said.
— Do we have to talk about this every time I come out? I’m thinking about it, okay?
She kept staring for several seconds and then sighed in dismay.
— It’s not the easiest thing to wrap your head around, I said. Becoming a serial killer.
— I do the killing.
— Yeah, but I have to lure them here. That’s even more disgusting.
— Listen, Louie. I.
— Elle!
— I’m sorry. Elle.
A distant plop came from the center of the river, where there was open water.
— I only need five, she said.
— I know what you need. It’s not like you never tell me.
— One a night for five nights. Then I’ll be strong enough to break free. There must be five people you hate in town. Five like that first one.
— You have to give me more time.
We sat quietly, caught in our bad mood like two flies in a puddle of grease. I thought to say I had to go, but I didn’t want to go. Sandrine wrestled with a hyacinth stem and snapped off a lavender bloom and offered it to me. When I accepted it, her fingers brushed mine and I felt a blush of heat, like I’d rubbed my fingertips fast over a rough surface.
— Does Djadadjii magic work on regular people? I asked.
— No. They don’t care about you, anyway. They’re only interested in fangs.
— Suppose you get clear of this. What’ll you do?
— Maybe South Carolina. There’s a group of fangs there who’re well protected. They’re not fond of outsiders, but I’m tired of being on my own. It might be worth the risk.
— What if you weren’t on your own?
— If you were with me, you mean?
I shrugged. Yeah.
— I’d probably stay here.
That alarmed me. In DuBarry?
— No, no. Florida. Most of the fangs in this hemisphere are in Latin America and.
— How come?
— It’s easier to get away with killing there. Of course it’s a trade-off. Since most fangs are there, most of the Djadadjii are, too. The one that caught me, he’s only the fourth I’ve seen up here. and the first three were over a century ago.
A bug crawled from beneath a petal of the bloom Sandrine had plucked, and I laid it on the oak trunk.
— You all right,
— Tell me some more about the Djadadjii.
— I don’t know much more. They all have wide mouths. Their mouths expand. They could swallow a football if they wanted. They could bite it in half. And they have a refined sense of smell. If a fang’s been near you, they’ll pick up the scent. Roy told me they’re all beautiful and the ones I’ve known were beautiful. and dumb. Dumb as chickens.
A fisher bird swooped low above the hyacinth, and the faint chugging of a generator came from somewhere upriver.
— Take off your top for me, said Sandrine.
— I. I don’t.
— I won’t touch you. I know you’re shy and you’re not ready, but I want to look at you this once. She pretended to pout. It’s not fair you can see me and I never see you.
Hesitantly, I reached back and undid the strings of my halter. I fitted my eyes to the red winking light atop a water tower across the river and held the halter in place for a second; then I let it fall.
— God, she said. I’d forgotten.
— What is it? I asked. Is.
Shh! She reached down to the river and cupped her hand and scooped up some water and let it trickle between her fingers onto my breasts. Cool and lovely, little rivers spilling over my contours. I felt beautiful and grand, a hill divided by tributaries. My skin pebbled where the water touched me. One nipple poked up hard.
The halter slid off my lap. Sandrine handed it to me and told me I could put it back on.
— No, it’s okay. My hair curtained my face, hiding my excitement. It’s nice. sitting here like this.
One afternoon when I was fifteen and feeling downhearted, I hitched out to the old boneyard set in a fringe of Florida jungle south of town and sat beside the big gray angel, drinking from a pint of lime-flavored vodka I’d lifted from Momma’s stash. Forty years ago a bunch of DuBarry kids went skinny-dipping at night in the ocean near St. Augustine. Their bodies were never found (it’s assumed they were caught in a riptide) and the town put up the angel beneath a twisted water oak for a memorial. They must have skimped on the sculptor, or else they were going for something different. or maybe getting vandalized four or five times a year has taken a toll, because except for more-or-less regulation wings, it resembles the husk of a half-human female insect nine feet high. The grave tenders have gotten slack about scraping paint off it, and the statue has acquired a crusty glaze over the head and torso that makes it look even weirder. Used to be there were some goth kids who lit candles and sang to the angel, but that provided an evangelical preacher with an excuse to rev up his campaign against devil worship and their parents smacked the goth out of them. Now kids come there to bust bottles on the headstone and howl and dry heave and screw, and I guess some believe they gain power over death by pissing on the angel or smearing it with paint, behavior the town apparently deems more in keeping with the moral standard.
I got pretty smashed and lay on my back, thoughts drifting from one depressing topic to the next, watching the dusk and then darkness settle in the oak boughs. A car purred along the dirt drive, its engine so quiet I heard the tires crunching gravel. Headlights swept over me. I figured it for kids and didn’t pay any attention. Someone came to stand above me — the salesman who had given me a ride out, a chunky middle-aged bald guy in a madras jacket.
— You still here? he asked.
— Naw, I said, wondering foggily what he was doing there — he’d told me he had stops to make in Hastings and Palatka.
He toed the empty vodka bottle and then stuck out a hand. Come on. I’ll ride you into town. This ain’t no fit place for a young lady.
Calling me a young lady must have pushed my daddy button, because I let him haul me to my feet. He had doused himself with cologne, but I could smell his sweat. He pulled me close and ran a hand along my butt and said thickly, Man, you are one sweet-looking piece of chicken.
I started to freeze up but recalled Momma’s advice.
— There’s a motel down near Orange Park that don’t ask no questions, I said.
I didn’t think he bought my act. He held me tightly and seemed confused; then a smile split his doughy face.
— Damn! he said. I was halfway to Hastings before I realized you were putting out signals.
All I’d done in his car was not look at him and grunt answers to his questions. He gave my breast a squeeze and I rubbed against him and said in a breathy voice, Ooh, yeah!
— You like that, huh? he said.
With my free hand I hiked up my T-shirt, exposing the other breast. He played with it until the nipple stiffened, then grinned like he was the only one who could work that trick.
— I been watching you for must be an hour and a half, he said. Here we could have been having some fun.
He placed his hand on the small of my back, the way you’d squire a prom date, and steered me toward his car — a crouching animal with low-beam eyes. I broke free and kneed him in the crotch. He puked up a groan, grabbed his jewels, and bent double. A string of drool silvered by the headlights unreeled from his lips. He went down on all fours, breathing heavy, and I kicked him in the side. That’s where I departed from Momma’s plan of
