The scream tore out of her throat and vanished into the trees.

Remmick moved. 

Not like a man. 

Like something slipping through the dark between moments, his body bending forward, jaw split wide, fangs bared as he lunged for her with a hunger that had waited centuries.

Amelia stumbled back, hands flying up on instinct. 

“Don’t—!”

Her light answered before her mind could. It burst from her palms in a wild, unshaped flare gold and white and flickering blue. Like fire that hadn’t decided what it wanted to be yet. It struck him full in the chest. 

Remmick hissed—sharp—his body snapping back as the light burned across his raggedy coat, searing through fabric, biting into skin beneath. Smoke curled from him, thin and bitter.

But…it didn’t stop him. It only made him laugh. A broken, delighted sound clawed up from his chest as he straightened, eyes glowing red now, brighter…hungrier. 

“There it is,” he rasped, “there it is…show me again.” 

Amelia’s breath hitched. Her hands trembled as she tried to summon it again—tried to shape it, control it—but it flickered, unstable. Too bright one second. Gone the next. 

“I don’t—” she gasped, “I don’t know how—”

Remmick stalked closer. 

“You don’t need to know,” he spoke softly, hauntingly, “you just need to bleed.”

Remmick lunged again—

And the forest split. Not with sound. With light. 

A clean, violent beam cut through the dark wilderness, cold and focused, nothing like Amelia’s wild glow. It struck Remmick from the side with surgical precision, blasting him backward into a tree so hard the trunk cracked.

The woods went eerily still. Even Amelia’s breath caught in her chest. 

Remmick hit the ground hard, smoke rising from his skin, body twitching as something ancient and furious stirred beneath the burn. 

Then, a voice followed. Calm. Measured. Unmoved. As if the forest itself was speaking. 

“You hunt too loud, fanger.” 

Amelia turned. 

She hadn’t seen her arrive. One moment the trees were empty. Then the next, she was there. 

Virelle stood just beyond the reach of the scattered light, her figure still and composed like she had stepped out of the night itself. No rush. No panic. 

Her gaze flicked once to Amelia. Sharp. Assessing. Then, back to Remmick.

“Still clingin’ to scraps in foreign soil,” Virelle said, almost bored, “you grow desperate.” 

Remmick rose slowly, head tilting, lips curling back into something feral. 

“…Virelle,” he breathed, recognition slipping into his tone like a blade. “Didn’t think they still sent watchers this far south.” 

“They don’t,” she replied. “I came on my own.” 

Amelia’s pulse roared in her ears. She didn’t understand what was happening, who this woman was, but her fae knew. Something older than fear. Something that said she wasn’t an enemy, but not safe either. 

Remmick wiped at the burn on his chest, his fingers coming away dark. 

“And this one yours?” He asked, nodding toward Amelia. “Little halflin’ glowing in the woods like o’ dinner bell?” 

Virelle didn’t answer. Her eyes shifted to Amelia again, taking in the trembling hands, the unstable light flickering beneath her skin, the grief still clinging to her like damp cloth. 

“You flare too loud, little girl. You sure you Lysara’s offspring?” Virelle said simply. 

The words landed like a bolder to her chest. Harder than any comfort could have. 

Then—

Remmick moved again. Faster. Angrier. 

Virelle remained still. 

Her hand lifted, just slightly, and the light answered her like it had been waiting. 

Controlled. 

It shot forward in a narrow, blinding arc and struck Remmick mid-lunge, snapping his body sideways and driving him across the forest floor in a violent drag of dirt and bark. He roared this time, no laughter in it now. Virelle stepped forward once, that was all. But the ground shifted beneath her feet. The light collapsed in on itself and everything went dark. For a single breath, Ameila couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel the ground. Couldn’t hear the forest. Only the echo of her own pulse. 

Then, they were somewhere else. Cooler. Thicker. Deeper into the woods where the trees grew taller and the moonlight barely touched the ground. No sign of Remmick. No broken bark. No scorched earth. 

Amelia staggered, catching herself against a tree, long hair frizzy and wild, dress dirty, face covered in dry tear streaks and sweat. Eyes blurry. Fingers tingling after the light that burst out in flickers. 

“Wha—” she choked. “What was that—where—”

Virelle stood a few paces away, untouched, unbothered, uninterested. She watched Amelia like a problem she hadn’t decided how to solve yet. 

“That,” Virelle said. “Was what’s been sniffin’ at your heels since you crossed into this place.” 

Ameila shook her head, trembling. “He—he said he was gon—”

“Yes,” Virelle cut in. “He was.” 

Amelia’s light flickered again but weak. Exhausted. Virelle’s gaze dropped to her hands, then back up to her face. 

“You don’t know how to use it.” She said. 

Amelia swallowed hard. “I…I tried—”

“You panicked.” 

“I was about to be killed!” 

“And you nearly handed yourself over.” 

Virelle’s words were cold. Clean. Unforgiving. No room for understanding. Ameila flinched like she’d been struck. Virelle stepped closer, enough now that Amelia could see her clearly. The stillness in her. The absence of fear. And her fae stirred. 

“You don’t understand what you are.” Virelle said. “And because of that…everything around you suffers for it.” 

Amelia’s chest tightened. “Who are you?” 

A pause. Then…

“Someone who’s been watching you burn everything you touch.” 

Amelia’s breath hitched. 

Somewhere far off, deep in the trees they’d left behind, a low, furious howl echoed. 

Remmick. 

He was still alive. Ready to hunt again. Virelle didn’t bother acknowledging the sound of Remmick’s ferocity, but her eyes sharpened. 

“He’ll come again,” she said. 

Amelia’s lungs burned as she tried to steady her breathing. 

It wasn’t working. 

Her chest rose too fast. Her hands trembled. That light inside her that was usually a low hum felt raw now. Scraped open like it had been dragged out of her without warning and didn’t know how to settle back into place. 

“You gon’ stand there staring at me like I ain’t almost just died?” Her voice cracked, sharp with fear and anger. “Or you gon’ tell me what the yell is goin’ on?” 

Virelle stood with her weight balanced evenly, hands relaxed at her sides, eyes fixed on Amelia like she was studying something fragile and inconvenient at the same time. 

It made Amelia’s skin crawl.

“Who are you?” Amelia pressed, stepping forward. “And how you just do that? Where we at? What was that thing—”

“A vampire.” Virelle said. 

Amelia blinked. “A what?” 

“A predator,” Virelle continued, as if Amelia hadn’t spoken. “Older than most things that walk this land. Drawn to power. To blood. To anything that burns bright enough to be worth the trouble.”

Amelia shook her head, frustration rising fast. “That don’t explain you.” 

“No,” Virelle said. “It doesn’t.”

Amelia’s jaw tightened. “Then explain it.” 

Virelle’s gaze shifted slightly, dragging over Amelia’s face, her trembling hands, the faint flicker still dancing beneath her skin.

“You’re unstable.” 

Amelia flinched. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

A sharp breath left her.

“I got chased through the woods by some—some thing tryin’ to eat me and that’s what you got to say?” 

“What I have to say,” Virelle replied, voice even, “is that you are loud, untrained, and careless with a power you don’t understand. That makes you dangerous. Not just to yourself.” 

Amelia stared at her, stunned. 

“You don’t know me,” Amelia said.

“I know enough.” 

“Then say it!” Amelia snapped, emotion breaking through. “Say what you think you know ‘bout me!” 

Virelle took on step closer. 

“You don’t know what you are, she said. “But you feel it. Every time your emotions spike. Every time someone gets too close. Every time you want something badly enough to bend the world around you.” 

Amelia’s throat tightened. “That ain’t—”

“You killed a man.” 

Ameila staggered back like she’d been struck.

“I didn’t mean to kill Nathaniel. It was an accident—”

“You still did it.” 

Virelle’s voice didn’t rise or accuse. It just…stated. 

Amelia’s eyes burned. “I lost control. I told you that. I didn’t know what was happenin’ to me.” 

Virelle’s expression didn’t change. 

“You led him into the water. You let your emotions climb. And your light answered. You wanted to kill him and your fae gave you the push you needed to do it.”

Amelia shook her head, tears spilling now. 

“I…It just…it happened.” 

“Keep selling that lie to yourself Amelia to make you feel better.” The quiet in Virelle’s tone was suffocating. “You don’t direct it. You don’t contain it. You react. And everything around you pays the price for that.” 

Amelia’s chest heaved. “You talkin’ like I chose this.”

“No,” Virelle said. “I’m talking like you refused to learn it.” 

Amelia’s hands curled into fists. “Learn from who?” She demanded. “My grandmother died before she could tell me everything. My mama ain’t never been there. I been tryin’ to figure this out on my own—”

“And in the process,” Virelle cut in, “you attached yourself to the first place that felt like safety.” 

Amelia went still. 

“You embedded yourself in a house already rooted in ancestral work,” Virelle continued. “A woman who practices. A man bound to her. Another drawn to power and pleasure. You placed yourself at the center of something already alive.” 

Amelia shook her head slowly. “Stop. Annie was the one person I could feel safe with. I didn’t do that on purpose. I didn’t charm them on purpose.” 

“No,” Virelle said. “But you did it anyway.” Her eyes flicked briefly, toward Amelia’s chest. “You made sweetening work.” 

Amelia’s breath caught. 

“I…” she hesitated. “It wasn’t for them. I made it for myself. To soften things. To keep peace—”

“And instead,” Virelle said, “you amplified what you already are.” 

The realization crept in slow and sick. 

“You think that jar worked on its own?” Virelle went on. “You think it didn’t respond to you? Your blood? Your nature?” 

Amelia’s voice dropped. “I didn’t mean to trap nobody.” 

“You didn’t have to mean it.” Virelle’s gaze sharpened like daggers. “You’re a conduit. Not just for desire. For attachment. Obsession. Longing. That jar didn’t create those feelings…it fed them. And you stood at the center of it while it did.” 

Images flickered behind Amelia’s eyes. 

Annie’s hands on her hips and her lips and tongue on her pussy. 

Smoke’s stare and obsession with her smell, his nose pressed into her bloomers. 

Stack’s voice telling her he loved her the look in his eyes when he mounted her and fucked her in the backseat of his car. 

Her stomach turned. 

“I didn’t force them,” she whispered. 

“No. But you made it easier for them not to resist.”

Amelia’s shoulders caved in, her hands covering her face as she cried openly now. The kind of crying that came from being stripped down to truth you didn’t want to face. 

“I—I just–just wanted somewhere to–to belong,” Amelia choked. “That’s all I wanted.” 

Virelle watched her. Unmoved. 

“That doesn’t make you harmless.” 

Amelia dropped her hands, eyes blazing through tears. “Then what do you want from me?!” 

Virelle paused, then…

“I’m here because you’ve become a problem.” 

“A problem,” Amelia repeated, hollow. 

“Yes.” 

“For who?” 

“For everything around you.” 

Amelia laughed once. Bitter. Broken. “So what, you here to kill me then?” 

Virelle’s gaze lingered. She didn’t answer right away. 

“If that were the case,” she said finally, “you wouldn’t still be standing.” 

Amelia wiped at her face, breathing uneven. “Then why reveal yourself now?” 

Virelle looked past her for a moment. Into the trees. Listening to something Amelia couldn’t hear. 

“Because something else has.” Virelle said. 

Amelia followed her gaze instinctively. 

“Remmick,” Virelle added. “He felt you.” 

A chill crept through Amelia’s spine. 

“And he won’t stop. Virelle said. “Not now that he knows what you are.” 

Amelia swallowed hard. “Then teach me.” 

It came out raw. Desperate. 

“Teach me how to control it. How to stop this from happenin’ again. I can’t keep—” her voice broke, “—I can’t keep hurtin’ people.” 

For the first time, Virelle’s expression changed. She didn’t appear as hard, although that was still simmering. She was more focused. 

“You don’t get control because you ask for it,” Virelle said. “You get it when you stop pretending you’re not capable of destruction.” 

Amelia’s chest tightened. “I know what I did.” She said quietly. 

“Knowing isn’t enough.” 

The silence between them was thick and waiting. Amelia lifted her chin, even with tears still on her face. 

“Then don’t stand there talkin’ down to me like I’m some mistake,” she said. “Either help me…or leave me alone.” 

Virelle studied her. Long enough that the forest seemed to hold still around them. 

Then, a distant sound cut through. Another growl.

Remmick. 

Closer than before. 

Virelle’s eyes sharpened. “He found the trail.” 

There was no more time to argue. 

He had her scent now. 

Amelia felt it before she heard it again. Her chest tightened, her breath turning shallow as that same wrongness crept back over her skin. Her light flickered in response, weak but restless, like it was trying to rise and didn’t have the strength. 

“He’s comin’,” Amelia whispered. 

“I know,” Virelle said. 

No panic. No urgency in her tone. 

Amelia turned in place, scanning the dark between the trees like she might see him any second. “We gotta go!!” 

“We are going,” Virelle replied, stepping forward. “But I’m not dragging you blind through these woods again. You’ll leave a trail he can follow in his sleep.” 

Another crack split the distance. 

Closer. 

Amelia panicked. “Then what do we do?!” 

Virelle turned and looked fully at her now. 

“Where can you go,” she asked, “where your scent is already known…where your presence won’t raise suspicion…where you can hide without feelin’ like you’re hidin’?” 

Amelia’s mind scrambled. Images flickered too fast to hold—Annie’s—no…no. She’s not welcome there—Club Juke—how would she get inside?

Then…

Pearline. 

A small house. Quiet. Tucked away. A place that didn’t ask too many questions. 

“She got a place,” Amelia said quickly, voice shaking. “Pearline. She lives on the edge of town, near the low fields. Keeps to herself. Ain’t nobody gon’ be lookin’ for me there.” 

Virelle held her gaze for a moment. Measuring. 

“Think carefully,” she said. “You lead me somewhere unsafe, I will not stay to clean it up.”

“I ain’t lyin’,” Amelia snapped, fear sharpening her tone. “She’s safe. She don’t know nothin’ about this. She just…she minds her business.”

Another sound tore through the trees, accompanied by a wet inhale. A hiss.

Remmick was enjoying this. 

Virelle reached for Amelia. Her hand closed around Amelia’s wrist firm and grounding. 

“Picture it.” She said. 

Amelia’s breath stuttered. “What?” 

“The house. The road. The land around it. Don’t think—see it.” 

Amelia squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the image to the front of her mind. The shape of Pearline’s porch. The lean of the roof. The narrow dirt path leading up to it. The way the land dipped slightly before the yard opened up. 

“I got it.” Amelia said. 

“Good.” 

The air seemed to tighten. It felt like her body was being pulled away. Amelia barley had time to grasp before everything changed. 

The ground vanished. The trees folded inward. Sound dropped out of the world. For a split second, there was nothing but a hollow silence and the echo of her own pulse. 

And then, they were standing somewhere else. Amelia staggered forward, catching herself on the rough edge of a wooden post. Her breath came back in a rush. The smell of dry grass and old wood burned her nose. 

Pearline’s place.

It sat peaceful beneath the night sky, tucked back from the road like it had learned not to draw attention to itself. The house was small, one story, its paint long since worn down to soft gray wood. The porch sagged slightly at one corner, but the steps were swept clean. A rocking chair rested near the door, its wood polished from years of use. A lantern hung from a hood casting a warm circle of light across the boards. Beyond the house, the land stretched out flat and open, low fields kissed by the last of the evening air. The grass whispered softly with each passing breeze. 

Amelia’s chest rose and fell as she took it in, still trying to catch up to where she was. 

“We here,” she said, almost In disbelief. 

Virelle released Amelia’s wrist. Her gaze swept the property once with sharp and efficient eyes. The house. The land. The edge of the dark. 

Evaluating. 

“This will do.” She said.

Virelle’s attention shifted back toward the trees, listening. Amelia followed her gaze, her stomach tightening again. 

“You think he—”

“He will come.” Virelle said. “Just not yet.” 

Amelia swallowed hard, wrapping her arms around herself. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her cold. Shaken. 

“What do we do?” Amelia asked. 

Virelle finally looked at her again. For the first time since she appeared, there was something else in her expression. 

Focus.

“We make sure,” she said, “that when he does…you’re not the same thing he chased into those woods.” 

Moonlight filtered through the thin curtains of Pearline’s bedroom that was heavy with the scent of sweat and the river’s distant humidity. Sammie Moore had been there since dawn, slipped in after Stack dropped him off. Her husband was still gone, a letter came in saying his trip would be extended for at least another week. A full day tangled in sheets and each other, the world outside forgotten. Sammie couldn’t get enough of Pearline, especially not of her pussy—insatiable, drawn to it like a moth to flame. Loving the raw, musky taste that built through the hours, her scent deepening in the same drawers she’d worn since that morning. 

Pearline lay back on the bed, her deep brown skin sheened with sweat, legs parted wide as she watched Sammie with those expressive eyes, a mix of command and surrender in her gaze. She was still in her lilac-colored robe, hiked up around her waist, the cotton drawers tugged aside just enough. She was in no rush to change; she let the day’s wear cling to her, knowing it drove him wild. 

“Come here, boy,” Pearline said with a sultry tone, voice floating like she was singing to him. 

She patted the mattress between her thighs. Her fingers trailed down her belly, parting the damp fabric, revealing dark curls matted with her arousal, her pussy lips swollen and slick from his earlier attentions. 

Sammie crawled forward on his knees, his lean body buzzing with lust, eyes locked on her like she was salvation and sin wrapped in one. At twenty, he was all eagerness and learning, the Preacher’s son unraveling thread by thread. Guilt flickered in his chest—what would Pop say?—but it drowned under the pull of her, the way she opened for him, trusted him with this scared mess from her honey pot. Sammie settled between her knees, hands gripping her thighs, spreading them wider as he leaned in, the bridge of his nose brushing the damp crotch of her drawers first, inhaling deep. That taste…that smell—earthy, tangy, built up from her sitting through the Delta heat—it hit him hard, his dick twitching in his trousers, hard like locomotive steel. 

