Shivaree (Shivaree)

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An Excerpt From: SHIVAREE

Copyright © CARA MCKENNA, 2010

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Chapter One

A couple miles from the junction that would’ve taken her to Baton Rouge, Natalie’s ancient pickup gave three rodeo-quality lurches and coasted to a halt. The engine sputtered to silence, headlights illuminating the neglected gravel road and the dense trees to either side.

“Beautiful,” she muttered. She rested her forehead on the wheel and blew out a long breath. What had Chris told her? You’ll never make it without me. Well, shit. They’d been broken up for less than three days now, and she was already possum meat. She could practically hear his mocking voice, humming the opening to Dueling Banjoes.

She tried turning the engine over a dozen times with no luck. Slamming her fist on the wheel was equally ineffective, though it felt pretty good. The air conditioner had died with the engine and its magic chill dissipated, replaced by the oppressive August heat.

The barest sliver of a crescent moon peeked from between the treetops. The clock in the dash said it was ten-twenty-six, Miami time, which made it just about nine-thirty here in Nowheresville, Louisiana.

Farther down the road, Natalie could make out a faint glow. A business or a house, she hoped, though she hadn’t seen a single building or passed another car in the fifteen bumpy miles since discovering the too-cheap-to-be-true motel she’d been looking for was shuttered and derelict. That’s what she got for trusting the decade-old regional guide book she’d paid a quarter for at a yard sale outside New Orleans that afternoon.

“Fuck it.”

She pocketed her keys and grabbed her wallet, shoved her purse deep under the passenger seat. She swung the door open and the humidity closed around her throat. Her shoes were practical by her standards, but that wasn’t saying much. The pointed toes and demure one-inch heel were wasted in the darkness, and as soon as she set foot on the ground, gravel found its way under her soles. She had sneakers in her suitcase, inside the cargo box in the bed of the truck, but fumbling around in the dark trying to unlock it seemed an invitation for further frustration. Plus the glow wasn’t coming from too far away.

Ignoring the questions bouncing around in her skull—most of which concerned what sorts of snakes might be causing the rustling noises in the undergrowth alongside the road—she headed toward what she hoped was salvation.

“Could just be a streetlight.” She wished she’d picked up a pay-as-you-go cell phone at a convenience store, as she’d been meaning to all day. But she’d just kept driving, kept putting miles between her and Chris, between her and all those mistakes she’d made and the four years she’d wasted on him. She tripped on some unseen bump in the dirt.

“Fucker.”

The glow wasn’t a streetlight, though it wasn’t as close as she’d hoped either. A quarter mile down the road, she heard the place before she could see it. Music drifted through the woods, haunting and eerie, like a spell. Like the sort of spooky metaphor Natalie wasn’t inclined to draw. It carried her closer, making her forget the pebbles grinding into her raw heels.

As the melancholy song ended, a happier one began. The road curved and a building came into view, lighting up the night like a miniature carnival.

It was a three-story white house with a wide front lawn. Hastily parked cars and trucks were strewn over the unkempt grass, and a porch wrapped around the ground floor, lined in mosquito netting and draped with mismatched strings of Christmas lights and electric lanterns. A hand-painted sign hung above the front steps. The Shivaree, it said.

Clearly a bar. In addition to the music wafting out, Natalie heard glasses tinkling, floorboards squeaking, laughter, loud voices calling out to one another. Surely someone in this bustling club would be able to help her—take a look at her truck, or at least give her a lift to the nearest motel.

But her practical troubles dissolved as the screen door slapped shut behind her. Her gaze drifted past the bar, past the couples promenading on the creaky dance floor, past the scattered tables and loitering drinkers to the lone man on the little stage in the corner.

Natalie swallowed.

“Charisma” didn’t go halfway to describing what he had. Tall. Lean, but substantial, utterly magnetic. He looked as if he’d stepped out of some other era, transported by time machine from the 1920s, maybe. Shined black shoes, dark slacks, a crisp dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps. A watch chain dangled from his belt and a gray porkpie hat topped his messy hair. His face was placid. Tan skin, black eyebrows and sideburns. A wide mouth designed for whispering sinister promises.

Natalie looked to his hands and the instrument they were holding, something like a small, asymmetrical guitar, with strange curves to it—something she recognized, but only vaguely. Something from a film set in a different century.

A tap on her shoulder snapped her out of her trance. A couple had arrived behind her, and she mumbled an apology and moved out of the threshold. She kept her eyes off the musician and made a beeline for the bar. She’d planned to enquire about solving her engine troubles, but the thought flew away as the woman behind the taps smiled at her.

Natalie glanced to the bottles lined up above the register. “Blue Moon, please.”

She took her sweating beer back through the crowd, settling herself at a high table. She resisted the temptation to look at the musician again, staring at the couples instead. The fast song came to an end, and the dancers paused to clap and whoop their appreciation.

“Thank you.” His voice was low and deep, with a gentle rasp. Natalie’s eyes snapped up against her wishes. They found the man smiling into the crowd as his fingers plucked idly at the strings. He eased into another song, its dreamy, dark notes oozing out into the space. Most of the couples stayed on the floor, beginning to slow dance, looking like lovers. Looking like sex, upright to a beat.