over da swamp on owl wings. Take da owl’s shape, scoutin’ for Père du Marais.”

Eddie remained spellbound, a kid mesmerized by a ghost story at a campfire, bushes loud and energetic around him.

“Swamp go still like dis ’fore he come.” As Boggs paused for effect, the swamp seemed to have died. “No frogs, no owls, nothin’ but your breath and his. Folks dat seen him an’ lived to speak it say you don’t hear no howl. You hear your name. Real soft. Real close. An’ by den, it’s too late.”

Unease, maybe even terror, replaced Eddie’s earlier excitement, as if the sun had powered his curiosity, and as it sank, so did his enthusiasm.

A shadow moved in his periphery from somewhere behind the curtain of Spanish moss.

Eddie startled, his breath more labored.

Boggs laughed. “Rougarou da least o’ your worries now.”

“What do you mean?” His voice trembled.

“Old Swamp Devil’s surfaced.”

Eddie thumbed his wedding ring, drawing strength and courage from the reminder of his wife back at the hotel. She’d made him promise that he wouldn’t allow Rougarou or vampires or any other mythical creature to harm him. At the time, it had seemed funny.

“You mean the Père du Marais?” Eddie’s voice fell limp.

Boggs tapped his knee. “Careful now. Worse t’ings walk dis swamp than Rougarou. Older. Meaner. Folks roun’ here don’ speak his name out loud after dark. But since we out here alone…I’ll tell you.” He glanced toward the darkening sky.

Wisps of fog curled onto the water. Though the air held a wet warmth, Eddie shivered. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and head back to land. With night falling, the stories were stepping out of myth and into the boat beside him.

Boggs leaned forward, taking Eddie’s hand to pull the microphone closer. “Some say Père du Marais was a trapper, long time gone. Mean man. Drank too much, prayed too little. Lost hisself in the swamp one night an’ made a deal with somet’in’ he thought was God. Promised him game in every snare, riches in his hand. But deals like dat always got hooks.”

Eddie swallowed hard. “Hooks?”

The guide released Eddie’s hand and spat into the water. “Folks started hearin’ t’ings at night after he disappeared. Chains draggin’. Bones knockin’. Claws scrapin’ glass. Dey say he don’ walk like no man no more. He all shadows an’ stink. Got a mouth full o’ black teeth, breath like rot. Comes out the mist when da swamp go dead quiet.”

Again, he paused for emphasis.

Where had all the sounds gone?

“Don’ like trespassers.” Boggs shifted his hard gaze to Eddie. “Don’ like curious folks pokin’ where dey don’t belong. An’ he hates bein’ called by name.”

Suddenly, Eddie’s isolation felt off world. “Why?”

“Speak dat name in da wrong place, wrong time, you wake him up. An’ once he awake…he follow.”

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck and entertained the idea of jumping overboard and swimming to shore. He’d said his name. But so had Boggs. Eddie gulped and ended the recording. When he spoke, his voice came from somewhere far away. “This is why I hate horror movies.” The laugh that followed was dry and broken like an autumn leaf crumbling underfoot. “Always have.”

“Life already scary ’nough as it is.”

Eddie nodded. “I have enough material.” He willed himself to see the Spanish moss and the light fog and the expanding shadows not as menacing but as natural. “We should head back. If I need to come back out, I’ll find you again. Let’s turn around.”

Boggs shook his head. “Too late. You gone said his name. Woke him.”

Eddie put his phone and lavalier in his pocket and looked up. “What do you—”

Boggs rose, blotting out the moon. A hunting knife glinted in his fist, a thin sliver of light sliding along the blade like a terrible wink.

“What are you doing? This isn’t funny. Take me back!”

The knife came down and punched into the side of Eddie’s skull. A white-hot crack burst through him, but the detonation spurred him into survival mode.

He didn’t even see the second strike coming. His arm shot up on instinct, bones ringing from the force, skin parting like a tent flap.

Boggs’s third strike split his nose and cheekbone and stuck out from his flesh like an old tombstone before breaking free.