Sammie hooked his fingers into the waistband, pulling the drawers down her legs slow, letting them bunch at her ankles before tossing them aside. Pearline’s pussy was right there, exposed, glistening folds parted slightly, clit peeking out swollen and begging. Sammie dove in without a word, mouth latching into her, tongue flat and broad as he licked from her creamy entrance up to her clit in one long, hungry stroke. She tasted like everything he craved—salty-sweet, her juices coating his tongue, the day’s essence making it richer, more forbidden. He imagined what she must taste like after working the fields. Or after a performance at Messenger’s. 

Pearline’s hand found his hair, nails tugging on coarse hair, guiding him, “Right there,” she instructed, voice husky, hips lifting to press her pussy against his face. “Stay on that spot…my clit, baby. Don’t wander.” 

Sammie obeyed, lips sealing around the nub, sucking gently like she was a pair of lips he was kissing tender. His tongue circled, then he flicked the tip against her clit before flattening to lap in lazy swipes. Pearline moaned softly, thighs trembling around his ears, the sound validating him, making his chest swell with pride even as attachment knotted deeper. 

“Go slow with the tongue,” Pearline breathed, her free hand cupping her breast, pinching the nipple through the fabric of her ribe as she watched him work. “Like you savorin’ it. Yeah…just like that.” 

Sammie was a good learner, always had been—earnest, attentive, hanging on her every word like his father’s sermons. He eased his pace, tongue dragging languid across her clit, then dipping lower to thrust inside her pussy, fucking her with it shallow before returning to suckle the sensitive peak. Her arousal flooded his mouth, dripping down his chin, and he groaned against her, the vibration making her buck. 

Pearline was wetter now, pussy clenching around nothing as he ate her out, his hands kneading her ass, pulling her closer.

“Suck on it soft,” she directed, voice edging toward a gasp, “like kissing lips…gentle, but firm. Don’t stop.” 

Sammie followed, mouth working with precision, alternating sucks and slow licks, his nose buried in her coils, breathing her in. The secrecy of it all added urgency, her husband’s shadow making every lap feel stolen; temporary. For her, this was breathing, being touched with intention, wanted as a woman alive. For him, it was manhood, unfolding, losing pieces of innocence to her taste, her instructions, willingly stepping into the danger. 

Pearline’s breaths came quicker, her hips rolling against his face. 

“Deeper now…put that tongue back inside, then back up.” 

Sammie complied, plunging his tongue into her hole, tasting the depths, lapping at her walls before sliding up to circle her clit again. Pearline was close, body tensing, and he doubled down, sucking harder on the command in her eyes, fingers slipping to part her folds wider for better access. Her climax hit sudden—pussy pulsing, juices gushing as she cried out. Her thighs clamped his head, riding his mouth through the waves. 

Sammie didn’t pull away, he licked her clean and savored the aftershocks. When she finally relaxed, hand stroking his cheek, she looked down at him with those beautiful eyes full of release and something deeper. 

“Good boy,” she whispered, pulling him up for a kiss, tasting herself on his lips. 

Sammie eased up from between Pearline’s thighs, his lips shiny with her  juices, chin slick. He knelt there, lean frame taunt with arousal so intense he felt like he would explode just from the taste of her on his tongue. He stared down at her, his eyes wide and earnest, Preacher Boy turned devourer. Pearline lay sprawled on the rumpled bed, her lilac satin robe fallen open like a spilled petal, the smooth fabric clinging to her curves where sweat beaded on her deep brown skin. She’s dabbed on jasmine oil that morning, the sweet, heady floral scent blooming warm from her neck and wrists now mingling with the musk of her arousal. 

Her wild curls fanned out on the pillow, dark and untamed, framing her face like a halo of midnight. Her eyes are glossy from her climax that still rippled through her, half-lidded and sated. She gazed up at Sammie with a lazy smile, chest rising steady, one hand idly tracing the edge of her robe where it gaped over her breast. 

Sammie wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. That taste lingered on his tongue, tangy and addictive, pulling him back like a river current. He needed more of her pussy, more of that forbidden feast that Stack had talked vulgar about during drives to Club Juke, lessons passed like contraband. 

“Stack…he told me ‘bout findin’ that button down there.” Sammie said, voice rough, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand but not quite breaking the stare. “Said to savor it like an ice cream cone. Slow licks, make it last. And keep givin’ the woman what she deserves. A good lickin’, and a happy endin.’” 

Pearline let out a soft giggle, the sound bubbling up warm and surprised, her full lips curving as she propped on her elbows. 

“Oh, that cousin of yours…Stack got a way wit’ words. Teachin’ you right, ain’t he?” 

Her voice carried that southern lilt, smooth as molasses, eyes sparkling with amusement and the afterglow of a woman wielding pussy power. Validation that made her feel seen, wanted beyond the drudgery of her days. 

Before she could say more, Sammie moved quick, surprising her with that surge. His hands gripped her knees, pinning them up to her chest, folding her open wide. Pearline’s, hairy pussy was exposed in full, lips pulled apart, clit peeking like a ripe berry, hole leaking. She gasped, a mix of shock and delight, her body surrendering under his touch. 

“Sammie—”

He was diving back in, face burying between her thighs, but not with frantic laps, no, he started with just kisses—lips pressing tender to her wet curls that shielded her outer lips, then inner, like he was greeting a lover’s mouth. Peck after peck. Pearline moaned, almost as if she was serenading him. Her hands flew to his head, fingers tangled in his thick hair. 

“Ooh, Sammie…mmm, baby…”

Each kiss sent sparks up her spine, her hips twitching despite the pinned position. Sammie kissed directly over her entrance next, lips sealing, tasting the fresh trickle of her arousal without a tongue in sight, just the pressure of his lips.

“Your cousin taught you well,” Pearline breathed, voice hitching as his lips brushed her clit in a feather-light kiss, making her arch. “You may be a young man, fresh as spring rain, but lawd, you sure know how to use them lips. Pleasin’ a woman like me…don’t stop, baby. Keep kissin’ it just like that.”

Pearline’s moans grew deeper, drawn-out sighs and low hums with vocal slides like she was making love with her mouth to a microphone. She called his name in that husky drawl—“Sammie, oh Sammie”—legs trembling against his hold. 

He kept at it, kissing every inch, devoted, drawing out her whimpers until her body quivered again, on the brink. His lips mapped her pussy with a steady overflow of kisses that grew firmer, more insistent, each one pressing deeper. Her outer lips, that rich, deep mahogany hue blending into the warm brown of her thighs, began to swell under the attention, plumping pull and heavy. Her inner lips peeked out more like wings, flushed a deeper coral, slick and parting just enough to reveal the tender pinkish core beneath, all of it framed by the coarse, dark curls at the top that were matted now with her growing wetness. With those kisses alone, Pearline started leaking—clear strands of her arousal seeping from her entrance, coating his lips and chin. 

Her clit throbbed into view, swelling to a firm pearl, hooded and begging without words as it pulsed under his gentle presses. Pearline’s breath came quicker, her wide eyes fluttering, that sated glow from before reigniting into something fiercer. 

“Mmm, that’s it, baby…keep kissin’ me there,” she whispered, guiding him like a patient teacher in a one-room schoolhouse. “Right on them lips…feel how I’m openin’ for you? Lawd, your mouth’s got me all stirred up.” 

Sammie patted his lips wider, drawing her inner lips and clit into his mouth, slick petals yielding to the pull, making her hips jerk once. Pearline gasped sharp, a whimper threading through it, her hand sliding from his curls to hook firm on the back of his neck, nails digging just enough to urge him on.

“Suck it like that, Sammie—oh, honey, yes. Get that clit, pull ‘em in your mouth. Ain’t nobody ever…mmmph.” Her words broke into a moan, low and rolling like thunder over the fields. 

His energy poured out relentless, that Preacher Boy devotion twisted into something raw and worshipful—eyes closed tight, shoulders hunched as he worked her pussy with single-minded fire, like he was atoning for every forbidden thought in one endless act. No hesitation, just pure, astounding need to draw every sound from her, to make her body sing under his touch. Pearline’s instructions kept coming, husky and fragmented between gasps. 

“Suck that wet part, make it pop. Yeah, kiss like…oh, lawd, you doin’ it right.” 

Pearline’s levitated her hips then, lifting clean off the bed, her knees still pinned but her core thrusted up, shoving her pussy hard into his face—feeding him every swollen, creamy, gushy inch, grinding against his sucking mouth with a sensual Dan e born of pure want. 

Sammie met her halfway, his large hands sliding under to cup her ass, firm cheeks filling his palms, the skin there smooth and sweat-slick. He squeezed, pulled her closer, pushing more pussy onto his lips, burying his face deeper until his nose brushed her curls. Sammie zeroed in, tongue joining the suck, lapping flat and broad over her clit before sealing his lips around it, sucking steady while his tongue swirled the tip. Then down to her inner lips, his tongue flicking between the petals, flattening at her entrance, lips puckering to suck whatever creamy goodness resided on her slick walls. The wet sound of his mouth was ridiculous, mingling with the distant call of a mockingbird outside. 

Pearline twitched hard, her body a live wire, thighs quivering against his hold, belly tightening as waves built fierce. Moans spilled free, turning to whimpers that pitched higher, gasps ripping from her throat with every suck on her clit. 

“Sammie…oh, baby, it feels so good—don’t you stop, keep suckin’ that…mmm, right there.” 

Her hips bucked wilder, shoving pussy into him, the pressure of his hands on her ass only fueling the grind, jasmine-scented sweat beading fresh on her skin, robe twisted forgotten beneath her. The build was too much, too fast—her words tangled, unable to form the warning, just choked.

“I-OH!!!” 

It crashed over her. Her climax hit like a Delta Storm, pussy cat clenching and flooding his mouth with a fresh gush, clit pulsing under his relentless sucks and licks. Pearline arched rigid, a long, keening moan tearing out—“PREACHER BOY!!”—body shaking as spasms rippled through her core, whole pussy contracting against his tongue. Sammie didn’t pull back right away, eating her through it all, sucking softer, licking that clit I’m slow circles to draw out every aftershock, swallowing her release with that same devoted hunger, hands kneading her ass to hold her in place. Pearline collapsed back, spent and trembling. 

Sammie eased off her then, his lips trailing wet kisses down the inside of her thighs, those smooth, deep brown curves quivering from the aftershocks. He peppered them gentle, savoring the salty tang of her skin mixed with the perfume oil that clung to her like summer vine, working his way lower until her legs relaxed fully, splaying open on the rumpled sheets. Pearline floated in that orgasmic haze, chest rising and falling in lazy waves, her wild curls fanned out like a dark halo, eyes half-lidded with a bliss that softened her whole frame. She was glowing and loose. 

Sammie rolled over onto his back, laying flat beside her, a content smile curving on his moist lips—wide and boyish, cheekbones prominent, the sheen of her pussy juice and cum smeared across his chin and mouth, glistening like dew on his skin. Pearline turned her head, gaze drifting down, and there it was: his dick straining hard against the front of his trousers, the fabric tented thick. A dark spot bloomed where pre-cum had leaked through. Pearline hadn’t touched it yet, hadn’t even glanced during their frenzy, but now it throbbed obvious, begging for attention. 

Pearline pushed up on one elbow, her satin robe slipping further off her shoulder, and reached over, placing her palm flat against that rigid length. She stroked slow at first, graceful fingers tracing the outline through the rough wool, feeling the heat pulse under her touch, the way it jumped eager against her hand. Sammie looked up at her, those expressive eyes wide with a mix of awe and hesitation

His voice came out rough and tender. “You ain’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want, Pearline. I can keep eatin’ your pussy all night if that’s what you need. I’d be satisfied with that—more than.” 

Pearline laughed soft, a warm throaty sound that rolled like river mist, her hand keeping that steady stroke on his bulge, squeezing just enough to make him hiss. 

“Well, what if u wanna know what Preacher Boy Sammie got tucked away in his pants? Been wonderin’ since you walked in here with that smile.”

Sammie swallowed hard, glancing down at her fingers working him, then back up to her face. “You sure? I mean…” 

“I’m sure, baby,” Pearline purred, leaning closer, her seductive eyes locking on his with that confidence she carried like she was captivating an audience. “I want to. And you deserve it for bein’ such a good guest…eatin’ my pussy like no man ever has, drawin’ it outta me ‘til I couldn’t see straight.” 

Sammie tilted his head, curiosity flickering through the haze. “Your husband never ate you up like that?”

Pearline scoffed, a sharp little sound, her strokes turning firmer, thumb circling the tip through the cloth where it wept for her. “No, honey. I married a man that can’t keep it up half the time and sure as hell can’t please a woman like myself. Leaves me high and dry, every night the same old nothin’.” She massaged his hardened dick then, palm pressing full along the length, feeling it throb thick and hot. She worked from base to head in unhurried pulls. “I wanna show you why they used to call me Pretty Mouth Pearline,” she added, voice dropping low and teasing, that southern lilt wrapped around the words like a bawdy blues tune. 

Sammie’s breath caught, but he nodded, stunned silent as she sat up fully, her free hand moving to his belt buckle. She worked it open, with practiced ease, the metal clinking, then she tugged it free, looping it aside. Her fingers dipped to the button next, popping it with a flick, zipper rasping down, each tooth parting. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and underwear both, peeling them down his lean hips, the fabric catching brief on his stiff dick, skin a warm brown flushed darker at the head, semi-thick shaft curved downward, the tip slick with pre-cum beading clear and ready. So much pre cum. 

Pearline let her eyes roam it appreciative, her hand wrapping around the base, fingertips meeting, stroking once from root to crown, drawing a low groan from him. Then, she leaned in, cupping his jaw with her other hand, and kissed him deep, lips pressing firm against his, tongue slipping past to taste herself on him, and that tangy mess of her release smeared between them. Sammie froze for a beat, stunned that she’d kiss him like this with his pecker in her hand, messy and unashamed, her flavor sharp on his tongue as she licked into his mouth. 

Sammie lay there rigid, his gaze locked on Pearline’s hand wrapped around his pecker, those slender fingers gliding with a twist of her wrist like she was churning butter. Speechless didn’t cover it, he cousins form a single word, throat tight as a drum. Jedadiah had run a tight ship back home, no room for anything but scripture and chores, and he’d never even lingered too long with the choir girls after service. Now here he was, stretched out on her bed with her fist working him steady, the heat of her palm sending parks straight up his spine. Sammie flicked his eyes from her face—those knowing eyes watching him close—to the sight of his dick, twitching in her grip, leaking so much pre-cum it stunned him. 

Pearline’s thumb brushed over the slick tip each time she reached the crown. She leaned in without a word, her tongue flicking out to lap away the bead of pre-cum gathered there, tasting him clean in one slow drag. Sammie’s whole body jerked, a choked sound catching in his chest as he fought hard not to spill right then, muscles locking tight while pleasure roared up from his balls. The kiss from before still lingered on his lips, but this new touch had him shaking, every nerve lit up under her strokes. 

Pearline eased her grip just enough to catch his eye. “Can I suck you, Sammie?” 

His chest heaved, the answer bursting out desperate and shaky. “Yes…but I–I don’t wanna cum fast.” 

Pearline gave a small nod, calm as ever. “It’s alright if you do. Just relax.” 

She settled down between his legs while he watched, eyes wide with nerves. Her palms slid under his balls, cupping them firm to hold his dick straight as the floorboards under the bed. Then, her lips found him, pressing slow kisses all along the length, warm and unhurried. Sammie’s mouth fell open, fresh beat of slick welling up at the tip and trailing down as he leaked steady under her touch. 

Pearline didn’t waste another second. She opened her mouth wide and swept her tongue upward, licking him from the base to the crown in one long, slow stroke, just like she was tasting a sweet popsicle on a July afternoon. The warmth of her mouth was a shock to his system, and as she repeated the motion, the tip of his dick leaked a heavy bead of pre-cum that she licked clean with a hungry flick. 

She could feel him trembling, his balls tightening and pulling up close to his body as the pleasure spiked. Pearline paused for a heartbeat, looking up at him with those dark, knowing eyes, her voice a sultry drawl. 

“You like that, Sammie? Feel good, baby?” She let out a soft, teasing hum, her tongue swirling around the head of his pecker. “Preacher Boy love this tongue on his dick? Love how I’m tastin’ you?” 

Sammie’s head hit the mattress, his fingers digging into the sheets. He felt like he was floating and drowning all at once. 

“God…you ain’t real…” he gasped, his voice breaking. “Holy shit, Pearline…”

Pearline stopped for a moment, a playful, wicked smile touching her lips. She reached down, her fingers gently massaging his tight balls, rolling them between her palms while her tongue gave the underside of his shaft a sharp, wet lick. 

“Ain’t no God in here, baby.” She whispered, her breath hot against his skin. “Just you and me. Just this right here.” 

Before he could even process the words, Pearline lunged forward. She opened her throat and took him in, sliding her mouth over him in one fluid motion. She didn’t stop at the head; she pushed deeper and deeper, swallowing him whole until the base of his dick was pressed hard against her lips. 

Sammie let out a choked sound, his entire body stiffening. He was stuck, buried deep in the wet, right heat of her throat. The suction was intense, a vacuum that seemed to pull the very soul out of him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, just lay there pinned by her mouth, feeling the squeeze of her throat muscles gripping his pecker like a vice. He was completely at her mercy, wet, muffled sounds of her taking every inch of him filling the room. 

