Chapter Text
The summer of 1929 was the same as it had been in years before. New Orleans was hot and humid. People were basking in the prosperity of the decade, unconcerned with the future. People got married, had children, went to work, strolled the streets during the day and slipped into speakeasies at night.
But as it was in every era, and in every era to come, not everyone had an equal share. Widespread prosperity meant nothing to those who were pressed down under another’s heel. So it was for Ruth, who lived in hot, humid, affluent New Orleans, and carried an ember in her heart that made everything look dark and cold.
She’d grown up there, in New Orleans, in the house with the chipping white paint and a small but elegant porch. When her family bought the house, the paint had been pristine. It only began to fall into disrepair so many summers ago when Ruth’s mother died. It had been an unceremonious death at the hands of a slow, creeping disease. Likewise, the house’s disrepair came on in shades, aided by the sun and the humidity that made everything rot just a little bit faster.
Inside the house, the rot had come so much quicker. Even now, as she looked at her father in his customary chair where he sat half drunk in the middle of the afternoon, she could feel the vitriolic hatred that had been born shortly after her mother’s untimely demise. It was better that he was drunk, really. He’d been sober the night before, and he’d beat her nearly unconscious. Despite that, she hated him more when he was drunk. When he was sober, he would beat her bloody; when he was drunk, he often thought she was his dead wife.
The summer in New Orleans was bright, but the curtains of the house were all drawn. In every corner, the shadows were thick. They watched Ruth, and they watched her father, and they placed their bets among themselves on which one of them would kill the other first.
Ruth was smart enough to know how her story was supposed to end. She, the fragile, tragic heroine, the sweet, unassuming secretary with the dead mother, was supposed to die at her father’s hands. Everyone would feign shock. He would be arrested. He might face justice, but he might also walk free after a couple years, ready to return to drinking and victimizing. Either way, Ruth was supposed to die. She would become a newspaper headline for a day or two: “Father Kills Daughter in Drunken Rage.” The article would make people shake their heads as they read the paper in a café or in their living rooms. She might even earn a mention on the radio. Then again, maybe not.
She clenched her fist and stared at him across the room. He didn’t notice her. He rarely did unless he wanted something. She curled her fingers and uncurled them and thought about the headlines.
Finally, he took notice of her. “Hey,” he slurred, his tongue heavy in his mouth, “come here.”
Ruth took a step back, though he hadn’t moved to stand from his chair.
His expression turned sharp. “Don’t run from me, girl.”
She froze. She hated freezing.
“You’re going to go down to Dauphin Street, and you’re going to get me another bottle.”
He said it in the same tone he always spoke. It was quick and forceful, and utterly artless. It was engineered to strike fear in the most primal way. Ruth knew all of this and resented its effect on her all the more because of it. She was too smart, too strong to be falling for such a thing, but it still shook her to her core. She’d known his rage from too young, and the first impression she’d had of it made it look scarier than it was. She could still see it through the eyes of a child. She nodded and turned to the door, though she’d only just got home from work.
“You say ‘yes sir.’”
She stopped again, this time not in fear but in blinding, burning, freezing rage. “Yes sir,” she ground out.
The headlines flashed in her mind again, only this time they were a little different. “Battered Daughter Kills Father” the paper read. People looked on it with intrigue instead of pity, feeling as though she was justified even as they scoffed at her violence and condemned her to prison. She lived incarcerated for the rest of her life. People thought about her for a day and forgot.
Ruth figured she would end up a faded memory in the paper no matter what she chose. The only thing left was to decide whether she wanted to live or die.
Ruth found that she didn’t particularly care for either outcome. She had nothing to live for, not really. She had a job as a secretary making mediocre pay under a lecherous, witless boss. She had no other family. She had no money and no prospects, and if she killed her father, no one would touch her with a ten-foot pole. She would lose what little she had and live the rest of her miserable days in prison.
Alternatively, she could wait for the inevitable and die. She mulled over this option and found that she didn’t like it. It might have been merely her innate survival instincts. It might have been a hidden kernel, something stashed behind the ember of her rage. A real desire to live. Something that asserted her right to be as free as anyone else. Something that made her angry that she wasn’t given the chance. Then there was the rage itself, the thing that told her how satisfying it would be to slaughter that man.
She had suffered so much, she decided at last, as Dauphin Street came into view. She could suffer prison. She felt the loud, aching pain in her ribs and her side and her back and thought prison didn’t sound so bad at all.
The speakeasy wasn’t technically open yet, but the owner recognized her and sold her the whiskey bottle without fuss. The owner was a watcher and nothing more. He saw Ruth’s pain, and her father’s drunkenness, and he never seemed too disturbed by either. Ruth thought briefly about killing him too. It wouldn’t be so different, she supposed.
She quickly decided to skip him. If she wanted even the shadow of a chance of getting away with killing her father, she would have to avoid drawing attention. She would leave the owner alone. She tucked the bottle under her clothes and thought about how she would carry out the murder as she walked home.
She didn’t have a gun, and she didn’t want to go through the trouble of obtaining one. She could try to kill him with her hands, but he might win with his drunken strength. She could use poison, except she didn’t know what to use or how much of it. Poison was too quiet, anyhow, and too slow, and left too many traces.
