Chapter 1: Static Between Us
Night had settled low, the full moon still climbing its way up the sky. It hung heavy and pale, spilling a soft silver glow that barely reached the streets below. The world outside was quiet. Inside the radio booth, the low murmur of machines and distant static wrapped the room in a warmth the local bayou could never offer, no matter how hot it burned or how long the days stretched. At the center of it all sat a man, Alastor Heartfelt, poised behind the microphone like he'd been born there.
He sat upright, his posture elegant yet relaxed, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He wore a tan three-piece suit, tailored to fit just right, the fabric catching little flares of golden lamplight. His burgundy tie was snug and perfect, and from under his vest, a thin gold pocket watch chain glinted softly each time he shifted. His skin was a warm tan, smooth but touched by the sun and the years, with the faintest traces of laugh lines near the eyes. Though it was never clear if he'd earned them from joy or mockery. His jaw was clean-shaven, and his cheekbones were sharp enough to cast their own shadows beneath the soft booth lights. His hair, dark and tightly permed, looked freshly set, each wave sitting in place like it had been sculpted there on purpose. Not a strand out of line.
He wore his trademark gold-rimmed glasses, round and delicate, always catching the smallest glints of light like they were secrets. Behind them, his eyes were a deep, dark brown, alert and clever, full of stillness and calculation. There was something watchful in them, something coiled like a predator pretending to be polite. Even when he smiled, they never softened. He looked like a man made for radio, his presence more felt than seen, more voice than body. Like velvet over a blade. He belonged behind a mic, but not because he loved the sound of his voice, but because it let him hide in plain sight from what he was trying to keep in the shadows. Overhead, the 'ON AIR' sign burned crimson, steady and unblinking. Its glow bled into his glasses, painting little red eyes over his own. He sat there bathed in it, still and humming, like something waiting just beneath the surface.
Jenni Garcia sat across from him, quiet, composed, unreadable. She carried herself like someone carved from still water and tempered steel, unmoved but never unalert. Her gray factory button-up fit close to her frame, poofed shoulders giving her silhouette a faint formality that wasn't quite soft. The sleeves were rolled just high enough to show she wasn't afraid to work. A burgundy skirt clung to her waist and fell to her shins, neat but worn from long days on the floor. Her lace-up boots, dark with scuffs and a modest heel, looked like they'd been through a dozen shifts and still had fight left in them. Her skin was a warm, caramel brown, smooth and sun-warmed, glowing faintly under the golden studio lights. Her hair was long, thick, and wavy, cascading down her back, past her hips, the ends brushing the floor where she sat. Most of it was loose, except for a few tucked strands behind one ear, framing her round face like ink strokes on parchment. Light brown eyes stared out from behind a pair of round, thin-framed glasses, lenses catching the dim light in occasional flashes.
Her gaze was steady but unreadable, too sharp to be dreamy, too calm to be cold. She studied Alastor without staring, a quiet calculation flickering behind the lenses. Just... cautious. Like someone who'd learned to clock a man's intentions before he ever opened his mouth. She hadn't said a word, just waited. Letting him speak first. Alastor leaned forward, the corners of his mouth curling into a slow, easy grin, one he knew had weight behind it when delivered through airwaves.
"Well now, Miss Garcia," he drawled, smooth as bourbon, "folks around town can't stop whisperin'. That new radio plant's stirrin' things up, and word is, you're the one makin' the whole place hum."
She let out a soft laugh, polite but distant.
"I wouldn't say all that, Mr. Heartfelt. I just show up, clock in, and pack those wires tight. Nothing special."
"Wires, huh?" he mused, tapping the pen against his notes. "So you're tellin' me I've been speakin' through your work all along and never knew it?"
Jenni gave a small shrug, the corner of her mouth tugging upward awkwardly.
"Could be. Maybe my hands helped carry your voice without you even realizing," she sheepishly replied.
Alastor gave a low, easy chuckle as he adjusted his spectacles.
"Well now, that's a mighty poetic notion, Miss Garcia. You always speak in verses on the factory line, or is that silver tongue just for the broadcast?"
Her voice lowered, slow and deliberate. "Only when there's ears worth speakin' to."
For a moment, neither of them said a word.
Alastor sat up a bit straighter, his tone sliding back into that easy professional polish. "Now, for anyone out there lookin' to earn an honest wage, Belleview Radio Manufacturing is takin' on fresh hands. Wiring, assembly, packaging, you name it. Might even find yourself workin' on the very parts carryin' my voice through the air tonight. And if you're real lucky," he added with a grin, "you just might end up sharin' a shift with the ever-enigmatic Miss Garcia."
A breath of a laugh passed between her teeth, but her eyes held the same cool edge. The music cue rolled in, and the 'ON AIR' light flickered off. The room was quieter now. Thicker. Heavier. Nightfall pressed against the windows like a waiting hand.
"You fixin' to head out?" Alastor asked, voice softer now that the mics had gone cold, slipping into something a touch more familiar.
Jenni stood, dusting off the front of her blouse with a quick, tidy motion.
"Yes, sir. Appreciate the airtime."
Alastor reached for his coat, a smile still playing at his mouth. "Mind if I see you home?"
She glanced at him, something unreadable in her gaze.
"Not safe out there tonight," he added.
"That body found by the levee, the one from my closing segment yesterday. Wasn't no accident. Killer's still on the loose."
Jenni's expression didn't flinch. Just a small tilt of her head, as if measuring his words.
"That's real sweet," she said gently. "But I ain't the type to be caught off guard."
Before he could argue, she was already heading out, boots tapping quickly, softly against the porch as the door clicked shut behind her. Moonlight caught her silhouette for a breath, then she vanished into the dark. Alastor stood alone, arms loosely crossed. He watched the space she'd left behind, eyes narrowed in thought. He never even asked about the coils she wrapped, the ones that matched the new setup on his desk almost perfectly. The words stayed stuck in his throat, slightly regretful for not spilling out sooner. She seemed... in a hurry. Not frightened, but wound tight, like she was bracing for something. Like there was a weight behind her steps he couldn't see, and she didn't have time to shake it loose.
* * * * * *
After that night at the radio station, Alastor expected never to see her again. But then, he kept seeing her in passing glimpses.
At first, it was just chance. A glimpse of her walking past a bakery window as he sipped his coffee. Her reflection in the glass of a shop door. A quick nod exchanged from opposite sides of the street. Always the same quiet smile on her face. Sometimes she had her hair tied up, or loose down her back. At times in her work clothes, other times in a dress and coat. Always composed. More often than not, he saw her in all the places he fancied, those half-forgotten corners of the city that lived in the cracks between polite society. Dim cafés tucked behind old theaters, record shops where the owners knew your name, smoky jazz joints after midnight, places with more ghosts than customers. Spots where people minded their own and left others to do the same.