Pearline glides her lips off of him with agonizing slowness, the wet suction making a soft popping sound as she finally released him. She kept her eyes locked on his the entire time—dark, hooded, and brimming with a playful sort of power. 

Sammie was a complete wreck. He lay there panting, his chest having, his pecker throbbing and glistening with her spit. He felt stunned, his mind racing to comprehend how she had managed to take every single inch of him down her throat in one fluid motion without even gagging. You see, them Moore men are well endowed. Packing more meat than a butcher. Sammie always struggled with where to put it all, Stack cracking jokes about it. 

“See, that’s why all the Moore men walk slow. Safety reasons.” 

Sammie frowned. “That true?” 

Stack grinned. “That’s what I tell the tailor every time he send me a bill.” 

“How…how you do that?” Sammie rasped, his voice sounding thin and strained. He looked at her, genuine bewilderment in his eyes. “Pearline…I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that. You…you use one of Annie’s spells?” 

Pearline quirked a brow, a small, amused smile playing on her lips. She let out a low melodic giggle that vibrated in the room. “Annie’s spells?” She asked, her voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm. “You think Annie got spells that help a woman suck some wood?” 

Sammie’s mind flashed back to a few days prior. He remembered skipping rocks in the pond near Annie’s shack and overhead Stack talking in a low, gravelly tone to Amelia. He recalled Stack mentioning that Annie sold a special mix—some kind of root powder—that helped women provide their men with a “throat service” that would make a man forget his own name. 

“I heard Stack,” Sammie admitted, his voice earnest. “He was talkin’ to Amelia over at the shack. He said Annie sells a mix…somethin’ to make the throat open up, to make it feel different.” 

Pearline’s expression softened into something wicked. She reached up, her fingers grazing the head of his pecker, swirling the pre-cum around the tip. She looked up at him, her eyes flashing with a pride that was entirely carnal. 

“No, baby,” she whispered, “I don’t need no conjure to suck some dick. This here is all natural. Just a woman who knows exactly how to handle a man.” 

Before Sammie could utter another word, Pearline lunged. She didn’t tease him this time; she opened her mouth wide and drove forward, swallowing him whole once again. The sensation was instantaneous and overwhelming. He felt his shaft slide past her lips, past her tongue, and deep into the tight, wet heat of her throat. 

She took him all the way back, burying him deep until her face was pressed against his pubic bone. Sammie let out a muffled cry, his hips jerking upward instinctively. He was trapped again, pinned by the incredible suction of her throat, feeling the pulsing squeeze of her muscles propping him tight. Sammie lay there paralyzed by pleasure, realizing that no spell in the Delta could compare to the raw, natural hunger of Pearline’s mouth.

Pearline didn’t give him a second to recover. She locked her eyes onto his once more, a predatory glint in her gaze, and then she dove back down. This time, she kept her hands pressed flat against the mattress on either side of his hips, refusing to use them to guide him. She wanted him to feel the raw, unassisted power of her mouth. 

She clamped her lips tight around the head of his pecker and began to suck with a fierce pull. From the very top to base, Pearline was literally eating him, her cheeks hollowing out as she created a vacuum that felt like it was trying to pull the soul right out of his body. There was no hesitation, no tentative teasing, just passionate, hungry consumption. 

Sammie was completely shook. He lay there, his lean frame twitching against the sheets, his toes curling as the sheer force of her suction scent electric shocks straight to his spine. He wasn’t just moaning; he was letting out low, guttural groans that sounded more like prayers than pleas. 

He looked down at her, his expression one of total defeat. He stared at the top of her head, the wild curls of her hair bouncing with every deep, wet slide of her throat, and he felt a sense of awe that bordered on terror. To him, Pearline didn’t seem like a woman from the Delta anymore; she looked like some otherworldly creature, a siren who had lured him into a trap he had no desire to escape. 

He watched, mesmerized and breathless, as his dick disappeared completely into her mouth over and over again. The sight of his own shaft vanishing into the dark, wet tightness of her throat, combined with the wet, slapping of her lips hitting his pubic bone, broke whatever was left of his resolve. 

Pearline could feel him shaking, could hear the way his breath hitched in ragged gasps, and it only fueled her passion. She increased the pace, her tongue swirling around the rim of his head before she plunged back down, swallowing him whole with a greedy, desperate hunger. She was claiming him, marking him with every wet side, proving to the Preacher Boy that no sermon or scripture could ever compete with the visceral pleasure of her mouth. 

Sammie’s body couldn’t take the passivity anymore. The sheer, overwhelming sensation of her throat clamping down on him triggered something primal, something that drowned out the voice of his father and the echoes of the pulpit. He stopped shaking and started moving. He gripped the sheets tight with one hand and reached down with the other to steady himself as he began to thrust. He started slow, pushing his pecker deep into her wet mouth, grinding his hips against her face. He wasn’t just receiving pleasure now, he was taking it, driving himself into her mouth, causing the mattress to creak beneath them. 

Pearline’s eyes widened, looking up at him from under those wild curls. She hadn’t expected the Preacher Boy to find his rhythm so quickly, but she didn’t fight him, her tongue swirling around the head of his dick as he slid on and out. She let him set the pace, her cheeks sunkened as she sucked him past her uvula with every thrust, her eyes locked on his watching the transformation on his face. No.

Then, the sound came. A sound Pearline had never heard from the quiet, earnest boy who played his guitar in the shade. 

“Yeah…just like that,” Sammie groaned, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “Suck it, Pearline. Eat it all…you like that, don’t you? You like havin’ the Preacher’s boy deep in your throat?”

Pearline froze for a split second, a jolt of pure electricity shooting through her. The contrast was intoxicating—A boy who looked like an angel talking like a blues singer. Hearing him claim her, hearing that filth spill from his lips in that thick Delta drawl, sent a surge of heat straight to her pussy. It fueled a hunger in her that was almost violent. 

Pearline didn’t just let him thrust, she started meeting him. She used her tongue to tease the underside of his pecker, sucking the head with a ferocious, intensity every time he bottomed out in her throat. She wanted him to feel exactly how much his words were affecting her. She wanted to drain him dry. 

“That’s it, baby,” Pearline thought, though she couldn’t speak with his dick filling her mouth. She started to moan around him, the vibrations from her hums Sammie could feel deep in his balls. She increased the suction, her lips tight and wet, swirling and pulling, determined to brings him back to the edge. 

Sammie was losing it. The combination of her expert mouth and the thrill of his own dirty talk had him seeing stars. He thrust harder, his hips snapping forward, breath coming out ragged. 

“I’m gon’…I’m gon’ fill you up, Pearline,” Sammie hissed, his voice shaking with the effort of not clomaxing instantly. “I’m gon’ cum right down your throat—you take all of me. Every drop.” 

The challenge in his voice was the final trigger. Pearline dove in with everything she had, her throat working like a pump, her tongue flicking frantically against his frenulum. She was eating him with a desperate, greedy passion, her eyes hungry and dazed, demanding that he give her everything he had. She wanted it right there in the back of her throat. 

Sammie’s body snapped like a dry branch in a storm. He felt the surge start deep in his gut, a violent, electric blaze that rushed downward, bypassing every thought of sin or salvation. He let out a strangled, guttural cry, his back arching off the mattress as the first wave of climax hit him with a force that nearly blinded him. 

Sammie didn’t just cum; he erupted. 

It was the hardest he had ever experienced—a visceral, pulsing explosion that made his hand-jobs feel like a distant, pale memory. The tightness and skill of Pearline’s mouth, the way she clamped down on him and refused to let go, turned the pleasure into something almost agonizingly sharp. He felt his pecker throb violently inside her, shooting thick, hot ropes of cum deep into the back of her throat. 

“Oh God…Pearline! Pearline!” He gasped, his voice breaking, his fingers digging into the sheets until the fabric groaned. 

Pearline didn’t flinch or pull back to let him breathe or give him a moment of reprieve. She sounded down, gripping the base of his length with her hand, squeezing tight while her mouth became a seal, sucking with a hungry slurp of her lips to draw every single drop out of him. She swallowed hard, her throat working in powerful gulps, taking his hot seed as it flooded her mouth. 

His entire frame trembled with the aftershocks. Sammie felt drained, hollowed out, and completely conquered. Every pulse of his pecker sent another spurt of cum into her, and Pearline met each one with a determined suction. Her eyes locked on his, watching him unravel. She wanted him to feel the full weight of his surrender; she wanted him to know that in this room, under her touch, the Preacher’s boy was nothing more than a man driven by raw, animal need. 

As the final tremors subsided, Sammie collapsed back into the pillows, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged sons of relief. He was floating, his mind a blank slate of white noise and pleasure. 

Pearline finally pulled away with a slow, wet pop. A thin string of saliva and cum connected her lip to the head of his glistening pecker. She didn’t wipe her mouth, instead she licked her lips, tasting the salt and heat of him, a triumphant, knowing smile playing on her face. 

Pearline looked down at him—spent, utterly defeated—and let out a soft, humming laugh that vibrated in the humid air of the room. 

“Now, tell me, Preacher Boy,” she licked her lips, her voice a sultry, velvet caress. “Does your daddy’s book got a chapter on a feeling like that?” 

Sammie’s hands shot up and caught Pearline by the waist before she could finish that teasing question. With a sudden yank, he dragged her down onto the mattress, rolling so he was straddling her hips, his spent pecker twitching back to life against the soft satin of her robe. 

“No,” he panted, voice still hoarse from the way she’d just wrung him dry, “the book don’t got a chapter for that feelin’.” He leaned in close, lips brushing her ear. “But if it did, I reckon it’d call it damnation…and I’d read it every night.” 

Pearline let out a bright, surprised laugh that shook her whole body beneath him. 

He kissed her hard, open-mouthed, tasting himself on her tongue as his hips rolled forward. His pecker, slick and semi-hard again, dragged along the warm seam of her pussy through thin fabric, grinding slow and heavy. Pearline moaned into his mouth, her thighs parting wider on instinct, and he pressed down firmer, letting her feel every inch of him sliding against her swollen lips. Sammie’s hands roamed under her robe, thumbs brushing her nipples, nudging his pecker insistently at her pussy lips. 

Then came a knock. 

Three firm raps against the front door. 

They both froze. Sammie’s mouth hovered over hers, breath ragged. His mind raced starved straight to Stack—maybe his cousin had come early to drag him back to Jedadiah or help him finalize things at Club Juke or whatever trouble the twins cooked up. Pearline’sceyes flocked toward the bedroom door, wide and suddenly alert. Pearline sat up quick, sliding out from under him. She tugged her robe tight around her body, knotting the belt with shaky fingers. A flicker of panic crossed her face, the last thing she needed was some nosy fucking neighbor checking in while her husband was gone. 

“Stay put,” she whispered, voice firm, “I ain’t finished with you yet, Preacher Boy.” 

She gave him one last heated look, then slipped out of the bedroom, leaving Sammie alone on the rumpled sheets, pecker hard and aching, heart hammering as he listened for voices at the door. 

Her feet padded across the worn hardwood as she made her way through the small house. 

Something about the knock sat wrong with her. 

By the time she reached the front door, concern had begun curling in her stomach. She unlocked it and pulled it open. 

The sight before her made her heart sink. 

“Lord have mercy!” 

Amelia stood on the porch. Her curls were tangled and damp. Dirt streaked the hem of her dress. Her cheeks were blotchy from crying, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed. She looked exhausted. Like she’d been running. Like she’d been running for a long time. 

“Amelia?” 

Pearline immediately stepped forward. 

“What happened, baby?” 

Amelia opened her mouth. Nothing came out. 

Pearline’s worry deepened. Then, she noticed the woman standing beside her. The stranger was unlike anyone she’d ever seen. 

Tall. 

Elegant. 

Still.

Her skin held a pale gold-brown hue that seemed untouched by the world around her. Long dark hair fell in heavy waves down her back, nearly reaching her waist, catching the moonlight in subtle ribbons of silver. Her features were striking enough to make a person stare twice—high cheekbones, straight nose, full mouth. 

But it was her eyes that unsettled Pearline. 

They were Ancient. Sharp and watchful. The eyes of somebody who spent a very long time studying the world and found little left capable of surprising her. She wore dark clothing fitted close to her fame—a long coat draped over narrow shoulders despite the warmth of the Mississippi night. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on her. As if she hadn’t traveled at all but simply appeared. 

Pearline felt the hairs on her arms rise. 

The woman said nothing. Simply watched. 

Waiting. 

Amelia finally found her voice. It came out small and broken. 

“P–Pearline…”

The sound alone was enough. 

Pearline’s exhaled. “Oh, honey.” 

Amelia lowered her head. Tears gathered again. 

Pearline reached out instinctively, touching her shoulder.

“What the hell happened?” 

Amelia swallowed, then looked over her shoulder toward the darkness beyond the porch, then back at Pearline.

“Can we come in?” 

Pearline didn’t hesitate. 

“Of course you can.” 

She stepped aside immediately. The screen door creaked open wider. 

Amelia entered first, and the strange woman followed after her, silent as a shadow. 

Pearline closed the door behind them. 

It started in a bayou. A bayou that extended wide beneath a pale afternoon sky, its dark water and cypress trunks rose from the earth like old sentinels. Spanish moss hung from the branches overhead, stirring lazily whenever a breeze managed to find its way through the trees. Dragonflies skimmed in the distance, frogs croaked from the reeds, and birds called to one another from hidden perches deep within the swamp. 

Six-year-old Elias Moore sat alone on a flat stone near the water’s edge, his bare feet dusty from a day spent wandering farther than his father would have approved of. His overalls were stained at the knees. A thin stick rested on his hands as he scraped absent-minded patterns into the damp earth. Every few moments he glanced across the water, though he wasn’t looking at anything in particular. His thoughts had drifted elsewhere. 

Somewhere ahead, Elijah was running through the trees. Stack could hear him now and again. A laugh. A shout. The crack of a branch underfoot. His twin sounded carefree. Untouched by the ache that had settled inside Elias’ chest. 

Their mama had been gone a long time. 

He never got to hear her voice. Never got to hug her. Eat her cooking. Sit in her lap under the stars after a hard day in the fields. That frightened him more than he liked to admit. And yet, his daddy blamed him for her passing. Beat him so bad with his belt it left him raw on the ass for days. And Elijah would comfort him. Elias feared that the beatings would get worse. And that Elijah would get darker. 

Elias lowered his gaze to the muddy ground and swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. The loneliness came in waves. Sometimes it caught him by surprise. Sometimes it sat beside him all day. Today it had followed him all the way to the bayou.

A flash of movement across the water pulled his attention upward.

At first, he thought it was a bird. 

Then, he thought it might be sunlight slipping between the trees.

But when he blinked, he realized it was a woman. 

She stood beneath a cluster of cypress trees on the opposite bank. For a moment, Elias simply stared. He couldn’t have explained why. Nothing about her seemed frightening. Strange, maybe. Unexpected. Yet there was something about her presence that rooted him to the spot. 

The woman moved through the trees with an easy grace. Her long, dark hair flowed down her back, catching bits of sunlight where it touched her. Her skin carried a warm, golden-brown glow that reminded him of river stones after a summer rain. She seemed completely at ease, as though the bayou belonged to her. 

Elias frowned slightly. 

He hadn’t heard anyone approach. 

Hadn’t heard a horse.

One moment she wasn’t there. The next she was.

The woman turned slowly, and her eyes found him immediately. 

A smile spread across her face. 

The sadness in Elias’ chest eased without warning.

It wasn’t magic. At least, not in any way he understood. It simply felt like stepping into sunlight after standing in the shade too long. Warmth spread through him. The hurt he’d been carrying all afternoon loosened its grip. 

She raised one hand and waved. 

Elias looked behind himself instinctively, half expecting someone else to be there. 

There wasn’t. 

The wave was for him.

Tentatively, he waved back. 

The woman’s smile widened. 

She began moving closer to the water. Calm. Every step seemed measured, as though she already knew exactly where she was going. The closer she came, the more clearly Elias could see her face. 

She was beautiful.

Not in the way church ladies described beauty. 

Not in the way grown folks talked about pretty women. 

She looked like something from an old story. Like she’d stepped out of one of the folktales whispered on front porches after dark. 

When she reached the water’s edge, she stopped and looked at him for a long moment. There was kindness in her eyes. Kindness and something else he couldn’t name. 

Then, she spoke. 

“Everything’s gon’ be alright, baby boy.” 

Her voice carried across the water with surprising ease.

Elias felt those words settle somewhere deep inside him.

He didn’t know why he believed her.

He just did. 

The woman continued smiling, and for the first time, in a very long time, the ache of losing his mother didn’t feel quite so heavy. 

He found himself smiling back. 

The woman studied him quietly. There was affection in her gaze now. Pride, even. As though she were looking at someone she had known for years instead of a little boy she’d never met before. 

Stack tilted his head. “How you know?” 

The question slipped out before he could stop it.

The woman laughed softly. The sound reminded him of water moving over smooth stones. 

“Know what, baby?” 

“That everythin’ gon’ be alright.” 

Her smile softened.

“Because it will.” 

Stack considered that answer carefully and decided it wasn’t much of an answer at all. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but the woman was already looking beyond him, toward something far away. 

Toward something he couldn’t see.

When her gaze returned to him, there was a sadness in it now. A tenderness that made his young heart ache for reasons he couldn’t understand. 

For a moment, he thought she might say something else. 

Thought she might tell him who she was. 

Instead, she simply smiled once more. 

Then, the sunlight shifted across the water. 

A breeze stirred the moss overhead. 

And when Elias blinked, the woman was gone.

For years, that was how Stack remembered it. 

The woman appeared. She smiled. She told him everything would be alright. 

Then, she vanished. 