She would slit his throat. That was simple enough, left little room for error, and would be satisfying. She was sure of it. She needed a place to get rid of his body. The best thing she could think of was dragging it into the bayou. To fulfil her plan, then, she needed to get him into his car and drive him as far towards the wilderness as she could. She would have to try to walk with him for a ways, since his body would be extraordinarily hard for her to move once he was dead. She needed to walk him to his own grave.
She had to make sure he drank a lot, that was all. When he couldn’t tell up from down, walking to his grave wouldn’t seem so bad.
She’d made all of her choices so abruptly that her rational mind encouraged her to wait. She might be making a horrible mistake, some part of her reasoned. She might be throwing her life away for something she didn’t truly want to do. But as soon as she let the plan play out in her mind, she knew she’d always wanted this. She’d wanted to kill him since he first gave her a black eye.
She was not a woman made to tolerate slights. She often did, because she was at her father’s mercy or her boss’s mercy, depending on where she was. But rather than slipping out of her mind, every slight against her stayed under her skin like a shard of glass. She held onto them. She hadn’t known why, since they’d only leant her grief, but she was beginning to understand. She’d been saving them for her inevitable revenge.
It would be fast and bloody. Perhaps she would get away with it. More likely, she wouldn’t. Either way, she would get the only thing she really wanted. She would get to watch him die. His suffering would be far shorter than she would’ve liked, but she would be free of him at last. It almost made her happy. The pain in her body throbbed, but her heart was still.
She played nice when she got home. She spoke softly and gave him liquor, refilling his glass before he could think to ask. She poured him more every time, and the more drunk he got, the more he rambled.
“You know, I always told your mother I wanted a boy. Someone who would grow to be big and strong, like me. And instead, I got you.” He gestured towards her sloppily. “You’re weak and frail. And now that the whore is dead, how am I supposed to get a successor?”
Ruth almost did it right then. The knives were there in the kitchen and they were so easy to reach. But she had to wait, or her living room would be soaked with blood and she’d have no chance at all of getting away with it.
“I tried to marry you off as soon as you turned eighteen, you know? But nobody wanted you. You’re too proud.” He fixed her in a gaze that was both lewd and denigrating. “And your body’s nothing to brag about.”
His musings got less coherent from there. The things he said always made Ruth feel exposed, like her coat had been ripped off in the dead of winter. Only the ember stayed hot, tucked away as it was behind her heart. She kept silent and allowed him to converse with himself until late in the night.
“Father,” she started, sounding contemplative, “I heard of a place in the next town over that’s supposed to have the best whiskey in the state. But the thing is, they’re only open really late. Right about now, I reckon.”
Her father laughed as his head lolled back. “Then what are you doin’ here?”
She shrugged, looking down demurely. “Well, you know how the city is after dark. It’s no place for a woman. I’d be so lost without a man to protect me.”
“Damn right, you would. Fuckin’ waif.”
She was laying it on thick, she knew, but she also knew that her father was too far gone to realize it. He’d always been weak to having his ego stroked. “But you do deserve the best, don’t you? I would just love to pop over and get you some of the good stuff. If you would just let me drive us there, I’d feel safe enough to get it.”
He grunted and his head tilted to one side as if he couldn’t hold it up. “Who the fuck do I look like, crossing the city in the middle of the night?”
“It’s the only way to get the top shelf, father. I’ll drive, it’s just that I need a man’s guidance. Speakeasies aren’t the place for a woman like me.”
He huffed but didn’t object further. Eventually, he hauled himself to his feet, swaying violently before righting himself. He began to stumble wordlessly towards the door, and Ruth picked up the keys.
She didn’t know how far she drove or for how long. The time blurred, and she was acutely aware of her father falling asleep in the passenger seat. The biggest knife from their kitchen assortment was lying on the floor, pinned under her foot to keep it still. She drove and drove, and her father slept, and she put the car in park at the edge of the wilderness. Out there was the untamed bayou, the stuff of dreams and nightmares.
She tapped her father’s shoulder to wake him. “We’re here.”
He waved her off.
“Come on, father, we’ve got to go get the liquor.”
“You get it,” he slurred, and it was barely intelligible.
“They’ll only give it to you.” Ruth didn’t feel the need to get elaborate with her excuses; her father was too drunk to tell truth from lies.
He lurched forward, seemed to hover on the precipice of throwing up, and then made his way out of the car. “Where the hell did you take us? Dumb broad. Fuckin’ middle of nowhere.”
“It’s just through the trees. They have it out here so they can’t get caught.”
She realized the problem as soon as they reached the tree line. Her father was stumbling drunk and already tripping over the dirt path. It would only get worse the deeper they got, and there was only so much distance she could reasonably make him walk. She wouldn’t be able to get deep enough to just leave the body where it fell.
She started to feel nervous about the chip in her plan, but she walked on anyway. There was no going back. She didn’t want to go back, not to the house with faint bloodstains on the wall in the hallway where he’d once flung her down. Not to anywhere she had to be with him. Freedom, she reminded herself, this was for freedom. She needed it. She couldn’t bear to be caged a moment longer.
An animal in a cage. What a strange thing for a person to be, and yet she’d been one for so long. It must have scrambled her head, she thought, since she’d never considered killing someone before. She’d always had care for other people. She’d never raised a hand to anyone. But there she was with a knife in her waistband. Some part of her liked it. Some part of her felt like she had become the very hand of justice.
The rumination didn’t weaken her resolve. She was alight with rage and the power of her will. The ember had caught on the curtains of her soul, and the fire melted the bars of her cage. New Orleans was hot. The flame flourished.
