Mermaid Mayhem: Eerie Investigations:

Misty Hollow Book 1 H.P. Mallory & J.R.

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MERMAID MAYHEM

Misty Hollow #1
(Eerie Investigations)

by
H.P. MALLORY
&
J.R. RAIN
Misty Hollow Series
Mermaid Mayhem
Big Girls Don’t Scry
Gorgon Gone Wild
Other Books by H.P. Mallory
PARANORMAL WOMEN’S FICTION:
Haven Hollow
Midlife Spirits
Misty Hollow
Trailer Park Vampire
Midlife Mermaid

PARANORMAL ROMANCE:
Witch & Warlock
Vampire Esquire
Ever Dark Academy

FANTASY ROMANCE:
Dark Destinies
Gates of the Underworld
Lily Harper
Dulcie O’Neil

PARANORMAL REVERSE HAREM:

My Five Kings
Happily Never After

SCI-FI ROMANCE:
The Alaskan Detective

TRILOGIES:
Crown Of Lies
Dark Circus
Chasing Demons
Dungeon Raider
Here to There
Arctic Wolves
Wolves of Valhalla
Lucy Westenra
Other Books by J.R. Rain
VAMPIRE FOR HIRE
Moon Dance
Vampire Moon
American Vampire
Moon Child
Christmas Moon (novella)
Vampire Dawn
Vampire Games
Moon Island
Moon River
Vampire Sun
Moon Dragon
Moon Shadow
Vampire Fire
Midnight Moon
Moon Angel
Vampire Sire
Moon Master
Dead Moon
Lost Moon
Vampire Destiny
Infinite Moon
Vampire Empress
Moon Elder
Wicked Moon
Winter Moon
Sasquatch Moon
Moon Blade
Wild Moon
Moon Magic
Moon World
Vampire Deep (coming soon)

SAMANTHA MOON ADVENTURES

Banshee Moon
Moon Monster
Moon Ripper
Witch Moon
Moon Goddess
Moon Blaze
Golem Moon
 Moon Maidens

SAMANTHA MOON CASE FILES

Moon Bayou
Blood Moon
Parallel Moon

SAMANTHA MOON ORIGINS

New Moon Rising
Moon Mourning
Haunted Moon
 Mermaid Mayhem
Published by Rain Press
Copyright © 2023 by J.R. Rain & H.P. Mallory
All rights reserved.

Ebook Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you
for respecting the hard work of this author.
 TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue

Reading Sample: Shotguns and Shifters

About H.P. Mallory
About J.R. Rain
Mermaid Mayhem
 Chapter One

I didn’t like missing person cases, and I liked being kept in the dark about the details even less.
Unfortunately, when your client was cloistered in the sticks, these things couldn’t be helped.
Mayor Beaumont had stressed that the case was too sensitive to be discussed over the phone, and
even if I could have made out more than every third word he’d said, it would have taken hours to
communicate the particulars. Forget confidential emails. Until the budding Hollow could lay down
fiber optics, there’d be nary a computer in sight. That meant I’d have to do this the old-fashioned way
—an in-person chat with the undead bastard himself.
Which would be impossible for at least another hour. The sunset was still spilling through the
cypress trees, tracing every leaf and blade of grass with pastel light. The trees were unusually thick
here, keeping the worst of the sunlight off the Jeep. I’d had to pay extra to find the type of vehicle
needed for this little outing, and fully expected the mayor to compensate me for my trouble. Actually,
I’d expected more than that—a vampire of his age should have had old-world sensibilities and sent a
town car after me. But nope. It was Uber or bust. Maybe he couldn’t find a vehicle suited to the
terrain—I mean, he was building this hollow very near a bayou. Maybe the whole damned thing was
just one wrong move from sinking into the muck.
Brice, the driver of the Jeep, studied the terrain with a frown. We’d left the main road a half hour
ago, following the slightly worn dirt path that led to this little clearing. He looked as puzzled and
anxious as I felt. My directions ended here, and yet there was no clear path through the trees ahead,
unless I wanted to make a brave foray into the woods on foot. In the backwoods of Louisiana? Hard
pass. There was no telling what lurked in the wetlands. It didn’t even have to be supernatural to do
me in, just hungry and determined enough to give chase.
“You sure about this?” Brice asked, southern accent growing a little thicker as his worry
increased. “I think someone’s yankin’ your tail, draggin’ you this far out. Ain’t nothin’ round here but
bobcats an’ gators. They’d eat a sweet thing like you right up.”
I laughed, though there wasn’t much feeling behind it. He had no idea just how accurate his
description was. I had a feeling someone was yanking my tail, in a very literal sense, because yes, I
had one to yank—though anyone stupid enough to try would regret it shortly afterward. But very
human Brice didn’t need to know that.
I’d worn long sleeves in the sweltering heat, just to conceal the scales which were already
pressing slowly to the surface of my skin. They did that when I dried out. Any amount of moisture
would help, including sweat, which was my preferred method of keeping my mermaid on the down-
low in the baking heat of a southern summer. At least Louisiana was humid. Phoenix had been an arid
hellscape, and the last place any mermaid should visit, let alone live.
“I think I can handle it,” I said with more bravado than I felt. “Thanks for the ride. How much do
I owe you?”
Brice looked reluctant, but he eventually rattled off my total. I hid a wince and peeled off a
handful of bills, offering them to him. He took them and just stared at the wad of cash for a little
while, orangey brows scrunched over his hazel eyes. He’d shaved most of his red-gold hair into a
short, military-style cut. He was a young man, probably no more than thirty years old. Which, to a
human probably seemed a very mature age to be, but I wasn’t human and so wasn’t impressed.
Anything under forty looked painfully young to me. But that was probably just my cynicism talking.
“I really don’t feel right leavin’ you out here, miss,” he said after another moment.
“I’m an expert camper,” I started, even though it wasn’t true. I just didn’t want to get into this
conversation.
“I don’t care how much campin’ you done. The bayou is dangerous at night, miss. I wouldn’t
mind takin’ you to a hotel in town an’ bringin’ you back in the morning, when there’s more light. No
extra charge, neither.”
I reached forward, straining my seatbelt to give his shoulder a squeeze. Then I patted my
equipment bag with a cheery smile that only made him scowl harder.
“I’m going to be just fine, but I appreciate your concern.”
“Miss—”
“This isn’t my first rodeo, and this weather is downright balmy.” I glanced around. “And the
terrain is nicer than I’m used to. You want to talk dangerous? Alaska nights are what I’d call
dangerous. I had a grizzly come into my camp once while I was setting up my camera. That bastard
scared me a hell of a lot more than any gator or bobcat ever could.”
Mostly because it hadn’t been a bear. It had been a werebear and the perp I’d been tracking
through the frozen wilderness, armed only with my gear and a heavy-duty tranquilizer rifle. Richard
Ewing was the first recorded serial killer in any werebear population, and he’d been picking off
pretty Inuit girls every month or so. None of the families had been taken seriously when they reported
the disappearances to the authorities and, eventually, word of the problem had reached me on the east
coast. I’d taken the case, and it had nearly gotten me killed. I still had scars on my back to prove it.
“Miss...”
“Estuary,” I finished for him. “Marina Estuary. But you can call me Marina.”
“Marina,” he said, and the word came out on a sigh. “A few pretty pictures for a magazine ain’t
worth gettin’ eaten.”
Somehow, I’d managed to fish a decent man out of the scores of humans that could have given me
a ride. It was as frustrating as it was sweet. Most days I’d have killed to find someone like Brice. Not
bad-looking and with a sense of decency a mile wide. Now, I needed him gone. And stat. One of us
would be in danger if night fell, and the Jeep was still sitting here, idling, but that person wouldn’t be
me. Humans weren’t allowed to know about the supernatural world at large and were barred access
from most Hollows on principle. Only one odd duck Hollow in Oregon, Haven Hollow, had any
exceptions to the rule. I didn’t know Beaumont’s policy on human loiterers, but I doubted it was
pleasant. He was a vampire, after all.
For just a moment, I was tempted to use the voice on Brice, just to get him to back off. I hadn’t
met a creature who could resist a siren’s voice for long, and if I just used a concentrated burst,
instead of a song, the damage would be minimal. The sound might haunt his dreams for a few months,
but it wouldn’t ensnare his mind forever. Or so I hoped.
Guilt followed on the heels of the thought though. I’d made a promise to myself after what had
happened to Mike. I wasn’t going to use the voice unless my life was in danger. Because the voice
was a curse, not a tool. It stripped people’s free will and could even drive them to madness. I
wouldn’t use it on the annoyingly persistent human man, even if doing so would expedite this whole
song and dance.
I forced another smile and undid my belt, swinging my camera bag onto one shoulder when I was
free. The tripod and sundry supplies came next, as I heaved them off the floor mats. Brice kept the
jeep clean, which meant the bags weren’t smudged with something unfortunate. In my line of work,
that was always a plus. The bags had definitely seen lots worse. Guts were probably the hardest to
clean.
“Goodnight, Brice,” I said firmly. “If you could help me get my bags out of the back, I’d be
grateful, but you really should get going. Off-roading will only get harder after dark. You should head
out before you lose the last of your light.”
Brice gave me a sour look as he took me in: a tall woman in her mid-to-late forties who kept in
shape. He’d asked what I’d done to keep my figure on the drive down from Baton Rouge. I’d said
swimming, which wasn’t actually a lie. The mermaid stroke really did work your core. As for my
hair, I’d told him I’d dyed it coral pink, but that had been a big fat lie. I’d been born with pink hair.
My family had immigrated from the tropics to the North Atlantic several generations ago, and the
bright colors had yet to fade from our line. I was built to hide among reefs, not kelp. It made me a
target when I was younger. I’d gotten a lot tougher since then. If Brice knew what I was and what I did
for a living, he wouldn’t have bothered with this machismo.
I stepped out of the jeep before he could get the bright idea to lock me in and drive away. I was
technically strong enough to bust out his window and tuck and roll, but it would be bad for the
equipment, not to mention the money I’d owe for repairs.
In the end, Brice unloaded both my bags and the just-for-show tent bag from the back and stacked
them a few feet away from a wooden park bench. It was a rickety little thing, climbing with ivy,
probably infested by termites, and one gust of wind away from total collapse. I wasn’t sure if I should
risk my posterior by sitting on it. I wasn’t even sure who’d installed the thing out here in the middle of
nowhere and left it to rot. This clearing was at least fifteen miles away from the main road and
exposed to the worst of the elements.
Brice stared at it too, lips pursed. “Did you want some help setting up your tent?”
I laughed. “Nah, I’ve got it, but thank you. I appreciate the thought.”
I waved him away with a good-natured ‘bye now’ gesture I’d picked up since spending the last
few weeks in the south. The hospitality and affectations were getting to me. I’d grown up on the
northern coastline and lived in Upstate New York City for a good chunk of my adult life. I used to be
as brusque and businesslike as the next person on the street. Now I was starting to feel soft. I didn’t
like it one bit. Probably all this damned heat. It could melt anyone. The sooner I could move to colder
climes again, the better.
I waited until Brice’s headlights were reduced to pinpricks in the distance before I approached
the old bench. A line of morels had sprung up a few feet away from it. Brice had skirted them
completely unconsciously, which was my first hint that the bench wasn’t exactly what it appeared to
be. In the supernatural world, mushrooms usually meant something. If they formed a perfect circle—
as these did—then something magical was definitely afoot. This was a special sort of faerie circle,
meant to keep mortals out instead of drawing them in. It meant the bench was probably a projection
for mortal eyes, and not actually a bench at all.
Still, I was hesitant to step forward into the circle. Spring and Summer faeries were playful by
nature, and the most likely to trap you in a ring, forcing you to dance for their amusement. I didn’t
want to be found dancing a two-step when Beaumont finally sent someone to retrieve me. Then again,
if the circle was meant to keep mortals out, it followed that it was meant to be used by supernaturals,
probably as a protective measure against the predators Brice had been so concerned about.
I sighed.
I could feel a storm on the horizon, so I’d have to risk it. Stepping over the line of mushrooms, I
stepped right into a genuine bus stop. It was a little glass box outfitted with an awning and a steel
bench. It would keep most of the rain off if I had to wait for Beaumont. A small crank radio and a
handful of old magazines and newspapers from the supernatural side of things had been wrapped in
plastic and stuffed beneath the bench—no doubt entertainment for the weary monster who braved the
circle.
I glanced down at my cell phone and sighed, even though I hadn’t expected any service out here.
Truly, I had a better chance of surviving the Abyssal zone than getting reliable service in the boonies.
No online sudoku games or crossword puzzles for me then. I should have packed a few print copies
before coming.
I dragged my bags inside the glass box and propped my feet on the show-tent as I sat back to
wait. The wind carried the scent of the bayou through the trees. The soil in swamps tended to be
hypoxic, trending ever onward toward becoming a peat bog, which could result in a rather sulfurous
odor. It was balanced nicely by the damp smell of Spanish moss, the sharper scent of cypress leaves,
and the floral undertone of Salvinia and spider lilies. And there was the sweet scent of magnolia
somewhere in there, as well. The water here was still brackish, and the briny smell caused me to feel
a little nostalgic. I hadn’t been in salt water for a while. I missed my family, even though they’d made
their feelings about me perfectly clear. I wasn’t welcome back. Ever.
My head lolled back, and I watched with mounting concern as the light faded away completely,
swallowed by the horizon and encroaching storm clouds. Light rain started to patter on the awning,
punctuating my ever-present worry.
When was he coming to get me, and how the hell were we making it through the swamp to the
Hollow?
 Chapter Two