She wasn't following him; he knew that.
Moving through it with the same ease, the same silence, as if she'd always been there.
And now he couldn't unsee her. She'd always been here.
A local. One of the many faces he never gave a second glance to unless they had a reason to matter. Alastor had spent years noticing people only when they became targets. But Jenni? She'd lived in the corners of his town like a shadow. And now that he'd noticed her, he couldn't seem to stop. There was something about her, something he couldn't name, that stirred a pull in his chest he hadn't felt in years, if ever. A quiet gravity, a spark that lit in his ribs and stayed burning long after she was gone.
And for reasons he didn't yet understand, it was calling to him.
* * * * * *
Time passed.
One afternoon, Alastor was walking through the southern end of town, headed nowhere in particular, when a sharp voice cut through the quiet air.
"That's theivery!!"
He turned, drawn by instinct. Across the street, by an open wagon half-loaded with produce, a white woman stood yelling, face red, finger jabbing furiously at someone just out of view. Alastor slowed, ducking into the edge of an awning, half-shaded. Watching.
Jenni stood there.
Calm, spine straight, not shouting back. Beside her stood a young girl, no older than five, clutching a woven basket and holding tight to the hand of a woman who was likely their mother, tired eyes, proud posture, silver streaks in her dark braids. Just behind them, a young man about Alastor's age hovered near the wagon, his skin deeply tanned like old cedar, hands rough from labor, his arm still half-extended as if he'd been reaching for a crate before the shouting started. And just off to the side, another man leaned against the wheel, older than the first, sharp-eyed and still. He had long mid-parted black hair that reached passed his shoulders, his dark tan skin and strong cheekbones giving him a look more native than the others, dressed in a gray suit, a cow boy looking hat with intricate beading on its trim, his jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape, suspenders peeking through the open front of his white shirt.
Her family. Rooted and ready.
And now the whole street was watching. Alastor felt something shift in his chest. He stayed still.
Waiting. Whatever was unfolding, it wasn't over yet, and becoming serious. The woman's voice rang out like a siren across the street, sharp and piercing, the kind of voice used to getting what it wanted simply by being loud enough. Alastor watched from beneath the awning, half-shadowed.
She stood there, all powder-blue and fury, her milk white skin flushed pink with rage, though it was clear she was the type who claimed she never burned in the sun. Her blonde hair was unnaturally bright, almost the color of lemon peel, styled in stiff curls that looked like they might snap if touched. Her blue eyes were wide and wild, full of venom, and her light blue dress, starched to perfection, swayed as she gestured madly. White gloves clung to her fingers like she had something to hide. She was screaming at Jenni even more.
"Your prices are a goddamn joke," she spat, voice curling up in mock sweetness, "You people think you can just swindle good white folks walkin' by?"
Jenni stood her ground, but Alastor saw it. The twitch in her fingers, the way her jaw locked tight, her frame trembling not with fear, but with barely-contained fury. The woman's words looked like they were finally affecting Jenni.
Then the woman's voice turned sharper. Louder, seeing Jenni reacting.
"And what's this, huh?" she barked, waving a gloved hand toward the little girl holding her mother's hand. "Teachin' IT to beg already? You oughta be ashamed of yourself. And your mama too. Looks like she's been breeding half the town for handouts."
Alastor's eyes flicked to the men behind the wagon, her brothers. Both had gone still. Too still. One of them had his hand twitching near his pocket. The other had narrowed his eyes like he was waiting for a reason.
Alastor scanned the street.
People were starting to notice.
White folks.
Eyes peeking from behind windows. A man down the street had stopped moving his broom. Someone else was whispering by the corner lamppost.
This was about to go bad.
Fast.
So Alastor stepped out from the shade.
He crossed the street, smiling wide, voice ready, tuned to that perfect radio pitch that charmed nervous housewives and nosy shopkeepers alike.
"You're so right, ma'am," he said.
Cutting in mid-insult like it was the most natural thing in the world. The woman blinked, caught off guard. Alastor didn't give her time to speak. He grabbed a bag off the wagon, a full, colorful one, packed with tomatoes, okra, and sweet onions, all carefully stacked, and held it out to her with a flourish.
"Here," he said brightly. "On the house. You deserve all this free produce for being so right."
She blinked again, then snatched the bag with a satisfied sniff. "'Course I'm right," she muttered. "I always am."
Then her eyes flicked back to Jenni and her family. "But I better not catch you out here again. I'll have my daddy charge y'all just for breathin' in this part of town."
She spun on her heel with a huff and stormed off down the street, muttering to herself.
Alastor turned to find Jenni staring at him like she might actually explode.
"What the hell was that?" she snapped, stepping forward. "You just handed her all that food and for wh—"
Before she could finish, Alastor slipped a roll of cash into her palm, smooth as a magician's trick. The move was quick, practiced. Only Jenni and her older brother caught it. No one else on the street saw a thing. Al leaned in slightly, just enough for her to hear him.
"Might not be wise to wave that around," he said under his breath, a faint smile on his lips. "You know how folks get when someone like us looks a little too fortunate."
Jenni fell quiet.
Alastor leaned in slightly, voice low now. "Let me buy the whole cart."
She narrowed her eyes at him.
"All I want," he added, "is a bit of your time."
A beat.
Jenni rolled the money in her hand in her skirt pocket, contemplating his offer.
The taller of Jenni's brothers stepped up behind her. The one with sharp, native-cut features. He didn't say a word as he reached around her into her pocket, taking the roll of cash from her like it was nothing more than a quiet, common exchange. His eyes stayed locked on Alastor the entire time, unreadable, steady. He tucked the money into the inside pocket of his coat with practiced ease, then leaned close to Jenni's ear.
"Just watch yourself, some of these well-dressed types forget where they came from... try so hard to be like white folks, they end up actin' just like 'em."
Alastor didn't react.
Jenni didn't either.
Jenni lingered near the wagon, one hand resting on the donkey's harness as her mother stepped close.
"Be careful out there, mija," her mother said softly, worry flickering in her voice. "That killer's still out loose."
Jenni gave a faint smile. "I'll be fine, Mama."
She crouched slightly to wave at the little girl standing close by.
"Bye, Esme," she said with a warm grin. The girl beamed and waved back with both hands.
Jenni straightened and turned to the two men beside the wagon.
"See you later, Isaías," she said to the broad-shouldered one still dusted in fieldwork. Then, to the sharper, suit-clad figure watching in silence, "You too, Mateo."
Alastor's ear twitched at the names, filing them away without meaning to.
Neither brother answered, just nodded, eyes lingering a little too long on the man walking beside their sister.
Only then did Jenni take the donkey's lead and begin guiding the cart forward, her posture firm, movements deliberate. Alastor fell into step beside her, hands tucked casually into his pockets.