“Where the fuck are we?”
Her father had one hand braced against a tree, hunched over as he fought nausea once again.
Ruth turned to look at him, her eyes wide and innocent. She’d often been made to play that part, and she swore it would be her last time. After this, she would be everything she really felt: wild, spiteful, vicious, independent, untouchable. “Almost there, father.”
He shook his head sharply. “Hell no. Dragging me all the way out here, who the fuck do you think you are? You got us lost, you dumb broad.”
Dumb broad, dumb broad. Ruth’s hand twitched. “You won’t come any further?”
“No.”
Her steps were soft against the damp ground. She was in front of him before he knew it and, bent over as he was, she simply turned the knife upwards and plunged it through his soft throat. It went nearly through the back of his neck, deep and irrevocable. There was a slick noise as she drew it out, and the blood gushed forth. He choked as he tried to breathe. His hands grasped fruitlessly at his neck as he fell to his knees and then quickly to the ground.
His eyes were blue. She’d always known it, but she’d never appreciated it before. She rolled him over, straddled his ugly, dying body, and really stared. Those eyes were blown wide in fear and shock, blue even in the darkness of the woods. She stabbed his throat again and they rolled back into his head.
The blood flowed and flowed and pooled under him and soaked her skirt. She ran her hands along the sides of his neck, letting it gush over and through her fingers. She was playing with his body, and usually she would have found the mere idea disgusting. But the blood was so red, so different from his blue eyes. She much preferred the red.
When she stood, she was filthy with his blood. She tucked the knife back into her clothes and seized her father’s arm, beginning to pull him. She knew there would be a limit on how far she could drag him, but she felt that she could go a decent distance before she had to give up. The trail they’d been on wasn’t really a trail, but an animal path craved out by deer and other forest creatures. His body flattened the grasses and bushes at its edges, but it was smooth enough that dragging him wasn’t impossible. Her quiet panting echoed through the trees, masked by the rustling of plants and the droning of cicadas.
It quickly became difficult. Her father was no small man, and it took little time for her muscles to begin to ache. It hardly deterred her at first. Resolve hardened her against pain. Even so, her energy was finite. She stopped for a moment, dropping his arm and kneeling on the path as she caught her breath. The path was a mess; the whole thing was messy. Blood and mud mixed together in a trail. She began to doubt the usefulness of having dragged him at all. It wouldn’t be terribly hard to trace the body from where it was killed. She should probably just leave it, though it would be discovered faster.
Ruth froze. The forest had gone silent. She could barely hear the soft sound of flowing water. Everything else seemed to be holding its breath.
Before she knew it, there was a man in front of her. Just behind him was another body. Shadows seemed to flit over him before dispersing and revealing the glimmer of white teeth as he grinned at her.
He was a slim man, reasonably tall with warm-toned tan skin and wavy hair. The frame of his glasses glinted in the moonlight. He would have cut an attractive figure if not for the cloying darkness and the blood on his shirt and the axe in his hand. Ruth felt the heady mix of hot rage and cold fear, and she scrambled to get her legs underneath herself.
“I have to admit, I never would have imagined this happening. What a peculiar coincidence!”
On the surface, his tone was light, as if he was greeting an old friend. Ruth knew by instinct alone that she was in grave danger. She drew her knife and held it at her side, not raised but not relaxed either.
“Now, now, dear, that will hardly do you any good. You don’t look like there’s much fight left in you.”
She did the quickest calculation in her head. Her knife was light and fast. An axe was heavy and took slightly more time to swing.
She launched herself at him, trying to stab him in the stomach. He twisted out of the way at the last moment but had to drop his axe to do so. He leapt back, crouching slightly and smiling all the while.
To Ruth’s bewilderment, he seemed to be genuinely having fun. It made her incalculably angry. Here was another man poised to hurt her and belittle her. She’d already made one such man pay, and she would have her fill of blood before the night was over. She matched his grin with her own snarl.
He laughed brightly, alight with manic energy. “I stand corrected! What a fascinating dame you are.”
She didn’t want to talk. She kicked the axe away so it laid behind her.
“My dear, I’ve been in enough fights to beat you bare-handed.”
Something about his voice was unnerving her, but she couldn’t say what it was. She couldn’t promise that she could kill him, but if she couldn’t, she was going to fuck him up badly. She said softly, “This isn’t the fight you want to pick.”
He straightened a bit, satisfied that he’d gotten her to start talking. He didn’t lose fights, and he didn’t lose arguments. In this situation, he thought he’d get much more enjoyment out of the latter. “Whyever not? That is a body behind you, isn’t it?”
She jerked her head to the ground behind the man. “And yours?”
He glanced behind himself as if only just remembering that there was a corpse there. “Indeed it is. You and I, we’re in a bit of a pickle, aren’t we?”
“What do you mean?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“Well, you’ve seen me with this body. I can’t simply let you go. However, I’m quite curious about you, darling! What a treat, finding you all the way out here. What are the odds that we cross paths in the bayou with bodies to bury?”
“So what, you’re going to kill me? We’ll see who can kill who first.”
He adjusted his glasses, peering at her through the dark. “I’d rather not kill you, truth be told. You look terribly interesting.”