The light rain turned into an active downpour, and I was grateful for the shelter the magic bus
stop provided.
I wasn’t a naiad or sylph, so I wouldn’t feel the instinctive urge to mingle with the water or the
gusts of air blowing through the trees. Even in human form, I was more solid and willful than that. I
belonged in the water, but I wasn’t of it, which made all the difference.
I’d rolled my pant legs up to mid-calf, baring as much skin as possible as I leaned my lower half
into the open. The sodden material would help ease the itchy scales, but direct contact with water
was best. That was the rub of remaining so long in human form. I required a lot more moisture than
the average person, so hydrating was a must. I didn’t want to be too wet when Beaumont finally sent
someone to fetch me though, so I couldn’t get as sodden as I hoped.
I was fairly sure my employer would provide me with a bedroom, but I couldn’t necessarily
count on it. The Hollow was still under construction, after all. It was the fifth and most recent Hollow
to be built on American soil. There were refuges in the Old World for the supernatural, like the Faerie
mounds scattered around the United Kingdom, old mining settlements dug out by dwarves centuries
ago, and dragon hordes deep in cave networks, far away from human eyes.
But they all had one thing in common. They were meant for one kind of creature and shunned the
others. Hollows were unique in that respect. They accepted all species. If you could follow the rules,
you were welcome. The experiment carried out in Haven Hollow all those years ago had been a
resounding success, and the demand for more refuges grew with every passing decade. If Beaumont
could successfully establish a Hollow here, he could be a very powerful and influential man in just a
few years’ time.
But a missing person case could really put a crimp on things. Hence, why I was here. Now, if I
only knew how I was getting to town, I’d feel better. But I hadn’t been given any directions. Did
Beaumont expect me to make it there on foot? Brice had gotten one thing right: gators, bobcats, and
whatever else lurked in the woods could pose a real problem if I went in blind. As a mermaid, I was
hardier than most, but it wouldn’t stop a bull alligator from taking a bite out of me if it was
determined.
Something white flickered in my periphery, and I twisted to get a better look. A large, pale figure
was moving through the gloom, though it was hard to make out what it might be through the rain which
was running in rivulets down the glass. I scooted to the edge of the bench and cautiously stuck my
head outside the glass wall of the bus stop.
Immediately, my hair was plastered to my head, deepening the coral color to a deep magenta. It
took a little concentration to shift my eyes, allowing the mostly hidden nictitating membrane to do its
thing, clearing the moisture from my eyes enough to let me see who was jogging towards me.
He was tall. And by tall, I meant freakishly tall, well, by human standards anyway. This guy had
to be seven to seven and a half feet tall, and built like a professional soccer player, all lean, corded
muscle. And those muscles were being shown to their full advantage by the white cutoff shirt he was
wearing that had gone translucent in the rain. The white pants were made of sturdier stuff, which was
a damned shame, because I wouldn’t have minded taking a peek at what lay beneath the waistband.
As he drew closer, I realized he was a real looker. Chiseled features, golden curls, and a Colgate
smile that made dimples pop in both cheeks. His age was hard to pin down. He could have been
anywhere between twenty-five and forty. Some faces had that timeless quality to them, never
changing. Some young faces hid old souls. In the circles I ran in, sometimes it was impossible to tell
one from the other.
One thing I knew for sure? He wasn’t human. That was sort of a given around here. Select few
humans made it into Hollows, and this one would definitely be devoid of those of the purely mundane
persuasion. Until the Hollow was fully functional, it would be suicide to bring humans in, even to
visit. Most of them simply didn’t have the ability to cope with the existence of the supernatural. They
freaked out, formed mobs, and laid waste to whatever scared them.
The man stopped a few feet shy of the circle and flashed me a wide grin. He couldn’t see me
through the barrier, but he seemed to know I was there, nonetheless.
“Hi there, Miss Estuary,” the man said with a light laugh. Joy, real and tangible hit me, spreading
my lips in an answering smile, even as I struggled to remain stoic. “Typha sensed you stepping into
her circle about ten minutes ago. Sorry about the delay. It’s been a busy week.” He paused for a
second or two when I made no attempt to move. “You coming?”
I considered staying right where I was, just to be petty—because I was fairly sure this guy was
putting some sort of glamour over me. Regardless, the view was still pretty incredible. The water
looked good rolling off his muscled forearms. Rolling down his everything, really. But after hearing
his laugh, I knew my feelings were being instigated by his magic, not just good old-fashioned lust.
Because I knew a celestial pull when I felt it. I could detect infernal pull, too, but it had a slightly
different energy to it. Dark chocolate kisses instead of milk chocolate candies. It was the other half of
an insanely sexy coin.
But I wasn’t a child, and I was on a schedule. So, I took a purposeful step outside the faerie ring,
appearing on the other side. To a human, it would have looked like I’d simply emerged from thin air.
The circle was small, all things considered, but powerful. The faerie who’d made it had to be one of
the nobility, even if only distantly related to the current rulers. A lord or lady of faerie, though I
couldn’t have said what season they belonged to.
I raised an eyebrow at the man. “What are you laughing at?”
His smile broadened, and I could have sworn he glowed for a second—which probably shouldn’t
have come as much of a surprise, considering he was an angel. I’d never seen an angel do that before,
though. He must have been on one of the lower tiers if he was willing to flaunt his powers without the
approval of one of the various deities. Most of the higher orders in the celestial realms were stuffy,
rule-obsessed pricks. The same went for the demons in the lowest of the infernal layers. They were
constantly bickering, playing games of 4-D chess with each other, and consistently being pains in
humanity’s collective ass.
Angels of the lowest levels and the demons closest to the surface were mirrors of each other.
Hedonism and chaos, but achieving totally different ends. Succubae, incubi, and more human-like
demons drained life, broke hearts, but brought immense pleasure to their victims. Only Repeer
Demons bucked the trend, turning from their sexually charged roots to serve the lower infernal levels.
They weren’t well-liked, even among their own kind.
An encounter with a lower-level angel (I was pretty sure my mother had once called them
Blisses) changed your life for the better. They were the free spirit who guided you through your own
personal Eat, Pray, Love journey, enriching your life in crazy, unpredictable ways. They were always
good for a laugh, agents of complete but constructive chaos. I’d heard they made excellent friends and
even better lovers.
The Bliss Angel gave me an appreciative once-over and said, “You’re a knockout, aren’t you?
Love the hair.”
 I pushed the wet strands out of my face, self-conscious in spite of myself. “Thanks, but that
doesn’t answer my question. Why were you laughing at me?”
He let out another infectious laugh and said, “I’ve dated mermaids before. I know a falsified
name when I hear one.”
“A falsified name?”
He nodded. “Marina Estuary?” Then he rolled his eyes.
I rolled mine right back at him. “What’s wrong with it?”
He laughed again. “You might as well call yourself ‘Jane Smith’. It’s about the blandest cover
name you can choose as a sea-based monster.”
“Well, I’m glad I could amuse you,” I grumbled.
He laughed again. “Will you tell me your real name, or is it classified?”
“Classified,” I answered coolly. I’d divorced myself from my birth name after leaving the ocean
behind me. I hadn’t thought of it in years. I was Marina now. Eerie, to those who knew me well. But
this angel hadn’t earned the right to call me by my nickname. “And who are you?”
He beamed. “Adam. And before you make the joke, yes, it’s biblical. I’m only half Bliss. My
father is a cherub and very invested in the religion thing. Complete buzzkill, I swear. He disapproves
of me, naturally.”
There was a story behind his conception, I was sure. Daddy might have had a wild youth. Or
maybe some deity had ordered him into a tryst with Adam’s mom, foreseeing the good the resulting
kid would have on the world at large. It was anyone’s guess, but Adam didn’t owe me the story just
like I didn’t owe him my real name.
“Do you have a last name?” I asked.
His smile shifted into a playful smirk. “Classified.”
I laughed, a genuine sound this time. “That’s fair. Did Beaumont send you with some kind of car,
or are we hoofing it through the wilderness?” Then I gave him an eyebrow raise.
Adam’s lips twitched, obviously holding back another laugh. He was a ball of pure, unfettered
happiness, powerful enough to melt even my cynicism at fifty paces. I’d have to watch myself around
this man. He was too attractive for his own good.
“I think you’re missing the obvious, Marina,” he said, extending a hand toward me.
“I am?” I asked, slipping my hand into his.
He was warm and solid, and the mere contact made me feel about a thousand pounds lighter as
my worries tumbled off my shoulders. It felt right to touch him. Addictive. Yes, I’d definitely have to
be careful around him. I could fall and fall hard, and I couldn’t afford a distraction like love at the
moment. Maybe I’d never be able to afford it.
Adam lifted me from the ground as though I weighed nothing and held me tight to his chest. He
arranged me in a princess carry, and a wide smile broke across his face like the first rays of sunrise
when he spotted the utter terror that spasmed across mine. Moments after I realized what he meant to
do, a pair of giant, golden wings unfurled from his back. He bent his knees and pushed off from the
ground, wings catching a sudden, violent updraft. We parted ways with the ground, sailing up toward
the roiling storm clouds.
And I didn’t even have the time or breath to scream.
 Chapter Three

Mermaids don’t belong in the sky.

Period.
But Adam apparently hadn’t gotten that memo. We cleared the trees with inches to spare, the tips
of my boots brushing the needles of a cypress as we passed. The sharp, resinous scent carried on the
wind, coating the inside of my nose when I could finally suck in a shallow breath. My heart had
catapulted itself into my throat the second we parted ways with the ground and continued to wriggle
toward my mouth as we climbed higher and higher still, spiraling toward the clouds.
The air itself quivered with tension before lightning split the night sky, streaking from cloud to
cloud in a white-violet arc. As I watched, it forked in a dozen different places, seeming to form claws
that raked at the air, before vanishing. I barely had enough presence of mind to breathe, let alone
scream as a deafening clap of thunder shook the air.
“Oh, God,” I said, voice thin with fear. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!”
Adam let out an exultant laugh, wheeling around to face the south, beating his wings in time with
more pulses of light and noise. His gorgeous face was alight with unabashed elation as he rode the
thunder toward town. The bastard was enjoying this.
“He’s not listening,” Adam said blithely, as if we hadn’t narrowly escaped being struck by
lightning. “I told you, Dad doesn’t like me much, and I doubt his boss feels differently.”
I wished I could have come up with a witty response, but most of my attention was focused on
remaining very still and balanced in Adam’s arms. He was moving quickly and could probably catch
me before I went splat on the ground, but I didn’t want to take my chances. This case could be my
ticket to living comfortably again, and I didn’t want to screw it up by wiggling the wrong way.
Another flash of lightning lit the sky, supercharging the air. His wings glowed incandescent for a
moment in response, and he did a casual flip, sending the contents of my stomach into an uneasy
whirl. If he didn’t knock it off and fly in a straight line, I was going to lose my lunch and splatter
whatever was unfortunate enough to be below us. I doubted the sub sandwich would taste and smell
as good after it made a reappearance. That thought led to another, more distressing idea.
“Can they see us?”
“Who?” Adam asked, swooping low, chuckling when my grip on his neck and shoulders became
vise-like. My boots touched the tips of the trees again. I was beginning to suspect that he enjoyed the
scent of cypress mingling with the ozone and rain. Or maybe he just liked hearing me squeal. Dealer’s
choice really.
“Humans,” I answered when I could finally suck in a breath. “I doubt any are out this far, but
could one see us if they happened to glance up? As I understand it, the Hollow is still under
construction, so I doubt the illusionary spells are up to snuff yet.”
Something flickered in the back of Adam’s eyes, stealing some of the effusive joy from his face.
He still looked happier than anyone had a right to be when soaked to the skin and dodging God’s
smite button.
“Yeah, we’re lagging behind in the illusion department,” he admitted. “But I’m fairly good at
camouflage. It’s a Bliss thing.”
Interesting, but not really relevant to the topic at hand. I filed that factoid away for examination
when we were safely on the ground.
“So, what exactly are they going to see when they spot you carrying me to town? And carrying my
luggage, as well. I assume you’re going back for that?”
“Of course,” he answered, turning up the wattage on his grin. “I wouldn’t just leave your bags in
the rain.”
His happy-go-lucky attitude would get old fast if I was constantly exposed to it. I was a cynical
soul by nature, and my experiences in life hadn’t instilled a sense of optimism in me over the years.
My philosophy was to expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised if the worst didn’t come to pass.
And that attitude had served me well. I could count on one hand the times in life I’d been truly happy
and still have fingers left. I was beginning to think happiness just wasn’t in the cards for me.
“You didn’t actually answer the question,” I pointed out as we descended further. There was a
break in the trees up ahead. Hopefully, this nerve-wracking flight was coming to an end. “What would
they see?”
“If humans were out this far and happened to spot us, they’d see an owl with a rat in its talons,
and that’s a pretty huge if between the dark and the rain. Humans don’t like coming out here. It’s wild
country and the ley lines are unstable. It sets their teeth on edge. Of course, it will all level out when
construction ends, but until then, most people steer clear of Misty Hollow on instinct. But I’m casting,
just in case.”
I snorted in amusement. “An owl and a rat, eh? Are you going to eat me when we reach the
ground?”
His grin turned lascivious. It differed from the come-hither of an incubus but was nonetheless
appealing. He leaned in playfully and whispered, “Would you like me to?”
A year ago, a comment like that might have made me blush. It had been a long time since I’d been
with a man, and even longer since someone offered to do that without mind-bending involved. Now
the offer left me cold. I hadn’t been careful enough around my partner, Mike, and we’d both paid the
price for it. If I hadn’t given him the emergency key to my apartment. If I hadn’t been indulging in a
rare bit of musical theater, belting the lines of Think of Me from The Phantom along with the radio
when he’d come in, it could have ended differently. If I hadn’t had a bad day and required musical
therapy, to begin with. If, if, if. I’d almost had a stable friendship with a man. But almost doesn’t
count except in horseshoes and hand grenades.
Mike had heard me sing, and it had been the beginning of the end. He’d kept a handle on the
obsession better than most. A lot of humans who heard a siren’s song lapsed into temporary insanity
instantly. Mike had been more subtle, working his way up from jokes and innuendos to serious flirting
and sexting. I’d eventually had to block him on all devices, withdraw from the business, and move,
but it still hadn’t been enough. Mike had found me and tried to win my love at gunpoint. I’d escaped,
thank God, but it didn’t matter. I’d ruined him. But he was still out there, still searching for his false
love. And unlike most men, he had the resources and know-how to actually track me down. Hence the
false name and my lack of funds. Packing up shop and moving every year cost money.
Adam’s smirk evaporated at the look on my face. “I came on too strong, didn’t I? I’m sorry.
Maybe I should have started with, ‘would you like to go out for coffee?’”
“Yeah, kind of,” I answered with a bleak chuckle. “But, don’t worry about it—it’s not you. It’s
me.”
“Wow,” Adam responded, shaking his head. “I’m already getting that line and we haven’t even
gotten to first base?”
I had to laugh at that, but my attention was quickly pulled to the image of lights flickering on the
ground below us, oranges and golds instead of the twinkling city lights I was used to. Apparently, a
large-scale electricity grid hadn’t been installed either. I plucked at my wet clothes. “Coffee does
sound nice, though. Maybe it will ward off the pending case of pneumonia.”
He frowned. “Can mermaids really get pneumonia?”
“If they’re in human form long enough and there’s a supernatural variant, yeah.”
“Huh. The more you know.”
Adam guided us down in a lazy circle. We’d been moving fast enough on the way over that the
rain hadn’t pelted us hard, but it was repaying us with interest as we slowed. It ran into my eyes, my
mouth, and down the line of exposed cleavage, gathering in my bra. I was shivering by the time Adam
set me on my feet. He lifted one wing to shield my head, which helped a little. At least I could wring
out my hair.
“Sorry about the ride over,” he said with a sheepish shrug. “It’s the best we can do for now. No
paved roads yet. I thought you’d prefer to fly with me than with our resident dragon. He’s worse than
a cat when wet. Pansy.”
The note of playful disdain in his voice drew a grudging chuckle from me. Adam didn’t seem so
bad, really. It wasn’t his fault that I’d taken his proposition badly—yes, he was beyond handsome,
and he’d no doubt be a generous lover. All Bliss angels were. I just had a really shitty track record
when it came to men, and I didn’t want to add a supercharged sex angel to my list of failed
relationships.
“Get me a change of clothes and a coffee and we’ll call it even,” I said, attempting to inject a
little liveliness into my tone. There was no sense alienating the first person I’d met in Misty Hollow.
Unfortunately, cheerfulness wasn’t in my mighty repertoire of skills. Judging by the uncertain look
on his face, the attempt had fallen flat. He rolled one shoulder uncomfortably, gesturing toward his
right.
“Rain check on the coffee date. Typha runs the canteen, and she can set you up with an outfit and
something hot to drink. I’ll be back soon, and then I’ll show you to Alistair’s office. He’s waiting for
you.”
I opened my mouth to thank him, but he was already in motion, crouching low before launching
himself high into the air, catching the current once more. Seconds later, he was lost to sight. I had the
distinct impression that I’d offended him with my rebuff. Great. But things could only go up from here,
I supposed.
So, I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and turned around, getting my first real look at Misty
Hollow.
 Chapter Four

Misty Hollow looked like Tolkien’s idea of an old west boomtown.