Behind them, the cart creaked gently over the road, and her family stayed rooted in place, silent, watching as their sister disappeared into the lowering dusk with a stranger they weren't sure they trusted.
* * * * * *
They walked a ways without speaking, the steady creak of the cart and the soft thud of hooves filling up the quiet. The sun was droppin' low, long shadows stretchin' across the road like fingers.
Jenni kept her eyes ahead, but her voice cut through the hush.
"You always this generous with strangers?" she asked, not cold exactly, but not warm either. "Buy a whole cart just so you can follow a girl?"
Alastor's hands stayed tucked in his coat pockets, his steps easy beside hers. He didn't answer right away.
After a moment, he murmured, "Ain't followin'. Just walkin'."
She shot him a sidelong glance, sharp but not cruel.
"Don't seem like the type to walk nowhere without a reason."
He didn't argue, just tilted his head a bit, watching her closely.
Jenni let out a quiet scoff, not mean, just curious. "Far as I remember, you barely said a thing last time. Just mentioned that killer on the loose and tried to walk me home. Now here you are, actin' like we're old friends."
Alastor's gaze flicked from her hand on the harness to her lips, then back up to her eyes. His voice came low, like the hush before a song on the radio.
"Well," he said quietly, eyes still forward, "I s'pose we didn't talk much. Just enough for a voice to stick."
He let a beat pass, his tone easy.
"Could've been nothin'. Just static hangin' in the air that night... station does tend to hum after hours."
Another pause, then the faintest curl of a grin.
"Or maybe I caught a flicker of somethin'. Hard to say. I've been wrong before, but I've also got a nose for strange weather."
He gave a shrug like he wasn't trying to charm her, but might've done it anyway.
Jenni studied him a beat, something unreadable in her expression. Her tone stayed light, but her eyes didn't waver.
"You're a strange one, Mister..."
"Heartfelt," he supplied, gentle as sugar over heat.
She nodded once, still watching him. "Mm. Well, Mister Heartfelt... you got a way about you. Can't tell yet if it's charm or trouble."
A glimmer of amusement played at his mouth, careful and calculated.
They walked on, dusk closing around them like a curtain, both quiet, both thinking.
She was trying to figure out what kind of man he was.
And he... he was still deciding whether she was the kind of thing he'd keep watching, or the kind he'd devour.
They passed a small, crooked shop near the edge of the cane fields. Nothing fancy, just a squat little building with dusty windows and a porch that creaked when you stepped too quick. Alastor paused and tipped his head toward the cart.
"Wait here a moment," he said simply.
Jenni didn't move, just narrowed her eyes a little as he slipped inside. He returned a few minutes later with a dark bottle wrapped in paper and a look that said he wasn't about to explain himself unless asked.
She glanced down at it as he climbed back onto the wagon.
"Ain't that illegal?" she asked dryly.
Alastor's smile came easy, soft and unbothered. "I've got my ways."
Then, after a beat, he added, "Knew the fella who runs this place. Helped him out a couple summers back. Extra hands, extra pay. Good man."
Jenni didn't answer at first, just gave a small hum of approval, impressed despite herself. "Guess you're full of surprises."
They didn't go straight to his house. Not yet. Instead, they drifted along the worn dirt road that curled around the sugarcane fields, letting the donkey plod along at its own gentle pace. They passed the bottle back and forth, talking low as the stalks swayed tall around them, golden in the last light before the stars.
The conversation looped like the path they walked, easy, winding, never too direct. They talked work, old bosses, bad food, music, the kinds of folks who needed watching, and the ones you didn't notice until it was too late. To Alastor's quiet surprise, Jenni didn't flinch from hard topics. She didn't boast either. Just spoke plain, like someone who'd seen enough and wasn't in a rush to be seen herself. By the time the bottle was near empty and the crickets had taken up their chorus, they were laughing about something that didn't really matter, shoulders brushing now with no intention behind it. It wasn't romantic. But it felt like something. Like the first page of a book neither of them expected to enjoy.
* * * * * *
Stars glittered above them like scattered salt in the black sky. The cart rolled on through the quiet, the noise of the city long behind them. The road narrowed, lined with tall grass and its whispers with the scent of cane fields still hanging in the air.
They turned onto a lane where the houses sat low and close together. Small, wood-planked homes stained dark from the swampy heat, every one of them quiet. The porches were empty. The windows all dark. Folks here had gone to bed early, like they always did. Alastor's place was near the end of the row closest to the trees. Like the others, it was simple and well-kept. Fresh paint, clean windows, steps that didn't sag. It had care behind it, humble, but not neglected.
Still, Jenni kept her hand near the edge of the wagon, not fully relaxed.
He stepped down and offered her a hand. She didn't take it.
"This your house?" she asked, eyes scanning the row, then landing back on him.
He nodded. "My mother's, really. We both stay here."
Jenni looked it over again. After the money he gave her, she'd expected something flashier. But this? This was just... normal. Unassuming. That made it harder to pin him down, and that unsettled her.
He gestured toward the reins. "You can take the wagon. Produce and all."
She raised an eyebrow. "That why you paid me? Just to talk? I didn't think you were serious."
Alastor gave a faint nod. "Felt worth it."
Jenni didn't say anything to that. She just watched him a moment longer, still unsure what kind of man he was. There was something off about him, nothing she could name. But it lingered in her chest.
Still... he hadn't done anything wrong.
Yet.
He stepped back a bit, hands in his pockets. His voice was quieter now. "Think I'll see you again?"
Jenni paused, one hand on the reins. Then she gave a slow shrug. "Maybe."
She gave him a final glance, then clicked her tongue at the donkey. The wagon creaked back onto the road, wood wheels groaning softly under the weight.
Alastor watched her ride off into the night, the cart fading into the dark, swallowed by shadow and starlight. He stood still for a long while after, the silence around him settling thick. Alastor lingered by the fence, eyes fixed on the stretch of road where she'd disappeared, the night swallowing her whole.
He'd gone looking for prey. Something simple..
Jenni Garcia wasn't that.
Pity.
With a slow breath, he stepped to the side and tucked the empty bottle into the shadows near the base of the house. The bottle met the wood with a hush of sound, like it knew to stay quiet. Then he turned toward the trees, the dark pressing close around him like a second skin.
His hands itched.
His blood stirred.
If she wasn't the one to bleed...
Someone else would.
* * * * * *
Later that night, Alastor drove with the windows down, a dusty Ford Model A lent to him by a "close friend." The night air was heavy and unmoving, thick with the smell of moss, rot, and something faintly metallic beneath it. The headlights sliced through the dark in a thin, wavering beam, trees flashing past like twisted silhouettes, faces half-formed in the bark. The gravel road twisted up a low rise, barely more than a ridge, before he slowed the car to a stop. Not a house for miles. No lights. No voices. Not even the hum of distant roads. Out here, even a scream would die before it reached the treetops.