She was about to spit at his suggestion when it finally clicked what was wrong with his voice. Ruth had always gotten a modicum of comfort from music. When her mother had lived, they occasionally bought records. When she died, her father never spent money on anything Ruth wanted, especially something he considered frivolous. She still had a radio, though, and she made do with that. And the radio was where she’d heard this voice before. She’d listened to his show enough times for his voice to sound very familiar.
“Alastor Laveau?”
His smile twitched and somehow got even wider. “Oh, my dear. Now I have to kill you. How I wish you hadn’t said that.”
Ruth gripped the knife tighter and poised herself to strike.
His voice was low then, all the brightness of the radio drained out of it. “It won’t change your fate, but I do hope you’ll indulge my curiosity: why’d you kill him?”
Ruth took a half step back, doing another calculation in her head. She was worn out, yes, but perhaps she could still run. Alastor looked like he would be a good runner, but she was scared, and that might give her the adrenaline she needed to run until she could disappear.
She was scared. Her grip loosened at the realization so that she nearly dropped the knife, then she gripped it again with renewed vigor. She forced her shoulders to drop and stood up straight. She wasn’t going to be scared anymore. She’d already killed her father, the man who tormented her for her entire life. She would kill Alastor too. That she liked his radio show, that it reminded her of her mother, that was all just a sick joke. A peculiar coincidence, like he said.
She would lose control of the knife too easily. She cast it behind her with the axe and lunged at Alastor weaponless.
His eyes widened and he half-caught her on instinct. They tumbled to the ground and Ruth landed on top, digging her knee into his gut and looming over him awkwardly. She wrapped her hands around his throat and squeezed. His infuriating smile didn’t waver. His hands settled on top of hers. She felt the muscles in his neck strain against her grip.
All at once, he grabbed her shoulders and flipped them so she was pinned to the ground instead. She drew her leg up and tried to kick him, but he threw his leg over one of hers and pinned it down. She seized a hold of his collar but couldn’t move him one way or the other. His gaze bored into hers. She continued to thrash and struggle, but he wouldn’t let up.
“Dear,” he said, taking one of her hands in his own and pressing it against his own throat, “if you’re going to choke me, you need to press here.”
Her hand stayed loose, and her thrashing lessened. She didn’t know how to take his placing her hand on his own neck when she’d just tried to kill him. It must have been disrespect, she decided. She lurched up, slamming her forehead into his nose and relishing the crack it made. She would no longer tolerate disrespect.
Alastor reeled back as his hand came up to clutch his face. He hadn’t expected that. In fact, he hadn’t expected any of the moves she’d made since he met her. He was good at predicting. He predicted the movements of his prey, the decisions of his producers, the likes and dislikes of the high society friends he needed to make and keep. But her? He didn’t understand by what rules she made her choices. He needed to find out what made her tick.
He laughed, which only enraged her further. She darted over to grab her knife, turned on a dime, and leapt onto him, holding the knife high above his face. She would drag this one out, just for the hell of it. New Orleans was hot, and humid, and dark, and she was covered in blood and sweat, and she finally felt alive when she was surrounded by death.
Alastor sat up just before she could bring the knife down, shoving their fronts together and using that leverage to turn them again so her back was pressed to the dirt. Alastor held the hand with the knife above her head. She couldn’t break his grip. She shouldn’t have gone back for the knife, she thought idly. She was too swept up in the heat of her newfound bloodlust. It was no matter, though. She’d had her pound of flesh and her fight. She could die.
Alastor didn’t kill her. His blood dripped off his face and landed on her cheek. Neither of them flinched.
“Why did you kill him?” he asked again.
Ruth reached downward with her free hand, moving slowly and keeping her eyes glued to Alastor’s. She began popping open the buttons on her blouse starting from the bottom, which earned her an incredulous raised brow but no outward objections. When it was open far enough, she pushed one side off of her stomach and revealed the massive purple bruise that covered a third of her torso.
He looked at it for a moment, then back up at her, waiting for further explanation.
Her adrenaline was fading somewhat, and she could feel pain like lightning traveling from the bruise she’d exposed. “I’d had enough of my father.”
Alastor’s smile lessened a great deal until it was more of a grimace. “Where is your mother?”
Ruth slammed her open palm onto the earth beside them. “Down here, I imagine.”
Alastor hummed, but it lacked the mirth he’d displayed earlier. “Well, you already know my name. Might I know yours?”
“What do you care? Aren’t you going to bury me out here?”
“Well, my darling, I could kill you, but then I would have three bodies to dispose of. I am just one man, after all. Why, I’d be out here all night.”
“What a difficult life you lead,” Ruth replied flatly.
Alastor laughed a short note. “You’re funny. In more ways than one, I think. I’d like to make a deal with you.”
“A deal?”
“Yes, my dear, but I do believe introductions are in order. I am a gentleman, and I like to know the names of the young women who attack me in the swamp.”
“A gentleman?” Ruth laughed loudly and pulled against his grip, not to free herself but to prove her point. “You’re burying bodies in the bayou. A gentleman! I’m half-dressed and pinned underneath you.”
His mouth had regained its grin, but his eyes conveyed the frown that would sit on a normal man’s face. “Your being in a state of undress is entirely your own fault. Though, I must say: that wound could very well have killed you. I’m a bit surprised that you lived through it, but you are much more tenacious than even I could have guessed.”
That was startlingly close to a compliment. Ruth gradually lost her snarl, and her expression flattened into a more neutral displeasure. “I had something to do before I died.”
Alastor tilted his head. His hold had loosened substantially until he was only touching her wrist instead of gripping it, but she understood that she still wasn’t supposed to move. “So you planned to die?”