A narrow gravel path wound its way through the main street, saving the entire thing from
becoming a sucking river of mud. The stones glimmered faintly under the lights from the lamps and
windows as if they’d been hewn from something other than the usual mix of sand, dirt, and rock.
If I hadn’t been soaked to the skin, I might have stopped to pick one up, just to examine it more
closely. Mike used to call me ‘Magpie’ before the ‘Eerie’ nickname had really caught hold, sometimes
‘Mags’ for short, because shiny objects always caught my eye. But that was mostly due to my biology.
Fish loved light, especially on blue and green wavelengths, and mermaids were no different. I’d lost
count of how many impulse buys I’d made just due to shiny packaging or an iridescent glow. Anything
blingy? Forget about it.
But the gravel couldn’t hold my attention for long. Not with the lamplight casting a diffuse glow
over the street. There were a dozen street lamps on either side, flanking the road like luminous
sentinels. They were little more than iron posts topped with globe lighting, but even that was
mesmerizing in the dark. The posts were almost lost to the night, which gave the illusion that the
globes were floating in midair like inanimate Will-o’-the-Wisps. They appeared to be fueled by a mix
of faerie dust and dragon flame, one feeding the other to create a light and heat source that would burn
through the night. The light cast long shadows over the surrounding buildings, giving the whole place
an eerie, flickering quality.
The town’s businesses had been built to be functional, rather than pretty. Some were just bare
beams, the skeleton of a home or shop that had yet to grow into something more. Tarps had been
secured over the rooflines to keep the wind and rain out. There were hints of personality here and
there, where people had painted the door trim or shutters, but mostly, the place looked unfinished—
like all building had started a few months ago. The lone exception was the building that Adam had
indicated.
Ivy climbed over almost every inch of its front, coating everything but the windows like lush,
verdant green paint. Louisiana phlox, Irises, and Swamp Azaleas formed a fragrant carpet across the
front of the building. Virginia Sweetspire flowed outward, crowding the alley between the canteen
and its neighbors like a floral dust ruffle. A sign reading: Typha’s Canteen was only barely visible,
peering out of the flora like a blunted tree stump.
“Wonder when the Seven Dwarves are on break,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest to
ward off some of the cold as I trudged forward.
As it turned out, there was a porch hidden beneath layers of more ivy. I was about a foot away
before I realized that what had looked like saplings peeking through the bushes were actually thin
wooden beams supporting an awning of Spanish moss. Some of it brushed my hair as I cleared the
porch. The ivy was so thick in places, I could have sworn I was walking on carpet. Clearly, the place
was owned by someone of the Fae persuasion. How long had it taken the owner to grow such a lush
forest of foliage, though? Even I could admit the plant architecture was impressive, despite my
aversion to overly flowery fairy tale crap.
A wind chime let out a cascade of sweet musical notes when I pushed the door open. I stuttered to
a halt, just past the threshold, stunned by what I saw inside. Again, the place seemed to draw its
inspiration from the Old West, modeling itself after a saloon, rather than a more military-style
canteen. Almost all the furniture was made of dark, lacquered wood, and a row of barstools had been
pushed up against the wrap-around counter near the back. Round tables dotted the space, sporting
wire caddies full of jams, sugar packets, and laminated menus. It was elegant in its simplicity. I could
definitely see myself coming to visit again before leaving the Hollow.
A woman bustled into sight a few moments later, but she wasn’t Snow White. Instead, the woman
looked like she’d ripped off the faerie godmother from Disney’s Cinderella. Though it might be more
appropriate to say that Disney had made a cheap knockoff of her. Faeries weren’t expressly immortal,
but they were long-lived. It took almost a hundred years for a faerie to look like an adult, and then a
few more centuries before they’d start to look actively mature. They could stay in a semi-youthful
state for thousands of years, if they were powerful enough. This woman’s hair was as white and soft
as cotton and time had carefully etched artful lines on her round face. To look elderly to mortal eyes,
she had to be ancient.
The billowing gown she wore was green and dotted with white blooms, similar to the Sweetspire
outside. She had the eyes to match: leaf green and luminous. They sparkled with good cheer when
they landed on me.
“Ah, you must be Miss Estuary! Mr. Beaumont said you’d be by,” she said, bustling toward me,
one hand extended to seize mine. “I’m Typha, by the way, though a smart girl like you no doubt figured
that out on your own.”
She paused about a foot away, really taking me in. The rain hadn’t been my fault, but I felt a little
ashamed to be leaving a puddle on her nice, clean floors.
“Sorry,” I said, shuffling back toward the door. “I can wait outside.”
She clucked her tongue. “Nonsense. Adam knew better than to fly you in this downpour. That
impetuous angel will do anything for a thrill.”
“A thrill?” I repeated.
She nodded. “I’m sure he just wanted to see you in wet clothes. An incorrigible flirt, that one is.
He’s even tried coming onto me and I’m almost ten times his age! Can you imagine?” Then she shook
her head as she laughed. “I think I hurt the poor boy’s feelings when I laughed him out of the canteen.”
I couldn’t help a small smile. Typha’s reaction to Adam’s flirtation made me feel a little better
about my own. He was an equal opportunity womanizer, which meant it hadn’t been anything
personal. I’d met the type before, though none of them had even half Adam’s good looks and
charisma. Now I’d definitely have my guard up.
“I can mop this up,” I said, taking her outstretched hand, and giving it a brief, firm shake. “Adam
said he’d be back with my things, but he also mentioned that I could get a change of clothes and
something to drink here?”
“Of course, of course,” she said, getting a firmer hold on my hand, pulling me toward the
swinging double doors at the back of the canteen. “Let’s find you a private place to get out of those
wet things. There are some rather uncouth young men working on the construction crew, and ogling
isn’t beneath their dignity.”
A delicate way to say that perverts were absolutely everywhere, even in a Hollow. Men were
men, no matter where you went. A lot of them were good, but it only took one or two really bad
apples to spoil your opinion of the whole barrel.
Typha led me into the kitchen. Again, the place was larger than I’d originally assumed. The sink
was copper, rather than the more iron-infused steel. It was a human fiction that iron could kill or
maim faeries, but contact was uncomfortable. Prolonged contact could cause a mild allergic reaction,
which was itchy and unpleasant. A quick scan of the room revealed that almost everything in the
kitchen was made of copper. Copper appliances, a copper ceiling rack, with dozens of copper pots
and pans dangling from it. If I pulled open a cupboard, I’d probably find copper plates and cups too.
“How does your place look so nice?” I asked, the words escaping my mouth before I could okay
them with my brain. I immediately felt myself color as I realized how brash I sounded. “I mean, this
Hollow isn’t anything... finished, so how can your place look so nice, while the rest of it is...”
I shoved my proverbial foot into my mouth to stem the flow of crap streaming out of it. God, had I
really just insulted the entire Hollow to her face? First Adam, and now Typha. My big mouth was
going to drive off every person I met. To my shock, Typha actually laughed.
“Modest? Unpolished? In shambles? Take your pick, all of them fit. It will be at least a year
before we’re ready to let the average monster move onto the premises, so we’re not really on call to
impress anyone, but I like what I like, hence why the canteen looks as nice as it does. This way,
dear.”
She pulled me toward a narrow back hall, lit only by the flickering of more globes. These were
smaller than the ones on the street and could have easily fit in the palm of my hand. Moths and June
Bugs circled the light, unable to help themselves, like insectoid stars trapped in a planet’s orbit.
“Dear things, aren’t they?” Typha said, smiling at the mesmerized insects. “So easily
entertained.”
“Right,” I answered, though I really didn’t find them all that interesting.
“And thank you for your kind words about the canteen,” Typha continued. “To be quite honest, it’s
more modest than I’m used to. My older sister insisted that a nascent Hollow was no place for a lady
of my station, but I was determined.” Then she looked around herself and nodded contentedly. “I built
this place, and my sister furnished it as a parting gift. She’s certain I’ll be eaten by a gator before it’s
all said and done.”
I almost swallowed my tongue. So Typha wasn’t just the plump, good-natured woman she
appeared to be. She was Lady Typha, of the Spring Court of Faerie. She wasn’t the heir to the throne,
or she’d never have been allowed to leave her court and move here, assuming such a menial station,
but she was still a woman of power. Which meant that the plant life outside hadn’t been an illusion or
the product of diligent gardening. Typha was powerful enough to will plants to grow and to keep them
fruitful regardless of the season. That was almost... frightening, really. She seemed too gentle to use
that power for anything insidious, but the mere fact she had it made me wary of her.
“Oh... um... wow,” was all I could think to say.
Suave, Marina. With diplomacy skills like these, you should become a politician.
“Go on inside,” Typha said, finally glancing away from the insects. Her smile was so kind, it
warmed me down to my toes. “Get out of those wet clothes and I’ll slide your new things under the
door.”
The crack beneath the door didn’t look large enough to let anything but the thinnest of materials
through. Maybe she was going to give me some kind of spandex monstrosity? God, I hoped not.
The single-use bathroom was large enough that I didn’t bang my elbows or knees into the walls
when I tried to strip down. I’d had that problem in some gas stations and mom-and-pop diners when
I’d begun traveling for work. Some places would install a toilet in a glorified closet and call it a day.
I stripped off and even took the time to wring my hair and clothing out over a deep, copper basin. I
kept listening for the sound of cloth being shoved under the door, but didn’t catch anything.
But about a minute later, I definitely felt something slithering up my calves. I glanced down with
a small shriek and found waxy green vines climbing me like I’d become a lattice arch. More vines
joined the first, lashing themselves across my thighs, up over my hips, and over my damp bra. I hadn’t
had the fortitude to borrow someone else’s underwear. Bad enough I’d be wearing their outer clothes.
Or at least, that had been the thought. Apparently, Typha had different ideas.
I had to bite my knuckles to contain another scream as the vines arranged themselves in distinct
patterns across my hips and torso. Small, fragrant blooms opened here and there, perfuming the
already clean air with the smell of honeysuckle and rose. I held very still, half afraid a bee would zip
out of one and sting me right on the ass. Weird to even consider, but it had been that kind of year.
It took a few minutes, but the vines eventually tied themselves off neatly and retreated out the
door, leaving me to admire my leafy new duds in the silvery mirror that hung over the copper basin.
Typha had woven me a bright green sleeveless dress that ended at mid-thigh and a complimentary
overcoat of dark, waxy leaves to help keep the rain off that was still hugging my ankles.
It took me a moment to get over the shock, but when I did, I walked to the door, only to find her
on the other side, offering me a steaming cup of coffee with one hand, and holding a leafy parasol in
the other. Her motherly smile could have melted a glacier.
“Well, don’t you look lovely,” she said, pushing the coffee into one of my hands. “I knew Tupelo
would look good on you. The green really compliments your hair. Such a lovely shade of coral. Now,
come along, I have sugar and cream in the kitchen if you’d like some in your coffee.”
Then she tottered away, still murmuring to herself, and all I could do was follow in her wake,
trying to puzzle out what in the hell had just happened. One second I was being felt up by plants, and
the next I was trying to figure out whether I wanted Sweet and Low or Stevia in my coffee. Which
she’d grown in her little greenhouse, because of course she had.
By the time Adam returned, I was on my second cup, and in better spirits. His lips tilted up at the
edges when he caught sight of my outfit. I held up a finger to shush him before he could get a word
out.
“If you make one comment about some kind of Tinkerbell porn parody, I will march back the way
I came and you can explain to your boss why he’s short a PR consultant.”
It was the cover story I’d come up with on short notice. Because ‘PR consultant’ sounded a hell
of a lot better than ‘private investigator’, here to uncover the seedy truth hiding somewhere in a
barely there Hollow.
Adam pressed his lips together, containing what promised to be a belly laugh, but his eyes still
twinkled. “I think I’ll just keep my happy little thoughts to myself, then.”
“You’d better,” I groused, plucking up the parasol Typha had fashioned for me. She’d asked me to
bring it back by morning. Apparently, the blooms got lonely without her and wilted. “Now, let’s get
this damn visit over with.”
 Chapter Five

Alistair Beaumont’s office was just as grand as the rest of Misty Hollow.
Which was to say, it wasn’t much to look at from the outside.
City Hall was just a two-story brick building with blocky concrete steps leading up to a pair of
double doors. Doors which hadn’t even been painted yet, and the scent of new wood would have
been discernable even to a human nose. I could smell it before the building came into sight, even with
my nose blunted by the land air. In the water, I could sometimes scent prey a half-mile off, a feature
that came in handy if I had to track down a perp in the water. Funny how so many ignorant humans
thought jumping into a river was a great way to escape—they were always gaping like fish when I
dragged them ashore.
I shook the parasol free of water when we reached the doors. The blooms had perked up under
the spray but seemed to wilt when they caught my mood. More than a few people had pressed their
noses to the glass of their shops or projects in progress to get a look at the new girl. Pretty flower
princess wasn’t the first impression I wanted to leave, and the fact that it was how I’d be remembered
only pissed me off. Which was exactly the wrong attitude to take with Beaumont. Don’t bite the hand
that pays you. Unless your boss is into that kind of thing, and even then, it’s probably unprofessional.
Adam’s hand came to rest a few inches from my shoulder, no doubt hesitant to touch me after my
initial reaction to him. He raised one perfectly arched brow and waggled his fingers with a smile.
“I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but you look like you could use a blessing. It might
make you less tense.”
“I don’t,” I started.
“Trust me, Mr. Beaumont can be... really... intense.”
I had the sense that ‘intense’ wasn’t the word Adam wanted to use, which only made the muscles
in my back and neck coil tighter. Ideally, I’d have gotten a full background check on my potential
employer before agreeing to a consult, let alone taking the case. But very little was known about
Alistair Beaumont, even in the well-informed circles I ran in. And it was entirely possible he’d given
me a false name, which made me trust him even less.
I knew only a few things for certain. He was a vampire, and he’d turned voluntarily. The vampire
who claimed to have sired him was tight-lipped about when and where Beaumont had made the
transition, but it was a safe bet to say he’d been turned in New Orleans, which had a thriving vampire
population. Beaumont’s sire was a well-established elder who hadn’t left the city in over a century. In
all probability, Beaumont had come to him, instead of the other way around. And that was the extent
of my knowledge. His records were nigh nonexistent. I only had a photocopied sketch of the man
(from 1859), instead of an actual photo. Basically, I was walking into this blind, and I didn’t like it
one bit.
“Well?” Adam prompted.
I jumped. I’d been so lost in my frustrated musing that I’d forgotten his offer. My knee-jerk
response was a resounding ‘no’. I didn’t like losing control, which was why I rarely drank. And yet,
going in more paranoid than McCarthy was a bad idea. I’d probably insult Beaumont, just like I had
everyone else, and I couldn’t afford to do that. So, I gave Adam a stiff nod, bracing for whatever he
was about to do.
Adam brushed a single finger over the exposed line of my collarbone, brushing his magic over
my skin like the lightest of angel feathers, but even that fleeting point of contact was enough. It was
like settling into a hot spring, spending a quiet day curled by a fire with a good book, and floating on
my back under a starry sky all rolled into one. Anything that brought me peace and joy bubbled to the
surface of my mind, unspooling the stress of the journey here, leaving me feeling grounded and
incredibly relaxed. I couldn’t remember feeling this way in... well, years, really. The feeling was so
heady, I wanted to laugh.
Even with boots on, I still had to crane my neck to see Adam’s face. I felt myself grinning
stupidly up at him, and he whistled before grinning back. As soon as he pulled his hand away, some of
the glee went with it, which was just as well because I didn’t want to look like I was high when I met
Beaumont.
“Wow, you really needed that, didn’t you? I thought you were just uptight, not actively suffering.”
“I’m not suffering,” I said reflexively, though we both knew it was a lie. Now that the burden had
been lifted from my shoulders, I could see how much Mike’s obsession had taken its toll on me. I
hadn’t allowed myself to decompress for years.
“Sure,” he agreed easily. “Whatever you say, Miss Estuary.”
“Marina,” I corrected with a happy sigh. God, I was punch drunk, just from the lack of stress.
“You can call me Marina.”
Adam’s smile actually lit the room this time, a gentle, pulsing glow like an economy-sized firefly.
It was almost cute. Or maybe that was just the blessing talking.
Adam hooked a finger over his shoulder. “The boss is up those stairs, the first door on the right.
There are only three offices so far, so you can’t miss it. “
The reminder of exactly why I was here sobered me a bit but didn’t diminish the good the
blessing had done. I gave him a grateful nod but didn’t say anything more. I’d probably do something
very un-me-like and giggle or flirt. And that was so not happening.
I took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the stare I felt on my back. Typha’s words kept a tight knot
from forming in my stomach. Adam gravitated toward me, not out of any real sense of attraction, but
because I was inherently out of balance, and his nature couldn’t abide suffering. If I learned to calm
the hell down, he’d find another woman who needed him more.
True to Adam’s word, I found the office with no problem. The door was propped open with a
brick, letting a stream of candlelight illuminate the landing. A soft, mellifluous voice floated out the
door as I took my first creaking step toward it. The voice was lightly accented, but I couldn’t
immediately place a country of origin.
“No need to hover out there, Miss Estuary. I assure you I don’t bite unless asked nicely.”
The voice sounded amused, as if he’d said something witty. All the male vampires I’d met
seemed to think that making references to their fangs was the height of comedy. Probably the species
equivalent to a dick joke. Men’s fascination with penetration seemed to transcend species.
I stopped at the threshold, taking in the office. Like everything else in Misty Hollow, it was
unassuming—still a work in progress, no doubt. A heavy, mahogany desk had been pushed against the
wall nearest the door, with a pair of antique, padded chairs arranged opposite it. An old-fashioned
candelabra had been arranged on one corner of the desk and threw wavering light on a surface thickly
papered with folders.
Beaumont swiveled to face me, lips peeling away from sharp teeth in what could only generously
be called a smile. The smile didn’t touch his eyes and didn’t infuse his face with warmth. Adam’s
good cheer had spoiled me. Any other man would look surly in comparison.
Beaumont’s dark hair swept up from his brow in a sharp widow’s peak, framing a face that was
stark in its beauty. It ticked all the usual boxes for conventional male attractiveness, though. Square
jaw, strong nose, sharp cheekbones, and smoldering brown eyes. Some women might have even found
the subtle fangs appealing too, but they immediately cooled my libido. He was too shark-like to
appeal to me.
He crossed his arms, his cotton work shirt straining tight over his broad chest. A corduroy sports
jacket hung off the back of his chair, mostly there for looks. Vampires weren’t as sensitive to
temperature change as the rest of us. Regardless, Beaumont took me in, assessing potential, rather than
admiring the view. I must have passed some kind of test though because a moment later, he nodded
toward one of the padded chairs.
“Sit, Miss Estuary. We have much to discuss before I give you the grand tour.”
I considered standing, just to be contrary, but ultimately sat, careful not to flash the goods in my
new dress. There was a reason I hated wearing these things. They were so damn uncomfortable. The
next time Typha decided to style me, I was going to request a pantsuit instead.
“You said this was a missing persons case,” I started, jumping to the pertinent bits before he
could launch into something superfluous. “How many people are we talking and how long have they
been gone?”
Beaumont leaned back in his chair, chuckling softly to himself. This time, his smile made him
downright handsome but there was still that predatory look in his eyes. “You don’t mince your words,
do you?”
“No,” I said shortly. “This entire thing is already wildly outside my comfort zone, and I want to
know if this case is even worth my time. For all I know, one of your contractors split before doing the
work you paid for, and you want me to track them down.”
“I can assure you such is not the case.” The smile widened as if he enjoyed playing games—I had
a feeling they were cat and mouse sort of games and he was only interested in playing the role of the
cat.
“And I can assure you that I don’t like walking into situations without context. So, tell me what
this is about now, or I’m out.”
Something ugly flickered far back in his eyes, though his affable persona didn’t crumble. A
layman would probably have missed the subtle shift, but I’d been doing this for years. Beaumont
wasn’t a man accustomed to disrespect. I felt his focus sharpen, the full weight of his scrutiny making
my skin itch. Though that could have just been my scales. They were still trying to push to the fore,
despite my recent dousing. They were like desert earth, so parched for moisture that they’d take what
I gave them and still plead for more.
I tried to discreetly rub them, but Beaumont caught the motion. He reached into one of his desk
drawers without a word and produced a water bottle, tossing it underhand to me.
“Don’t suffer on my account, Miss Estuary. I know your kind require more moisture than you’re
getting here. Phoenix must have been blistering this time of year.”
I bristled. How the hell had he known I was in Phoenix for my last case? I hadn’t mentioned that
on the phone, and all our conversations had been carried out on my burner phone. I took precautions
to be sure Mike (or any of the other enemies I’d made over the years) couldn’t track me down.
“Did you have someone following me?” I asked frostily.
He smiled faintly, fangs in full force. “Not exactly.” Then he grinned even more broadly and
steepled his fingers in front of him, clearly not going to offer anything more.
“Then?”
He nodded. “I called in a favor from your previous employer.”
“A favor?”
 He cocked his head to the side and studied me. “He owed me for services rendered several
decades ago. You could say that your work for him was a trial run for me.”
“Is that so?”
His eyebrows reached for the ceiling. “I needed to know if you were worth my time and
resources. I take this Hollow very seriously, and I don’t put up with slackers.”
“And what was your verdict?” I asked, biting the words off, wishing I could somehow chew them
up and spit them in his face. It was a good thing Adam had blessed me before I’d walked into this
room, or I might have been tempted to drag Beaumont to the river and dunk his head under the water
for a while. It wasn’t like it would kill him, after all.
“If you hadn’t performed well, do you think we’d be having this conversation now?” he asked,
my antagonism rolling off him. The man really didn’t seem to care he’d pissed me off—I didn’t
imagine he cared about much where others were concerned, just as long as his own needs got met.
I twisted the cap off the water bottle in one savage motion. It was amazing how instantaneously
the weasel had burrowed under my skin. It didn’t bode well for this working relationship.
Regardless, I dabbed water onto the patches of scales trying to push out of my skin, glaring at the
floor rather than my employer.
“I could walk away right now,” I said quietly.
“You could.”
I looked up at him then. “I came in good faith, and you’ve done nothing but try to intimidate me,
Mr. Beaumont. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t have Adam fly me back to the city.”
He smiled tightly and reached behind him, seizing a stack of manila folders without glancing
back. He handed them to me a moment later, tapping the top one with a blunt-fingered hand.
“I can give you three reasons: their names are Estelle, Lavinia, and Magnolia.”
I looked down at the files, then back up at him. “I don’t suppose you expect me to read all this in
order to get a lay of the land?”
He shook his head. “I do expect you to read up on all of it at some point, but I’ll give you the gist:
Estelle and Lavinia are a pair of witch sisters I hired to work on the Hollow’s magical foundation.
Magnolia was one of Typha’s hangers-on, supposedly there to help with crop growth, but we all knew
the truth. Lady Hydrilla, who happens to be Typha’s sister, sent Magnolia to look after Typha. As if
the old broad needed protecting. I haven’t seen a faerie that powerful in ages.”
“Anyway...”
He nodded. “Anyway—Magnolia disappeared first, and the witch sisters followed soon after.
They haven’t been seen in three weeks.”
Three weeks? Scales and shipwrecks, that was a long time. The statistical likelihood of finding a
missing person alive after forty-eight hours nosedived and only got worse the longer they were gone.
At this point, we were probably looking for bodies, not living women. My missing person case had
morphed into a probable murder investigation. Son of a bitch.
“You should have contacted someone sooner!” I said, half-rising out of my chair in my anger.
“Why did you wait for me to finish the job in Phoenix?! The authorities could have turned up your
missing women by now!”
Again, hostility flashed across Beaumont’s handsome face, this time more visibly than before.
His teeth tapered down to sharper points, a defensive gesture among the undead.
“I assure you, Miss Estuary,” he said, emphasizing my name like it was the foulest of curses. “I
haven’t been idle. Men I trust have done all they can to track our missing workers. There are simply
some places we can’t go, like the water, for example. The bayou is a dangerous place for those of us
who are partial to air.”
“You aren’t partial to air because you don’t breathe.”
He steepled his fingers together again. “While I technically don’t have to breathe, I also don’t
fancy wading into the water alone when it’s full of unpalatable creatures. That’s where you come in.”
I noted that he hadn’t actually answered my question. The fact that he’d had people out there
looking for the women didn’t preclude the possibility of calling in more help. I figured it could only
mean one thing: he didn’t want outsiders shoving their noses into his business. One had to wonder
what the vampire was hiding that would be worth risking the lives of his people.
I arched a brow. “You want me to go into the swamp and look for... what? Bodies? If the women
ended up in the water, I doubt we’ll find hide nor hair of them again—given all the gators.”
“Weregators don’t eat humans,” Beaumont answered, waving away my protest. “And the colony
here keeps their smaller, beastly counterparts in line. If the women are dead, there will be bodies. My
fear is that they were taken, not killed.”
It took a moment for that statement to really sink in, and when it did, I suddenly had a harder time
swallowing. I took a swig of the water bottle, trying to appease my suddenly dry mouth. Weregators?
By the tides, I’d expected danger in a frontier Hollow but this was just ridiculous.
 Chapter Six