He stepped out, the gravel crunching underfoot, and opened the trunk. From inside, he dragged a burlap sack, heavy, sagging. The body inside folding like soaked fabric. With a grunt, he tipped it forward and watched it hit the ground with a hard thud. Without hesitation, he kicked the sack in the direction of the slope next to him. Rolling down, slow at first, then faster, vanishing into the thick underbrush. He followed, quiet as breath. The woods swallowed him whole, the trees pressing in like walls, their branches knotted overhead. The air clung wet to his skin, the silence stretching deep and patient with him.
He found the sack snagged on a root, gave it a hard pull, then slung it back over his shoulder with practiced ease. The forest thickened around him as he walked, each step quieter than the last. The weight pressed in like a well-worn coat. Heavy, but known. Something that fit him too well to question.
The sack had started to leak, a slow seep of dark red blooming against the shoulder of Alastor's tan suit. He glanced down with a twitch of annoyance, jaw tightening as he shifted the weight to the other side. Ruined. And he liked this one. The body inside hung limp, slack and unresisting. Alastor trudged down the wet land, his shoes sinking with each step into the wet, spongy earth. There was no path, just the wild tangle of the bayou, thick with cypress and shadow, the air holding still like the whole swamp was waiting.
He moved carefully, threading between knotted tree roots and hanging curtains of moss, the trees rising up around him like old sentries. The moon hadn't reached its height yet, but its light trickled through the branches in pale slashes, catching on his suit and the sheen of sweat across his brow.
Beneath the canopy, the world felt hushed and strange.
The water murmured somewhere nearby, but the frogs had gone quiet.
Then-- movement.
He stopped cold.
Just past a curtain of low-hanging branches, beyond a wall of gnarled roots, a figure was kneeling at the water's edge.
Jenni.
His breath caught in his chest. He ducked behind the trunk of a wide tree, pressing himself flat and easing the sack down in the underbrush where it wouldn't be seen. She hadn't noticed him. She was hunched in the mud, sleeves rolled, skirt torn and soaked through. Her hair was tied back in a messy knot. Blood clung to her arms. The body at her knees was a woman—white, bruised, and broken—so far gone it was hard to believe she'd ever truly been alive. It was the same woman he'd handed the sack of produce to earlier that day.
Jenni was still. Composed. Not a word escaped her. The knife caught the moonlight in her hand before she lowered it and began to cut slow, deliberate strokes. Skin peeled. Muscle gave. Bone cracked. Alastor didn't so much as flinch. The woman's head fell forward into the mud with a wet thud, resting by Jenni's knees. She exhaled then, slow and deep, as if she'd finally released a weight that had been buried in her chest for a heavy moment. No fear stirred in him. No disgust. Just a heavy, sacred silence... and perhaps something unsettlingly close to awe.
A sharp snap cut through the silence, loud, brittle, unmistakable.
Alastor froze mid-step, breath caught in his throat, his foot still halfway hovering over the broken stick he'd backed into. The sound echoed longer than it should've, swallowed and repeated by the water and trees. By the shoreline, Jenni shot up like a lightning strike. Her hands were slick with mud and blood. In one hand, she held a kitchen knife, stained and trembling with leftover heat from what she'd just done.
"Whoever's out there better come out," she called, voice sharp and cold. "Because if I catch you first, I'll make you join her."
Alastor stepped slowly from behind the tree, hands raised, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.
"So," he said smoothly, "this why you didn't want me walkin' you home?"
Jenni blinked once. The knife in her grip didn't lower right away, but her eyes widened slightly. The blade finally dipped.
"Alastor?"
He walked toward her, calm and unbothered, like they were meeting on a quiet evening stroll. His glasses glinted under the moonlight, and his stained tan suit was streaked with blood,dirt and sweat from dragging the body. Still, he looked strangely at ease.
"You didn't strike me as the sentimental type," he said quietly, eyes locked on hers as he stepped closer. "But I guess we all got a few skeletons, huh?"
Alastor stepped in closer, slow and steady, eyes flicking from the blood on her hands to the sharp stillness in her face. He tilted his head slightly, almost admiring her.
"You know," he murmured, voice smooth as bourbon, "I only just met you, but I've been thinkin' about you ever since."
He reached up, fingers brushing a smear of mud from her cheek, the touch too soft for someone who'd just watched her commit a crime.
"Somethin' about you... it's familiar. The way you move, the way you don't flinch.You take." His hand lingered against her jaw. "That's rare."
He leaned in slowly, his breath brushing her skin.
"I seen wolves with less bite in their eyes. Makes a man wonder what kinda life you been walkin... or who you done left behind in the mud."
His lips hovered just inches from hers, voice low, almost reverent now. His thumb skimmed her jaw. The touch lingered longer than it should've. His eyes were glassy with something like wonder, maybe even crazed madness.
It was a distraction.
While his hand cupped her cheek, his other reached slowly toward his belt, fingers slipping around the handle of a small, handmade knife, blade curved, worn from use. He waited for her eyes to drift, for her to blink, to breathe too deep.
But she didn't.
She was staring straight into him.
Watching.
"Maybe that's why our paths crossed." He started to close the gap, angling in for a kiss, gripping his free hand around the handle of the blade tightly. To strike the moment she would lean in.
But he never made it.
Jenni's left hand shot up, firm and sudden, clamping over his mouth with a strength that surprised him. Her voice dropped, icy and quiet. Smearing the woman's blood on his face with the action.The warmth of it clung to his skin, the iron-rich scent curling into his nose. Her voice followed.
"Do you think I'm fucking stupid?" she whispered against his face, voice low, dangerous. A large smile was now plastered on her face.
Before he could react, she twisted her body and swiped her blade, just a hair from his neck. The tip of her knife tore clean through his shirt collar, so close the fabric curled and split like paper.
Then came the kick.
A sharp, brutal snap of her boot into his groin. Alastor's body folded, and he dropped to his knees in the mud with a broken grunt, hands clenching instinctively, the knife tumbling from his grip behind him. Jenni stood over him, breath calm, eyes bright, knife steady.
"I don't trust charm, radio man," she said. "I cut that shit out at the root."
With a strangled grunt, arms instinctively curling in as the pain roared through his gut. He wheezed, eyes squeezing shut, body folding forward like the air had been yanked clean out of him, tears threatening to fall out of his eyes. A wet cough cracked from his throat, followed by another. He swayed slightly, trying to breathe, the edges of his vision dimming as nausea twisted in his gut like a second knife.
Jenni stood over him, calm as the moonlight shining above them.
"I didn't expect you," she said coolly, "of all people, to be the New Orleans killer."