Ruth shrugged half-heartedly. “I imagine I’ll get caught eventually. I’ll either die or live the rest of my days in prison.”
His grin stretched wide again. “Darling, you need a friend like me. How about a name, hmm? You’ve got nothing to lose, have you?”
As much as she hated to admit it, he had a point. She’d done nothing that night but throw caution to the wind. She might as well continue. “Ruth. My name’s Ruth.”
“Ruth! Lovely.” He sat up abruptly, freeing her from his grasp. “Let’s discuss that deal, shall we? I’m a bit of a professional when it comes to disposing of evidence, so I can make it look like you were never here. You can go back to living your life.”
She sat up cautiously, one hand hovering protectively over her injured side. “And what do you want?”
“I’m not sure, my dear! I’m certain you have lots to offer. I’m quite impressed by you, you know. You must be very strong. After all, you dragged father dearest quite a long way, if that trail is to be believed. And you still had the wherewithal to attack me, bare-handed and exhausted! What fun you must be! I take it this is your first kill?”
“Yes.” Ruth understood then that she was in the presence of someone who killed often, someone who wasn’t really like her despite the blood on both of their hands. “And how many have you killed?”
“Why, I scarcely thought to count!”
Ruth felt a chill go down her spine, but she wasn’t scared. Alastor was right; she was exhausted. She doubted she was even capable of fear at the moment, and if she was, she would have choked it down anyway. “So what would I have to do? If you intend to make me a whore, you can just kill me now.”
“Nothing like that,” Alastor said, and she could almost believe the words were delivered with a sympathetic lilt. “I simply can’t decide. You’ll just have to stick around until I find something I want in return.”
“A blank check? Made out to you, a stranger?”
“I’m hardly a stranger, dear, you’re obviously familiar with me.” He preened at the statement.
“I’m familiar with your voice playing between songs. Unless you’re going to sing for me, I wouldn’t call this familiar.”
“And what would you like to hear, Miss Ruth? I’ve been partial to Lizzie Miles lately. She is New Orleans’ own, you know. Or Ethel Waters? What suits your fancy, my dear?”
Ruth felt weakness wash over her like a wave, swaying as if she’d been the one to drink her weight in liquor. “Alastor, I can’t do this much longer.”
His gaze flicked over her and his smile tightened. “Yes, I quite agree. I’m sure you’ve reinjured yourself by rolling about in the dirt. So, you must make your choice. Is it a deal?”
“It’s not much of a choice at all.” She shook the hand that he offered, her grip firm despite the pain that was returning tenfold. “Can you really handle both bodies?”
“Not to worry. You just sit here, and I’ll be back before you know it.” He hooked his arms under the body he’d brought and slung it over his back with a strength that belied his stature. “And dear? If you’re not here when I return, I’ll make you my next prey.”
“You asked my name just to call me something else at every turn,” Ruth grumbled. She didn’t really care, but the words fell off her tongue like her mouth couldn’t hold them. She leaned her battered body against a tree and didn’t look at her father’s corpse very much.
Her head lolled to the side. She couldn’t afford to fall asleep, not in the bayou, not with the radio host who was also a seasoned killer lurking about. Alastor Laveau, a seasoned killer. How strange. She started to laugh softly. Her eyes slipped shut before she forced them open again, and her laughter only got more intense. She quieted herself to avoid being caught, though she sincerely doubted she would encounter anyone but Alastor. She should have been scared of him more than anyone, but she wasn’t. It was hubris, maybe, or wrath or exhaustion or the memories of what she’d suffered hidden under her skin. She didn’t care. She wasn’t scared. She waited for Alastor.
Alastor seemed pleased to find her in the same spot. Her father was larger than Alastor’s own prey had been, so he grabbed the man by his ankles and dragged him off instead of carrying him. Ruth watched it happen hazily. She blinked and it took a second for her eyes to reopen. She couldn’t fall asleep, she told herself. She gathered the axe and the knife that were still lying on the ground and held them to her chest.
She woke to the sound of a deceptively soothing voice next to her ear. “You really shouldn’t fall asleep in the wilderness, sweetheart. There’s a killer on the loose.”
She gripped the knife and spun, stabbing it into the tree beside Alastor’s head. Alastor smiled broadly.
“You’re growing fond of me already, dear. You missed me on purpose.”
Ruth’s chest heaved. She had missed him on purpose, that much was true. She was a killer, but she didn’t like to go back on her word, and she’d already made a deal with him. She only wanted him to know that she wasn’t to be trifled with. In the span of a night, she had become dangerous, and she would lean into that whole-heartedly before she left someone walk over her again.
Alastor noted her labored breaths and watched her curiously. “We must get you home, I think.”
Ruth growled from somewhere deep inside her. She didn’t want Alastor deciding things on her behalf, nor did she want a strange man making statements about her home. She would never let another person in that house, she thought. That place was hers now, and hers alone, no matter how much she hated it. She would be safe in it from then on, and that meant keeping everyone else out.
“You’re not terribly talkative, are you?”
“I still want to kill you.”
“That’s the adrenaline speaking.” Alastor stood and brushed off his shirt. “It will fade. Your wound will not, at least not for a while.”
“What, are you worried about me?” she asked, bitter at her situation.