The memory had lived inside him untouched for so long that he questioned it. Never examined it too closely. It remained preserved exactly as he’d experienced it, tucked away in a quiet corner of his mind where grief and wonder shared the same space. Yet now, standing beside the bayou once more, something felt different. 

The water no longer moved. 

The dragonflies were gone. 

Even the breeze had disappeared. 

The world had become unnaturally still. 

Young Stack frowned.

The woman remained at the water’s edge. Except she wasn’t fading this time. She wasn’t leaving. 

Instead, she took a step forward. 

Then another. 

And another. 

The distance between them began shrinking. A strange feeling settled in Stack’s stomach. And it wasn’t fear, it was recognition. 

The closer she came, the more details emerged. The curve of her smile. The shape of her eyes. The softness of her cheeks. Features he should have recognized before but somehow never had. 

The woman stopped directly in front of him. Close enough that another face began to appear beneath it. Not replacing hers. Blending with it. Like two reflections meeting on the surface of water. Dark eyes. Long hair. A familiar smile. 

Amelia. 

The realization drifted through the dream slowly. 

The woman and Amelia. 

Amelia and the woman. 

Something connected them. Something important. Stack’s young brow furrowed in confusion. 

The woman lowered herself to one knee before him. The sadness in her eyes seemed deeper now. 

Older. 

Like she carried knowledge too heavy for a child to understand. 

“You got a good heart,” she told him softly. 

Stack shifted on his feet where he stood. He wasn’t sure what to do with that.

The woman smiled.

Then, she reached out and rested her hand against his cheek. 

Warm. Gentle. Real. 

The touch filled him with the same peace he’d felt all those years ago. 

Only now there was something else beneath it. 

Urgency. 

The feeling that she was trying to tell him something before time ran out. 

The golden glow around her brightened. The trees blurred at the edges. The water shimmered. Everything around them seemed to bend and stretch.

Stack opened his mouth. 

“Who are you?” 

The woman looked at him for a long moment. Then, she smiled. A sad smile. The kind grown folks wore when they already knew how a story ended. 

“You’ll know one day.” 

The answer frustrated him. 

Before he could ask another question, her hand squeezed his cheek gently.

Then she spoke again. This time her voice sounded far away. As though it was coming from years ahead instead of a bayou. 

“Take care of my girl.” 

Stack blinked. 

The words didn’t make sense. 

“My what?” 

The woman only smiled. 

The glow surrounding her intensified until it washed across the water, the trees, the sky itself. Everything became gold. Everything became light. 

And then—

Pain. 

A sharp ache exploded through his shoulder. 

The bayou shattered. 

The light vanished. 

Stack jerked awake with a gasp lodged in his throat. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. The dream clung to him stubbornly. He could still see the woman’s face. Still feel her hand against his cheek. Still hear those impossible words echoing inside his head. 

Take care of my girl. 

His chest rose and fell rapidly as he stared at the ceiling above him. A familiar scent lingered in the room. 

Lavender.

Rose water.

Amelia. 

Memory crashed into him all at once. 

The confrontation. The jars. Smoke shouting. Annie crying. Amelia glowing.

The force of her power slamming into him. 

Stack sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through his ribs and shoulder, forcing him to grit his teeth. He pushed himself upright anyway, one hand pressed against his side as he looked around. 

Moonlight spilled through the curtains and stretched across the floorboards. 

Amelia’s room. 

Her dresser sat against the wall. A brush remained where she’d left it. One of her ribbons rested on the counter of the vanity. Her books were pilled in the corner. A dress hung from a peg near the door. 

Small pieces of her. 

Evidence that she’d been here. Evidence that she wasn’t now. 

The realization settled heavily in his chest. 

She was gone. The dream lingered. The woman’s voice lingered. And for the first time in twenty years, Stsck found himself wondering if that day by the bayou had ever been a memory at all. 

When Stack finally stepped out of Amelia’s room, the floorboards creaked beneath his weight as he made his way down the hallway, one hand braced against the wall whenever the ache in his ribs threatened to steal his breath. Every part of him felt sore. His shoulder throbbed. The side of his head pulsed steadily. Even his jaw ached from where he’d hit the floor. 

The smell reached him first. 

Coffee. 

Sage.

Burnt candle wax.

Home.

A warm glow spilled from the kitchen doorway ahead. Stack rounded the corner and found exactly what he’d expected. 

 Nobody had gone to bed.

Smoke sat at the table with his arms folded across his chest, a half-empty mug resting near his elbow. The hard set of his jaw told Stack he hadn’t moved much since Amelia ran. Annie stood near the counter sorting through bundles of herbs, carefully separating stems from leaves and placing them into small bowls. Broken pieces of glass sat piled nearby, gathered from the wreckage left behind in the shack. 

The moment Annie saw him, she abandoned what she was doing.

“There you are.” 

She crossed the room immediately. 

Before Stack could protest, her hands were already on him. Turning his face. Checking his eyes. Pressing careful fingers against his ribs.

Stack endured it without complaint. 

Annie clicked her tongue. “You hurt.” 

“I noticed.” 

“You lucky you ain’t crack nothin’.” 

Smoke let out a grunt. “Hard-headed bastard probably cracked the shelf instead.” 

Despite everything, the corner of Annie’s mouth twitched. 

Stack managed a weak snort.

Then, the moment passed quickly. Reality settled back over the space. 

Annie returned to the counter. Smoke stared into his coffee. Stack lowered himself carefully into a chair. 

Silence lingered. Heavy. Uncomfortable. 

Smoke finally broke it.

“You still gon’ defend her?” 

Stack looked up.

Smoke was already watching him.

Waiting. 

Stack rubbed a hand over his face. 

“I ain’t defendin’ what happened.” 

“Sound like it.” 

“It ain’t.” 

Smoke leaned back in his chair. “She damn near killed you.” 

The words hung there. Sharp. Unavoidable. 

Stack’s jaw tightened. “She ain’t mean it.” 

“That don’t change what happened.” 

“No.” 

“Didn’t change what happened to Nathaniel either.” 

Silence. 

Annie stopped sorting herbs. 

Stack looked down at the table. 

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Annie sighted softly.

“I keep thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’.” 

Smoke looked toward her. “So say it, woman.” 

Annie sat down across from them. Her hands folded together. “Everythin’ she done got one thing in common.” 

Smoke frowned. “What?” 

Annie’s gaze drifted toward the dark window above the wash basin. “She lose control.” 

Stack lifted his head. 

Annie continued. “She lost control with Nathaniel. Lost control tonight. Every story got the same end. Fear. Grief. Anger. Somethin’ pushes her too far and that light takes over. 

Smoke’s expression remained hard. “Still got people hurt.” 

“I know.” Annie’s voice softened. “I know.” 

The sadness there settled over the room. Because they all knew. Nobody had escaped this untouched. 

Smoke stared into his mug. Stack stared at the table. Annie stared at neither of them. 

Then, Stack finally spoke. “I saw her again.” 

Annie looked up first. “Who?”

“The woman.”

Neither Annie nor Smoke said anything. 

“The one from the bayou.” 

The words pulled their full attention. Stack leaned back carefully and stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to organize the memory. Trying to make sense of the dream. 

“When we was little,” he began, “I told Amelia about somebody I seen near the bayou. That woman.” 

Annie nodded slowly. 

“I dreamed ‘bout her.” 

Smoke leaned in. “Dreamed?” 

Stack nodded. “Only this time it wasn’t exactly the same.” 

Annie’s brow furrowed. “How?” 

Stack hesitated. Then told them. The bayou. The trees. The water. The woman approaching. Her face. Her voice. The way she’d touched his cheek. Every detail. 

Annie listened without interrupting. Smoke stayed unusually quiet. 

Then, Stack told them the part that had followed him into waking.

“Take care of my girl.” 

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. 

Annie’s eyes narrowed slightly. Deep in thought. 

“What?” Stack asked.

Annie looked at him. “You sure that’s what she said?”

“Yeah.” 

“You ain’t never heard her say that before?” 

“No.”  

Annie leaned back slowly. The gears were turning behind her eyes now. 

Stack recognized the look. It was the same look she got when Rootwork revealed something she wasn’t expecting. 

“What you thinkin’?” 

Annie didn’t answer immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft spoken.

“You described that woman before.” 

“So?” 

“So I know somebody she sound an awful lot like.” 

Stack sat forward. Smoke did too. 

Annie looked between them. 

“Amelia’s mama.”

Neither brother spoke. The words landed harder than either expected. Stack’s heartbeat picked up. 

Smoke frowned. “You think that’s who he saw?” 

“I don’t know.” Annie rubbed her hands together slowly. “But I know one thing.” 

“What?”

Her gaze shifted to Stack. “The honey jar aint why you saw that woman.” 

Smoke’s jaw tightened. “Annie—”

“No, Elijah.” She shook her head. “A sweetenin’ jar don’t make somethin’ from nothin’. It don’t put feelings where there ain’t none. It amplifies. Encourages. Feeds what’s already there.”

Stack held her gaze. Smoke looked away first. 

The implications settled heavily between them. 

Years before Amelia arrived. Years before the jars. Years before any of this. Stack had seen her mother. Or someone connected to her bloodline. And remembered. 

All this time.

Stack exhaled slowly. “I don’t care what that damn jar did.” 

Neither Annie nor Smoke interrupted. 

“I don’t care what she is neither.” His voice was rough now. Honest. Painfully honest. “I love her anyway.” 

The confession lingered in the room. Smoke closed his eyes briefly. Annie lowered her gaze. Neither argued. Neither mocked him. Because they both knew he meant it.

After a long while, Annie pushed her chair back and stood.

“What now?” Smoke asked, lighting a cigarette with a match.

Annie looked toward the dark window. Toward the night beyond it. Toward all the unanswered questions waiting somewhere out there. 

“We find her.” 

Smoke stared at her. Stack did too. 

Whether from anger, grief, love, or some mixture of all three, neither man could tell. 

“We find her,” she repeated softly. “And we get the truth.” 

The decision settled over the house with a weight that none of them could ignore. The lantern on the table cast a warm glow across their faces, catching the exhaustion that had carved itself into each of them.

Then, Smoke stood.

The chair legs scraped against the floor.

That was all it took.

The room shifted from discussion to action.

Stack pushed himself to his feet more slowly. Pain immediately flared through his ribs, drawing a curse from beneath his breath. He pressed a hand against his side and waited for the worst of it to pass.

Smoke noticed. “You sure you can do this?”

Stack shot him a look. “You askin' or tellin'?”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

Smoke held his gaze for a moment before nodding.

That was the end of it.

The brothers disappeared into different parts of the house.

Annie remained in the kitchen long enough to gather the things she’d already begun setting aside. Her hands moved automatically through years of habit and practice. Small cloth bundles filled with protective herbs. Bottles of oil. Salt wrapped in muslin. Iron nails. Twine. A carved bone charm her grandmother had once carried. Each item found its place inside the leather utility belt resting across the table.

By the time Smoke returned, she was fastening the belt around her waist. A white tank top stretched across his broad chest. Dark trousers sat low on his hips. The leather shoulder holster he wore crossed over his back and chest, hugging muscle and scar alike as he adjusted the straps. His pistol rested securely beneath one arm. A second firearm disappeared into the back of his waistband.

Years of dangerous living had made the process second nature.

He checked each weapon carefully. Then checked them again.

Annie barely looked up.

She knew that ritual.

Smoke had always prepared for trouble the same way.

Quietly. Thoroughly. Without complaint.

Stack emerged from the hallway moments later.

He still looked rough.

The bruise darkening along the side of his face had deepened since waking. Every movement carried a faint stiffness that told Annie he was hurting far more than he admitted. Yet there wasn't a trace of hesitation in him.

He pulled a pistol from the top drawer of a cabinet near the door and tucked it securely into the waistband of his slacks. The motion drew another wince from his ribs.

Smoke noticed that too.

He didn't comment.

No point.

Stack wasn't staying behind. They all knew it.

Annie secured the final pouch on her belt and reached for a lantern resting near the kitchen wall.

That finally got Smoke's attention.

“What you doin'?”

Annie lifted the lantern. “What it look like?”

His expression immediately hardened.

“No.”

She rolled her eyes. “No?”

“No.”

The single word landed firm.

Annie turned toward him fully.

Smoke crossed his arms. “You ain’t comin’.”

A short laugh escaped her. The sound carried absolutely no amusement.

“The hell I’m not.”

“I’m dark.”

“So?”

“We don’t know where she is.”

"We gon’ find out."

Smoke’s jaw tightened. "We don’t know who else out there."

Annie’s expression didn't change. “We never do.”

“Annie.” His voice lowered. More serious now. “The Klan been active these last few weeks. You know that.”

Stack shifted against the wall. He hated agreeing with Smoke, especially lately. But this time he did. 

“He right.”

Annie looked at him.

Stack met her gaze. “If she made it far enough out, we ain’t just lookin’ for Amelia.”

Annie remained silent.

Stack continued. We could run into anybody.”

“Then it’s a good thing I know how to handle myself.”

Smoke exhaled sharply. “That ain’t the point.”

“It is the point.”

Annie set the lantern down harder than necessary.

The glass rattled.

“You think I’m sittin’ in this house while that girl out there alone?”

Neither man answered. Because they knew exactly what she meant.

Annie looked between them, emotion glimmered in her eyes.

Raw. Painful.

“I let her in my home.” Her voice softened. “I taught her. Fed her. Loved her.”

Smoke's expression eased slightly.

Annie swallowed. “And whether she lied or not, whether she wrong or not, she ran outta here hurt and scared.”

The words hung heavily between them.

“I already shoulda seen more than I did.” She looked down briefly. Then back up. “If somethin' happen to her tonight and I stayed home knowin’ I could’ve helped…” She shook her head. “I wouldn't forgive myself.”

Smoke rubbed a hand over his face. Stack looked away.

Neither liked it. Neither wanted it. But neither could argue with it either.

Eventually Smoke sighed. Long. Defeated.

“Stubborn woman.”

Annie smiled faintly. “That's why you married me.”

Smoke muttered something under his breath that made Stack snort despite himself. The tension eased for the first time all evening.

Only slightly.

Smoke stepped closer to Annie and pulled one of his pistols from the holster at his back. The weapon rested in his palm for a second.

Then, he offered it to her.

Annie's gaze dropped to it.

Slowly she accepted.

The familiar weight settled comfortably in her hand. Smoke held her eyes as she checked the cylinder.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t.”

“You better not.”

Annie slid the pistol into her belt. The lantern returned to her grip. Around her waist hung enough rootwork supplies to stock a small altar. Around them waited the Mississippi night.

The night waited just beyond the threshold.

Smoke stood nearest the door, one hand resting against the frame while the other adjusted the pistol secured beneath his shoulder holster. Stack had already started toward the door, favoring one side despite his efforts to hide it. None of them wanted to waste another minute.

Every second Amelia remained out there alone tightened the knot in their chests.

Then, came the knock. The sound echoed through the house.

Three sharp raps.

Everyone froze. The silence that followed seemed to swallow the room whole.

Stack was the first to move. His head snapped toward the door. Hope flashed across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness.

“Amelia.”

Smoke was already reaching for his weapon. “Hold up.”

The brothers exchanged a look.

Another knock followed. More forceful.

Stack took a step forward. “It could be her”

Smoke’s hand settled around the grip of his pistol. “It could be anybody.”

“It could be Amelia, Smoke.”

The desperation in his voice made Annie close her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, her gaze remained fixed on the door.

“No.”

Both brothers looked at her.

Annie tightened her grip on the lantern. “Amelia ain't gonna knock.”

The words settled heavily in the room.

Because she was right.

If Amelia had returned, she wouldn't be standing politely on the porch. She would've come straight inside. The realization drained some of the hope from Stack's face.

Then came a third knock.

Hard enough to rattle the frame.

Whoever stood outside had lost their patience.

Smoke's expression darkened immediately. “Get back.”

Stack ignored him.

Smoke sighed. “Dammit, Stack.”

Together they approached the door. Smoke positioned himself on one side. Stack took the other. Both men drew their weapons.

The atmosphere inside the house tightened. Annie remained a few feet back, lantern in one hand, pistol resting at her hip.

Smoke lifted three fingers.

Stack nodded once.

Three.

Two.

One.

The door swung open.

The woman standing on the porch looked ready to kill somebody. Rain clouds rolled overhead behind her, turning the night sky nearly black. The lantern light illuminated sharp cheekbones, furious eyes, and a posture so rigid it looked painful.

Celine Broussard–DuPont. 

Celine's gaze landed on Stack first.

Recognition flashed immediately. Then confusion.

Her eyes narrowed.

She looked at him. Then looked at Smoke. Then back to Stack. A small crease formed between her brows. The fury didn't leave her face. If anything, it deepened.

Slowly, her eyes traveled between the brothers.

One.

Then the other.

Two identical faces.

Two identical men.

Understanding dawned.

A cold realization settled over her features.

"So…that's what this is."

Her voice was low. Dangerously controlled.

Smoke didn't lower his weapon.

Neither did Stack.

"What you want?" Smoke asked.

Celine barely acknowledged him.

Her attention shifted beyond the brothers. Toward the interior of the house.

Toward Annie.

The moment their eyes met, something changed. The anger sharpened. Became personal.

Ancient.

The kind of resentment that had survived years.

"Cordelia James's granddaughter."

Annie went still.

Celine stepped forward onto the porch. She didn’t cross the threshold, but it was enough to make her intentions clear. The lantern light caught the fury burning in her eyes and for the first time since arriving, she smiled.

It wasn't a pleasant smile.

It was the smile of someone who had finally found exactly who she'd been looking for.