Alastor choked out a broken, breathless laugh between coughs, spitting into the dirt. "C-Clever girl..."
Jenni smirked, stepping in closer, her boots crunching slow over leaves and twigs as she began to circle him like a buzzard.
"You think you're so smart," she said, her voice low and venom-laced, "so damn dapper... struttin' in your little radio suit, talkin' smooth like I'm just gonna melt into your arms like some common Strumpet."
She stopped just behind him, her tone sharpening.
"We're both killers. So fucking what?"
Her eyes dropped to the ground. The small handmade knife he'd tried to use on her now resting just inches from his twitching hand. Before he could move, her boot came down on it with a solid thud, pinning it to the earth like a trophy.
She let out a soft chuckle, the sound low and amused as she looked down at him, crumpled, wheezing, beaten.
"Ain't lookin' too clever now, sweetheart."
Jenni slowly bent down, boot still planted on his knife. She reached for it with her right hand, fingers curling around the handle with practiced ease. Alastor watched her through the blur of pain, his breath still catching raggedly in his throat. As she stood above him, the moon cast a pale halo around her, lighting the loose ends of her long hair like threads of silver fire. Her face, still smeared with sweat and mud, looked carved from something holy and unholy all at once. Soft cheekbones, soft lips, a tiny beauty mark just beside her right eye, he hadn't noticed it before, but now he couldn't stop staring. He felt his face go hot. His chest tightened, not from fear or pain this time, but something else.
A fluttering. A twist.
Like butterflies in his stomach.
He hated it.
Jenni looked down at him, her expression unreadable, cold, like the warmth had been scraped clean from her bones. She smirked, not sweet or kind. Knowing. She leaned forward, reaching toward him. Alastor flinched, instinctively turning his face away, expecting the sting of her palm, the slash of her blade. But instead, her touch was gentle. Her fingers brushed the side of his face like she was wiping something off, and then she knelt half on one knee, bringing herself eye-level with him.
Slowly, she reached behind her head and began untying her hair, letting the long, heavy waves fall around her shoulders like a dark veil behind her. The scent of iron and bay water clung to her, earthy and electric.
"It's really exciting," she murmured, her tone strange and dreamy. "Don't you think?"
Alastor winced, then gave a crooked smile through the pain. "Depends how you look at it," he muttered.
Jenni scoffed, a short breath of laughter through her nose.
Without warning, she gripped his shoulder, firm but not rough, and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. It stunned him. His breath caught. His eyes widened. It wasn't romantic or tender, but it felt like a gift, some sacred thing she'd decided to give him for reasons he couldn't understand. He looked at her, completely still. His eyes lit up, reflecting the moonlight, shining like a boy seeing fireflies for the first time.
Then her hand found his face again, it carried no kindness.
Jenni's grip tightened, her nails digging into Alastor's cheek, hard enough to sting. He didn't dare pull away. Her free hand shooting up to his neck.
"I oughta put you down right now," she whispered, almost bored, pressing the very blade she'd taken from him against his throat, firm enough to make his skin strain beneath it. Her hand didn't tremble. Her eyes didn't flinch. And though Alastor tried to stay composed, the pressure, the cold familiarity of his own knife turned against him, sent a flicker of fear crawling up his spine. "But where's the thrill in that?"
"Big bad devil of these parts, huh?" she whispered. "Ain't that somethin'? Brought low by a girl with mud on her hem and no reason to be remembered."
She leaned back with a quiet smirk, though her eyes held no light. Just that deep, empty stillness of something long gone.
"We'll meet again," she said, brushing hair from her face as her long waves shifted around her shoulders. "Same place. Next full moon."
Alastor blinked slowly, heart pounding behind his ribs.
"Sound good?"
His voice rasped, but it didn't break. "Peaches and cream."
Jenni grinned widened. Then, grabbing his chin, she jerked his face upward roughly when he glanced down, lost for a moment in thought. The sharp motion snapped his focus back to her, and he found her staring straight into him. Her gaze was still flat. Empty as a grave.
"Well, ain't you a sight," she said, tilting her head, voice low and mean. "All those stories, all that fear, and here you are, suit all torn and blood-soaked, cryin' in the dirt like a child who got caught lyin'. That the legacy you were goin' for?"
Alastor didn't answer. He couldn't run. Couldn't fight.
So he did the only thing he had left and was good at.
He used his words.
"What did she do?" he rasped, gesturing faintly toward the decapitated woman behind her. "That's usually... reserved for monsters."
Jenni's expression didn't change.
"Monsters?" she repeated.
She gestures with her chin towards the headless corpse, half-submerged in the water.
"I've made peace with being a monster," she murmured to him. "Because the ones I kill? They ain't monsters. They ain't anything. Just a mess this world should've flushed long before I got to 'em."
Her voice sharpened as she spoke, her words cutting cleaner than any blade.
"Abusers. Racists. Misogynistic pigs. People who get off on the power they've acquired. People like her...who stand by and let it happen, enjoying every moment of it."
Her lip curled.
"Imagine a world," she said, eyes burning now, voice shaking with that quiet, focused rage. "Where they are the ones hunted. Where their lives are cut short. Where every disgusting breath they take could be their last, and it's by my hand."
Her eyes changed, this time with pride.
"A woman."
Her nails dug into his cheek as she pulled him closer, just inches from her face. The bite of her grip sent a jolt through him, and the look in her eyes was anything but kind now. They stayed like that, breath to breath, locked in silence for a moment. Jenni smirked as she leaned down one final time, giving Alastor a light, patronizing pat on the cheek, like a mother humoring a foolish child. She rose to her feet, brushing off the grime from her torn skirt, blood and bayou mud streaked across the fabric like she wore the swamp itself. Without another word, she turned and started walking away, her boots making soft, steady prints in the dirt.
Halfway into the trees, she paused and looked over her shoulder, her voice floating back like it weighed nothing at all.
"Next full moon, we decide who will stay." she called. Then, with a casual flick of her fingers, added, "Oh and get rid of it for me."
She didn't wait for a reply. She just kept walking, swallowed by the dark, vanishing into the thick shadows like she belonged to them. Alastor stayed where she left him, kneeling in the mud, stunned. His body ached, his pride bruised, but it wasn't the pain that held him still. It was her. What had just happened. What she was. What she'd seen in him. All of it had unfolded in less than an hour.
An hour that didn't feel real.
His face still burned from where she'd kissed him. His stomach still twisted with the ghost of her boot. His mind, so often composed, clinical now churned in quiet chaos. She was supposed to be another name. A problem to be solved. A thing to understand and destroy. But now?
He wasn't sure who'd be hunting who.