She started to stand and, to her dismay, crumpled right back to the ground. She stared straight ahead for a moment as the rage reignited inside her. She tried again and made it onto her feet before she wavered concerningly. Alastor caught her, one hand on her shoulder and the other on her waist as he held her steady.
“I wasn’t, but it seems I should be.” Alastor glanced at her up and down. “I could see that the injury was bad, but now I think you may have cracked ribs.”
“Who cares,” she said, thinking very hard about throwing him off even though she would fall.
“I just got carte blanche from you, I’m not going to let you die so soon. You’re positively soaked in blood anyway, so I might as well try to fix you up a bit before we leave. You’re conspicuous.”
“I’m fine,” Ruth insisted. She took a step and her body went limp against her will, keeping her hostage in Alastor’s arms. “I’m fucking fine.”
“You’re not very ladylike, are you?”
“I should kill you. I’m much more a lady than you are a gentleman.”
“On the contrary! Because I am such a gentleman, I am going to kindly fix you up despite your protestations.”
He smoothly lifted her into a bridal carry. Ruth tried to thrash and push him away, but she only succeeded in winding herself and turning her breaths into pained gasps. Air fought its way out of her with force, but she marshalled herself as quickly as she could.
She leaned away from the warmth of Alastor’s chest, pretending to prefer the cold nighttime air. “Put me down. I’m not some weak broad who needs your help.”
“You, weak? The thought never crossed my mind.” He sounded eerily sincere. “You need to relax, dear. I’m determined to get my newest entertainment back on her feet. You’ve truly been injured within an inch of your life, and you still managed to kill a man and drag his body out here.”
“I don’t need you.”
“You wouldn’t have made a deal with me if that were true.”
Ruth was out cold before the end of his sentence. He carried her a long way, further than he probably should have, but he didn’t want her to try to walk again. He hated to admit it, really fucking loathed it to the core, but Ruth’s story was giving him pause. She was a lot like him. They were both driven to kill by the violence of their fathers. But even more significant was the comparison he could draw between Ruth and his mother. Two women badly abused by the men in their families, except Alastor’s mother had him to remove the threat. Ruth had no one; she’d done it herself. Alastor liked that. He respected it. He honestly didn’t mind helping her with the cleanup, since she’d come this far all alone.
He registered in the back of his mind that he didn’t really mind touching her either, though he usually hated to be in contact with other people. It might’ve been the blood between them that had soaked their clothes. Alastor tried to keep clean, but he’d never minded some blood. Ruth had obviously not tried to keep clean. It was either the mark of an amateur or a mark of serious bloodlust. He was fascinated by the very real possibility of Ruth having enjoyed the blood too much.
She began to rouse as Alastor found his way back to his own car. She groaned softly, cradled her side, and abruptly remembered where she was. She started to struggle again.
“My dear, you’ll be set down in a moment. You’ll only hurt yourself by fighting your knight in shining armor.”
“You seem much less arrogant on the radio,” she wheezed.
Alastor set her down so she was leaning against the car, then grabbed a bag from the back seat. There was nothing suspicious in it, only a couple sets of clothes and soap. He handed her a set of his pajamas.
“Obviously, these won’t fit, but you need to put them on anyway. Frankly, I can’t tell the original color of your clothes.”
Ruth didn’t need to look down at herself to know everything was red. She eyed what Alastor offered warily. “I’m not changing out here in front of you.”
“I’m hardly asking you to. You can go to the other side of the car and I’ll stay facing this way. Then I’ll take a look at your side.”
Ruth took the clothes and went to the other side of the car, watching Alastor for a long moment. He never once turned his head, so she figured she was alright if she could be quick. Bending over was a nightmare and made her nauseous, but she managed to get the pants on and roll up the cuffs far enough that they didn’t drag the ground. She unbuttoned her shirt without problem and was able to shrug it off, but trying to put on a new one proved so painful that she had to choke a whine in her throat.
“Are you alright, dear?” Alastor asked, keeping his gaze fixed on the woods.
“Yes, just, fucking—dammit.” Ruth tried to take a deep breath and that only made it worse.
“May I help you?”
“Real fucking original. What a great line.”
Alastor rolled his eyes. Firstly, there wasn’t a woman in New Orleans who didn’t want to hear a line from him. More importantly, there were no lines being said. “It’s not a line, bear cub. I’m simply asking if you need help getting clothed. I don’t usually play the good nurse, but the situation calls for it.”
Ruth knew she was being unreasonably hostile towards a man who had covered up her crime and carried her safely through the woods. The pain, nearly unbearable, set her temper on a hair trigger, as did the swirling memories of her father. She felt quite close to tears, but she refused to cry, especially not in front of Alastor.
She softened her tone a great deal as she said, “Yes, I’d like your help, please.”
“Oh? Perhaps you have manners after all,” he said happily.
He came around the car and made a point of looking her in the eye as he did so. When he felt that he’d made his point, he took a good look at the injury that had been laid bare. It was just as bad as it had looked when he’d got a glimpse of it. The mottled purple splotches ran over her ribs and down her side, a broad lake of blood sitting under her skin. He wondered if her organs were damaged but concluded they probably weren’t, since she was still up and about. If they were, there was little that either of them could do.
He remembered that her father had done this to her and felt nothing short of fury. Her father was the kind of man that Alastor would have killed. It was always worse when the violence came from inside the family. Family was supposed to defend each other. The only solution for those who didn’t was to cull them. That was evidently the conclusion that Ruth had come to as well.