“You can’t seriously expect me to go swimming in weregator-infested waters,” I said, glaring at

Beaumont.
I’d meant for the protest to sound irate. It came out in more of a choked whisper.
“That’s exactly what I expect you to do,” he responded. “The weregators don’t like us much, so it
makes sense that they’d do what they can to stymie construction here.”
“What do three missing women have to do with stopping construction?”
He shrugged. “Estelle and Lavinia were my main enchanters. Their absence has set us back
considerably. Adam will give you a rough sketch of the land around Misty Hollow, and I’ll want you
to swim the length of the bayou.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And what’s in it for me?”
Beaumont crossed his long legs, pursing his lips in an effort to look disapproving. The act was
complete and utter tripe. For the first time since we’d met, there was a hint of good humor in the
intense brown of his eyes.
“Your usual fee, of course, plus any reimbursement for injury or equipment lost.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, gathering up the parasol. “Not good enough. Thanks for the offer, though. I’ll
track down the number for the local monster advocacy groups after Adam flies me back to
civilization.”
I stood, but Beaumont’s leg shot into my path before I could take my first step toward the door.
“Now don’t be so hasty,” he drawled. His accent was thicker now, brought on by either stress or
amusement. It sounded Eastern European. Bulgarian or Romanian maybe. “I’m also willing to offer
you a permanent place in Misty Hollow when you’re finished with this case, rent-free. I think you’d
like living here when all the unpleasantness has been settled.”
“Oh, you think so?” I asked, a bit waspishly. “Because I think having to deal with you day in and
day out would be a literal and figurative pain in the neck.”
“Better me than Mr. Schneider, I’d hope.”
“How did you know about Mike?” I asked, glaring at him.
“How do I know about anything?” he answered on a shrug. “I make it my business to find out.”
Then he narrowed his eyes at me. “And as to your Mr. Schneider, he’s been quite the thorn in your
side over the years, has he not? Siren-induced madness is a hell of a thing.”
I’d been weighing the merits of jumping over his outstretched leg, wondering if he’d be able to
sweep my legs before I could clear his reach. But when that name rolled so casually from his lips, I
froze, my mind going curiously blank.
I turned to regard him coldly. He just stared back, an utterly punchable smirk on his generous lips.
He continued in that same tone when I didn’t respond.
“Now don’t worry, I haven’t gone around spreading the truth just yet. As far as anyone knows,
you’re just a mermaid PR consultant, here to take pretty pictures and spin little lies for me. None of
them have to know you’re really one of the most powerfully cursed mercreatures in existence.”
Ice slid like a thin, sharp blade between my ribs and twisted. Oh, God, he knew. I wasn’t sure
how he’d gotten hold of the information, but he knew who I was and, more importantly, what I was.
And if this got out, it would ruin me. Beaumont was only masquerading as a paying customer, because
at the end of the day, this was blackmail. And I’d walked right into his trap. Damn it!
“Who told you?” I whispered.
 The bastard had the audacity to give me a cheeky wink. “Now that would be telling. Let’s just
say... money talks.” When I didn’t say anything right away, he continued. “This doesn’t have to be
unpleasant, Marina. Solve this mystery for me, and I’ll ensure you never have to deal with your nigh-
homicidal stalker again.”
“Don’t kill him.”
He laughed. “When did I ever say I’d resort to such drastic measures?”
“Then what are you saying?”
“Simply that your Mr. Schneider won’t be able to find you in a fully functioning Hollow. You
would be off the grid, so to speak, and completely invisible to human eyes. He could be parading
around the border, and he’d still never find you.”
I glowered at him, trying to think of something, anything, to say to that. But there was nothing to
say because he was right. Living in a Hollow was my best bet for escaping Mike. Any of the other
enemies I’d earned over the years would have to petition for entry or risk the wrath of hunters and the
larger supernatural community. The truth of it all was that Misty Hollow was the safest place I’d ever
find. Assuming I survived the weregators, that is.
Beaumont read the acrimony on my face and it only made him grin harder. What a completely
unmitigated asshole. He had me and he knew it.
“So,” he drawled. “When can you start?”

***

Typha cut me off after my third cup of coffee and sent me up to my room to sleep. I didn’t have the
heart to tell her that between Beaumont’s blackmail and the memories the conversation with him had
stirred up; I was guaranteed to have nightmares. The longer I could put off sleep, the better.
I’d skipped the tour of town altogether. In my rage, I’d have tuned out all relevant details. By the
time I’d returned to Typha’s canteen, she’d prepared the attic room for me, magicking my clothes and
photography equipment into neat piles in and on top of a chest of drawers. I’d hung the leaf dress on a
hanger in the small armoire, unsure what else to do with it. Leaving it in a crumpled heap on the moss
rug seemed disrespectful, and the only other thing I could think of would be to find some potting soil
and plant it in the ground outside. Until I could talk to Typha, I’d have to keep it in the armoire. With
any luck, it wouldn’t result in a Little Shop of Horrors situation.
The bedspread was made of some plant I had no name for that conformed immediately to the
shape of my body when I draped it over my lap. It was so damn soft and warm that my eyelids slid to
half-mast before I knew it. As much as I hated to admit it, I was tired, and only the burst of adrenaline
I’d experienced in Beaumont’s office had kept me upright this long. It would be better to go over the
folders in the morning when I was fresh, but the thought of sleep wasn’t a good one.
He knew! Alistair Beaumont knew about my curse!
I’d been eight when I killed my first man. It had been a historic, if not horrifying, day for my
people. Until I’d blossomed, it had been thought that the curse wouldn’t emerge until puberty. The last
siren in our part of the world had emerged at sixteen and had died almost a hundred years before I
was spawned. Now we knew that the curse could manifest at any time, in any female, no matter her
age.
I’d looked that man up years later and found out his name was Sean Hudson. He’d visited Long
Island for his senior trip and drowned when he leaned too far over a railing, trying to follow my
voice, and plummeted into the water.
 I hadn’t meant to do it. It was just a game that I and a few of the other merchildren played,
splashing and singing to tourists off-key, trying to see how loud we could be before we were caught
by our parents and dragged down to the bottom to be scolded. Except, when I’d tried to give a
screech, a real song came out instead. A Siren’s song. A sound so beautiful that it drove anyone who
heard it to distraction at best and obsession at worst. And I’d managed to kill a man with my first
note. Things had only gotten worse from there.
Sirens were cursed. A far-flung memory of the mermaid’s lethal past made flesh. Drowning
sailors used to be a rite of passage that every merperson had to undergo to become a mature adult. At
some point, our rulers had made a pact with the gods to give up bloodshed. They stripped us of our
sharp teeth, of our lethal songs, of our need to kill, and gave us peace. Well, most of us, anyway. A
few mermaids per generation inherited the killing song of our great-grandmothers, and I’d been
unlucky enough to be one of them.
“Moping doesn’t help anyone,” I muttered, flopping onto my stomach. “Get to work, Marina. You
can cry into your pillow later.”
The blanket inched after me, clinging to me like moss on a boulder. I’d really have to ask Typha
what she’d used to create the bedspread and the drapes. This stuff felt heavenly.
I flipped open the first folder on the pile and came face to face with an eight-by-ten of one of the
victims. I didn’t have to consult the bio paperclipped to the back to know she was a witch. If you ran
in supernatural circles, you could spot a witch at a hundred paces. If not by looks, then by demeanor.
They were brunettes, almost without exception, and favored the more buxom end of the spectrum.
They could vary in height and skin color, but every single one of them had haughtiness etched into
their features like indelible ink, and this one was no exception. She was pale, with a round face and a
spiky pixie cut. She’d pierced the end of one brow, the steel ball resting like an emphatic punctuation
to her unpleasant expression.
Her name turned out to be Estelle. She was a seventy-six-year-old (young for a professional
witch) graduate of Blood Rose Academy and an expert in drawing on ley lines. It was a matter of
brute force to direct them, which meant she was the muscle. Her sister, Lavinia, was the brains to her
sister’s brawn, capable of creating thorough magical wards on even the flimsiest of foundations. They
were about a decade apart in age but looked so similar they could have been twins.
The last picture was a jarring juxtaposition when put in the same pile as the flinty-eyed witches.
Magnolia looked like a human child, which meant she was under fifty and practically a baby in faerie
terms. She was around two and a half feet tall, with large, iridescent wings that seemed out of
proportion with the rest of her body. Typha could probably have stuffed the entire sprite into her
purse, leaving only Magnolia’s head popping over the rim. Her hair was blush pink and fell in
ringlets around her slim shoulders. She’d half-turned toward the camera as though the person on the
other end had startled her.
A similarity between the missing women jumped out at me immediately, and I didn’t like it one
bit.
“Young,” I muttered, clutching Magnolia’s file to my chest as I flopped onto my back. “All three
of them were young. Angler’s teeth...”
If there was one thing I hated more than a predator, it was a child predator. Magnolia was at the
same age as a human teen, mentally. Witches could potentially live to be four hundred years old,
which meant these women were only a fifth of the way through their life spans. So... around their
early twenties, by human standards. It wasn’t concrete evidence, but it was worrying. I needed to scan
the rest of the files and talk to the locals to shore up my theory.
Until then, I’d sleep.
Or, at least, I’d damned well try.
 Chapter Seven