It took time before he stood again. His legs felt unsteady beneath him, every step through the mud a reminder of how easily she'd put him there. But work still had to be done. No witnesses. No body. He turned back to the mangled corpse of the woman Jenni had left behind and, without hesitation, began slicing her into pieces with his corpse he brought along. He did it the way others might carve meat from bone, routine and deliberate. But even as his hands moved, his thoughts refused to let go of Jenni.
* * * * * *
He followed a short crumbling path that led him out to a weather-beaten deck, narrow, splintered, and warped with moisture. It stretched out over the water like a half-forgotten thought, leading to a small, decaying shack barely held together by rot and rust. It creaked beneath his feet with every step, groaning like it resented the weight. At the very edge, something caught his eye. Resting on the warped wood was a pink and white fountain pen, oddly delicate in such a place. Beside it were two small leather journals, aged and worn, each marked with a pink ribbon wedged between their pages.
He didn't have to guess.
They were hers.
He picked them up gently, as if they might burn him, and turned the pen over in his hand. It was smooth, clean, and carefully preserved in a way no accident could explain. He tucked the items into his coat without another word, but a pressure had started building in his chest, something wild and unplaceable.
What was this?
The heat in his face hadn't faded. His pulse hadn't slowed. And the moment he saw her backlit by moonlight, wild hair, muddy hands, knife dripping from a fresh kill. It was as if lightning had struck him clean through. His breath came out shakier than he liked. No. That couldn't be it. It wasn't love. Love was for fools. This was something else. The thrill. The chase. The unknown. She wasn't like the others. She wouldn't fold easy. She wouldn't beg. Everyone else had been predictable. But her? She was going to make him work for it. He stared down at the water, the woman's remains bundled in a sack at his feet, with the man mixed in. Then, with little ceremony, he tipped it into the bayou. The surface rippled. Below, the gators stirred.
He didn't have to look back. The gators were already thrashing, the water exploding in bursts of white foam and snapping jaws as they fought for the pieces he'd thrown in. Loud splashes echoed through the trees, bodies slamming against one another, teeth cracking bone beneath the surface. The bayou was infested here, crawling with hunger.
They'd take care of it just fine.
* * * * * *
The window creaked faintly as Alastor slid one leg through, careful not to knock over the potted fern on the sill. He was halfway inside when the kitchen light snapped on, flooding the dark with harsh yellow glow. He froze, one leg still hanging outside.
Across the kitchen, Sophie stood beneath the glare of the ceiling light, arms crossed tight over her chest. She wore a flowing green-and-orange nightgown, its colors still vibrant despite the years. Her skin was deep, dark brown, smooth and rich like polished mahogany, glowing under the yellow light. Her natural hair was tucked beneath a scarf, wrapped snug to keep her tight dense coil curls in place, though a few rebellious strands peeked out near her temple. Her brown eyes, sharp and steady, cut through him with practiced precision, the kind of look that had silenced rooms since he was a boy. She looked younger than most her age, still standing tall and proud, but there were stories in her eyes. Worn things, heavy and quiet, that no pretty face could hide.
She didn't speak at first.
Just stared.
Then finally, her voice low and tight, she asked,
"Where the hell you been, boy?"
Alastor cleared his throat and dropped the rest of the way in. He'd changed since the swamp, the muddy suit replaced with fresh navy slacks, a blue button-up, and a crisp red bow tie he hadn't quite finished straightening.
Sophie raised a brow.
"You're a grown-ass man," she said. "You got no business sneakin' in like a damn child, or worse, a robber."
Alastor looked away, smoothing down the front of his shirt. "Didn't wanna wake you."
She didn't buy it for a second.
"There's things lurkin' in them streets at night, son. You know better. That killer you been speakin' on the radio? He ain't been found. Don't you go endin' up one of your own stories."
He gave a quiet laugh, short and dry. "I'm not in any trouble, Mama."
"You sure?" she asked, searching his face.
He nodded. "I swear."
She held his eyes for a moment longer, then sighed and turned away.
"Just use the damn front door next time." Without waiting for a reply, she disappeared down the hall and into her room, shutting the door softly behind her.
Alastor stood still for a moment in the empty kitchen, the quiet pressing in again. Then he moved toward his room, footsteps careful. He shut the door behind him, exhaled deeply, and pulled the lost items from his pant pockets: Jenni's pen, delicate and out of place in his hand, and the two small journals. He laid them carefully on his small wooden desk, almost reverently. Stripping out of his clothes, he exchanged his bow tie and button-up for a plain nightshirt and soft cotton pants, folding the day away piece by piece. But his thoughts didn't quiet with the change. He kept seeing her. Not the blood. Not the knife.
Her.
Her hand on his face. Her voice in his ear. The weight of her boot. The way she stood over him, like she knew exactly how to dismantle a man. Playing in his mind like a skipping record. He'd never trembled like that before in his adult life. Never, not once, had he been on the floor like that, undone and weak.
He was always in control, one step ahead. Cocky, even.
Until tonight.
And now the shaking had stopped, but something worse had taken its place.
Obsession.
* * * * * *
Alastor hadn't seen her in weeks, not since that night. A whole month had gone by, and not once did she show her face around town. Not at the market. Not on the roads. It was deliberate; he could feel it. Like she was holding back, ignoring him on purpose. Testing him, maybe.
Letting the silence stretch until it hummed with tension. But that morning, something in him stirred. He knew tonight would be the night. He couldn't sleep.
The dawn was gray and sullen, the air still heavy from the storm that had passed through just before first light. Alastor sat alone in the shed behind his mother's house, the door slightly ajar to let in the smell of soaked dirt and dying grass. His hands were calm. Patient.
For hours, he focused only on the worn hatchet in his lap, running it slowly along a whetstone. Draw, flip. Draw, flip. The rhythm was soft but purposeful, like a hymn whispered through the trees. The edge glinted sharper with every pass, honest and hungry. By nightfall, it gleamed with deadly grace, sharp enough to split a thought in two. Alastor stood, dusted himself off, and smoothed down the front of his navy blue suit. He adjusted his red tie with a flick of his fingers, the color bold against the darkness of the cloth. In the reflection of the shed window, he caught his own smile. Tonight was going to be fun.
And he could hardly wait.
* * * * * *
Elsewhere, in the silence of her barn, the air was thick with dust and the faint scent of hay and oil. A single hanging lamp cast a golden glow over the space, swaying just enough to make the shadows shift.
Jenni stood before a crooked mirror nailed to a support beam, her eyes locked onto her reflection. She looked calm,cold, but her heart beat slow and heavy in her chest.
This wasn't just another scuffle.
Tonight could be the night she finally dies.
She was going to fight a man.
Not just any man—him.
Her fingers twitched at her sides as she took herself in. Her hair fell like a river down her back, past her waist, past her hips, nearly to below her knees. Years of care and patience. Something sacred.