“Will you let me feel for breaks? I’ll be quick.”
Alastor himself didn’t like to be touched, so he was careful of the boundary he could sense in her. Besides, it was impolite to handle a dame without her permission. And Alastor could sense something extra there, some additional evil that had been inflicted upon her. He knew she wouldn’t take kindly to anything even slightly untoward, though that clearly wasn’t his intention.
Just as he predicted, he was met with a cold, calculating stare. He waited patiently for a response, since she’d seemed to regain her manners, and it was only fair to return them.
“Okay,” she relented at last.
He took a half step forward and slotted his fingers against her ribs, pressing with care. Ruth bit her lip harshly to keep herself silent, which worked fine until he came upon a crack. She yelped and grabbed his wrist on instinct. He moved his hands away, allowing her to keep a grip on his wrist until she had steadied herself.
“That’s the crack,” he informed her. “That will take time to heal. If I were a doctor, I’d likely give you an IV if not a transfusion. Unfortunately, going to a hospital at the moment would be detrimental to your case. My advice is to keep in mind that you’ve lost a lot of blood even though it’s still technically inside you, and you need to replenish your fluids.”
She looked up at him skeptically. “Are you actually a nurse?”
“No, dear, I’m just accustomed to tending my own wounds. Though I’ve never had one on this scale.”
He took the shirt from her and held it open, helping her slowly pull one arm through and then the other. He pulled it closed and began to button it up.
“I can do that myself,” she protested, though it was much less vehement and more of a gentle chiding.
“I’m a gentleman, remember?”
She let him finish buttoning the shirt, though she stared at him with disbelief. Alastor let his characteristic cheer seep back in.
“There we are. I’ll drive you home.”
Ruth shook her head. “I drove myself out. The car is somewhere around here.”
“And it would be best to leave it there. Better not to raise questions about how he got to the woods. The car will be returned to you when it’s found.”
“Do you think I’ll still be a suspect?”
Alastor tapped his chin as if he was thinking, though his responses were always planned. “As long as you play the police interviews correctly, I think it’s nigh impossible. There’s a well-known serial killer in New Orleans who hasn’t been caught, and your father happens to bear his mark, if ever his body should be found.”
“His mark? I thought his mark—your mark was an axe wound.”
“Which I gave him while you were resting.”
That was shockingly thoughtful. Not only had he taken care of the body, but he had taken responsibility for the kill. Alastor had essentially shielded her from all suspicion. She didn’t know how to thank him. “Where is your axe, by the way?”
“I could hardly carry both it and you. Unfortunately, it’s lost. It shouldn’t be too difficult to procure a new one, though. Likewise, you’ll need a new set of kitchen knives, but you should wait until this all blows over to buy one. Just to be safe.”
“Why are you helping me, really? You could have easily killed me after I passed out.”
“We made a deal, my dear! Besides, I admire your fighting spirit. And it happens to intrigue me that murder hasn’t left a terribly strong impression on you.”
He left out the resonance between Ruth’s circumstances and his own. She didn’t need to know that, at least not yet. It occurred to him that he might tell her someday, if she stuck around for that long. Perhaps he would tire of her, use his favor quickly, and she would depart. Perhaps she would prove interesting, and Alastor would drag this out. Either way, she was now firmly in his hands.
Ruth shrugged half-heartedly. “Why would it? I decided to kill my father. I admit I’m surprised to find that New Orleans’ best radio host is a murderer too, but I’m hardly in a position to throw stones.”
“New Orleans’ best?” Alastor straightened his bowtie, a silly thing to do when there was a blood splatter on his shirt.
Ruth laughed shallowly, cradling her ribs in a way that she wished wasn’t so obvious. “I can’t deny that I like your show. You seem more genuine than other hosts. Or you just have better showmanship. Either way, I always got the impression that we share a fondness for music.”
“It seems we do, my dear. I assure you, I am perfectly genuine when it comes to the allure of the radio. And I’m honored to meet a fan!”
Ruth shouldn’t have found it quite as endearing as she did. He was obviously a born showman, and showmanship came with a healthy (or unhealthy) dose of arrogance. Rather than simply making him obnoxious, it added to the comedic effect of his aggrandized persona, something that was putting her at ease despite her circumstances. Alastor, for all his cunning, apparently liked to be a bit silly. He was also a murderer, and she should not find a practiced killer endearing in any way. It would only set her up for death.
And yet, there was something undeniably charming about him. He wasn’t New Orleans’ darling for nothing, she supposed, but this Alastor was charming in a personal way. She still couldn’t wrap her head around how thoughtful he’d been, either. She wanted to scoff at herself for even thinking of tolerating him, but in the short time between trying to kill him and accepting his help to dress, she found her opinion of him had grown warm.
That reminded her: “I’m sorry. For trying to kill you, I mean.”
His smile widened and there was surprise in his gaze as he opened the car door for her. “Not at all, darling! I was trying to kill you, and I could hardly fault you for defending yourself. I’m so glad we could avoid that altogether, since you’re clearly a special dame.”
She got in the car gingerly and tried to settle herself as Alastor put the car in gear. She studied him for a moment longer, then admitted, “I suppose you are a gentleman. Somewhat.”
“And mark my words, I will get you to drop the qualifier!” With a surprisingly gentle touch, he eased the car through the grass and back onto the road. “I could be persuaded to admit that you are something of a lady yourself. I know pain makes one agitated and desperate, yet you’ve quickly become pleasant company.”