A church bell clanged somewhere down the road and sent spikes of agony through my skull.
As far as I knew, it was still the early hours of the morning and I clapped my hands over my ears,
biting off a scream, but the sound just kept going, bouncing in the space between like an auditory
pinball. My stomach heaved violently, and I tasted the bitter memory of coffees past as acid climbed
up my throat. When I dared to peek out from under the covers, I groaned.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said, climbing to my knees so I could peer out the dormer
window.
The sky was a pale gray, the precursor to a vivid splash of light and color. Fog hung in the air,
obscuring my view of the street below. And a good thing too, because I would have climbed down
and throttled whoever was ringing the bell. The sun would burn off the vapor in an hour or so, but
now I was up so there was no use in trying to get back to sleep. Sigh.
I dragged my bags out of the closet and pulled on the first things my fingers touched which, as it
turned out, were a pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt that my ex-partner had bought me when we’d been
tracking a kelpie through Lake Erie. That little excursion had earned me the nickname ‘Eerie’. Mike
hadn’t been very original, but he had been good at rehashing the story to friends. I still missed him (I
mean the pre-siren-song Mike), despite how badly things had played out.
I twisted my hair into a high ponytail, considered my reflection in the mirror, and pronounced
myself perfectly acceptable for viewing. Normalcy was the name of the game in detective work. You
blended with the crowd you were sent to investigate. Most of the time, my job consisted of dressing
down, keeping to myself, and spending endless hours on the phone or in a parked car, waiting for
something to happen. The gumshoe gig wasn’t half as exciting as people made it out to be. Well, that
was probably true if you were only doing the standard human stuff. Mike and I had done both. He
mostly chose divorces and infidelity cases. It was easy and reliable money that kept us afloat until the
strange cases from my side of the block came knocking.
After a moment of thought, I added my camera bag to the ensemble. Beaumont had stressed a need
for discretion the few times we’d been able to talk on the phone, and with context, I understood why.
If he told the truth about the women going missing, there could be a mass exodus from Misty Hollow,
leaving him without the tools and personnel he needed to complete his Hollow. Even if he managed to
find replacements, he’d have to give them hazard pay, which made the whole thing infinitely more
expensive. It would serve the bastard right if I blabbed, but I did have a sense of professional pride.
I’d spill the secret if the situation became too dangerous, but not a second before.
I took the stairs slowly, the sound of laughter and the clinking of silverware drifting up the stairs,
accompanied by the scent of eggs and bell peppers. As I neared the bottom of the stairs, I caught sight
of Typha backing out of the kitchen with a tray full of plates, and her ample backside almost knocked
me sideways. She let out a little yelp of surprise when she saw me in her periphery and tried to
reverse course, cups and plates clinking together ominously as she swayed. A slender hand shot out of
nowhere and steadied the tray before it could tip from the faerie’s grip.
Typha let out a fluttery little gasp as she righted herself. She offered her rescuer a sweet smile
and swish of her skirts in lieu of a curtsy.
“That was very kind of you, Sherilyn.”
The woman lowered herself back into her seat carefully, as if she was afraid she’d snap it to
matchsticks beneath her weight. Which was a possibility, given her greater-than-average density. She
was a gargoyle, which meant she was made of living stone. Some had been shaped to look human, but
most were grotesque and animal-like. They were a secretive bunch, so no one knew exactly how they
came to be, only what they could do. They were the go-to for guard duty across Western Europe.
Legacy gargoyles never left their posts, remaining silent watchers on the various turrets and towers
until time wore them away. And if a gargoyle was still, that could be a very long time.
This one was humanoid in shape, but not in color. She had a bit of wear, which meant she was
active and getting on in years. She wore a loose-knit green sweater to hide her angular proportions,
though she’d cut slits into the back to allow her wings room to extend. They were folded across her
back at the moment, barely visible under waves of charcoal-gray hair. Her skin was ashy, her lips and
nails the color of graphite. Her eyes were the darkest shade of all. Black, or something very close to
it.
“Sherry,” she corrected, folding her hands on the table in front of her. “I’ve told you, Miss. T. I
don’t mind if you use my nickname.”
Typha waved an airy hand. “And you’ll have to remind me again tomorrow, dear. You know I’m a
doddering old fool.”
Then Typha was gone, sweeping past us before Sherry could argue with her. It left me standing in
Typha’s wake, shuffling in embarrassment at my part in the near-disaster. The attention of the table
focused on me, and I felt the insistent urge to turn back the way I’d come. The covers were warm, and
that damned bell had stopped ringing. Maybe it hadn’t been a church bell after all, but one probably
meant to call everyone to breakfast. People were spilling in the open front door, greeting Typha, or
giving her their orders.
One of the women shifted in her seat to face me fully, ruby lips twisting up into a sultry smirk.
She was still in a nightie and didn’t seem at all embarrassed to be flaunting black silk and a lot of
bare skin at the breakfast table.
“Ooh, look,” she purred. “New meat.”
“Be nice, Anarchy,” Sherry warned.
Anarchy twirled a lock of crimson hair around a slender finger, lip curling into an exaggerated
pout. “I don’t know what you mean, Sher. I’m always nice. And don’t teach the new girl bad habits.
My name is Anne now. It’s legal and everything.”
Sherry rolled her eyes and waved me forward impatiently. “Come on, new girl. Sit before Anne
decides to lay claim to you, Monopoly-style.”
I selected the chair furthest from Anne and sat. A round of laughter went up from the assembled
women when Anne’s pout deepened.
“What does Monopoly-style even mean?” I asked.
The mousy woman on my right snorted a laugh. Her skin was light brown, and she had a
smattering of freckles over her small, upturned nose. Her eyes seemed to disappear under a pair of
round spectacles.
“The ‘if I lick it, it’s mine’ rule,” she said. “Anne always picks the dog when we play, and none
of us dare touch it. We don’t know where her mouth has been.”
“It hasn’t been anywhere in ages,” Anne groused. “Not since I came to this backwater town.
Seriously, no one wants to hook up. They’re too tired after working all day.”
“You must be a succubus,” I grumbled, selecting a roll from a wire basket. “That’s why you’re
trying to bait the men?”
Anne shrugged. “Men, women, humans, monsters.”
“Anything with a pulse, really,” Sherry answered.
 “And even that’s not a hard rule,” the woman with glasses added.
Anne nodded. “I was all revved up and ready to take Alistair on his desk, but he turned me down
faster than you could say ‘asexual vampire’.” She sighed. “And what a shame it was. That man has a
fine ass.”
“More like that man is an ass,” Sherry responded to which the entire table seemed to nod in
agreement.
“But the answer to your question is no,” the mousy woman continued. “Anarchy’s not a succubus,
though I could see where you could make the mistake.”
“Oh?” I asked, obviously surprised. “Then what are you?” I finished, facing Anne.
“An imp,” she answered with a shrug.
“Half-human, half-infernal,” the mousy woman continued. “Your father is one of the dukes in the
lowest layer, right?”
“Ugh,” Anne said, scrunching up her pert little nose. “Don’t talk about Daddy at the breakfast
table, Cora. If you say his name, it might summon him, and none of you want to see his demon form...
trust me.”
Talk about a treasure trove of information. ‘Imp’ was a broad classification for demonic half-
breeds, but the classification was most often applied to the offspring of humans and the lowest levels
of infernal creatures. If Anne aka Anarchy was the daughter of a duke of hell (one of the several
realms that resided on the bottom layer) then he was in the rigid and unshakable ‘evil’ half of the
binary. In a way, Anne was like Adam, born of two worlds and disdained by their powerful parent. In
general, imps weren’t well-liked. Too much like humans. It was why they tended to migrate toward
the upper layers and settle with humans or lesser demons.
“And I’m Chor,” a small voice said from my left. “It’s short for Petrichor. We’re all happy to see
another female face. It’s a real sausage fest around here.”
When I turned, I found a wispy woman smiling at me hopefully. And when I say wispy, I mean
wispy. She looked like an afterimage instead of a flesh-and-blood person. Chor was projecting the
image of a plump woman in her mid-forties, with tastefully graying hair, but it was nearly colorless,
like a billboard that had been bleached by the sun. The overhead fan stirred the air overhead, and
anytime the breeze flicked her way, she blipped out of existence. She faded back into sight a few
seconds later, but it was enough to convince me that she was tossing glamor at me.
“Sylph?” I guessed when she disappeared once more.
I got a disembodied giggle in response. I took that as a ‘yes’, which meant I was three for five.
Not bad for my first social gathering in Misty Hollow.
“So, now you know our names,” Sherry, the gargoyle, said, leaning an elbow on the table.
“What’s yours?”
“Marina Estuary. I’m Beaumont’s new PR consultant,” I said with a bright smile, patting the
camera I’d slung across my chest.
“PR consultant?” Anne repeated, frowning.
I nodded. “He thought it was safest to have a mermaid do the shots on the bayou, with all the
gators around. I actually stand a chance of out swimming them.”
“Marina,” Anne repeated, rolling the syllables around her mouth like she could lick sugar off
them. “Are you free after work? I paint and I think your mer-form would be just the muse I need. And
we could see what happens from there.”
“I’m straight but flattered,” I answered, with a laugh. “And besides, I don’t date—especially not
while on business.”
 Anne nodded thoughtfully. “I can tell. You have a big knot where normal, healthy desire should
be. I bet it hurts.”
Typha waddled back toward the kitchen, an empty tray tucked under her arm, and placed a copper
camping mug in front of me as she passed our table. I gave her a thumbs up and sipped the coffee,
grateful I didn’t have to answer right away. When I did, I decided a little bit of deflection was in
order.
“Adam said something similar last night when he flew me in.”
“We have similar instincts about people,” Anne insisted. “The difference is what we do with
what we perceive. Adam’s always trying to find a way to fix whatever is broken. There’s nothing a
bliss angel loves more than a project.”
“And what would you do about it?” I asked.
Her grin returned, this time with an edge of mischief to it. “Oh, I could distract you. And even if
you don’t like me that way, I am a real devil of a matchmaker.”
“Don’t get her started,” Cora sighed. “She’ll never drop the subject.”
Anne sniffed. “Some of us prefer our lovers fleshy, not fictional. If you’d pull your cute little
whiskers out of a book and find a real man for once—”
“And that’s enough of that,” Sherry said, speaking over both of them. She sounded amused, rather
than angry, which made me think she’d heard this conversation more than once. “We’re not going to
bicker in front of our new teammate, are we?”
Cora and Anne settled into their respective chairs with good-natured muttering, but neither
looked upset. I had a feeling I fell solidly in Cora’s camp where men were concerned—neither of us
was interested. I’d have to raid her bookshelf before I left town.
“You’ll have to forgive them,” Chor said, her whispery voice floating over the table. “I think they
secretly like bickering.”
“We don’t!” Cora and Anne chorused in unison.
“She’s just prudish,” Anne said, crossing her arms, displaying a generous line of cleavage. “It’s
annoying.”
“And you’re trying too hard,” Cora replied. “Ask someone out and get to know them before you
hook up. You’d get more sex in the long-term if people weren’t sure you’d leave the second things
were through.”
Anne shuddered. “Ugh, monogamy and feelings. No, thank you.”
“Enough,” Sherry said, more forcefully than before. “I think we should all have a nice, civil
breakfast and show our new teammate around. How does that sound, Marina?”
I swallowed a bite of bread, as I thought about the first offer I’d had to take a walk around town
—from Beaumont. “Sounds good to me.”
 Chapter Eight

“Now that is a scene worth photographing,” Anne said, chewing on the temple tips of her
sunglasses.
She was staring longingly at a grouping of construction workers nearby. “Mmm. Snap a photo,
Marina, and send me the prints. I want to make a calendar out of them.”
I’d mastered the art of observing without actively looking at anyone or anything in particular.
Stare too long at someone and they became aware of you. And when they were aware of you, they
clammed up, and any chance of cataloging their natural behavior was gone. The caution was probably
wasted here in the Hollow. If Beaumont thought any of the workers were responsible for what had
happened to the missing women, I wouldn’t be here. They’d either be turned in to the authorities, or
they’d go conveniently missing. Which was why it was perfectly acceptable to ogle some attractive
men. Just doing my part to blend in, right?
“I think Anne is right,” Cora said, squinting through the thick lenses of her spectacles. She’d
shoved them as high up her nose as they’d go, and yet she still appeared to have trouble seeing them.
If her human form was anything like the giant mole she turned into, her vision was sure to be dismal.
“Of course, I’m right,” Anne said, flipping her long crimson hair over one shoulder. I hadn’t
noticed at the breakfast table, but she was going gray at the temples. She paused mid-step and then
added, “But what specifically am I right about this time?”
Cora sighed, nose twitching in agitation. I could almost picture the whiskers she’d have in mole
form. Anne was right. Cora was attractive in an approachable, snuggly sort of way. “About Adam.
He’s staring at our new friend.”
I dared another glance and, sure enough, found the Bliss angel’s eyes fixed on the side of my face.
He was dressed in a cutoff shirt, this time in black, and sporting a hard hat and vest. His skin was
sheened with sweat, and he wore dirt like it was avant-garde makeup. Maybe Anne had the right idea
with her calendar comment. Adam looked like a cover model, not a construction worker. And the men
around him weren’t exactly slouches in the looks department, either. Had Beaumont managed to staff
the entire construction crew with Playgirl centerfolds?
“Lucky,” Anne sighed. “I wouldn’t mind if he wanted to take me to heaven.” Then she turned to
look at me. “But I bet you’re going to turn him down, aren’t you? That knot in your psyche is bound up
tighter than a nun’s panties.”
I choked on a swig of water and dissolved into a coughing fit. Sherry thumped me carefully on the
back, trying to be helpful, but only succeeded in imprinting fresh bruises between my shoulder blades.
I was still smarting from my encounter with a bigfoot who’d been posing as the Mogollon Monster to
frighten tourists. He’d actually taken one of the women, hoping to woo her into becoming Mrs.
Bigfoot. Luckily, I’d gotten her back.
“Stop teasing her,” Chor said, flickering into sight beside me. A gentle breeze wafted off her,
stirring the hair at the nape of my neck in a pleasant fashion. The day was only starting, and it was
already humid as hell. Guess that was the bayou for you.
“I’m not teasing,” Anne protested. “I’m stating a fact. Our new friend Marina has been burned,
which means she’s not going to be wooed easily. Especially not by Adam. He’s too... shiny. Damaged
girls don’t really do shiny.”
“If it seems too good to be true, it probably is,” I answered on a shrug. Then I picked up the pace,
walking a little ahead of the group in an effort not to get caught up in a conversation I wanted nothing
to do with. Crude and flirtatious Anne might be, but she wasn’t a dummy. It was like she’d crawled
inside my brain and unearthed my darkest secrets, perfectly articulating what was wrong with Adam.
“So, what do all of you do for Beaumont?” I asked, deciding to change the subject. “I mean,
we’re all here to work, right? I’m curious what you were hired to do.”
“I’m muscle, obviously,” Sherry said, gesturing at herself. “It’s sort of the purpose of a gargoyle’s
existence. I alternate between guarding Alistair’s resting place, defending the border against anything
coming out of the swamp, and helping the boys with the steel girders.”
“I dig,” Cora said with a shrug. “Whenever Smith, the foreman, says it’s safe to start, I clear out
whatever’s in the way.”
Which seemed pretty obvious in hindsight, but Cora didn’t hold the synaptic lapse against me.
She didn’t seem the type to be needlessly cruel. Even if she thought I was a bumbling idiot, she
wasn’t going to say it aloud.
“I generate storms to collect wind and lightning,” Chor said. “It’s what keeps the essentials
running until we can set up a grid. We’re installing solar panels as well, but it’s slow going. I heard
you got caught in one of my cloudbursts. Sorry about that.”
I stared. The storm had been her doing? That was... impressive, really. Apparently, Typha wasn’t
the only powerhouse faerie in the Hollow.
Then I turned to Anne and raised an eyebrow. “I hesitate to ask.”
She threw her head back and trilled a laugh. Far from being offended, she seemed to enjoy what I
was insinuating. More power to her, I guess.
“As much as I’d love to be the entertainment for all these scrumptious people, I’m afraid I’m the
black arts expert.”
“Black arts?” I repeated, surprised to hear Beaumont had employed someone for such a purpose.
Anne nodded. “It’s all I can do to maintain the border without Estelle and Lavinia here to help.
We’d just gotten the basic wards up before they up and left.”
Hmm, so Anne didn’t think of the witch sisters as missing. Interesting.
“They left?” I asked, figuring I’d prod a little to find out exactly how much she and the others
knew.
Anne nodded. “They didn’t even leave a note. Just took their things and left. I’m pretty sure
Estelle also took my best lipstick. She was always ‘borrowing’ my stuff.”
“They didn’t steal anything, you just keep misplacing your stuff,” Cora huffed, shaking her head
as she frowned at Anne. Even though the three of them seemed to bicker, I was fairly sure they were
all friends. There was just this easiness between them—a certain level of comfort.
“I found your lipstick last week, remember?” Sherry said.
“Ah, that’s right,” Anne answered.
I found all of this very interesting. As far as I could tell, Beaumont hadn’t told anyone but Adam
what he suspected about the women’s disappearances. I couldn’t help but wonder if Anne, Sherry,
Chor and Cora suspected any foul play and were maybe too scared to speak up? Or had the vampire
kept everyone in the Hollow too busy to think past their day-to-day chores?
The buildings grew sparser as we veered off the main road until we were just walking through
outlines and little flags denoting where a building would soon be. I snapped a few pictures of the
worker’s projects and jotted down what each of the structures was meant to be to keep up my cover.
As far as Misty Hollow went, there wasn’t anything really impressive to slap onto a brochure unless
you counted Typha’s Canteen. One presentable building out of the dozen though wasn’t a good quota.
“And this is my baby,” Anne said, drawing me out of my thoughts. I turned to see her patting a
patch of empty air in front of her fondly, as though she could feel something soft and warm beneath her
palm.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Something to keep intruders out,” Anne answered.
“Don’t worry—no one else can see it either,” Sherry leaned over and whispered to me.
“Dark arts magic?” I asked Anne who nodded.
“She’s not pretty, but we’re limping through. There haven’t been any intruders in months though,”
she said with a smile.
“But you had some before?” I asked, latching onto the only relevant part of her sentence.
“We did,” Anne answered.
“Who was it? And why were they here?”
“See for yourself,” Sherry said, pointing to the swamp’s edge. “He’s lurking near the shallows.
They can’t come in now, because they can’t get past Anne’s wards, but they spy on us almost every
day.”
“And Anne makes the most of it,” Cora said with a hint of disgust.
“Hardly,” Anne said.
Cora threw her hands on her hips as she faced her friend. “You could tan anywhere, but you
choose the edge of town on purpose. I think you want JB and his men to leer at you.”
“JB?” I asked.
“Jean-Baptiste,” Chor supplied. “He’s the leader of the local weregators.”
Sherry nodded. “They own most of the swamp, except for the parcel they sold to Alistair. I think
they’re suffering some seller’s remorse because they’ve been badgering him about it ever since. The
squabbles have died down since the border wall went up, but the gators still aren’t happy.”
Anne pretended like Chor hadn’t spoken, directing her reply to a scowling Cora. “Of course, I
want them to look at me. Have you seen how ridiculously hot JB and his brothers are? And they go
around without pants all the time. I’d throw myself into the water and go full Steve Irwin if Alistair
wouldn’t dock my pay for it.”
I followed the line of Sherry’s finger more closely, squinting at the water. It was difficult to see
anything through the cattails and the film of duckweed near the edge. Then I saw it and couldn’t unsee
it. There was a dark, scaly head poking out from the water, and its poisonous green eyes were focused
on us. Its tail twitched when it caught us staring back, and the motion lifted it out of the water for a
moment, giving me a better idea of how large the thing actually was. I’d need a tape measure to be
sure, but it looked like it was at least fifteen feet long. With the distance and water distortion? It could
easily be more than that. Eighteen feet. Twenty. And I had to get into the water and swim through a
swamp full of these bastards?
Sherry must have heard the effort it took to swallow because she reached up and gave my
shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, Marina. Anne may be a hopeless flirt, but she
knows her stuff. They’re not getting through the barrier and they won’t be out there more than a few
hours. They’re getting discouraged, and they’ll eventually give up. Besides, several of them have
wives and hatchlings to attend to. They’ll retreat when they don’t get anywhere. Again.”
“Right,” I whispered hoarsely.
Little did she know that the gators wouldn’t have to come to me. I’d be going to them, as good as
serving myself up on a tray. This job was a hell of a lot more difficult than I’d bargained for. One
scheming vampire with something to hide was one thing, but a colony full of angry weregators with an
axe to grind? That was definitely another. And there were three missing women, whose chances of
survival were slim to none. Anne might have wanted to play Steve Irwin and wrestle a gator, but I
sure as hell didn’t.
But it was beginning to look like I didn’t have much of a choice.