“Been a while since I seen you, Antoinette. Wish this reunion could have been under better circumstances but…I’m here to collect a floozy that fucked my husband. The one you’re keepin’ hidden in this house. The one workin’ in your shop? Yes…the town talks.”

Stack and Smoke didn’t flinch. They remained at the ready, Smoke with one arm extended and his finger on the trigger, Stack with a two–handed grip that didn’t waver. Annie remained still, chin elevated, never blinking as she locked eyes with Celine. 

Celine looks between Stack and Smoke, a jaded look on her face.

“I’m not here to tussle wit’ you folks. I just need the girl. Tell me where she is if she ain’t here or bring her to me. Then, I’ll be out your hair.”

Stack narrowed his eyes and flashed a cunning smirk, “She ain’t here. And we ain’t telling you shit, wench.” 

Celine rolled her eyes, “Oh, please, nigga. I’m done foolin’ ‘round wit’ ya’ll and this fuckin’ town and your lies and your games. Now if I gotta come in here—”

“You step foot past that do’ I’m a light you up like fireworks on Juneteenth.” Smoke barked. 

Celine pursed her lips, light skin turning beet red. She balled her fists and glared between all three of them, refusing to back down. 

“She killed my husband! I know it! She skipped town, he was the last person to see here I KNOW!” Celine shouted with a shrill voice. “I’m not leaving ‘til she come out!—”

“And what do you plan to do? Huh?” Annie fired back. “You plan to turn her in to the law? Kill her?” 

Celine’s eyelids fluttered and then a slow, creeping, devious smirk spread across her lips.

“I wish I coulda killed her the day she showed up on our doorstep wrapped in cloth while her worthless mama ran off. Ever since she came in our lives it’s been nothin’ but trouble. She ain’t like us. Best to eradicate her now before she cause more harm.” 

Stack was seeing red. Annie’s fingers settled tighter around the pistol on her hip. Smoke continued staring at Celine like she was an annoyance that needed to be put down. 

Celine looked between them, eyes seemingly looking past them like she could sense that there was an altercation. One twin looks beat up. The other got his hand wrapped in cloth with blood stains. Annie look like she done lost her entire world. And they look like they were ready to leave. 

“…She did it again, huh? Came and created a storm before runnin’ off like a broken doe. She ain’t human. I don’t know exactly what she is, my mama knew and didn’t tell me. My brother—” Celine paused, swallowing a knot in her throat. “My brother would still be here if it wasn’t for that strange girl. I wish she ain’t never showed up.”

Silence. Then, Annie stepped forward.

Celine locked eyes with her, cautious. Annie was eye to eye with her, 

Then—

SLAP! 

A sharp, stinging slap that sent Celine back on her heels, arms bracing the doorway. The side of her face swelled up quickly, and the corner of her lip began to bleed. She looked startled. Like she’d been slapped into a new dimension. Smoke and Stack’s eyes landed on Annie wide. They lowered their guns immediately. 

“WHA—YOU BIT—”

“You keep talkin’ ‘bout killin’ that girl like it’s some righteous thing. Let me tell you somethin’, Celine. Every rootworker know there a difference between justice and spite. One got ancestors behind it. The other got consequences.”

She took one slow step forward.

“You come after Amelia with hate in your heart, and I promise you this. Every candle you light gon’ drown in wax. Every prayer you send up gon’ come back unanswered. Every road you walk gon’ lead you right back to the misery you carry inside you.”

Her expression never changed.

“And if that ain’t enough, I got a shovel, a graveyard full of restless company, and more patience than you got years left. So tread careful.”

Celine stood with one hand cupping her cheek and her eyes swimming with unshed tears. 

Annie folded her hands in front of her.

“You knew my mama. Which means you know my people ain’t never been in the habit of makin’ empty threats.”

The way Annie spoke was never with a scream. She spoke soft. Careful. And that made it worse.

“If you lay a hand on that girl, I won’t chase you. I won’t argue with you. I won’t beg.”

A pause.

“I’ll simply sit down at my altar and introduce your name to people who ain’t breathed in a very long time.”

Her gaze sharpened. “And unlike me, they ain’t interested in forgiveness.” Annie tilted her head. “Let me save you some trouble, Celine. If you got murder in your heart, carry it somewhere else.” Her eyes were steady. “Because if you bring it to my doorstep, I’ll bury it right alongside you.” She let that sit. Then added quietly. “And the earth around here know my name better than it know yours.”

Smoke clenched his jaw, staring at Annie with a flicker of adoration behind his steadfast eyes. Stack didn’t pull his eyes away from Celine. Because even though he didn’t speak it, he mirrored exactly what Annie said. 

“Now, if you don’t mind, we have some place to be. To go look for your niece that ran scared. A niece you were supposed to protect from your nasty, fuckin’ husband. He was preyin’ on her, waitin’ for the moment to strike. How dare you stand here in your t-straps and perfect press with them pearls around your neck talkin’ ‘bout your blood like that? You think August woulda wanted that?” 

For the first time, the fury on Celine’s face cracked. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, anger and grief tangled together so tightly they were impossible to separate. Her jaw flexed. Her nostrils flared. She looked like a woman standing on the edge of a cliff, held upright by pride alone. Annie’s words had landed exactly where they were meant to. Celine didn’t fear many people, but she knew enough about the James women to understand that Annie wasn’t bluffing.

Celine stepped aside. Annie, Smoke, and Stack exited the house, shutting the door behind them. Smoke’s eyes trailed Celine walking with a hunch in her back and a shake on her shoulders back to the car she’d picked up while in Clarksdale. Then, she stopped. That caused the three of them to pause. She turned, sadness in her eyes. 

“I hate to be wrong. But I feel a heaviness.” She touched her chest. “Like a crushing feelin’. Like…like—”

“Like someone tellin’ you to stop? To be still?” 

Celine’s lower lip trembled. She looked toward the night sky. “mama…?” 

“We gotta go,” Stack whispered sternly. 

Celine exhaled a shaky breath. “Listen…anger makes you say some terrible things. I know my mama wouldn’t want harm comin’ to her.”

“Funny how a slap across the face change the heart, huh?” Stack quipped. 

“You can either come or leave. But when we find her, you don’t touch her. You apologize to her, and you leave.” 

“I wanna know why she killed him—”

Annie was getting fed the fuck up.

Celine’s composure finally splintered. The anger she'd been holding so tightly gave way to something rawer, something closer to grief. Her eyes shone as she looked from Annie to Smoke and then to Stack.

“Then tell me why.” The question came out rough. “Tell me why she killed him.”

Nobody answered immediately.

Celine swallowed hard. “He wasn't perfect,” she said. “Lord knows he wasn’t. But he didn't deserve to disappear like that. He went lookin’ for her and never came home.”

Her gaze landed on Annie.

“You know somethin’. I can see it all over your face.”

Annie’s stepped forward, lantern light catching the hard set of her features.

“For the last time, Celine, she ain’t kill that man on purpose.”

Celine laughed bitterly. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe whatever you want.”

“I want the truth.”

Annie folded her arms. “The truth is she loved him once. The truth is things got complicated. The truth is somethin’ happened that day she never intended to happen.”

Celine’s eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

Annie shook her head. “That ain't my story to tell.”

“You protectin’ her—”

“I'm tellin’ you what I know.”

Celine stepped closer. “Then tell me why she ran.”

The question lingered between them. Annie’s expression softened for the briefest moment. Not toward Celine. Toward Amelia. Toward the frightened young woman who had arrived on her doorstep carrying more pain than sense.

“Because she was scared.”

Celine scoffed. “Scared of what?”

“Guilt.”

The single word landed heavily.

Annie held her gaze. “She been carryin’ it ever since.”

For the first time, uncertainty flickered across Celine's face. Only for a moment. Then, the anger returned.

“That don’t bring Nathaniel back.”

“No,” Annie agreed quietly. “It don't.”

Smoke remained still. Even Stack. 

Annie looked directly at Celine. “You came here wantin’ a monster.” Her voice stayed calm. “What you gon’ find is a scared girl who made a terrible mistake and ain’t forgiven herself for it a single day since.”

Celine’s eyes glistened again. But whether those tears came from grief, rage, or heartbreak, nobody could tell.

Stack glanced toward the darkness beyond the front yard then back toward the adults still standing beneath the lantern glow. 

“We gotta go.” 

His voice cut through the argument cleanly. Nobody immediately disappeared because he was right. Every minute they spent standing around talking was another minute Amelia remained alone somewhere out there. 

Smoke shifted his grip on his pistol and nodded once.

“He right.” 

Annie looked toward the tree line. “We losin’ time.” 

Celine’s expression tightened. The grief returned to her face. The anger remained too. Both emotions seemed to be fighting for space behind her eyes. Then, she surprised them. 

“I’m comin’.”

Annie blinked. Stack looked openly irritated. 

Annie folded her arms. “Why?”

Celine’s gaze slid toward the woods. For a moment, she looked older than she had all evening. More tired. 

“I wanna find her.” 

The answer came quickly. Too quickly. Annie wasn’t convinced.

“You wanna find her for what?” 

Celine didn’t answer right away. 

Her jaw tightened. “I deserve answers.” 

Smoke made a skeptical sound. Stack looked away. None of them fully trusted her. Not after everything she’d said. 

Eventually, Annie sighed. “Fine.” 

Smoke looked at her. Annie shrugged. 

“We keep our eyes on her.” 

“I’m a keep more than my eyes on her,” Stack displayed his pistol. “Or I’ll get Annie to slap her ass ‘round if she try anything. That seemed to do the trick.” 

The group set off down the path. Past Annie’s shack. Into the woods. Nobody called Amelia’s name. That had been Annie’s decision. Draws too much attention. Instead, they searched. 

Watching. Listening. Hoping.

Pearline returned from the kitchen carrying three steaming mugs balanced carefully on a tray. The scent of chamomile and mint drifted through the room ahead of her. She set the try down on the coffee table and offered Amelia a small smile. 

“Drink somethin’, baby. You look like you done cried every year God gave you.” 

Amelia managed a weak laugh. “Feel like it.” 

Pearline settled into a nearby chair and tucked her lilac robe more securely around herself.

Sammie stepped in from the hallway, shirt buttoned and tucked, wiping his mouth off. He stopped short when he saw Amelia. 

“You alright? What's goin’ on?”

His eyes flicked to Virelle next, standing rigid by the window, one hand resting on the frame as she stared into the blackness beyond the glass. The stranger’s presence filled the room in a way that made both Pearline and Sammie exchange a quick glance. Who was this woman? How did she know Amelia?

"What happened?" Sammie asked. 

Nobody spoke right away. Amelia’s shoulders shook once, a small, exhausted motion. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floorboards, glowing faint with the storm inside her. Virelle didn’t turn from the window.

Sammie leaned forward on the couch, voice low and careful. “Where Stack at? He know you here? Annie? Smoke?”

Still silence. Pearline waited, hands folded in her lap. The question hung there, heavy, until Virelle finally spoke without looking away from the dark.

"Remmick wasn’t hunting you because you’re Amelia,” she said, voice cool and even. “He was hunting you because you’re fae.”

Amelia’s head lifted slow. The glow in her eyes sharpened. “What?”

Virelle turned then, facing the room fully. “Creatures like him know exactly what you are. They’ve known for longer than any of us been alive. This ain’t just about Nathaniel or Celine or Clarksdale. It’s older. Bigger. And they want you for it.”

The words landed like stones in still water. Pearline’s breath caught. Sammie stood frozen, eyes darting between Amelia and the stranger. Amelia’s hands tightened on the cup until her knuckles showed pale against her warm brown skin, the truth cracking open everything she’d tried to hold shut.

Sammie and Pearline sat stiff on the worn couch.

Who is Remmick? 

Celine?

Nathaniel?

Fae?

The steam from their untouched tea curled between them. 

The words hung heavy in the warm room. 

Pearline’s hands tightened around her cup until the porcelain creaked. 

Sammie’s mouth opened, then shut again, his eyes wide and fixed on Amelia’s shaking shoulders.

“Amelia, what’s going on? Talk to us. Tell us something.” Pearline said with a pleading voice. 

Sammie nodded. 

Amelia drew a shaky breath. She could feel her light flickering faint in her fingertips. 

“I killed a man,” she said, voice low and raw. “Nathaniel. He was my aunt’s husband. A prominent figure in the community back in New Orleans. Then he became my lover. He was the first man I’d ever been with.” 

Tears slid down her cheeks, catching the faint glow. 

Pearline’s breath hitched. Sammie leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“My aunt found out,” Amelia went on, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “I left to go back home. Nathaniel showed up. “She paused, throat working. “I don’t know how I did it…it was an accident…he just walked into the bayou and never came back up.” 

The only sound was the faint tick of the clock on the mantel. Pearline’s lips parted, but no words came. Sammie’s fingers dug into his own thighs. Both of them stared at Amelia like the floor had moved under their feet, the truth settling between the four of them. 

Amelia’s shoulders slumped further, the faint gold glow around her eyes dimming to a tired shimmer. “I’m fae,” she said quietly. “I’m not fully human. My powers cause harm more than good. I–I hurt people…Stack…Annie… Smoke… I ain’t tell them what I was. I ran. And ended up staring death in the face.”

Pearline set her cup down with a soft clink. “Is that who Remmick is? The devil?”

Amelia shook her head. “He’s a vampire.”

Sammie blinked hard, brow creasing. “Vampire?”

“I know this all sounds crazy,” Amelia went on, voice cracking, “but it’s real. I’m sorry for bringing this to your doorstep, Pearline. We can leave.”

Pearline reached across the space between them and laid a steady hand on Amelia’s wrist. “No. You stay for as long as you need to. Both of you.”

Sammie rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting toward the window. “My cousins…they might be out lookin’ for you right now. Maybe I oughta head home, see what’s what.”

Pearline turned to him, voice low but firm. “Maybe that ain’t a good idea, given everything we just heard.”

“Going out in the dark while a blood sucker roams around looking to feed…it’s best you wait ‘til morning.” Virelle spoke. 

Pearline stands. “We have a guest room. I’ll get it situated. Then you can take a bath and settle. Miss?…”

“Virelle.” 

“Virelle…the couch is pretty cozy. If that’s okay?” 

Virelle’s gaze remained fixed on Pearline. Studying. 

Pearline shifted uncomfortably beneath it. 

“What?” She finally asked.

Virelle tilted her head slightly. “Who was your grandmother?”

Pearline blinked. “My grandmother?”

“No.” Virelle’s eyes narrowed. “Your grandmother’s grandmother.” 

The confusion on Pearline’s face deepened. “What kinda question is that?” 

Amelia glanced between them. She looked lost. Virelle said nothing for several seconds. Then, she spoke again.

“You got old water in your blood.” 

Pearline stared. “I beg your pardon?” 

A faint smile touched Virelle’s mouth. It wasn’t amusement, it was recognition. 

“The blood’s thin. Barely there.” Her eyes remained on Pearline. “But I can still feel it.” 

Pearline laughed nervously. “Lady, I don’t know what you talkin’ ‘bout.” 

Virelle ignored the comment. 

“You ever know things before they happen?” 

The laughter disappeared. Pearline’s expression softened. “Sometimes.” 

“You ever dream somethin’ and then watch it happen a few days later?” 

Pearline looked away. “Maybe.” 

Virelle nodded once. “Animals like you?” 

Pearline’s eyes snapped back toward her. Now Amelia was staring too. 

“What exactly are you sayin’?” 

Virelle folded her hands together. “One of ours wandered too close to humans a long time ago.”

Pearline frowned. “Ours?” 

The ancient fae looked toward Amelia, then back to Pearline. 

“The blood almost disappeared. Almost.” 

Pearline swallowed. 

Sammie grabbed a piece of cornbread, more so for something to do. He chewed, his eyes landing on Amelia. 

“Melia, I’m sure Annie, Smoke, and Stack ain’t mad at ya.”

“You ain’t seen their faces, Sammie.” Amelia exhaled a shaky breath, a single tear falling. “They probably glad I’m gone.”

“I doubt that,” Sammie smirked, trying to make light of the situation. “Soon as morning come, we can go there.” 

Pearline returns, a few blankets in her hand, placing them on the couch. Virelle looks at them then a small ‘thank you’ escapes her mouth. 

“Any friend of Amelia’s is a friend of ours. Night. Make sure you eat somethin’, Amelia. If you need anything, my room is down the hall.”

“Thank you, Pearline.”

Sammie stands, walking up to Amelia. 

He gives her a kiss on the cheek before following Pearline down the hall. 

The woods stretched endlessly around them. Crickets sang from the grass. Frogs called from hidden pools of water. The occasional towel cried somewhere overhead. Fireflies glowed like tiny lanterns. But this glow seemed different. Like they were keeping watch.

Smoke and Stack naturally drifted toward the front of the group. Old habits. Old instincts. 

Neither brother had spoken about the war much since coming home years ago. Most days they pretended it hadn’t happened. Most days it worked. 

Tonight wasn’t one of those days. The darkness between the trees looked too familiar. Every snapped twig made Smoke’s shoulders tense. Every rustle in the bush pulled Stack’s attention immediately. 

The woods became France again. 

The memory sat beneath the surface. 

Mud. 

Gunfire. 

The feeling of enemies appearing from nowhere. 

The certainty that death could be hiding behind any tree. 

Stack hated it. Hated how easily his mind returned there. Hated that some part of him never truly left. No matter how many times he tried to hide it behind a smile. 

He adjusted the pistol tucked into his waistband and continued forward. Smoke moved silently beside him, the same tension lived on his brother’s posture. Neither acknowledged or needed to.

Then…something moved. 

Everyone stopped. 

The sound had come from somewhere ahead. A disturbance in the brush.

Annie raised the lantern slightly. The flame trembled behind the glass. Smoke lifted his weapon. Stack did the same. 