“I would feel badly about being rude to you after you’ve been so helpful.”
“One of the reasons I think we’ll get along swimmingly. Would you be so kind as to tell me your address?”
Ruth hesitated. She didn’t want anyone in her house, but she couldn’t rightfully deny him. She couldn’t expect to get home without disclosing her address, either. Taking stock of her situation, she found herself once again bereft of options. She was wounded, far from home, and in a serial killer’s car. The serial killer was being nice to her, but she couldn’t trust him. Nevertheless, she was still in his car.
She told him her address with a quiet sigh of resignation.
Alastor told her his address in return. When she looked over at him quizzically, he merely shrugged, as if to say, ‘fair’s fair.’
“I must ask that you don’t spread that particular information,” he added. “It’s hardly a secret, but I do value my privacy, and so does my dear mother.”
“Is it just you and her?” Ruth asked tentatively, not wanting to cross his boundaries but curious about his life outside the radio.
“Indeed, it is. I’ve always felt the need to take care of her, and while she’s hardly elderly, she can use my help. I think you’ll find I’m firm in my values pertaining to family.”
Ruth laughed sharply. “You must hate me for killing my father.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong, dear. I hate your father for nearly killing you. He deserved what he got. Violence against family is a sin worth infinite punishment.”
Ruth began to wonder about Alastor’s father, but she could tell it was a stone best left unturned. She made her guesses privately and kept them to herself as he drove her home. When they arrived, he stepped around to open her car door and help her out.
She held onto his arm only out of necessity. “I do hope you aren’t one of the types who believe women can’t do anything themselves,” she said, half just trying to distract him from her home and her injury.
“Must you scoff at every gesture?” Alastor pressed her hand tightly against his arm, keeping her secure.
“I only want you to know that I make a distinction between gentlemen and men who would deprive women of the ability to take a step without their husbands’ consent.”
“And I’ll have you know, bear cub, that I don’t live with my mother because she needs me to cook or keep her house, but because helping is an expression of care and consideration. I myself like to be considered.”
“Sure. When I’m healed, I’ll open your doors and walk you home,” she replied cheekily.
Alastor’s gaze turned flat. “Your manners compete valiantly against your penchant for sarcasm.”
“I like being independent,” she groused a bit too honestly.
“I’m quite sure you do, my dear. It’s a trait I admire.” He helped her to the door, where he paused. “Do you have any remaining family? Aunts, cousins, siblings?”
She shook her head, dropping his arm when they stepped onto the porch.
“Do you have any money?”
“Yes. I’m employed.”
“Oh?” he asked excitedly. “Where?”
“I’m a secretary for a man who thinks he’s much better than he is. I do most of his work for a fraction of his pay.” She glanced at him. “But it might interest you that he’s some kind of broadcasting tycoon.”
“Do you mean to tell me that I’m your subordinate?” He sounded thrilled, though Ruth had no inkling as to why.
“That’s hardly how secretaries work. If I walked into your broadcast station, I’d be fetching coffee.”
“To the unenlightened mind, perhaps!”
“The fact that you may consider your mind enlightened should trouble the rest of us.”
“Ah,” he said, determined to appear as though he didn’t like that her enigma was half obscured by little jibes. “And will your manners return long enough to bid me goodnight?”
She relaxed considerably when he didn’t ask to come inside and gentled herself accordingly. “Goodnight, Alastor. Thank you for everything.”
“Goodnight, my dear. You’re quite lucky; you’ll be seeing more of me very soon.”
Ruth took the spare key from under the doormat, the motion prolonged by her attempt not to bend at the waist. When she stood, she held the key in both hands and thought about opening the door. Her father wouldn’t be there. It should’ve been easier to open it and go inside. She’d be alone and she’d be safe in her solitude. No one would push her or hit her or demand things of her that she would rather kill than give. She could make dinner or skip it, though the hour was so late that she knew she would skip it. She could sleep on the couch, which was probably as far as she would make it in her condition. No one would bother her, and no one would hurt her.
She’d be alone.
She blinked and registered that Alastor was still there. He was facing away from the door, but his head was turned to look at her. He’d been watching the blankness in her stare, so she quickly replaced it with the furious light that she’d been nurturing since before the kill. He didn’t fall for it.
“You know,” he mused, “after my first kill, I didn’t sleep at all. I felt so awake, so charged with adrenaline long after it was over. I felt that way all night and the next day. Then the second night came, and I realized that even if I dreamt of the man I killed, I would wake up in the morning and he wouldn’t be there. I would.”
She digested this advice disguised as a story and moved the key into one hand, one step closer to actually opening the door.
“Remember, darling, fluids. It won’t do for me to find out from the papers that you’ve died without fulfilling your debt.”
Alastor left without another word, and Ruth watched him go. What a strange man, Alastor Laveau, the beloved radio host and the murderer that terrified the entire city. The man that mocked her for being mannerless and wore his arrogance like a badge of honor. The man that had declined to kill her when she put up a fight, who covered for her, who disguised his good-natured advice with inane anecdotes and quips that could rival her own. He was a singular man, and Ruth knew their connection was just as unique. There were certain things that one could expect out of life and certain things that boiled down to a cosmic coin flip. Ruth’s coin had been flipped, and it had landed on its edge.
New Orleans was hot and humid, and after washing her hands in blood, Ruth could finally see that it was a nice night.