Hers. But it was a weakness now. Something someone could grab. And men fought dirty.
Her eyes settled on the heavy pair of leather shears hanging on the wall just ahead, her own, the same ones she used when cutting thick soles and hide for the shoes she's made. They weren't meant for hair, but they'd have to do.
Without flinching, she stepped forward and pulled them from their hook. The metal was familiar in her hand, solid, unforgiving. With a slow breath in, she lifted the blades to the thickest part of her hair, just above the small of her back—
Shnk.
The cut was rough. Final. A raw tear through years of softness.
The loose braid hit the barn floor with a lifeless thud.
Jenni stood still, the shock of cool air on her neck making her skin prickle. She stared at herself again. Her neck looked longer. Something in her gut twisted. It hurt in a way she hadn't expected.
But she didn't cry.
She nudged the severed braid aside with the toe of her boot, like brushing away a piece of herself she wasn't ready to mourn. Her throat tightened, but she didn't let it show. She couldn't afford to. Turning back to the mirror, she raised the scissors again, familiar in her hand, yet foreign in purpose and began cutting with sharp, purposeful strokes.
She tapered the sides and back close, stripping away the softness, the years of patience and identity, piece by piece. Her chest ached, not from fear, but from the quiet grief of letting go of something she'd grown with. Something she'd once thought she'd die with. Only a short mess of waves remained at the top when she finished. Loose. Too short to tie, but just long enough to shadow her brow.
She stared at her reflection, breath slow and quiet. Her face looked different now, harder, unfamiliar. Her jaw stood out more. Her cheeks seemed hollower. She could pass for a young man in the right light.
She dressed in silence, pulling on an outfit that had once belonged to her brother Mateo, faded but clean. She bound her chest tight with strips of cloth, winding them firm until her breaths came short and shallow. She gave a glance back at the mirror.
Not quite herself anymore. That was the point.
No more softness. No more distractions. Jenni packed her things in a worn satchel: The small knife she had taken from Alastor, some spare bandages, her favorite machete, and a single charm of Santa Muerte she tucked into a secret inner pocket of her button-up shirt. Before slipping on her coat, she paused and reached for a small gold cross necklace resting on a nail by the mirror. She clasped it around her neck with steady fingers, the cool metal resting just below her collarbone.
She stood still for a moment in the barn's hush. The lamp buzzed above her. Quietly, she slipped on the coat, hiding the cross in her shirt.
Then, with one last look around, she extinguished the lamp light and slipped into the night.
Ready.
And unafraid.
* * * * * *
Alastor was already there.
The spot lay deep in the bayou, tucked away far from any roads, hidden in thick swamp where most folks didn't dare tread. A strange, open clearing broke through the trees like something unnatural. A wide, bare circle of earth where nothing grew too tall, as if the land itself remembered some past violence. The ground was damp and uneven, ringed by wild vines and tall reeds. Just beyond it, the small, weathered house stood on stilts over the swamp water, half-consumed by creeping plants.
It was quiet here, eerily so. Only the buzz of insects and the slow croak of frogs echoed in the stillness, like the swamp was holding its breath. Moonlight spilled down in full, silver and clean. No trees to shade it. No cover to hide in. The entire clearing lit up like a stage awaiting its actors.
Alastor stood on the far side of the clearing, away from the swamp and the stilted house, half-hidden beneath the shadow of a tree. His navy coat was buttoned neatly to the neck, his shoes pressed into the damp ground.
He was early.
He pulled a folded newspaper from inside his coat, the pages faintly damp, and opened it with practiced ease. The rustle of paper broke the hush as he calmly scanned the headlines under the moonlight, looking for all the world like he had nothing better to do.
The rain from the day before had left the whole world soggy, tree limbs drooping, air thick, and the ground a mess of sucking mud. The clearing squelched with every step, the kind of place where even silence felt damp.
Too wet. Too still.
No way she could creep in without the swamp ratting her out first.
...
Then he heard it.
Slosh. Slosh. Slosh.
Heavy. Rushed. Gaining fast.
Alastor smiled before he even looked up. "There you are."
In the span of a breath, steel tore through the newspaper in his hands, the blade shrieking past his face with frightening weight. He shifted back just in time, the swing missing by inches, but not without cost. The paper split cleanly in two, and a few dark strands of his own hair drifted down after it, severed by the force of her strike.
He was still holding both halves, one in each hand, arms spread like a stage bow.
"Well now," he chuckled, "there goes my readin' material."
His eyes found her through the moonlight, lit up with wicked delight.
"Took you long enough, darlin'."
Mud clung to his shoes, thick and cold.
But it wouldn't be the only thing staining the ground for long.
Jenni's machete bit so deep into the sodden ground that the blade locked fast. Without missing a beat she released the handle, stamped her heel against the flat, and sent the weapon skidding across the slick mud toward the swamp's shore.
Alastor's hand flew to the hatchet at his hip, but he'd barely unlatched the loop before a fist hammered into his gut. The blow lifted him clean off his feet, mud spraying as she hoisted him like kindling, and slammed his back against the cypress trunk he was just leaning on a moment ago. Bark splintered; breath whooshed from his lungs.
For a heartbeat he stared, stunned by how absurdly strong she was. The rough-cut hair and storm-darkened face threw him, until that familiar beauty mark on her face fixed everything in place. Recognition snapped through him just as she drove him into the tree a second time, harder, the impact rattling his teeth.
"Merciful saints!" he wheezed, coughing, a crooked grin fighting its way out.
"—you're really strong. *cough!*"
Alastor wheezed against the tree, shoes dangling inches off the ground. He blinked at her through the strands of his now-mussed hair, catching his breath.
"For a second," he rasped, lips twitching, "I thought you were someone else. Maybe her angrier, stronger broth—"
Thud.
She slammed him into the trunk again, harder this time, more bark cracking behind his back. His breath hitched as his hands gripped her wrists, trying to brace himself. She hadn't let go.
"What the hell do you want?" she snapped, voice sharp as glass. "You saw what I did. I saw what you did. Normally, that's the part where one of us ends up dead. "
Her tone was cold now. Possessive. Dangerous. "Killers don't make room for other killers. So why are you still here? You were supposed to attack, stalk, SOMETHING!"
Alastor's breath came ragged, but his grin lingered; half pain, half intrigue.
"Thought we might make good partners," he said with a dry chuckle. "Bit of a strange duet, sure, but I like the sound of it."
Jenni's eyes burned. "Why? You don't know me. I ain't asked for this. I ain't following you."
Alastor's laugh came low in his throat, rough from the slam but still amused.
"I know," he said. "That's what makes it interesting."
She stared at him like she might drive his skull through the tree next.
"Funny," she growled, "I don't see the joke."
"Not a joke," he murmured. "Just familiar."