Nobody spoke. 

The woods seemed to hold its breath. 

Then, a figure stepped from the trees. 

A woman. Young. Barefoot. Thin. 

The sight of her made Annie freeze. The lantern nearly slipped from her hand. 

The woman looked terrible. Her dress hung loose from her frame. Dirt streaked her clothing. Long braids clung to her shoulders. Her eyes looked hollow. 

Lost. 

Like she’d been wandering for days. Maybe longer.

Annie knew that face. She knew it immediately. She had stared at it countless times in Shelby. Seen it in photographs. Seen it in the desperate eyes of family members begging for help. 

The missing girl. 

“Oh my God.” 

The words escaped before Annie could stop them. Everyone looked at her. Annie took a step forward. Disbelief flooded her features. The girl stared back at them. Unblinking. Silent. Like she wasn’t entirely sure they were real. 

Annie’s heart began pounding. Because she knew exactly who she was…

Lavinia Bell. 

The missing girl from Shelby. The one who was supposed to be miles away. The one nobody had been able to find. The one everyone thought was dead. 

And somehow…she was standing in front of them. 

“Lavinia,” Annie whispered.

The hands of the grandfather clock ticked quietly in the front room of the boarding house, but to Annie it sounded like gunshots. 

It was late. 

The house had fallen into its nighttime rhythm— mostly quiet except for the random sounds of boarders stirring in their rooms. A cough from behind a closed door. The creak of a bed frame. The slow pouring of water into a basin. The smells of supper still lingered like they always did this time of night, settling into the walls like a layer of time. The fragrant aroma of clove hung over top of everything, bursting through the air every time Aunt Della parted her lips. She chewed on it slowly. Methodically. Watching Annie as her fingertips smoothed gently over the leather of the sketchbook cover. 

Annie sat on the couch across from her. Her eyes looked full of possibility as she flipped through the paper, the corners of the pages sitting crisp beneath her thumb.

Something was on Aunt Della’s mind. 

Annie could feel the warm flush of her skin cooling under the quiet intensity of her gaze.

Her voice broke through the silence. “He been comin’ ‘round a lot lately.” 

There it was. 

Annie looked up.

Aunt Della stirred her drink in her hand, ice cubes clinking against the sides of the mug. “How you feel ‘bout that?” she asked. Then she took a sip.

Annie’s head lowered. Her first instinct was to not respond. Her second was to deflect. Her third was to ask why. 

“Baby,” Aunt Della probed. “I been alive too long. I know what it means for a man to stand around tryin’ to make himself useful.” She crossed one leg over the other, her ankle bouncing with anticipation like she knew this was going to take a while.

Annie’s mouth curved despite herself. She turned a page in her sketchbook, smoothing the spine down harder than necessary with her palm. 

“You like him?” 

Annie still couldn’t look up. It was like her words got stuck in her throat. The more Aunt Della talked, the more Annie felt caught off guard.

“Annie Royal, I ain’t talkin’ to myself,” she said sternly.

Annie’s head snapped up. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “I don’t know,” she said finally, in a hushed tone.

Aunt Della rolled her eyes. She let the words sit between them long enough for Annie to hear how untrue they sounded. 

“Yes you do,” she answered back. 

Annie looked down again, her throat tightening with something she didn’t have the name for. Aunt Della watched her for a moment, admiring how softly the lamp light curved around the edge of her face. It was smooth. Innocent. There was a vulnerability in her that she wanted to protect. But as much as she wanted to shield her, she knew she needed to be ready for the day the world came knocking. 

But she was so young. Barely 18. 

She remembered herself at that age. She remembered how quickly she got swept up in her husband’s kind words and gentle eyes like it was yesterday.

It happened so quickly. Marriage. Mississippi. A son. 

She thought about the day her husband came back from town hall with the deed to their house. He painted the outside a rich buttery yellow and whitewashed the shutters with a puffed up chest. Dug out the underground storage with his bare hands, a shovel, and a strength that could only be explained by a feeling he’d never experienced before in his lifetime. Pride. Ownership.

The boarding house became a sanctuary without a steeple. They took in anybody who needed a hot meal and a place to lay their heads. Musicians, preachers, teachers, people trying to get up North. And two little boys trying to escape their father’s fists.

Elijah and Elias.

She met them young. Back when their father, Adam Moore, went door-to-door in town, strumming his guitar and sipping hooch straight from the bottle while his young sons walked around hungry. 

She knew them before they went by Smoke and Stack. Then she watched them earn those nicknames in blood, gunpowder, and grit. And now Smoke was coming around her sister’s granddaughter. Her only great-niece. 

She watched Annie nervously brush her thumb against the edge of the sketchbook and sighed. “I ain’t tryna fuss at you,” she clarified. “I just wanna know where your head’s at, and how you feel when he’s around.” 

A moment passed. Then two. 

Aware. 

That’s how Annie felt when he was around.

Aware of herself. Aware of him. Aware of the space between one breath and the next. Like something inside her had started listening before she knew that there was sound. 

Loose.

Not in the way men and women meant when they whispered about such things. 

But in a way that words just came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She couldn’t carry on with him like she could with Aunt Della right now—taking the hard parts and making them sound just right so she didn’t reveal too much too soon. He got the truth before she could dress it up. And she hadn’t taken the time to figure out why quite yet. And that scared her. But it made her feel something else, too.

Seen.

She was holding back. Aunt Della could see that with her eyes closed. She could see the wheels turning in Annie’s head like she never got a chance to sit with her feelings long enough to name them. But she already had her answer. It was in the way she held the sketchbook to her chest before remembering she wasn’t alone.

She tried a different angle.  “He good to you?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Annie could reply quickly when she could answer without thinking too hard. 

“Respectful?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He pressure you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I feel like—” Annie paused, embarrassed by the honesty that sat right on the tip of her tongue. She was fighting to keep it to herself. Not because she didn’t want to be honest, but she felt like words couldn’t do her thoughts justice. And she felt foolish that she felt any kind of way to begin with. “He makes me feel….”

Aunt Della let out a sigh. “You ain’t gotta explain it yet. Sometimes when the feeling’s good, you can’t explain it right away. You gon’ find the right words when you ready.”

Annie nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“You intact?” 

“Yes ma’am.” Heat climbed up her neck as she held the sketchbook to her chest.

“Don’t let him take it, if that’s not what you want.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

A quiet beat passed. “If it is—” Her breath hitched when she cut herself off. 

It felt like the room held its breath. Annie, too. 

“Nevermind.” Aunt Della shook her head like she regretted saying anything.

Annie frowned, her lips poking out. “What is it?” She asked. Her voice was cautious, but not in the way it had been earlier. It was more braced than anxious. 

Aunt Della looked at Annie with a fierce protectiveness. “What you think about him?” she asked quietly.

Annie twisted her lips, searching for something that wouldn’t feel foolish the second it came out of her mouth. “At first I just thought he was quiet,” she said finally. “Not empty quiet, but the type of quiet that’s always holdin’ somethin’ back.”

Aunt Della’s eyes stayed on her.

“But when he’s with me, when he look at me…” Annie’s voice softened despite herself. “It feels like…the rest of the world disappears. And it’s just us. Just me and him. And he can let go.”

Aunt Della didn’t answer immediately, and her face didn’t change. The silence felt worse than being questioned. “And how you think he feels about you?” 

“Ummm….” Her eyes flitted around the room nervously.

“The truth do just fine.”

Aunt Della set her mug down on the coffee table with a soft thump. Then she sat back and crossed her legs again, twirling that ankle in the air in slow, deliberate circles. 

“Truth is…” Annie started. “I think he’s taken a shine to me. He got me this.” She rubbed the cover of the sketchbook, her cheeks warm flushed with warmth and a hint of embarrassment trying to explain herself. “He comes around, he sits with me, he listens–really listens–to what I say. And he don’t forget,” she said, remembering the note he left her, and the conversation that sparked the words he left.

“What’s all this?” Smoke asked, gesturing to the drawings sprawled across her quilt under the magnolia tree.

“Drawings,” she replied sarcastically.

Smoke sucked his teeth. “I know that,” he tutted. “What they for?” 

“Helps my memory. Drawin’ things. Writin’ them down.”

“So you remember what they look like?”

“Kinda. So I remember what they for.”

Annie glanced over, bracing for laughter, amusement, or even teasing. She got none of it. When she found Aunt Della’s eyes she wasn’t smiling. She didn’t laugh. She almost looked sad, but not in a way Annie fully understood. 

She simply crossed her arms across her chest and arched a brow in challenge. “So you think that means…what?” 

The bluntness felt like a physical thing. It cut sharply through the room like a knife slicing through a thick fog.

Annie blinked. “Ma’am?” 

“You think every man who buys you a little somethin’ or listens to you talk, means to do right by you?” 

Annie blinked twice this time.

All of a sudden, she felt every bit of eighteen. 

Not a child anymore, but not grown in the ways the world seemed to demand all at once. 

Smoke wasn’t the first to come around. She had a few who called on her back in New Orleans. Always respectfully, always in the proper way. 

She had a freedom up here that she didn’t have living under the roof of her very protective family, and that freedom allowed her to get to know Smoke in a way that would have been damn near impossible back home. 

But he was always respectful. Never pushed. Always made sure she felt comfortable. That meant something to her. Time. Energy. Intention.

She kept getting four when she added two and two together.

But maybe Aunt Della was trying to tell her she wasn’t too good at math.

“I’ve known the twins since they were real young. Seen ‘em grow into bright young men. Good-lookin’ young men that every woman in this town want a piece of.” She paused. “And men like Smoke…they can make a girl feel like the whole world done gone quiet around her. But that don’t mean the world ain’t there no more.” 

Annie’s ears had already perked up at the mention of his name. But now she listened even more intently. 

Aunt Della’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t assume nothin’ based on a man’s silence. You’ll get yourself in trouble fillin’ in blanks that ain’t yours.”

The flame of the oil lamp shifted behind its glass, throwing a soft tremble across the wall. “You got dreams. Hopes. You want your own shop right?”

Annie’s chin lifted with a defiant certainty. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t you put that on hold for him, or any man. If he really likes you, he won’t keep you from it.” Her voice got lower, like she wanted to say something hard but make it sound sweet. “Smoke ain’t a man who say much unless he mean it. But if a man really wants you, he’s gonna spell it out plainly.”

The words moved through Annie slowly, crawling up her spine and down her chest where her heart thumped a little faster. She traced her thumb along the back cover, feeling the grain of the leather beneath her fingertip. 

The ceiling creaked softly above them. Another lodger, maybe. Or just the house settling into itself. Crickets chirped low in the grass while the night wrapped around them, fully aware of what truth hid behind her silence. It chose not to soften it. 

“I understand,” she finally said, quietly.

“Now gone’ to bed. I know you tired.” 

Aunt Della stood. Annie did, too. Aunt Della turned towards the kitchen, then thought better of it and turned to grab Annie’s forearm before she got too far. She grabbed her face gently, staring at Annie with warm brown eyes. “I ain’t sayin’ all this to scare you. I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I love you.” 

The tightness in her chest eased a bit. “What were you gonna say, when you stopped yourself?”

Aunt Della’s eyes softened. “It’s not for me to say,” she said softly. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”

She pulled her into a hug then released her. Annie moved slowly towards the staircase, purse slung tightly over her shoulder, sketchbook secured underneath the crook of her arm. 

“Goodnight Aunt Della,” she called out.

“Goodnight, Annie.” 

Annie started up the stairs. Halfway up she paused, her fingers tightening their grip on the banister. She looked back toward Aunt Della who was halfway to the kitchen. 

“Thank you,” she said, just loud enough so she could hear it.

The night was dark and tonight that darkness felt loaded. The sky was bare. No stars, just an endless stretch of shadow that pressed against the windows, barely softened by the faint glow of the waning moon. 

Annie laid in her bed just staring. First she counted the cracks in the ceiling. Then she traced the lines on the walls with her eyes.

The words of Aunt Della replayed in her head. That and the feeling that something laid quietly underneath their conversation. Something Aunt Della knew and refused to say. 

Two questions came to mind. 

What was Aunt Della holding back from telling her? 

What made her change her mind?

It took a while for Annie’s eyes to get heavy while her thoughts refused to shut off. Something settled in her bones at that moment. 

Somewhere beyond the boarding house, Smoke—Elijah—had come and gone and left something behind. Something more than just a pretty sketchbook and a thoughtful note. 

Morning light came soft through the windows, a pale gold that stretched across the floorboards, taking on the pattern of the lace curtains. Annie stood at her dresser with her nightgown hanging off one shoulder, a satin scarf sliding slowly down her braids. 

She counted under her breath, the silver coins plunking against the thin metal of the container where she kept her money. It was a tea tin, a small one that smelled like mint no matter how many times she tried to air it out. The last coin clinked against the others in the tin. She closed the top of it, taking a moment to write the total on the back cover of her sketchbook. She kept a running tally there, one that she copied over from a piece of scrap paper she used to keep track of her earnings before last night. 

Annie set Smoke’s note on her dresser. She traced her fingers over the words, brushing her hand over his name on the paper. The ink pooled thickest where he dotted his “i,” and when she touched it, it stained the part where flesh met fingernail. Aunt Della’s words from last night crossed her mind as she watched the ink bloom and spread across her fingertip before slowly sinking into the skin. 

Crossing the room, she knelt near the loose floorboard in the corner that lifted without a creak. She tucked the tin into the hollow space and started to fit the wood back into place. Then she hesitated. Not because she doubted herself, but because she wanted to imagine what it would be like for a spell. Her own shop. A modest house with blue paint. She’d sell and barter healing herbs and medicines that ward off sickness and bad spirits, the shelves lined top to bottom with jars, vials and bottles of them. A long table, polished smooth by her own hands, would stretch proudly across the front room where she’d serve meals to sharecroppers and passing workers. Dried roots tied in bundles would hang from the rafters in a shed off to the side. People would come to fill their bellies and stay for something more.

That was hers. 

Annie left New Orleans before dawn, dust kicking up from the soles of her shoes and darkening the hem of her dress. She kept her money folded small, eyes cast down the way she was told to when she was traveling alone. A few things she held close to her chest— her great-grandmother’s bible, some knick-knacks, and a few letters. A burlap sack hung from her shoulder, holding some other possessions she held dear. An old trunk held the rest.

The Mississippi River laid before her, wide and brown. She boarded a boat with other people heading upriver, women with their satchels, men with their hats pulled low to keep the mosquitos away. Annie hung onto the railings, watching the trees dip their roots in the water, their branches swinging heavily in the wind like they’d seen too much. The depot was next. When she boarded the train, she closed her eyes and said a prayer underneath her breath— one for the journey, one for the destination. 

She spent the night in a Colored waiting room with families piled on top of each other and solo travelers with tired eyes wearing all their possessions.

The next day was another train. Cotton fields stretched wide beyond the thick glass of the windows, the grim landscape broken only by oak trees and tiny shacks lined up in a row. They passed by another stretch of land mostly hidden behind the treeline, but she could feel it— water, soil, roots, foundation. 

An elderly man, skin the color of pralines, sat on his porch watching the train go by. Striped overalls with the clasps unbuckled, white shirt with the sleeves rolled, straw hat, heavy work boots— but what caught her attention was his eyes. One was completely covered in cataracts. The other one looked sharp enough to hold the sight of four people. The man sucked on a stick of sugarcane while a hound dog sat by his side, tongue out, panting hard under the burn of the Mississippi sun.

Then he was gone. 

All that remained were the muted shades of nature as the train trekked through the countryside.  No house. No dog. No sugarcane. But Annie could remember every detail, even the dusty blue denim of the man’s overalls. And the expectant look in his eye.

She woke up with a jolt, spine snapping straight where she was slumped over in her seat.

The train cabin was quiet. Most people were asleep, some lingering in the corners, some just starting to wake up. Nighttime was on the horizon. Shades of orange and pink swallowing what was leftover from the day. 

“How long I been out?” she asked the woman next to her.

The woman thought for a moment. “Since we got on, I reckon.” 

“I been sleep this whole time?”

“Mhmm,” she confirmed. “Must’ve had you a long day…” 

“Must’ve…” Annie frowned, rubbing the sleep from her drowsy eyes. She looked out at the land through the thick, cloudy windows of the train cabin, and the land looked back. 

Time passed and she still remembered it all. The land. The house. The way the sun slanted just right through the trees. The man. How he looked like he was waiting for something. How real he felt, even after she realized she was dreaming. When she finally pressed the floorboard back into place the room became itself again. A bed. A dresser. An altar. And a young woman kneeling on the floor daydreaming about possibilities.

One state over, the road began to flatten towards Memphis. It was bad in places, rutted deep from wagons, farming equipment, and animal hooves. Dust rose up behind the truck in low brown puffs, sparkling in the light before disappearing up into the trees.

Smoke drove with both hands steady on the wheel. Stack rode beside him, one arm hanging lazily out the window, hat tipped low against the glare.

“So you gon’ tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

Stack sucked his teeth. “Don’t do that.”

Smoke kept driving. Stack waited him out. That was the thing with twins, when one soul splits into two. Silence didn’t work on somebody who already felt it on the inside.

“Annie,” Stack blurted after a while.

Her name shifted something in the cab. Stack could tell by the way Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly, his hands tightening around the wheel all of a sudden, the leather groaning under the force of his grip. 

“What about her?”

Stack barked out a laugh. “So, it’s like that?”

The road curved just ahead of them, pecan trees crowding close to the edge on either side of the road like they were trying to listen in on their conversation. 

“I talked to Della,” Smoke admitted. He looked over to Stack, whose smile eased a bit where he sat.

“About?”

Smoke didn’t reply.

Stack sat up fully. Back straight, slouch gone. “For real?”