As the blood rushed from Eddie, so did his bearings, leaving him woozy and disoriented and on the verge of vomiting.

Desperate, he blindly struck out with his good arm, a futile attempt to fight back. His fist whooshed through empty air. The follow-through spun him, leaving him open. But instead of a blade, something dull and hard, maybe a fist or the pommel, hammered into the base of his neck.

Eddie stumbled forward, lost his balance, and toppled into the water.

Panic surged, sharp as electricity. He flailed, forcing himself to swim away.

Alligators. That thought cut through everything. Alligators. They smelled blood like sharks. Didn’t they?

He kicked both legs in case anything was surging toward him. Something clamped around his ankle, pulling him back toward the skiff. Sharp pain bit him, sawing back and forth against his Achilles tendon.

Eddie inhaled to scream, but the thick, hot, bloody water drowned his voice. His mouth filled with copper-thick water.

The world narrowed to teeth on his leg, pressure on his skull, and the awful knowledge that Boggs hadn’t stopped watching.

Chapter Two

Taking a seat in the conference room inside the New Orleans FBI field office, Special Agent Claire Legacy raised her eyebrows at her partner. Nina Adriano looked like she hadn’t slept. And not the I got lucky kind of tired. The I made a terrible decision kind.

Nina caught the look. “What? Why are you staring at me?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Claire tapped the table twice, a judge calling court to order. “Tea time. What happened last night?”

Across the table, her fellow special agents were locked onto Colton Park, who was deep into a story about his son, Easton, sending Xander Hayes and Hazel Santos wheezing at the four-year-old’s latest felony-adjacent antics.

“Then the little shit went and…” Colton broke off mid-sentence and turned his attention to Claire. “Tea? What tea? And does it have lemon or cream?”

Nina glared at Claire and scratched the corner of her mouth. “No tea of any kind, but I can go make a cup and pour it on your head. Finish your story about Easton.”

“Who?”

Xander laughed. “Yeah, I’m curious, Colton. Wrap it up. I know someone got hurt.”

“Who got hurt?” Special Agent Jiya Patel swept into the room and dropped into a chair.

Hazel, the team’s tactical expert, nodded to Colton. “He’s teaching his son to golf.”

“Oh, no.” Jiya’s eyes shot wide.

Claire raised both hands. “Nina, I want to know why you look like shit. What did the guy do? Talk about crypto all night? Or was it more felony assault? Did his breath smell like pickles, or do we need to put out an APB?”

Nina released a defeated sigh. “It was…fine. He was charming and handsome and funny.” She turned her focus back on Colton. “Can we talk about Easton and the golf club before you both start constructing a profile?”

“Profile?” Claire pulled out her notebook. “Great idea. What’s his last name?”

“Absolutely not.”

Xander rubbed his hands together. “Oh, we’re running a background check? Hell, yes.”

Nina threw her hands up. “We’re not running a check.”

Hazel crossed her tattooed arms. “Feels like we’re running a check.”

Jiya looked confused. “Who’re we checking?”

“Nina’s date.” Claire clicked her pen.

Nina dropped her head to the table, giving it a few good thunks.“Great. Fantastic. I love working with narcs.”

“Correction.” Claire wasn’t ready to let this go. “Highly trained federal narcs. Now start talking.”

Nina let out a strangled noise. “Fine. The date wasn’t great but better than the last few. Please, for the love of God, go back to the golf story before someone digs up his high school transcripts.”

Claire had opened her mouth to argue when Supervisory Special Agent Gavin Iverson rushed into the room, making his way to the lectern in front of a projection screen bearing the FBI seal. “Good morning. Sorry I’m late. But I couldn’t find any crime scene string. Y’all didn’t bring any, did you?”

Colton didn’t miss a beat, but he didn’t catch on either. “Crime scene string?”

“To tie up any loose ends.”

Xander offered a golf clap in response. “I only acknowledge this because you somehow convinced Colton to walk right into that. Well done.”

Despite his success, Gavin remained deadpan, an unusual departure from his natural lightheartedness. Something had him somber or even shaken. He patted his pockets, withdrew a pen, and opened his notebook.