***

It was a struggle to look busy for the next few hours. There really wasn’t much I could do until
the coast was clear, and there were only so many angles I could photograph a building from before it
started to seem silly. So, I’d retreated to Typha’s and ordered a piece of pie, with a cup of black
coffee to go with it. Blueberries were the first fruit I’d tasted after coming ashore, and I’d been in
love with them ever since. If I was going to die, I might as well do it with something sugary and
delicious in my stomach.
And dying seemed inevitable at this point.
Beaumont hinted that the gators might have something to do with the deaths or disappearance of
the three women, but he hadn’t given me a clear motive as to why. Maybe he’d hoped I wouldn’t ask.
If I hadn’t been cold, exhausted, and pissed beyond belief, I would have.
The vampire had kept me off-footed the entire time, and I had to wonder why. My gut said there
was something big going on here, and that the vampire mayor wanted to tucker me out by chasing
gator tail to keep my nose out of it—well, beyond figuring out who was responsible for the women
disappearing. I was reasonably sure Beaumont hadn’t been the one to harm them, because it didn’t
make sense as to why he would have brought me in, if he was the one responsible. Unless he was
trying to make it look like he had nothing to do with it? Hmm, there was always that. But Beaumont
hadn’t even announced to the rest of the crew that anyone was missing. They seemed to still think that
the women had left on their own volition.
The only thing I knew for sure? This entire case stunk worse than three-day-old halibut.
I’d cleared the last of the crumbs and was contemplating licking the plate when Adam
approached, resting a hand on the chair across from me. He was sweatier than he’d been a few hours
ago and smudged with more dirt. He made it look good, but with Anne’s words in mind, I kept myself
from staring too hard. Even covered in filth, the angel was too shiny for me.
“May I sit?”
I shrugged. “It’s a free country.”
His smile was a little rueful. “Thanks for the invitation,” he chuckled. Then sighed.
“Unfortunately, this little visit is business, not pleasure. Mr. Beaumont had something commissioned
and sent to the Hollow shortly before you arrived. He says it ought to help you do your job more
effectively.”
He shoved a hand into the pocket of his blue jeans and drew out an envelope. The crisp white
paper bulged, straining to contain whatever was inside. The scrawling script on the front read, For
the eyes of Ms. Estuary only.
“Huh,” I said, taking the envelope from Adam’s outstretched hand. It wasn’t heavy, which
surprised me, given the thing’s dimensions. “So, he didn’t let anyone look at it? Not even you?”
“Nope,” Adam said. “Mr. Beaumont keeps things on a need-to-know basis and most of the time I
don’t need to know.” I looked at him and frowned. “I’m not his assistant or anything,” he continued.
“When I’m not airlifting lovely ladies like yourself, I’m floating from job to job, pitching in where
I’m needed. The only reason Mr. Beaumont hasn’t shut me out completely is that he knew it would be
a pain in the ass if he tried.”
 “How’s that?”
He nodded. “I can sense when someone’s telling a lie. It comes from my dad’s side. A ‘gift’, he
called it.”
“Sounds like a gift.”
“Maybe but maybe not.” He took a breath. “It’s not foolproof, and things like white lies don’t
even register. I’m not as good at it as an angel of the higher orders, and I can’t read anyone who’s at a
higher power threshold than I am. But if someone’s telling a lie that could harm someone? Oh, you bet
your fine ass I will know.”
“That’s interesting and quite the valuable tool.”
He nodded. “For example, I knew the missing women hadn’t turned in their resignation and I
confronted Mr. Beaumont about it.” Ah, so that was the reason Adam knew the truth when no one else
did. I had to admit, I wasn’t sure why Beaumont would have trusted Adam with the secret and now I
understood why—Beaumont had no choice in the matter.
I set my fork gingerly on the cloth napkin and glanced around the canteen surreptitiously. The
dining room looked empty, but that didn’t mean anything when you were living in a town full of
monsters. Chor could be lurking nearby and I wouldn’t know unless she decided to show herself.
“Do you think Beaumont had anything to do with their... absences?” I asked, hastily swapping in
the mild word. I’d been tempted to say ‘deaths’ but there was no proof that they actually were dead
and throwing a loaded word like ‘murder’ around was dangerous.
“He didn’t hurt them,” Adam said immediately, shaking his head. The absolute certainty in his
voice thawed some of the ice in my stomach. I’d been stewing in the prospect that I’d agreed to work
for a potential killer for the better part of an hour now. “But...”
But. Funny how a three-letter word can make your sphincter tighten.
“But what?”
Adam blew out a breath. It lifted a strand of golden hair from his face, and I had the fleeting urge
to tuck it behind one of his ears. I caught myself before I actually reached for him and even sat on my
hands. Whatever pheromones or bliss vibes were emanating from this guy, they were strong.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to pin down. He isn’t lying to our faces, but... there’s definitely something
he’s keeping from us,” Adam continued. “A lie of omission, maybe. There’s something he wants to
keep to himself, and whatever that something is, it’s potentially dangerous.”
“Interesting.”
He nodded. “He shut down when I tried to press him about it. He told me I could deal with
remaining ignorant, or I could go. It was my choice.”
“And you stayed here? Why?”
The lines between Adam’s brows smoothed, and he was all smiles again. “Because I’m needed
here. This place has the potential to do a lot of good, and I want to be a part of that good. Not to
mention I met you, which was definitely worth staying for.”
“You don’t know me,” I said, and the words came out sharper than I intended.
“But I’d like to. Is that so wrong?”
“It’s not wrong, but I don’t want you to get any ideas about trying to fix me. I’m here to do a job,
not go on a journey to self-discovery.”
“What about a short trip to self-discovery?” he asked with a laugh.
I firmly shook my head. “I’m sorry if my inner turmoil makes things harder on you, but I can’t
focus on it, and neither should you.”
“Understood.”
 I narrowed my eyes at him because I couldn’t say I believed him. “Are you okay just being my
friend?”
I expected his expression to harden, for the resentment to boil the air between us, for some sort of
façade to drop away at my words. I’d met too many men who reacted to the word ‘friend’ with
hostility after being told ‘no’. But Adam’s smile just grew a little softer.
“I can never have too many friends.”
Thank God for easygoing angels. A belligerent, friend-zoned celestial would be a terrible enemy
to have.
“Thank you.”
Adam tilted his head, the movement oddly reminiscent of a golden retriever. He looked genuinely
puzzled. “What for?”
“For not being angry. I know a lot of men who would have taken that conversation badly.”
“You clearly haven’t been hanging around the right men,” he said with a laugh.
I laughed in response and then winced at how bleak it sounded. “You have no idea.”
Then, wanting to find out just what was inside the envelope from Beaumont, I tore the top open
and shook its contents into my palm. A black gemstone in a gold setting tumbled out, the attached
chain sliding like sand between my fingers. I had to catch it before it could slip from my grasp and
tumble off the edge of the table. I could feel power gathered in the gemstone, pulsing like a feather-
light heartbeat against my skin.
“Black tourmaline and obsidian, set in pyrite,” Adam noted, looking surprised. “That’s
interesting.”
“Is it?” I asked. “Because witchcraft and spell casting isn’t really my bag.”
“No?” he asked with a laugh.
I shook my head. “I’ve made it a point not to cross covens if I can help it. Witches are powerful
and vindictive, and I don’t want to end up on a witch’s shit list.”
He rolled a shoulder. “I hear you.” Then he leaned forward, his eyes focused entirely on mine.
“So... do you want to know the importance of the gem or not?”
“Go on.”
“Black tourmaline is a grounding stone that repels negativity and promotes peace. Pyrite grants
safety to the user. Obsidian is said to guide the holder to whatever truth they’re seeking.”
“So... it’s a protection charm,” I said, relief flooding over me.
“I’d say so,” Adam answered on an exhale as he leaned back in his seat. “Mr. Beaumont must
think you’re worth it.”
“Worth it?” I repeated, frowning.
Adam nodded. “That necklace wouldn’t have been cheap. I know the craftsmanship. It’s a
Violetta De Leon.”
“Never heard of her.”
“She’s excellent.”
I had to wonder if the commission had another motive though. Beaumont was short a witch, and
he didn’t invite incompetents into his Hollow. This protection charm could be his way of giving this
Violetta an audition before inviting her to Misty Hollow. If I survived, would she be invited to work
here?
I slipped the chain over my head, drawing in a steadying breath when the amulet settled in the
hollow of my throat. It beat in time with my heart, sending little frissons of magic over my skin. It felt
too light to be effective against a hungry weregator, but it was more protection than I’d had a minute
ago.
“Ready?” Adam asked. “I can walk you to the edge.”
“No,” I said, shuddering. “I am definitely having another piece of pie before I go.”
“You sound like it’s your last meal,” he laughed.
I nodded. “Something like that—like the last meal of the condemned. Dead mermaid walking.”
He rolled his eyes. “Exaggerate much? I thought detectives were hard-boiled.”
“You’re not the one about to be literally ass-deep in alligators.”
“True,” he said with a heart-stopping grin. “And with that in mind, dessert is on me.”
 Chapter Nine

“I can’t believe I’m about to do this,” I whispered, mostly to myself.

Adam was right. Where had my tough-as-nails exterior gone?
Oh, right, I’d left it in New York, after Mike had tried to kill me in a fit of possessive rage. You
couldn’t afford to lug around steel balls when you picked up and moved as often as I did.
I’d faced down sasquatches, serial-killer werebears, and a particularly nasty wraith this year
alone. So why was this mission so nerve-racking? The werebear had the gators beat in size, weight,
and ferocity. Then again, there’d been only one bear, and I’d had the advantage once I took to the
water. I was smaller, which meant I was more maneuverable than a grizzly in my natural habitat. But
the gators would be just as comfortable in the water as I was. We could swim at roughly the same
speed, but they had a lot more teeth. And pointy teeth at that. Aside from the amulet, which felt as
useful as a piece of costume jewelry at the moment, I had only one weapon they couldn’t defend
against. My song. And as the debacle with Mike had proven, my song was just as likely to get me
killed in the long run.
“Stop being a sissy,” I chided myself as I tiptoed to the water’s edge. “It’s just a quick swim and
a few photos. Surveillance only. In a swamp full of gators and who knows what else. God, I must be
insane...”
And there went the pep talk. Oh, well. I’d have been more worried if I could hype myself into
swimming the length of the swamp without reservation. After all, sane people didn’t face down
monstrously large reptiles with smiles on their faces.
I took one last hopeless glance around me, praying someone would walk up and stop me from
going any further. But I’d chosen my spot too well. I was miles away from the Hollow proper, wading
through grass so tall, it tickled my ribs. If someone spotted the vibrant shade of my hair, it would
probably look like a thistle bloom.
Cattails swayed in a stiff breeze. Meanwhile, Chor was getting ready to recharge the lightning
well, which meant more unseasonable storms would soon be on the way. I definitely wanted to be in
the water when the lightning started. If a bolt struck, it would disperse quickly along the surface of the
swamp. If I stayed near the middle or bottom, I’d be fine.
I set the camera on the bank first, keeping an eye out for more gators, hoping for another excuse to
retreat. Other than the ripples caused by the wind, the water was heartlessly absent of movement. I
peeled the t-shirt off and set it on the ground next to the camera. The bra went next, followed by my
jeans and underwear. I could technically swim with a top on, but the sodden material made swimming
harder than it needed to be. Cloth snagged on branches and rocks, slowing me down, which could
actually put my life in jeopardy. I’d learned that the hard way in Lake Erie. Kelpies fought dirty, and
I’d sworn off clothing while swimming ever since. I’d kept my word, except for the emergency shift
in Alaska.
I scooted to the edge and dipped a cautious toe into the water. It was tepid and smelled brackish.
The hint of brine was a gut punch of nostalgia. I could survive just fine in freshwater, but salt water
would always have a special place in my heart. It smelled and tasted like home. Well, where home
used to be anyway. Nowadays, home was wherever I happened to be.
Daydreams don’t pay the bills, I reminded myself. Let’s get to the colony, take a few pictures,
and go home. If you’re lucky, there will still be pie left after dinner.
Typha’s blueberry pie was apparently more motivating than money because I found the will to
move, draping my waterproof camera around my neck, before sliding into the swamp. It was only
waist high at the bank, so I waded further out before shifting my tail. Moss and mud slid between my
human toes, squeezing free when my feet fused and became a strong, supple tail. I dragged in one last
lungful of unnecessary air and then plunged beneath the water, just as the first crack of thunder rolled
overhead.
Green.
Pond and river water always looked ghostly green when you lurked near the surface. Go deep
enough though, and it was black. Swamp water was just as disconcertingly verdant. I’d grown up in
an array of grays and blues. A visit to my ancestral home had been eye-searingly bright. This swamp
was just a smudged, monochrome landscape, with potential monsters lurking behind every sunken tree
trunk.
Something moved in my periphery, and I whipped around so fast, I gave myself a mild case of
whiplash. But by the time I stilled, the source was gone. It was probably just a fish. At least, I really,
really hoped that’s all it was.
I tucked the camera close to my body and set out at a leisurely pace. Every instinct I had was
screaming at me to move quickly, get to my destination, and get out. But moving quickly would be the
next best thing to suicide. Predators would be attracted to the panicked sound and motion, making me
an easy target. I was also more likely to brain myself on an unexpected obstacle and knock myself out
cold. That, in itself, wouldn’t kill me (I couldn’t drown), but it would make me an easy meal for any
large beastie that happened by.
So, I swam slowly, taking my sweet time, sinking into the feeling of being in the water again. It’d
been so long since I swam in anything deeper and cooler than bathwater. Now it was a simple, fierce
joy to stretch my tail, to engage the muscles in my upper body that were sorely lacking in my human
form. Life on land was limiting. Linear. Lackluster. The weight of gravity crushed me every damn day,
and I never allowed myself this escape. Not unless there were lives on the line.
A small laugh escaped me, winding toward the surface in a trail of ghostly green bubbles. I
couldn’t resist the urge to do a small flip, swishing my tail in a wide arc as I righted myself. It startled
a school of golden fish from the roots of a cypress, sending them darting like precious golden bullets
in every direction. Their scales were so bright, they were seared onto my retinas, leaving small
afterimages every time I blinked.
Fortuna Aurea. Better known by supernatural biologists as a genus of ‘lucky fish’. I was tempted
to follow their path, just to see if I could capture them. I hadn’t realized that Misty Hollow was home
to such a rare breed. They were one of the most unique forms of supernatural fish species and were
said to bring good fortune if kept as pets. They were incredibly hard to lure, though, and killing one
would bring a lifetime of ill fortune, which I desperately wanted to avoid. Either way, it was best not
to get sidetracked.
But even that resolution was difficult to follow. There was so much to look at. Nymphs who had
clearly broken off from whatever court they’d once hailed from now lived like feral demigoddesses,
carving out sections of the bayou for themselves. I steered clear of them, unsure what would happen if
I encroached on their territory. They couldn’t drown me, but they could hold me captive long enough
to feed me to a hungry gator or a seething mass of grindylows. Humanoids with scaly and green skin,
sharp claws and teeth and long, wiry arms, the grindylows were water beasts of nightmares. God
knew they’d figured prominently in mine.
There were a lot of those lurking in the shallows, waiting to lunge from the water and drag
unwary humans to their deaths. I couldn’t see any bloated corpses tangled in the weeds, but that didn’t
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the hour; and I supposed, from what the sentry told me, though I did
not count the strokes, that it was eleven o’clock. All the rooms in the
hotel were a blaze of light. The pavement before the door was
crowded, and some mounted men and the clattering of sabres on the
pavement led me to infer that the escort of the wounded officer had
arrived before me. I passed on to the livery-stables, where every one
was alive and stirring.
“I’m sure,” said the man, “I thought I’d never see you nor the horse
back again. The gig and the other gentleman has been back a long
time. How did he carry you?”
“Oh, pretty well; what’s his price?”
“Well, now that I look at him, and to you, it will be 100 dollars less
than I said. I’m in good heart to-night.”
“Why so? A number of your horses and carriages have not come
back yet, you tell me.”
“Oh, well, I’ll get paid for them some time or another. Oh, such
news! such news!” said he, rubbing his hands. “Twenty thousand of
them killed and wounded! May-be they’re not having fits in the White
House to-night!”
I walked to my lodgings, and just as I turned the key in the door a
flash of light made me pause for a moment, in expectation of the
report of a gun; for I could not help thinking it quite possible that,
somehow or another, the Confederate cavalry would try to beat up
the lines, but no sound followed. It must have been lightning. I
walked up-stairs, and saw a most welcome supper ready on the
table—an enormous piece of cheese, a sausage of unknown
components, a knuckle-bone of ham, and a bottle of a very light wine
of France; but I would not have exchanged that repast and have
waited half an hour for any banquet that Soyer or Careme could
have prepared at their best. Then, having pulled off my boots,
bathed my head, trimmed candles, and lighted a pipe, I sat down to
write. I made some feeble sentences, but the pen went flying about
the paper as if the spirits were playing tricks with it. When I screwed
up my utmost resolution, the “y’s” would still run into long streaks,
and the letters combine most curiously, and my eyes closed, and my
pen slipped, and just as I was aroused from a nap, and settled into a
stern determination to hold my pen straight, I was interrupted by a
messenger from Lord Lyons, to inquire whether I had returned, and if
so, to ask me to go up to the Legation, and get something to eat. I
explained, with my thanks, that I was quite safe, and had eaten
supper, and learned from the servant that Mr. Warre and his
companion had arrived about two hours previously. I resumed my
seat once more, haunted by the memory of the Boston mail, which
would be closed in a few hours, and I had much to tell, although I
had not seen the battle. Again and again I woke up, but at last the
greatest conqueror but death overcame me, and with my head on
the blotted paper, I fell fast asleep.
 C H A P T E R X V.