Smoke shot him a look. 

Stack leaned back slightly, studying the side of Smoke’s face. “Damn,” he trailed off. “What she say?” 

It was the day before they were set to head to Memphis, and the early evening sun poured molten gold through the back windows, warming the floorboards of Della’s kitchen. Smoke stood in front of the counter watching her slice a batch of onions. Della stood on the other side, her arm moving like the wheels of a locomotive, the movement slow, methodical, and sharp because she’d done this a thousand times. 

“I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’,” he said, voice steady. 

Della kept her pace, she didn’t slow or stop. “That right?”

“That’s right.” 

“This ‘bout my girl?”

“It is.”

Della stopped what she was doing. She wiped the knife off on a kitchen towel, then set it down on the counter.

“I was hopin’ I could court Annie,” Smoke said firmly. “Proper like.” 

“What you know about courtin’ a woman proper?” Della asked. She crossed her arms. 

Smoke took his lick. He didn’t flinch.

“She ain’t just anybody,” Della said before he could respond.

“I know,” Smoke replied. Something in him leaned forward before his body did. “I wanna do it right. If she’ll have me.”

Della looked over Smoke carefully. For the lie in his eyes. For the joke tugging at the corner of his mouth. For the doubt in his posture. “You talk to her ‘bout this already?”

“Not yet.”

“You need to.”

“I will. Wanted to ask you first.” 

She eased her weight off one hip, and put it on the other. “She ain't built for no half steppin’.”

“I don’t do half.”

Della’s eyes narrowed for a second, then relaxed. “That girl want somethin’ of her own,” she said. “Don’t know if she told you that yet.”

“She did.”

“Well.” Her voice came out soft but sharp. “She got powerful hands. Hands that ain’t meant to be locked up under some man’s roof waitin’ for permission. If you wanna court her, you better not try to shrink her.”

“I won’t,” Smoke replied. 

Della picked up her knife again. She sliced into an onion slowly, the thin, methodical rhythm of metal hitting wood echoed in the otherwise quiet room. 

Lodgers started to walk in from their work shifts, heading to their rooms or back out to the porch where a few of them were squatting over a dice game. A few of them poked their heads into the kitchen to ask about supper. 

Smoke hadn’t moved an inch. He waited quietly, letting the silence sit between them, more for him than her.

“You like her,” she said. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t even need to ask. She could see it. Feel it, even. 

“Yes ma’am.”

“How much?” 

“I care about her. Wanna see her more. Respectfully.” 

Della’s nose wrinkled. “You serious?”

“I am,” he said with finality. 

Something passed through Della’s eyes as she looked him over carefully, from head to toe. It didn’t feel like judgment. It was something Smoke didn’t have a name for. He raised a brow, a silent question.

“Still seein’ other women?”

“No, ma’am.” 

“Ain’t what I heard.”

Confusion. It spread slowly across his face like the petals of a night-blooming flower before turning into something darker. Smoke flexed his hands at his sides before clasping them firmly in front of himself. “What you heard?” he asked, inclining his head.

“Little here, little there,” she admitted. She tilted her head. “May not be loud, but I can hear whispers just fine.” 

Smoke’s jaw worked. He shook his head once, firmly. “It ain’t true.”

“It ain’t?”

“I ain’t lyin’,” he stated simply. “Since I started spendin’ more time with Annie, I’ve only been seein’ her.” 

“Then why they still talkin’?”

Smoke sighed, running a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he shrugged.

Della sucked her teeth. She looked away, then looked back. “That don’t answer my question.” 

Her eyes got a little sharper, then. Defensive. She folded her arms across her chest, pushing back.

Smoke looked like he was racking his brain for the answer. When it clicked, let out a ragged, frustrated breath through his nose. “I guess, I ain’t really end it the way I should,” he confessed.

Della’s voice went up a whole octave. “You guess?” she asked incredulously. 

“That’s on me,” Smoke said, jaw tight. “But I’ma handle it.” 

“How you tryna court Annie, when you can’t even end somethin’ proper? What happened?” 

“I stopped reachin’ out,” he explained. “Ain’t seen ‘em, none of that.” He sighed into his words. His voice tight, but firm. “Thought that was it. I moved on, figured they did, too.” 

“You figured wrong,” she corrected. “You leave one woman guessin’, don’t come over here askin’ me for permission to leave another one guessin’.” 

Smoke nodded, the muscle in his jaw fluttering. “I won't. I’ma clear it up. Before I bring anything to Annie.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Della started. 

“Miss Della—” he started. 

She searched his eyes. “Elijah,” she said, in a tone that sounded like a warning.

Smoke’s gaze didn’t waver. He looked at her firm, steady, unblinking. “I mean to do right by her. I wouldn’t be askin’ you if I didn’t.” 

Della sighed. “Alright.” 

Smoke’s face relaxed. 

“There’s rules.”

“Okay.” 

“Handle that business, first.” 

“Trust me, I will,” Smoke said, nodding once.

Della picked her knife back up, turning it sideways so she could start dicing the onions. “Y’all been kissin’?” 

He wasn’t about to lie. He didn’t lie anyways, not when it mattered, but especially not to a woman who could put a root on him with one hand, and chop an onion clean down the middle with the other—at the same time. “Yes ma’am,” he admitted. 

She didn’t flinch. “That it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Mhmm,” she muttered. “No funny business in my house,” she warned, pointing the tip of the knife towards him. 

“You ain’t gotta worry about that.” 

“I know,” she said warmly. “Not with you.”

“Can I leave this for her?”

Smoke held up a thin, black leather covered book.

“What is it?”

His jaw worked. “It's for her drawings,” he said simply. “So she can keep 'em all in one place.”

“I will,” she said. She could feel the tenderness in his words, even though he tried to hide it.

Smoke let out the breath he’d been holding since he walked up the steps of her porch with a gift and a question. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, sweeping the diced onions into a bowl with the edge of her blade. “That girl’s heart is her own. She gotta say yes, first.”

“Smoke.” Stack’s voice came out quiet. 

Smoke slowed without thinking. He cursed under his breath, sitting fully forward in his seat. 

Up ahead, the road dipped towards a narrow wooden bridge that laid over a stretch of shallow, muddy water. Off to the side, something rose from behind the cotton fields. 

Dust. It came from the far side of the bridge, lifting faintly through the trees along with the sound of a mule dragging something through dirt. 

Smoke eased the car to a stop beneath the shade just before the bridge. Stack moved from the passenger seat and stalked towards the edge of the field, his body loose in the way men looked when they were prepared not to be. He looked for what didn’t belong while Smoke stayed behind the wheel listening for it.

Wind rustled through the leaves, a dry, papery sound that blew through the acres of cotton plants. Sharecroppers that sang hymns and blues songs as they moved down the line. They picked cotton with tired, calloused hands, the cost of their labor paid in bright red splotches of blood that dripped from their fingers, staining the stark whiteness of the cotton bolls. A vulture circled overhead, then found its prey. It swooped down, its wings spreading menacingly slow as its talons gripped the rung of abandoned machinery.

Stack walked back to the truck with the cautious confidence he carried no matter how many times they’d taken this route. His face didn’t show it, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Just some nigga on a wagon,” he said, waving it off.

Smoke looked back, looked towards his brother, looked towards the bridge, flexed his hands on the wheel, then steadied. 

Memphis appeared thirty minutes later. 

The city smelled like hot grease and opportunity. The sound of brass instruments hung heavy in the air, cutting through all the cigar smoke and pipe exhaust. A band played on the street once they turned the corner, a crowd of people gathered around them tossing money, dancing, and singing. Vendors lined the streets selling all kinds of treats, both savory and sweet, shouting their prices above all the noise. 

There was a lightness here. 

But Stack hadn’t spoken since they crossed that bridge.

“Just say it,” Smoke muttered.

“Say what?” He spoke with his usual slick tone, toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. 

“Whatever it is.” 

Stack grinned. He rolled the toothpick around his mouth. Cleared his throat. “I’m just thinkin’.”

Smoke waited.

He rubbed a hand over his freshly lined up goatee. Smiled again, wider this time, his gold fronts shining in the late afternoon. “You ain’t seen…you know?”

Smoke didn’t even let the question linger in the air. “No.”

Stack didn’t back down. “Last I heard…”

Smoke’s brows pulled together. “It ain’t true,” he said flatly. 

“I knew she was full of shit.” He shook his head in disgust. “She gon’ be pissed, though.” 

“Who, Annie?”

Stack looked over. “Nah.” He shrugged. “I mean, maybe…” He shook his head again. “I mean...”  

“Nigga.”

Beale Street pulsed around them. A saxophone blared loudly on the sidewalk. The sultry voice of a woman floated out from the open door of a juke they passed by. 

“Look at my nigga tryna be serious,” Stack teased, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I mean you was born serious but…” 

“Aight….” Smoke mumbled. 

“For real," he continued. Voice lighter now, but not unserious. “I’m happy for you brotha.”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Stack leaned back in his seat, arms folded behind his head as the truck slowed in front of The Monarch. The juke joint was already breathing through the walls. Music, laughter, and the smell of fried food spilled out into the street. 

“You know she good for you, right?” 

Smoke’s eyes cut over. 

Stack lifted a hand. “I’m bein’ serious,” he said with a grin.

“I ain’t ask you for all that,” Smoke grumbled. He pulled the brake and cut the engine. “I just need you to be serious ‘bout this business we ‘bout to handle.” 

Stack smoothed out his suit jacket before climbing out first. “Nigga, I’m always serious ‘bout—” He cut himself off. His grin widened. “Oh, you really like her huh.” 

Smoke stepped out after him, shutting the truck door harder than necessary. “Shut up, Stack.”

Stack only laughed as he headed towards the door of the joint. Smoke followed behind him, both brothers disappearing into the smoky mouth of the juke.

They waited until the boarding house was empty. Breakfast was long over, the kitchen back to the way it looked before the lodgers ran through it in the morning. The floors were swept, shelves dusted, dishes washed, dried, and stacked neatly in the cupboard. Flour dust hid between the cracks of the table no matter how many times it was wiped down, a chipped blue bowl full of onions and garlic hiding most of that. A heavy cast iron pan hung over the stove with something in it that would cook low and slow until supper. 

Annie stood in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled past her elbows, wiping down the edge of the table. Aunt Della watched her from across the kitchen, tending an arrangement of calla lilies in a slender glass jar. “Ready?”

Annie looked up from wiping a stubborn corner of the table. “Yes.”

“Nervous?”

Annie rung the rag out, twisting it once and dropping it in the wash basin. “A little.”

The kettle hissed softly behind them, steam reaching up towards the ceiling in white, pillowy puffs. A burst of bright, mid-morning light flooded the room through the curtains, catching the edge of a jar of dried bay leaves that sat near the windowsill and the fur of Felix who was curled up with his paws tucked under him like he was waiting on this exact moment. He purred gently, the sound a sharp contrast to the kettle whose whistle was now piercing the air.

“Come on,” Aunt Della said, leading her towards the lean-to in the backyard.

The space was narrow and dark even though the sun was high, only slivers of light peeking through the cracks in the siding. The shelves held various grooming items needed for a house full of men. Lye soap, oils and tonics, shampoos and aftershave. A galvanized tub sat in the middle of it all. Aunt Della moved two small crates aside in the corner of the room. Annie looked down, her mouth dropping open when she caught the glint of the iron ring hidden between the floorboards.

“Don’t just stand around catching flies,” Aunt Della threw over her shoulder. She was already bending over as quickly as she could for her age, hooking two fingers into the ring and pulling up. 

“What’s down there?” She bent down to help her. 

“You ‘bout to find out.”

The wood lifted from the floor with a low groan and a whistle of trapped air that escaped like the room was letting out a breath. The smell of something earthy and dark—roots, clay, old wood, and something more sharp—hit them with the first whiff that rose from beneath the ground. Aunt Della lowered herself carefully onto the first step then looked back, a lit oil lamp secure in her hands. “Mind your skirt,” she told Annie. “And close the door behind you.”

Annie gathered the length of her skirt, wrapping it twice around her hand. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, each one more narrow and steep the deeper she moved below the boarding house. The hum of the street disappeared first. Then the sounds of the backyard—chickens, birds, bees and the breeze. 

Then the daylight. 

Annie paused at the bottom to take in all that she could see from the stretch of Aunt Della’s oil lamp. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with everything from bottles to tins to roots dark and twisted that reached into the soil like fingers. 

Aunt Della led her to a door. They had to be underneath the front porch of the house, Annie thought to herself. She unlocked the room, a heavy oak door fitted with two heavy padlocks, and guided them inside.

More shelves.

Glass jars caught the flickering flame of the lamp in dull flashes. They were lined up along the walls, filled with graveyard dust, mandrake, cinquefoil, High John, and camphor. A stack of bones too small for Annie to name. A brown bag of black mustard seeds, blue glass beads, river stones smooth as polished teeth, and an assortment of other things. 

Aunt Della set the lamp on a low table in the middle marked with knife nicks and stains like old wounds. On it sat a mortar and pestle, a ledger book with a cracked spine, a fountain pen, three small bowls, and a white candle burned low in its dish. 

“This where we gon’ start.”

Annie looked around, wrapping her arms around herself. “This all yours?”

“It’s all mine,” Aunt Della confirmed. “Take a seat.” She gestured for Annie to sit on one of two cushions around the table and moved to one of the shelves. She glanced at a bundle of dried leaves, touching them lightly with two fingers before bringing it back to the table. “Some of this belonged to my mama. Some of it from women I met along the way. Women whose names don’t get spoken much anymore.” 

She opened the ledger to a blank page, then pushed it to the corner of the table. “First thing you learn ain’t gon’ be what does what, it’s gon’ be what not to touch.” 

Annie’s eyes narrowed.

“There’s stuff that heals and stuff that calls. Calling is where it gets tricky. You can call luck, love, happiness. You can call something darker. Something that settles. Something that unsettles. The thing that gives you mercy can be the same one you beg for mercy. It all depends on which hand holds it.” 

Annie absorbed as much as she could while her gaze drifted around the room. This room felt smaller, not because of its size, but because of what it held. Most things felt familiar, a few things did not. It was the few things that didn’t, that unsettled her. 

She thought of her grandmother. Of the stool in her apothecary. Sometimes she’d sit there all day, just watching. Reaching for things out of curiosity and being told ‘not yet’ so often that it became part of her rearing. 

Aunt Della must have seen something cross her face, because her voice softened. “You know more than you think,” she said. 

“Then why do I feel like I don’t know anything…all of a sudden?”

She paused. And then— “Lemme show you.” Aunt Della reached for a jar of something dried and fragrant hidden under a strip of blue fabric. She set it on the table. “Name it.”

Annie tried to peer through the glass. The leaves were green, obviously. Smooth, and curled at the edges, from what she could see. She opened the jar carefully and sniffed the fragrance that wafted through her nose. The smell was earthy. Sharp. “Sage?” she asked.

Aunt Della gave her a look.

“Not sage,” Annie winced.

Aunt Della paused a moment. “You know that ain’t no damn sage.”

Annie brought the jar to her nose again. She took a deeper whiff. It smelled different this time, something warmer and sweeter. Familiar, but not from the kitchen. “Boneset?” she guessed.

“You askin’ or tellin’?” 

“Tellin’,” she said, twisting the lid closed and setting the jar down.

Aunt Della waited a moment for Annie to second guess herself. She didn’t. “There she is.”

Annie smiled despite herself. 

“What’s it for?”

“Fevers and aches,” Annie began. “Unless you take too much.” 

Aunt Della hummed as she shuffled through the  jars, vials, and pouches littered on the shelves. “Every living thing got a spirit,” she started. “It had a spirit ‘fore it had a name.”  She continued on. “Its smell will tell you its name. But its spirit, that’ll tell you what it wants.” She looked at Annie closely, eyes narrowing. “This,” she tapped her temple, “is how you learn the spirit of a thing.” 

She reached behind her without looking, pulled another jar down, and set it on the table in front of Annie. “Name it.”

They went on like that for a while, one jar after another. Some Annie knew right away, some she hesitated on, and some that made her feel straight foolish when Aunt Della corrected her.

“Don’t just guess ‘cause you wanna be right.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You was.” 

Annie huffed softly, frustrated. 

“You gotta learn how to trust yourself, baby. Like when you close your eyes to draw.”

Aunt Della turned her back to the shelf, her eyes sweeping over her collection until she landed on a small bundle wrapped in red thread. She placed it on the table without a word.

“Gon’ head. Pick it up,” she insisted. 

Annie hesitated at first. Her fingers wrapped around it gently, something tightening low in her belly once it touched her palm. Whatever was inside the cloth was hidden, but she could feel the weight of what she held in her hands. 

“What?” Aunt Della challenged her. “Tell me how it feels.” 

Annie rubbed her thumb along the fabric. “This one feels…like it wanna be left alone,” she said breathily.

The flame of the oil lamp that sat on the low table shifted, flickering once then standing still—but it wasn’t from any wind. 

There was no wind down here.

Just darkness, soil, and walls that held their breath like lungs. 

Aunt Della watched her for a moment, then reached out and took it from her. Annie’s hands felt lighter instantly. 

“What was that?” Annie’s eyes lifted, following the bundle.

“Not today.”

“Really?”

“I said,” Della repeated. “Not today.” She sat back down. “Lesson number two. Curiosity don’t mean permission.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Power ain’t always in what you can hold. Sometimes it lies in what you know to leave alone when you ain’t ready. When it ain’t ready.” 

She looked up to the ceiling. “They know?” 

Aunt Della snorted. “Men don’t notice half of what’s goin’ on.”