Claire leaned toward Nina and lowered her voice. “Guessing I’ll have to cancel my plans with Bea later.” A tinge of guilt stung her. Bea, Claire’s older sister, understood the unpredictability of the job. Still, she hated the idea of having to postpone their quality time.

Hopefully, she’d misread Gavin’s face.

The SSA flipped a page. “Someone is vandalizing security cameras around the city. Painting over camera lenses or destroying the devices outright. As of this time, we do not see a connection to the cybercriminal involved in our last case. But I have Astrid consulting with NOPD’s cybercrimes unit, catching up on all the details.”

Special Agent Astrid Wade had recently joined the Violent Crime Unit as their Cyber contact in the field office. Though they’d met briefly in passing, Claire and Astrid had never shared more than customary pleasantries at work.

We haven’t even shared an after-hours drink…but that’s not saying much.

Claire’s usual evening routine involved dinner with Gran and Bea, an old movie—preferably in black and white—and an early bedtime.

“However, that’s not our immediate business.” Gavin toyed with a cuff link. “The small, unincorporated community of Bayou Dernier in Petit Loup Parish—”

“Wait. I’m not from here.” Nina leaned toward the map. “Where’s that?”

Xander turned toward her. “Out near Houma.”

“About an hour out.” Gavin stuck a red pin in the location. “A local fisher’s dog found a woman’s arm and a man’s foot in a shallow grave, along with IDs. So we’re not looking at an alligator attack.”

Nina shivered. “Was that a possibility?”

“You’re in Louisiana, darling.” Claire touched her partner’s shoulder. “Life is full of possibilities.”

Nina shook her head. “I know. What I mean is, aren’t alligators in brumation right now? Less active?”

“Technically,” Colton’s finger popped up for a lecture, “alligators stay in brumation until late February. We’re in the middle of March, so…”

Gavin cleared his throat. “Petit Loup Parish first reached out to state troopers. They sent out their people, who found more bones and another ID buried beneath the initial two. Troopers then called us.”

“Placement plus IDs could indicate ritualistic intent.” Xander stroked his clean-shaven chin. “So definitely not alligators, unless a new species is emerging. Maybe a serial killigator.”

Gavin bent an eyebrow at him. “You trying for the SSA position? Last I checked,” he patted his chest, “that job is filled.”

Groans and eyerolls rippled around the table.

With a wink Xander’s way, the SSA straightened and continued. “The details reminded me of these cases some years back.” He opened his laptop and connected the device to the projection screen. “Pulled up the files earlier…the real reason I’m a little late. As you can see, we have three sets of dismembered remains in Texas and Mississippi in the nineties.”

The projection screen showed side-by-side photographs of the crime scenes, the severed body parts dirty from their shallow graves and graying from rot. Each sat next to a smudged ID and small personal object.

“The cases remain unsolved.”

“Where exactly are the graves?” Claire ran her thumb over her turtle pendant.

“Mississippi site was 1990. Texas, 1995. Both are still open investigations. However, no other victims meeting the M.O. have shown up in either state for years, and the investigations are on the back burner.” He turned his tired gaze on Claire and Nina. “I want you two to check out the Bayou Dernier remains. While they’re out there, Jiya, you go through the Texas and Mississippi case files and set up the incident room.”

Claire straightened in her chair as a familiar and undeniable sense of excitement wormed its way up her spine. She wanted nothing more than to read through all the information available and start fitting the pieces together like an incomplete puzzle. Any thoughts of hanging out with Bea later that evening fled her mind.

Then her guilt expanded like shadows at the end of a long day. Maybe she could still make time for a movie with her sister.

Nina broke the momentary calm within the conference room. “Anything else we should know?”

Gavin nodded. “You’ll note some tension between the parish and the unincorporated community. Bad blood. Just be careful out there.”

Claire nodded. Though born and raised in New Orleans, she hadn’t spent much time outside the city. Bayou Dernier wasn’t so much another town as a different world.