A runaway crowd at Washington—The army of the Potomac in retreat—Mail-

day—Want of order and authority—Newspaper lies—Alarm at
Washington—Confederate prisoners—General M‘Clellan—M. Mercier—
Effects of the defeat on Mr. Seward and the President—M‘Dowell—
General Patterson.

July 22nd.—I awoke from a deep sleep this morning, about six
o’clock. The rain was falling in torrents and beat with a dull, thudding
sound on the leads outside my window; but, louder than all, came a
strange sound, as if of the tread of men, a confused tramp and
splashing, and a murmuring of voices. I got up and ran to the front
room, the windows of which looked on the street, and there, to my
intense surprise, I saw a steady stream of men covered with mud,
soaked through with rain, who were pouring irregularly, without any
semblance of order, up Pennsylvania Avenue towards the Capitol. A
dense stream of vapour rose from the multitude; but looking closely
at the men, I perceived they belonged to different regiments, New
Yorkers, Michiganders, Rhode Islanders, Massachusetters,
Minnesotians, mingled pellmell together. Many of them were without
knapsacks, crossbelts, and firelocks. Some had neither great-coats
nor shoes, others were covered with blankets. Hastily putting on my
clothes, I ran down stairs and asked an “officer,” who was passing
by, a pale young man, who looked exhausted to death, and who had
lost his sword, for the empty sheath dangled at his side, where the
men were coming from. “Where from? Well, sir, I guess we’re all
coming out of Verginny as far as we can, and pretty well whipped
too.” “What! the whole army, sir?” “That’s more than I know. They
may stay that like. I know I’m going home. I’ve had enough of
fighting to last my lifetime.”
 The news seemed incredible. But there, before my eyes, were the
jaded, dispirited, broken remnants of regiments passing onwards,
where and for what I knew not, and it was evident enough that the
mass of the grand army of the Potomac was placing that river
between it and the enemy as rapidly as possible. “Is there any
pursuit?” I asked of several men. Some were too surly to reply;
others said, “They’re coming as fast as they can after us.” Others, “I
guess they’ve stopped it now—the rain is too much for them.” A few
said they did not know, and looked as if they did not care. And here
came one of these small crises in which a special correspondent
would give a good deal for the least portion of duality in mind or
body. A few sheets of blotted paper and writing materials lying on the
table beside the burnt-out candles, reminded me that the imperious
post-day was running on. “The mail for Europe, viâ Boston, closes at
one o’clock, Monday, July 22nd,” stuck up in large characters,
warned me I had not a moment to lose. I knew the event would be of
the utmost interest in England, and that it would be important to tell
the truth as far as I knew it, leaving the American papers to state
their own case, that the public might form their own conclusions.
But then, I felt, how interesting it would be to ride out and watch
the evacuation of the sacred soil of Virginia, to see what the enemy
were doing, to examine the situation of affairs, to hear what the men
said, and, above all, find out the cause of this retreat and headlong
confusion, investigate the extent of the Federal losses and the
condition of the wounded; in fact, to find materials for a dozen of
letters. I would fain, too, have seen General Scott, and heard his
opinions, and have visited the leading senators, to get a notion of the
way in which they looked on this catastrophe.—“I do perceive here a
divided duty.”—But the more I reflected on the matter the more
strongly I became convinced that it would not be advisable to
postpone the letter, and that the events of the 21st ought to have
precedence of those of the 22nd, and so I stuck up my usual notice
on the door outside of “Mr. Russell is out,” and resumed my letter.
Whilst the rain fell, the tramp of feet went steadily on. As I lifted my
eyes now and then from the paper, I saw the beaten, foot-sore,
spongy-looking soldiers, officers, and all the debris of the army filing
through mud and rain, and forming in crowds in front of the spirit
stores. Underneath my room is the magazine of Jost, negociant en
vins, and he drives a roaring trade this morning, interrupted
occasionally by loud disputes as to the score. When the lad came in
with my breakfast he seemed a degree or two lighter in colour than
usual. “What’s the matter with you?” “I ’spects, massa, the
Seceshers soon be in here. I’m a free nigger; I must go, sar, afore de
come cotch me.” It is rather pleasant to be neutral under such
circumstances.
I speedily satisfied myself I could not finish my letter in time for
post, and I therefore sent for my respectable Englishman to go direct
to Boston by the train which leaves this at four o’clock to-morrow
morning, so as to catch the mail steamer on Wednesday, and
telegraphed to the agents there to inform them of my intention of
doing so. Visitors came knocking at the door, and insisted on getting
in—military friends who wanted to give me their versions of the battle
—the attachés of legations and others who desired to hear the news
and have a little gossip; but I turned a deaf ear doorwards, and they
went off into the outer rain again.
More draggled, more muddy, and down-hearted, and foot-weary
and vapid, the great army of the Potomac still straggled by. Towards
evening I seized my hat and made off to the stable to inquire how the
poor horse was. There he stood, nearly as fresh as ever, a little
tucked up in the ribs, but eating heartily, and perfectly sound. A
change had come over Mr. Wroe’s dream of horseflesh. “They’ll be
going cheap now,” thought he, and so he said aloud, “If you’d like to
buy that horse, I’d let you have him a little under what I said. Dear!
dear! it must a’ been a sight sure-ly to see them Yankees running;
you can scarce get through the Avenue with them.”
And what Mr. W. says is quite true. The rain has abated a little,
and the pavements are densely packed with men in uniform, some
with, others without, arms, on whom the shopkeepers are looking
with evident alarm. They seem to be in possession of all the spirit-
houses. Now and then shots are heard down the street or in the
distance, and cries and shouting, as if a scuffle or a difficulty were
occurring. Willard’s is turned into a barrack for officers, and presents
such a scene in the hall as could only be witnessed in a city
occupied by a demoralised army. There is no provost guard, no
patrol, no authority visible in the streets. General Scott is quite
overwhelmed by the affair, and is unable to stir. General M‘Dowell
has not yet arrived. The Secretary of War knows not what to do, Mr.
Lincoln is equally helpless, and Mr. Seward, who retains some
calmness, is, notwithstanding his military rank and militia experience,
without resource or expedient. There are a good many troops
hanging on about the camps and forts on the other side of the river, it
is said; but they are thoroughly disorganised, and will run away if the
enemy comes in sight without a shot, and then the capital must fall at
once. Why Beauregard does not come I know not, nor can I well
guess. I have been expecting every hour since noon to hear his
cannon. Here is a golden opportunity. If the Confederates do not
grasp that which will never come again on such terms, it stamps
them with mediocrity.
The morning papers are quite ignorant of the defeat, or affect to be
unaware of it, and declare yesterday’s battle to have been in favour
of the Federals generally, the least arrogant stating that M‘Dowell will
resume his march from Centreville immediately. The evening papers,
however, seem to be more sensible of the real nature of the crisis: it
is scarcely within the reach of any amount of impertinence or
audacious assertion to deny what is passing before their very eyes.
The grand army of the Potomac is in the streets of Washington,
instead of being on its way to Richmond. One paper contains a
statement which would make me uneasy about myself if I had any
confidence in these stories, for it is asserted “that Mr. Russell was
last seen in the thick of the fight, and has not yet returned. Fears are
entertained for his safety.”
Towards dark the rain moderated and the noise in the streets
waxed louder; all kinds of rumours respecting the advance of the
enemy, the annihilation of Federal regiments, the tremendous losses
on both sides, charges of cavalry, stormings of great intrenchments
and stupendous masked batteries, and elaborate reports of
unparalleled feats of personal valour, were circulated under the
genial influence of excitement, and by the quantities of alcohol
necessary to keep out the influence of the external moisture. I did
not hear one expression of confidence, or see one cheerful face in
all that vast crowd which but a few days before constituted an army,
and was now nothing better than a semi-armed mob. I could see no
cannon returning, and to my inquiries after them, I got generally the
answer, “I suppose the Seceshers have got hold of them.”
Whilst I was at table several gentlemen who have entrée called on
me, who confirmed my impressions respecting the magnitude of the
disaster that is so rapidly developing its proportions. They agree in
describing the army as disorganised. Washington is rendered almost
untenable, in consequence of the conduct of the army, which was
not only to have defended it, but to have captured the rival capital.
Some of my visitors declared it was dangerous to move abroad in
the streets. Many think the contest is now over; but the gentlemen of
Washington have Southern sympathies, and I, on the contrary, am
persuaded this prick in the great Northern balloon will let out a
quantity of poisonous gas, and rouse the people to a sense of the
nature of the conflict on which they have entered. The inmates of the
White House are in a state of the utmost trepidation, and Mr. Lincoln,
who sat in the telegraph operator’s room with General Scott and Mr.
Seward, listening to the dispatches as they arrived from the scene of
action, left it in despair when the fatal words tripped from the needle
and the defeat was clearly revealed to him.
Having finally cleared my room of visitors and locked the door, I
sat down once more to my desk, and continued my narrative. The
night wore on, and the tumult still reigned in the city. Once, indeed, if
not twice, my attention was aroused by sounds like distant cannon
and outbursts of musketry, but on reflection I was satisfied the
Confederate general would never be rash enough to attack the place
by night, and that, after all the rain which had fallen, he in all
probability would give horses and men a day’s rest, marching them
through the night, so as to appear before the city in the course of to-
morrow. Again and again I was interrupted by soldiers clamouring for
drink and for money, attracted by the light in my windows; one or two
irrepressible and irresistible friends actually succeeded in making
their way into my room—just as on the night when I was engaged in
writing an account of the last attack on the Redan my hut was
stormed by visitors, and much of my letter was penned under the
apprehension of a sharp pair of spurs fixed in the heels of a jolly little
adjutant, who, overcome by fatigue and rum-and-water, fell asleep in
my chair, with his legs cocked up on my writing-table—but I saw the
last of them about midnight, and so continued writing till the morning
light began to steal through the casement. Then came the trusty
messenger, and, at 3 a.m., when I had handed him the parcel and
looked round to see all my things were in readiness, lest a rapid
toilet might be necessary in the morning, with a sigh of relief I
plunged into bed, and slept.
July 23rd.—The morning was far advanced when I awoke, and
hearing the roll of waggons in the street, I at first imagined the
Federals were actually about to abandon Washington itself; but on
going to the window, I perceived it arose from an irregular train of
commissariat carts, country waggons, ambulances, and sutlers’
vans, in the centre of the street, the paths being crowded as before
with soldiers, or rather with men in uniform, many of whom seemed
as if they had been rolling in the mud. Poor General Mansfield was
running back and forwards between his quarters and the War
Department, and in the afternoon some efforts were made to restore
order, by appointing rendezvous to which the fragment of regiments
should repair, and by organising mounted patrols to clear the streets.
In the middle of the day I went out through the streets, and walked
down to the long bridge with the intention of crossing, but it was
literally blocked up from end to end with a mass of waggons and
ambulances full of wounded men, whose cries of pain echoed above
the shouts of the drivers, so that I abandoned the attempt to get
across, which, indeed, would not have been easy with any comfort,
owing to the depth of mud in the roads. To-day the aspect of
Washington is more unseemly and disgraceful, if that were possible,
than yesterday afternoon.
As I returned towards my lodgings a scene of greater disorder and
violence than usual attracted my attention. A body of Confederate
prisoners, marching two and two, were with difficulty saved by their
guard from the murderous assaults of a hooting rabble, composed of
civilians and men dressed like soldiers, who hurled all kinds of
missiles they could lay their hands upon over the heads of the guard
at their victims, spattering them with mud and filthy language. It was
very gratifying to see the way in which the dastardly mob dispersed
at the appearance of a squad of mounted men, who charged them
boldly, and escorted the prisoners to General Mansfield. They
consisted of a picket or grand guard, which, unaware of the retreat of
their regiment from Fairfax, marched into the Federal lines before the
battle. Their just indignation was audible enough. One of them,
afterwards, told General M‘Dowell, who hurried over as soon as he
was made aware of the disgraceful outrages to which they had been
exposed, “I would have died a hundred deaths before I fell into these
wretches’ hands, if I had known this. Set me free for five minutes,
and let any two, or four, of them insult me when my hands are
loose.”
Soon afterwards a report flew about that a crowd of soldiers were
hanging a Secessionist. A senator rushed to General M‘Dowell, and
told him that he had seen the man swinging with his own eyes. Off
went the General, ventre à terre, and was considerably relieved by
finding that they were hanging merely a dummy or effigy of Jeff.
Davis, not having succeeded in getting at the original yesterday.
Poor M‘Dowell has been swiftly punished for his defeat, or rather
for the unhappy termination to his advance. As soon as the disaster
was ascertained beyond doubt, the President telegraphed to General
M‘Clellan to come and take command of his army. It is a
commentary full of instruction on the military system of the
Americans, that they have not a soldier who has ever handled a
brigade in the field fit for service in the North.
The new commander-in-chief is a brevet-major who has been in
civil employ on a railway for several years. He went once, with two
other West Point officers, commissioned by Mr. Jefferson Davis, then
Secretary of War, to examine and report on the operations in the
Crimea, who were judiciously despatched when the war was over,
and I used to see him and his companions poking about the ruins of
the deserted trenches and batteries, mounted on horses furnished
by the courtesy of British officers, just as they lived in English
quarters, when they were snubbed and refused an audience by the
Duke of Malakhoff in the French camp. Major M‘Clellan forgot the
affront, did not even mention it, and showed his Christian spirit by
praising the allies, and damning John Bull with very faint applause,
seasoned with lofty censure. He was very young, however, at the
time, and is so well spoken of that his appointment will be popular;
but all that he has done to gain such reputation and to earn the
confidence of the government, is to have had some skirmishes with
bands of Confederates in Western Virginia, in which the leader,
Garnett, was killed, his “forces” routed, and finally, to the number of a
thousand, obliged to surrender as prisoners of war. That success,
however, at such a time is quite enough to elevate any man to the
highest command. M‘Clellan is about thirty-six years of age, was
educated at West Point, where he was junior to M‘Dowell, and a
class-fellow of Beauregard.
I dined with M. Mercier, the French minister, who has a prettily
situated house on the heights of Georgetown, about a mile and a-
half from the city. Lord Lyons, Mr. Monson, his private secretary, M.
Baroche, son of the French minister, who has been exploiting the
Southern states, were the only additions to the family circle. The
minister is a man in the prime of life, of more than moderate ability,
with a rapid manner and quickness of apprehension. Ever since I
first met M. Mercier he has expressed his conviction that the North
never can succeed in conquering the South, or even restoring the
Union, and that an attempt to do either by armed force must end in
disaster. He is the more confirmed in his opinions by the result of
Sunday’s battle, but the inactivity of the Confederates gives rise to
the belief that they suffered seriously in the affair. M. Baroche has
arrived at the conviction, without reference to the fate of the Federals
in their march to Richmond, that the Union is utterly gone—as dead
as the Achaian league.
Whilst Madame Mercier and her friends are conversing on much
more agreeable subjects, the men hold a tobacco council under the
shade of the magnificent trees, and France, Russia, and minor
powers talk politics, Lord Lyons alone not joining in the nicotian
controversy. Beneath us flowed the Potomac, and on the wooded
heights at the other side, the Federal flag rose over Fort Corcoran
and Arlington House, from which the grand army had set forth a few
days ago to crush rebellion and destroy its chiefs. There, sad,
anxious, and despairing, Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Seward were at that
very moment passing through the wreck of the army, which, silent as
ruin itself, took no notice of their presence.
It had been rumoured that the Confederates were advancing, and
the President and the Foreign Minister set out in a carriage to see
with their own eyes the state of the troops. What they beheld filled
them with despair. The plateau was covered with the men of different
regiments, driven by the patrols out of the city, or arrested in their
flight at the bridges. In Fort Corcoran the men were in utter disorder,
threatening to murder the officer of regulars who was essaying to get
them into some state of efficiency to meet the advancing enemy. He
had menaced one of the officers of the 69th with death for flat
disobedience to orders; the men had taken the part of their captain;
and the President drove into the work just in time to witness the
confusion. The soldiers with loud cries demanded that the officer
should be punished, and the President asked him why he had used
such violent language towards his subordinate. “I told him, Mr.
President, that if he refused to obey my orders I would shoot him on
the spot; and I here repeat it, sir, that if I remain in command here,
and he or any other man refuses to obey my orders, I’ll shoot him on
the spot.”
The firmness of Sherman’s language and demeanour in presence
of the chief of the State overawed the mutineers, and they
proceeded to put the work in some kind of order to resist the enemy.
Mr. Seward was deeply impressed by the scene, and retired with
the President to consult as to the best course to pursue, in some
dejection, but they were rather comforted by the telegrams from all
parts of the North, which proved that, though disappointed and
surprised, the people were not disheartened or ready to relinquish
the contest.
The accounts of the battle in the principal journals are curiously
inaccurate and absurd. The writers have now recovered themselves.
At first they yielded to the pressure of facts and to the accounts of
their correspondents. They admitted the repulse, the losses, the
disastrous retreat, the loss of guns, in strange contrast to their
prophecies and wondrous hyperboles about the hyperbolic grand
army. Now they set themselves to stem the current they have made.
Let any one read the New York journals for the last week, if he
wishes to frame an indictment against such journalism as the people
delight to honour in America.
July 24th.—I rode out before breakfast in company with Mr.
Monson across the Long Bridge over to Arlington House. General
M‘Dowell was seated at a table under a tree in front of his tent, and
got out his plans and maps to explain the scheme of battle.
Cast down from his high estate, placed as a subordinate to his
junior, covered with obloquy and abuse, the American General
displayed a calm self-possession and perfect amiability which could
only proceed from a philosophic temperament and a consciousness
that he would outlive the calumnies of his countrymen. He accused
nobody; but it was not difficult to perceive he had been sacrificed to
the vanity, self-seeking, and disobedience of some of his officers,
and to radical vices in the composition of his army.
When M‘Dowell found he could not turn the enemy’s right as he
intended, because the country by the Occoquan was unfit for the
movements of artillery, or even infantry, he reconnoitred the ground
towards their left, and formed the project of turning it by a movement
which would bring the weight of his columns on their extreme left,
and at the same time overlap it, whilst a strong demonstration was
made on the ford at Bull’s Run, where General Tyler brought on the
serious skirmish of the 18th. In order to carry out this plan, he had to
debouch his columns from a narrow point at Centreville, and march
them round by various roads to points on the upper part of the Run,
where it was fordable in all directions, intending to turn the enemy’s
batteries on the lower roads and bridges. But although he started
them at an early hour, the troops moved so slowly the Confederates
became aware of their design, and were enabled to concentrate
considerable masses of troops on their left.
 The Federals were not only slow, but disorderly. The regiments in
advance stopped at streams to drink and fill their canteens, delaying
the regiments in the rear. They wasted their provisions, so that many
of them were without food at noon, when they were exhausted by the
heat of the sun and by the stifling vapours of their own dense
columns. When they at last came into action some divisions were not
in their places, so that the line of battle was broken; and those which
were in their proper position were exposed, without support, to the
enemy’s fire. A delusion of masked batteries pressed on their brain.
To this was soon added a hallucination about cavalry, which might
have been cured had the Federals possessed a few steady
squadrons to manœuvre on their flanks and in the intervals of their
line. Nevertheless, they advanced and encountered the enemy’s fire
with some spirit; but the Confederates were enabled to move up
fresh battalions, and to a certain extent to establish an equality
between the numbers of their own troops and the assailants, whilst
they had the advantages of better cover and ground. An apparition of
a disorderly crowd of horsemen in front of the much-boasting Fire
Zouaves of New York threw them into confusion and flight, and a
battery which they ought to have protected was taken. Another
battery was captured by the mistake of an officer, who allowed a
Confederate regiment to approach the guns, thinking they were
Federal troops, till their first volley destroyed both horses and
gunners. At the critical moment, General Johnston, who had
escaped from the feeble observation and untenacious grip of
General Patterson and his time-expired volunteers, and had been
hurrying down his troops from Winchester by train, threw his fresh
battalions on the flank and rear of the Federal right. When the
General ordered a retreat, rendered necessary by the failure of the
attack—disorder spread, which increased—the retreat became a
flight which degenerated—if a flight can degenerate—into a panic,
the moment the Confederates pressed them with a few cavalry and
horse artillery. The efforts of the Generals to restore order and
confidence were futile. Fortunately a weak reserve was posted at
Centreville, and these were formed in line on the slope of the hill,
whilst M‘Dowell and his officers exerted themselves with indifferent
success to arrest the mass of the army, and make them draw up
behind the reserve, telling the men a bold front was their sole chance
of safety. At midnight it became evident the morale of the army was
destroyed, and nothing was left but a speedy retrograde movement,
with the few regiments and guns which were in a condition
approaching to efficiency, upon the defensive works of Washington.
Notwithstanding the reverse of fortune, M‘Dowell did not appear
willing to admit his estimate of the Southern troops was erroneous,
or to say “Change armies, and I’ll fight the battle over again.” He still
held Mississippians, Alabamians, Louisianians, very cheap, and did
not see, or would not confess, the full extent of the calamity which
had fallen so heavily on him personally. The fact of the evening’s
inactivity was conclusive in his mind that they had a dearly bought
success, and he looked forward, though in a subordinate capacity, to
a speedy and glorious revenge.
July 25th.—The unfortunate General Patterson, who could not
keep Johnston from getting away from Winchester, is to be
dismissed the service—honourably, of course—that is, he is to be
punished because his men would insist on going home in face of the
enemy, as soon as their three months were up, and that time
happened to arrive just as it would be desirable to operate against
the Confederates. The latter have lost their chance. The Senate, the
House of Representatives, the Cabinet, the President, are all at their
ease once more, and feel secure in Washington. Up to this moment
the Confederates could have taken it with very little trouble.
Maryland could have been roused to arms, and Baltimore would
have declared for them. The triumph of the non-aggressionists, at
the head of whom is Mr. Davis, in resisting the demands of the party
which urges an actual invasion of the North as the best way of
obtaining peace, may prove to be very disastrous. Final material
results must have justified the occupation of Washington.
I dined at the Legation, where were Mr. Sumner and some English
visitors desirous of going South. Lord Lyons gives no
encouragement to these adventurous persons.
July 26th.—Whether it is from curiosity to hear what I have to say
or not, the number of my visitors is augmenting. Among them was a
man in soldier’s uniform, who sauntered into my room to borrow “five
or ten dollars,” on the ground that he was a waiter at the Clarendon
Hotel when I was stopping there, and wanted to go North, as his time
was up. His anecdotes were stupendous. General Meigs and
Captain Macomb, of the United States Engineers, paid me a visit,
and talked of the disaster very sensibly. The former is an able officer,
and an accomplished man—the latter, son, I believe, of the American
general of that name, distinguished in the war with Great Britain. I
had a long conversation with General M‘Dowell, who bears his
supercession with admirable fortitude, and complains of nothing,
except the failure of his officers to obey orders, and the hard fate
which condemned him to lead an army of volunteers—Captain
Wright, aide-de-camp to General Scott, Lieutenant Wise, of the
Navy, and many others. The communications received from the
Northern States have restored the spirits of all Union men, and not a
few declare they are glad of the reverse, as the North will now be
obliged to put forth all its strength.
 CHAPTER XVI.