Annie laughed and Aunt Della smiled back, pulling the ledger towards the edge of the table. The pages were filled with names, dates, ingredients, measurements, and notes. Some in Aunt Della’s hand, others in foreign script. Most of the entries were normal: fever, toothache, bad blood, sleeplessness. Others were less common: keep someone away, restore peace to a home, stop a tongue from speaking ill, return what was sent. Annie traced a line without touching it. Her pulse felt different as her finger hovered over the script. Slower, heavier, like something had reached up and guided her hand. 

Aunt Della flipped to the next page of the ledger, tapping a blank line on the page once with her finger. “When you open a door with your name on it, you better know what you sellin’. You ain’t just sellin’ an herb. Ain’t just sellin’ a bottle. You sellin’ a promise.”

“A promise?”

“When a woman’s hurt and she comes to you for help…she ain’t just lookin’ to buy a root. She’s lookin’ to buy trust. Silence. The hope that somebody knows what to do with what she can’t carry alone anymore.”

Annie thought about the women slipping through her grandmother’s door. Their faces covered with veils, hands holding tight onto coins, voices just above a whisper. She drew them sometimes while she sat in the corner on that stool—not just their faces, but the changes. How they came and how they left. 

Aunt Della pushed the pen, ink, and the ledger on the table right in front of Annie. “Write today’s date.”

le 31 octobre 1919

Annie wrote it in her best script. When she put the pen down she felt different somehow, like she had crossed a threshold she didn’t even know was there. 

Aunt Della moved the ledger away to let the ink dry and the moment settle. Then she stood, took down another jar from the shelves, popped off the lid, and set it in front of her. 

“Name it.”

Annie lifted the jar to her nose, but this time she didn’t rush.

She smelled first. 

Looked second. 

And listened to whatever quiet thing inside her answered third.

It took Smoke three attempts to light his cigarette.

It was later that same evening. He stood on the second-floor balcony of the Greenwood House. It sat on the corner of Hernando and Beale; the place he and Stack stayed every time they came down to Memphis. The clink of utensils and the hearty smell of andouille sausage and gumbo drifted out the open windows of the porch and floated upward to where he stood outside, making his stomach twist with hunger. 

An older woman named Mrs. Johnson owned the place and knew them well, often turning a blind eye to whatever they (Stack) got up to when they came down for business. 

“This ain’t no whorehouse! You want a whorehouse, there's plenty of them down the street! Tryna soil my good furniture. The sheets is one thing, but I catch one of them hussies on one of my couches, I’ll put you out on ya ass in the middle of the night with just ya draws on!”

Smoke held a lighter in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other, rolled up tight with the special New Orleans blend of tobacco laced with a little grass that he got from Bo every other week.

His thumb slipped on the spark wheel on his first try.

His hand shook suddenly on the second. 

He gripped the base harder, clenching his teeth on the third try. An eruption of flint and fuel sparked a flame that burned bright and angry against the setting Memphis sun and the backdrop of Beale Street.

Smoke brought the cigarette to his mouth, its red ember heating the inside of the palm. 

He exhaled with relief. 

It felt like a betrayal. That a white man’s war was the reason his hands had a mind of their own sometimes. The lack of control that had him shook. Angry.

He took another drag to calm his nerves, his thoughts searching for somewhere soft to land.

Annie.

He’d seen her walk into some shop on Issaquena a few weeks back. Long blue dress with buttons down the middle. Curved just right over her hips and thighs. Like it was painted on. 

Smoke took another hit, blood sparking heavy with desire. He let the smoke filter through his nostrils when he exhaled. He inhaled it back through his nose, letting the fumes settle deep and spicy in his chest.

He had to think about something safer.

Like lips or eyes.

But Annie’s lips? And Annie’s eyes?

Her lips were dangerous. Soft, fluffy, inviting. Sweet.

He thought about how his name slipped out of them like it was the best thing she ever tasted.

“Smoke,” she’d drawl. It melted on the tip of her tongue like a scoop of her favorite ice cream from downtown, her Louisiana lilt drawing out the o, making her lips form a perfect circle like she was—

“You good?” 

The sound of familiar steps made him turn his head to the side. 

It was Stack. 

“Yeah,” Smoke said, flexing his hands at his sides. “Food ready yet?”

”Just about. She puttin’ dishes out and shit.” Stack turned to walk away. Then he paused. Turned back. “She made sweet potato pie, too.” 

Smoke snuffed out his cigarette and hurried his ass downstairs. 

One Week Later…

It was lunch hour. The dining area at Blackbird was packed full of hungry customers, unbridled laughter, and the smell of frying oil. Annie weaved expertly through the tables and around the booths like she belonged there. Since she started working there, she’d already found her own rhythm even though she only worked a few times a week. She was keeping up with the seasoned waitresses, the ones who didn’t write orders down and could balance two serving trays and a pot of coffee with one hand. She was doing so well that even Mr. Hightower was impressed with how she held her own, even with the sudden increase of diners from out of town.

Especially people’s relatives from up north.

There wasn’t a family in Clarksdale who didn’t have somebody who went north for better opportunities, higher wages, and more or less, more freedom. Annie heard the stories. Walk off a train, walk into a stockroom or a shipyard and find work that pays four times what you’d earn in the fields or as a domestic down south. 

And now she was looking at them sitting in the booths, laughing with their friends and family while showing off their fancy cars, shiny shoes, and new clothing. 

That ‘Northern’ polish. 

Stack had that type of polish. Always kept a waistcoat. Always wore real gold—chains, pocket watch, gold fronts. Shoes always shined like they were polished by the sun. 

Smoke didn’t dress like his brother, but he had a way about him too. His clothes weren’t flashy, but they were clean. Neat. He kept a wristwatch instead of a pocket one. One with a black leather strap, smooth bezel, and a nice engraving carved on the back. But he still had a ruggedness about him that she liked...a lot.

She wondered if their “travels” ever took them up north. Pittsburgh, Detroit, Chicago. She knew they’d been to New York. Smoke told her that. Spent some time in Harlem staying with Aunt Della’s son before they shipped off to war.

Annie didn’t know exactly what they got up to when they went out of town, but she wasn’t wet behind the ears. She didn’t need all the details to know the shape of danger. The town knew what the SmokeStack twins were; they earned those names here. Even if the town knew to not go into detail about what they did to earn them. But there were rumors.

Especially about the women they dealt with.

Stack was the womanizer. Annie knew that the minute she first met him at the train station. He had a mouth so slick, he could make a woman apologize to him for breaking her own heart. Smoke was a little different. Quieter about his, at least. But quieter didn't mean it ain’t exist. Where Stack left noise, Smoke left silence. The type of silence that was hard to measure sometimes. And with silence came people trying to fill that empty space with their own version of the truth. So they whispered. 

“So-and-so said…but you ain’t heard it from me.”

“He don’t talk as much as Stack, but he ain’t no saint.”

Aunt Della’s words came to mind. About things being spelled out plain and not assuming attention meant intention. But Annie wasn’t so sure if it was a warning, or just plain words of wisdom.

Was she just another woman in a line of quiet whispers?

“Annie!” It was Mr. Hightower.

She looked up. 

“You been wipin’ the same spot for a minute, now.”

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head a little, plopping the rag in the bucket. 

“I need you to dump the coffee in the back please,” he requested, walking off.  

Annie sighed. “Yes, sir.”

She made her way to the back, coffee pots in one hand and a bucket of hot, soapy water in the other. She set the bucket by the back door and walked outside. 

The back alley smelled like cigarettes and old food. 

Annie’s nose wrinkled as she walked over to the trash receptacles before getting startled by a raccoon that darted out from under one of the trash bags. She managed to dump the coffee out without splashing it all over her shoes. The cool, brown liquid pooled on the ground for a minute before seeping into the dirt, the coffee grounds scattering across the wet surface like ash.

Fourth Street was alive. Wagons, voices, music, smoke drifting up from cigarettes and woodstoves. Smoke had finished one last piece of business near Fourth Street. He stepped out of the back room of a building and onto the street, money folded tight in his pocket, hat sitting low on his head. He stepped off the curb and crossed the street, slowing right in front of Blackbird Cafe. He stopped. Looked through the windows casually, trying to be subtle. He wasn’t. The writing and the glare from the sun made it hard to see, but he found her instantly.

Annie was behind the counter, but her head turned towards the kitchen. Probably listening to one of the cooks talking shit from the back like they always did. He saw her shoulders shake and her head dip forward like she was laughing at something one of them said. But when she turned back around, the smile on her face broke the room open. 

Something struck him low in the chest. A possessive tightening pull on his ribs. Annie’s eyes shifted. She looked around the restaurant. Through the other waitresses that darted around her, through the people in the dining area. They kept on moving until they finally found him. 

Her face went blank for a second and he thought his chest would cave in. Then it softened, then the corner of her mouth lifted slowly. Just for him. That was enough for him to walk inside before he even realized what he was doing.

The cafe got quieter when he walked in. Conversations lulled, laughter turned into low chuckles that turned into throats clearing. Men nodded to him. Either out of respect, fear, or something else. Smoke took a seat at the counter and watched as Annie made her way over with a coffee pot in her hand.

“Afternoon,” she said softly.

“Afternoon.”

“You hungry?”

“Coffee’s fine.”

She took a mug from the shelf behind the counter, placed it in front of him, and started pouring. The coffee spilled into the cup dark and hot, steam rising off the top before dissolving into the air like the things left unspoken between them. 

Smoke wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip. Warmth settled into his palms and spread throughout his chest. And it wasn’t from the coffee. “Thank you,” he said, voice low.

“My pleasure,” Annie giggled. “How was your trip?”

“Long.”

“That it?”

“Mostly.”

Annie didn’t push. She studied him for a second, topping off his coffee and wiping down the countertop while the diners went back to their own conversations and meals. She thought about saying more. She decided not to. It was too quiet now. Too many ears perked up. She reached behind the counter again, this time to pull out a clean napkin.

“Thank you,” she said as she set the napkin down next to his mug.

“For what?” His eyebrows pulled together.

“The sketchbook,” Annie said incredulously, head cocked to the side.

Smoke’s mouth twitched. “You welcome.” 

“Mhmm.” She rolled her eyes playfully.

“You been good?” His voice was rough when he asked that question. 

She tapped her fingers slowly on the counter as he set his mug down. Annie leaned forward on her hands. Smoke leaned forward on his arms. Annie looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at Annie. 

“Been great,” she said finally. Her lips were pursed in that playful way he liked. “You?”

Smoke’s eyes moved over what he could see of her from his seat at the counter. Slowly. 

“Better now.” 

She raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” he said casually. He kept his eyes on hers. 

Her mouth dropped open, whatever she was fixing to say right on the tip of her tongue when Sheila’s voice from the kitchen made it snap shut. 

“Table six, order up!” Followed by two dings.

Annie turned around, quickly sliding the plates of hot food from the pass-through window onto her serving tray. She moved from behind the counter to a table with hot food and a smile brighter than the sun reflecting off the windows. Smoke watched her working, stealing glances over the rim of his mug. Every so often while she was taking an order, or refilling a coffee, she’d look over at him like she could feel his eyes on her, then quickly look away. When it started to get busier and she couldn’t steal a look at him, he felt something. Like a dull ache. 

He stood as Annie finally circled back to where he was sitting, stretching his arms above his head. 

“You leavin’?”

Smoke nodded. “Got some business to handle.” 

He put his money on the counter, their hands meeting when she reached for it before he had pulled his hand back. The contact made them both still. Their index fingers brushed against each other where they touched for a second before pulling away completely. Their eyes met again.

“I’ll see you,” Smoke said.

“Okay,” she replied. It was just above a whisper.

He wasn’t finished. “Soon.”

Their eyes held, the contact lingering for a moment like they both had something they wanted to say but knew it wasn’t the moment. 

Smoke slipped away, steps light even though he carried weight. Annie watched the door swing shut behind him, letting in a flash of air and street noise before locking it out again. She stood behind the counter still, fingers resting on the money he’d left on the table, feeling the ghost of where his finger rubbed the side of hers. She stood there for a second, letting it sink in. Two seconds went by, then three. Then she snapped out of it, pulling herself back into what she was there for— the money. 

“Felicia!” Annie called for her as she carried a tray over her shoulder. “Table four said they want two more sodas!” 

“Got it,” Felicia huffed. 

The bell above the door rang again. Annie moved quickly, sat the diners at a table, pulled out her pen and pad. She gave recommendations, talked up the specials. She even took on an extra table—a party of six that started off with a round of drinks. 

She kept herself busy. There was no such thing as a quiet moment during a lunch rush. But every time she looked out into the street, she thought of him. Coming through like he owned the place. Leaving something behind every time he walked out. 

—

Smoke was far enough away that he couldn’t see her clearly through the window anymore. Just movement and light and the shape of her passing between the tables. Blackbird stayed loud and alive behind him. Annie’s world now. Part of it, anyway. The more Smoke saw her, the more he wanted to be that other part. Not keep her waiting. Not tuck her away. 

Della was right. Just wanting her wasn’t enough. Other men wanted her, too. He saw the way their gaze would follow her around as she moved around the cafe…until they saw him. He heard about the one at the theater. And the preacher. But he knew she needed to hear it from him soon.

When they stared at each other before he left Blackbird, the look in her eyes held a question. One he didn’t have to ask to know. He knew one thing, he was gonna set shit straight before she was left guessing what kind of man had walked into her life.

“It never feels right when one of them ain’t here. She could’ve just lost track of time, it ain’t often we let her go out without one of us dropping her off and picking her up.”

Elijah’s grip tightens on his phone. Everything she was telling him made sense, but the knot forming in his stomach was telling him otherwise. 

He’d been sitting around stiffly since she left, and it eased slightly when she texted to let them know they made it. However, as more time passed, he found himself even more tense than he was before. 

Annie leans closer to him, making him unclench his jaw when she leaves a few kisses on it.

“If she needs you she’ll call, Papa. You reminded her of the safe word, right?” she asks, and he nods. 

Elijah’s eyes meet hers, and she can see the worry pooling in his irises. The thought of Arielle needing to use it made the feeling in his gut intensify. The word was only to be used if she was in a situation she couldn’t get herself out of, and the idea of that made his chest tighten.

“I should’ve taken her. This is why I always take her to wherever she’s going. Annie, I swear, if she has to-”

“She’s not gonna need to use it, Elijah,” Annie cuts him off as he rises out of the bed, his phone forgotten on his pillow. 

“She can handle herself. You and Stack made sure of that.”

“I know she can handle herself,” he starts, beginning to pace back and forth. “I know how them lil niggas can be. Her knowing how to defend herself ain’t gon’ stop one from trying something.”

Annie sighs softly. She stands and steps into his path, making him stop in front of her. There was a deep frown on his face, and his brows were furrowed so deeply that Annie could tell he was panicked more than anything else.

“You are working yourself up,” she says firmly, her hands finding his forearms. 

“You just want her to be okay. Me too, but she don’t need us makin’ all the decisions for her anymore, and it’s time for you to start getting used to that.”

He exhales deeply, his hands finding Annie’s waist as he closes his eyes and tries to ground himself. 

After a few moments, he opens them and is met with Annie’s soft gaze. Her hands move up to his biceps, rubbing soothing circles in them.

“She hasn’t even texted, Annie. She normally texts if she’s gonna be late.” 

“It won’t be the first time she does something she don’t normally do. It ain’t the last time it’s gon’ happen either.”

Elijah raises an eyebrow as he listens to Annie’s tone. He looks at her, not missing the way her eyebrows twitched when she finished speaking.

“It’s something you ain’t telling me?” he questions, making Annie shake her head.

“No. I just have a feeling,” she replies. He looks at her, waiting for her to explain.

“I heard her talking to Marley on the phone earlier. Something about meeting some boys,” Annie tells him, her grip on him tightening slightly when she sees the deep frown reclaiming its place on his face at the mention of the one friend of Arielle’s that he wasn’t too fond of.

“I didn’t think she’d stay out so long past her curfew, so I didn’t say anything.”

“You should have, because I would’ve told her she couldn’t go. She lied to me, Annie.”

“She didn’t lie, Elijah. She said she was going to a party with her friends. Even gave you the address like you told her she had to, and that’s where she’s at. Don’t look or sound like a lie to me, plus she's 17. Think about what you and Stack were doin’ at 17 and be glad that ain’t her,” she shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

He smacks his teeth and looks away from her. 

“If she needs you, she’ll call, and if she doesn’t, you’ll get to practice your disciplinary skills when she gets home.”

“I discipline my kids just fine,” he rebuts halfheartedly, making Annie laugh.

“Even you don’t believe that,” she says, her fingers intertwining with his. “Remember when she cheated on that test?”

“I talked to her about that.”

“Yeah. You talk to her every time, and she knows that’s all you’re gonna do. She makes you think she hears you, then she moves on to the next thing as soon as you let her go. That’s Elias with a bow, and each time she plays you with those sad eyes and that pout.”

Elijah looks away for a moment before finding Annie’s eyes again, the hint of a smile on his lips.

“She got your eyes, though.”

“That’s how I know what she doin’,” Annie replies with a smile, leaning up to peck his lips.

“If she’s just out late and nothing’s wrong, then 3 weeks of early curfew,” he says.

“Good job. Now make sure you stick to it,” Annie says with a knowing look.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Elijah replies, leaning down for a kiss. 

Just as Annie’s hands find his face to pull him in for another, his phone rings. 

Elijah’s eyes shoot open and lock on Annie’s. They look toward his phone at the same time, Elijah pulling away to grab it after a moment.

“It’s Ari,” he mumbles, the tension in his body seeping into his voice again.

He answers it after a second, Annie’s hand finding his arm as he puts the phone on speaker.

“Arielle.”

“Papa,” she answers, and her parents clock the unease in her tone.

“I need you to come get me.”