Jenni's grip tightened, and without warning, she flung him like a rag doll.
Alastor hit the ground hard, landing square on his tailbone with a sharp crack of impact. A flash of white pain shot up his spine as he let out a startled grunt, eyes wide, vision swimming from the shock.
"Son of a—" he hissed, gripping the mud with one hand as he tried to blink the ringing out of his head. His whole body buzzed from the fall.
Jenni didn't wait.
She was already sprinting across the clearing, boots splashing through the mud as she made a beeline for her machete, still on the ground.
She was almost there, an arm's length away.
when her ankle rolled hard in the muck with a sickening twist.
"Shit!" Her foot gave out, her body skidding forward as the mud yanked her down. She slammed onto her side with a brutal thud, her head bouncing once against the wet ground before she stopped, groaning through clenched teeth.
Alastor, still grimacing from the fall, pushed himself up as quick as he could.
His hand reached for the hatchet on his hip. No more words or charm.
He drew it free with a low breath, eyes locked on her sprawled figure on the ground. He ran, mud flying behind him with every stride, closing the distance fast, blade gleaming in the moonlight, straight toward her. Jenni saw him closing in fast, hatchet raised high, moonlight glinting off the blade like something wicked.
Her breath hitched.
She rolled hard to the side. There was no time to get up.
The hatchet came down with a heavy THUD, sinking into the mud right where her head had been a moment before.
As Alastor yanked at the embedded blade, Jenni stopped her roll, twisted, and drove her shoe heel straight into his shin—
Crack!
The blow landed clean and hard, knocking his leg out from under him. Alastor let out a grunt of surprise as he went down, hitting the mud with a wet smack, the wind stolen from him.
That was her chance.
Jenni scrambled up, slipping, legs burning, but she didn't stop. She bolted through the sludge, limping toward her machete. Her fingers closed around the hilt just as she heard the wet thuds of Alastor getting back to his feet behind her.
She turned just in time.
He was already there, charging through the dark, hatchet raised with a snarl twisting his face.
Clang!
Steel crashed into steel, his swing colliding with her raised machete. Sparks snapped from the clash, the force of it jolting through their arm like a live wire.
They locked there, breathless and shaking, blades pressed between them, the fight balanced on the edge of a heartbeat.
Around them, the swamp stayed still.
Their blades locked, steel screaming against steel as mud dripped from their clothes and their arms trembled with effort. Jenni gritted her teeth, muscles straining. Alastor loomed over her, the hatchet pressed against the flat of her machete, trying to force it down toward her face.
And yet,
she held.
His eyes flicked to the alignment of their weapons, then back to her with something between surprise and admiration.
"Well I'll be," he breathed, breath hot and ragged. "Stopped a hatchet swing dead with a blade barely wide as a hand. That ain't luck."
Jenni didn't answer, just pushed harder, their locked arms trembling under the strain.
Then, suddenly, the pressure broke.
Alastor jerked back and swung. Jenni ducked low, mud spraying from her boots as she slipped slightly but caught herself. She answered with a slash of her own, and he twisted away, her blade missing his ribs by inches. They circled each other now, like a wild dance with death leading the steps. Swinging and dodging, steel flashing in the moonlight, their feet sliding through muck that offered no grip. Each attack was wild but precise, brutal but focused. Mud slapped beneath them, thick and sucking, as the swamp echoed their every movement with squelches and splashes.
Little by little, step by step, they moved, neither one noticing at first, toward the old wooden deck half-swallowed by the swamp. It creaked in the distance, worn boards sagging with age, warped by years of rain and heat. Half the railing was gone, the rest leaned as if it were drunk. Beneath it, black water shimmered... and moonlit eyes shifted. A low splash rolled through the reeds.
The gators were watching.
And the fight was headed straight for them.
Their shoes thudded onto the warped boards of the deck with a heavy clomp, both of them slipping as the wet wood flexed beneath their weight. The whole structure groaned like it might give at any second, but neither of them stopped. Jenni's breath came ragged. Mud dripped down her cheek from her earlier fall, her fingers clenched tight around the machete's worn grip.
Alastor's hatchet lowered slightly, not in surrender, but in recognition. He was grinning again. Wide. Wild. That same damned glint in his eyes like all of this, every swing, every near miss, was only confirming something for him.
"You know," he panted, voice low but lively, "I was startin' to wonder if you were all talk, but this?" He gestured around with his hatchet, still keeping a step of distance between them.
"This right here? This little dance? Hell, I think we could make one hell of a team. I mean it."
Jenni's eyes narrowed, the rain-slick boards groaning beneath her as she repositioned her footing.
"Think about it," he went on, still smiling, "you ain't easy to take down. I respect that. Most folks would've dropped by now, but you—"
"Oh, shut your goddamn mouth!" she snapped, voice cutting through the night like a whip. "You talk like a fool with a death wish!"
Alastor only chuckled, tilting his head like he was savoring the sound of her fury.
"Aw, don't be cross, sugar," he said with mock sweetness. "I'm givin' you a compliment."
The deck creaked louder beneath them as the gators stirred in the black water below.
The machete whistled past his face before he could blink. Jenni was on him, not giving space or warning, forcing him to block with every step she drove forward. Alastor's shoes slid over the damp planks as he retreated, the deck creaking beneath their feet like it might give way any second. Blades clashed again, metal on metal, skin on sweat. There was no finesse left. Just survival.
Then-
A flicker of movement at the edge of her vision. A splash.
A subtle ripple in the water below.
A pair of luminous gator eyes surfaced, unblinking and far too close for comfort.
Alastor saw another set near him, just beneath the boards. Watching with hunger.
But he didn't flinch. Didn't care about the water, the rot, or the teeth beneath them.
His gaze fixed on her.
He exhaled slowly and lifted a hand slightly in a non-threatening motion, hatchet still in his other grip. "Look... maybe we ease off a minute," he said, tone even. "You've already proved you're not goin' down easy."
Jenni didn't answer, just stared him down.
"I'm not stalling," he added before she could accuse him. "I just... I didn't come out here to bury you."
She sneered. "Then what did you come for?"
Alastor smiled faintly, eyes sharp but strangely sincere. "To see if you were worth keeping alive."
That did it. She surged forward with a growl, swinging the machete with force. He met her blow for blow, hatchet rising just in time to clash against her steel. They fought in bursts, sharp swings, and tight dodges.
Jenni didn't hold back.
She didn't care about the gators.
She didn't care about the waning moonlight or the rot.
She just wanted to break him open. But Alastor...
He was starting to admire the storm in her.
He blocked another vicious strike, making him stumble back, his foot caught the edge of a warped board. He shifted, trying to keep his footing, and that's when he glanced back.
The end of the deck. Black water below. And glowing eyes... patient, and far too close. He swallowed hard.
End of Chapter 1