Attack of Illness—General M‘Clellan—Reception at the White House—

Drunkenness among the Volunteers—Visit from Mr. Olmsted—
Georgetown—Intense Heat—M‘Clellan and the Newspapers—Reception
at Mr. Seward’s—Alexandria—A Storm—Sudden Death of an English
Officer—The Maryland Club—A Prayer and Fast Day—Financial
Difficulties.

July 27th.—So ill to-day from heat, bad smells in the house, and
fatigue, that I sent for Dr. Miller, a great, fine Virginian practitioner,
who ordered me powders to be taken in “mint juleps.” Now mint
juleps are made of whiskey, sugar, ice, very little water, and sprigs of
fresh mint, to be sucked up after the manner of sherry cobblers, if so
it be pleased, with a straw.
“A powder every two hours, with a mint julep. Why, that’s six a day,
Doctor. Won’t that be—eh?—won’t that be rather intoxicating?”
“Well, sir, that depends on the constitution. You’ll find they will do
you no harm, even if the worst takes place.”
Day after day, till the month was over and August had come, I
passed in a state of powder and julep, which the Virginian doctor
declared saved my life. The first time I stirred out the change which
had taken place in the streets was at once apparent: no drunken
rabblement of armed men, no begging soldiers—instead of these
were patrols in the streets, guards at the corners, and a rigid system
of passes. The North begin to perceive their magnificent armies are
mythical, but knowing they have the elements of making one, they
are setting about the manufacture. Numbers of tapsters and serving
men, and canaille from the cities, who now disgrace swords and
shoulder-straps, are to be dismissed. Round the corner, with a kind
of staff at his heels and an escort, comes Major General George B.
M‘Clellan, the young Napoleon (of Western Virginia), the conqueror
of Garnet, the captor of Peagrim, the commander-in-chief, under the
President, of the army of the United States. He is a very squarely-
built, thick-throated, broad-chested man, under the middle height,
with slightly bowed legs, a tendency to embonpoint. His head,
covered with a closely cut crop of dark auburn hair, is well set on his
shoulders. His features are regular and prepossessing—the brow
small, contracted, and furrowed; the eyes deep and anxious-looking.
A short, thick, reddish moustache conceals his mouth; the rest of his
face is clean shaven. He has made his father-in-law, Major Marcy,
chief of his staff, and is a good deal influenced by his opinions, which
are entitled to some weight, as Major Marcy is a soldier, and has
seen frontier wars, and is a great traveller. The task of licking this
army into shape is of Herculean magnitude. Every one, however, is
willing to do as he bids: the President confides in him, and “Georges”
him; the press fawn upon him, the people trust him; he is “the little
corporal” of unfought fields—omnis ignotus pro mirifico, here. He
looks like a stout little captain of dragoons, but for his American seat
and saddle. The latter is adapted to a man who cannot ride: if a
squadron so mounted were to attempt a fence or ditch half of them
would be ruptured or spilled. The seat is a marvel to any European.
But M‘Clellan is nevertheless “the man on horseback” just now, and
the Americans must ride in his saddle, or in anything he likes.
In the evening of my first day’s release from juleps the President
held a reception or levée, and I went to the White House about nine
o’clock, when the rooms were at their fullest. The company were
arriving on foot, or crammed in hackney coaches, and did not affect
any neatness of attire or evening dress. The doors were open: any
one could walk in who chose. Private soldiers, in hodden grey and
hob-nailed shoes, stood timorously chewing on the threshold of the
state apartments, alarmed at the lights and gilding, or, haply, by the
marabout feathers and finery of a few ladies who were in ball
costume, till, assured by fellow-citizens there was nothing to fear,
they plunged into the dreadful revelry. Faces familiar to me in the
magazines of the town were visible in the crowd which filled the
reception-rooms and the ballroom, in a small room off which a
military band was stationed.
 The President, in a suit of black, stood near the door of one of the
rooms near the hall, and shook hands with every one of the crowd,
who was then “passed” on by his secretary, if the President didn’t
wish to speak to him. Mr. Lincoln has recovered his spirits, and
seemed in good humour. Mrs. Lincoln, who did the honours in
another room, surrounded by a few ladies, did not appear to be quite
so contented. All the ministers are present except Mr. Seward, who
has gone to his own state to ascertain the frame of mind of the
people, and to judge for himself of the sentiments they entertain
respecting the war. After walking up and down the hot and crowded
rooms for an hour, and seeing and speaking to all the celebrities, I
withdrew. Colonel Richardson in his official report states Colonel
Miles lost the battle of Bull Run by being drunk and disorderly at a
critical moment. Colonel Miles, who commanded a division of three
brigades, writes to say he was not in any such state, and has
demanded a court of inquiry. In a Philadelphia paper it is stated
M‘Dowell was helplessly drunk during the action, and sat up all the
night before drinking, smoking, and playing cards. M‘Dowell never
drinks, and never has drunk, wine, spirits, malt, tea, or coffee, or
smoked or used tobacco in any form, nor does he play cards; and
that remark does not apply to many other Federal officers.
Drunkenness is only too common among the American volunteers,
and General Butler has put it officially in orders, that “the use of
intoxicating liquors prevails to an alarming extent among the officers
of his command,” and has ordered the seizure of their grog, which
will only be allowed on medical certificate. He announces, too, that
he will not use wine or spirits, or give any to his friends, or allow any
in his own quarters in future—a quaint, vigorous creature, this
Massachusetts lawyer.
The outcry against Patterson has not yet subsided, though he
states that, out of twenty-three regiments composing his force,
nineteen refused to stay an hour over their time, which would have
been up in a week, so that he would have been left in an enemy’s
country with four regiments. He wisely led his patriot band back, and
let them disband themselves in their own borders. Verily, these are
not the men to conquer the South.
 Fresh volunteers are pouring in by tens of thousands to take their
places from all parts of the Union, and in three days after the battle,
80,000 men were accepted. Strange people! The regiments which
have returned to New York after disgraceful conduct at Bull Run, with
the stigmata of cowardice impressed by their commanding officers
on the colours and souls of their corps, are actually welcomed with
the utmost enthusiasm, and receive popular ovations! It becomes
obvious every day that M‘Clellan does not intend to advance till he
has got some semblance of an army: that will be a long time to
come; but he can get a good deal of fighting out of them in a few
months. Meantime the whole of the Northern states are waiting
anxiously for the advance which is to take place at once, according
to promises from New York. As Washington is the principal scene of
interest, the South being tabooed to me, I have resolved to stay here
till the army is fit to move, making little excursions to points of
interest. The details in my diary are not very interesting, and I shall
make but brief extracts.
August 2nd.—Mr. Olmsted visited me, in company with a young
gentleman named Ritchie, son-in-law of James Wadsworth, who has
been serving as honorary aide-de-camp on M‘Dowell’s staff, but is
now called to higher functions. They dined at my lodgings, and we
talked over Bull Run again. Mr. Ritchie did not leave Centreville till
late in the evening, and slept at Fairfax Court House, where he
remained till 8.30 a.m. on the morning of July 22nd, Wadsworth not
stirring for two hours later. He said the panic was “horrible,
disgusting, sickening,” and spoke in the harshest terms of the
officers, to whom he applied a variety of epithets. Prince Napoleon
has arrived.
August 3rd.—M‘Clellan orders regular parades and drills in every
regiment, and insists on all orders being given by bugle note. I had a
long ride through the camps, and saw some improvement in the look
of the men. Coming home by Georgetown, met the Prince driving
with M. Mercier, to pay a visit to the President. I am sure that the
politicians are not quite well pleased with this arrival, because they
do not understand it, and cannot imagine a man would come so far
without a purpose. The drunken soldiers now resort to quiet lanes
and courts in the suburbs. Georgetown was full of them. It is a much
more respectable and old-world looking place than its vulgar, empty,
overgrown, mushroom neighbour, Washington. An officer who had
fallen in his men to go on duty was walking down the line this
evening when his eye rested on the neck of a bottle sticking out of a
man’s coat. “Thunder,” quoth he, “James, what have you got there?”
“Well, I guess, captain, it’s a drop of real good Bourbon.” “Then let us
have a drink,” said the captain; and thereupon proceeded to take a
long pull and a strong pull, till the man cried out, “That is not fair,
Captain. You won’t leave me a drop”—a remonstrance which had a
proper effect, and the captain marched down his company to the
bridge.
It was extremely hot when I returned, late in the evening. I asked
the boy for a glass of iced water. “Dere is no ice, massa,” he said.
“No ice? What’s the reason of that?” “De Sechessers, massa, block
up de river, and touch off deir guns at de ice-boats.” The
Confederates on the right bank of the Potomac have now
established a close blockade of the river. Lieutenant Wise, of the
Navy Department, admitted the fact, but said that the United States
gunboats would soon sweep the rebels from the shore.
August 4th.—I had no idea that the sun could be powerful in
Washington; even in India the heat is not much more oppressive
than it was here to-day. There is this extenuating circumstance,
however, that after some hours of such very high temperature,
thunder-storms and tornadoes cool the air. I received a message
from General M‘Clellan, that he was about to ride along the lines of
the army across the river, and would be happy if I accompanied him;
but as I had many letters to write for the next mail, I was unwillingly
obliged to abandon the chance of seeing the army under such
favourable circumstances. There are daily arrivals at Washington of
military adventurers from all parts of the world, some of them with
many extraordinary certificates and qualifications; but, as Mr. Seward
says, “It is best to detain them with the hope of employment on the
Northern side, lest some really good man should get among the
rebels.” Garibaldians, Hungarians, Poles, officers of Turkish and
other contingents, the executory devises and remainders of