No Port in a Storm: Legends & Legacies, #2

No Port in a Storm

Legends & Legacies Book Two

Cal Black

Bearberry Studio

Published by Bearberry Studio 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Cal Black

Cover by ebookslaunch.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distributed it by any other means without permission.

This Novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

First edition

Contents

Dedication

Foreword

The Story So Far

Also By

1. Rattling Cages

2. Retribution

3. Long Lost, Now Found

4. Banking on Business

5. Lost Summers

6. Opportunity Knocks

7. Like a Cat in Boots

8. Unwanted Attention

9. Missteps and Memories

10. Rousseau Means Red

11. A Bitter Aftertaste

12. Where you belong

13. Mildred Argent

14. Goodbyes

15. Time to Go (Home)

16. St-Makir’s Rest

17. Long Man River

18. Marigot

19. The Viper’s Nest

20. Where the Heart Is

21. Homefront

22. The Only Just War

23. The Truth

24. Discipline

25. A Soul’s Cycle

26. In Strange Company

27. Handprints

28. Family Reunion

29. Blood Alchemy

30. Rousseau House

31. Ferryman’s Pilgrimage

32. Butchered

33. Old Money, Older Power

34. Numbers Never Lie

35. The Family Legacy

36. The Shadow

37. Reclamations

38. The Fog of War

39. Penance Paid

40. A Tainted Legacy

41. Face to Face

42. Sinking Hopes

43. A Born Killer

44. Storm Surge

45. The Butchers of the Bayou

46. Festered Wounds

47. Bones of Sugarcane

48. Blood in the Water

49. Stormy Water

50. The Eye of the Storm

51. Friends, Family, Freedom

52. Partners

Acknowledgments

For Mia, who’s been there through the dark days and the bright.

For Mom, who’s been there for all of it.

For the fellow survivors, who have wondered ‘why me?’ when better people are gone.

Foreword

While there are obvious parallels and inspiration taken from our world, it’s important to note that the world presented in Legends & Legacies is intentionally more optimistic than our history. The portrayal of slavery within this book is far kinder than the reality many slaves faced in Caribbean and American plantations. I strongly recommend learning about the San Domingue uprising and the conditions that lead to it, to better understand the inhumane treatment so many people suffered. We must face the dark truths of our collective history if we are to learn from them.

Please note this book mentions slavery, abuse, torture, war, survivor’s guilt, generational trauma, and (fantastical) racism. A full list of content warnings can be found at Bearberrystudio.com.

The Story So Far

Mildred Berry and her friend Ryan Collins rob a train for much-needed ammunition to keep their town safe and fed, however their plan goes to hell when a dragon attacks the locomotive and derails the train. Millie notices the ammunition crates belong to Frederic Rousseau, war hero of the Amelior Union.

Isaiah Willard, the youngest brother of the Willard gang, stumbles on the women and tries to rob them of the cargo. To keep the robbery secret, Millie kills him. The eldest Willard, Jeb, finds Isaiah’s body and vows revenge.

Gilbert Goldman is a banker who handles Frederic Rousseau’s finances (which are mostly debts). When the train disappears, Rousseau demands Gilbert pay out the insurance claim or find the cargo. Hiring his longtime friend, Detective Hal Stratton, Gilbert sets out to investigate the crash.

His arrival in Scorched Bluffs is met with hostility, but Millie agrees to bring the men to the wreck site where she plans to eliminate them. A storm blows in, trapping Gil, Hal and Millie in the train’s wreckage. Millie discovers Rousseau sent them, and believes it is for her, as she knows a secret about Rousseau that would ruin his life.

The dragon returns, seeking shelter from the storm. Millie distracts it long enough for the three to make an escape, only for Gilbert to get shot by one of the Willards who has been hired to kill him and Hal. Millie pretends to kill the city men to get the Willards to leave. While recovering from their wounds, she tells Hal and Gilbert the secret about Rousseau: she served under him during the civil war, and won the decisive victory at Marigot city. Rousseau took credit for the battle and kept Millie prisoner for years until he sent her to kill a family to settle his debts. Instead of killing anyone, Millie saves her target, revealing that Sheriff Ryan is actually the lone survivor of the Colfield family, the owners of the rail company they stole from.

Gilbert correctly guesses that Millie is the so-called ‘Bayou Butcher’, the story spun by Frederic to cover up the sacrifice. Millie admits as much, finally accepting that she can’t keep hiding from her past. The man who hired the Willards to kill Gilbert is revealed to be Rousseau himself, and the moment he hears about a ghostly elf, he plans to attack Millie’s town and eliminate any witnesses.

Millie prepares for the battle, only to get blindsided by Gilbert, who proposes a marriage to protect their daughters. Whoever survives protects the other’s family. Millie agrees, and the two are married by the local medicine woman.

The sound of gunfire and smoke from the shootout attracts the dragon. In the chaos, Fred spots Gilbert and shoots him in the hip before fleeing. Millie and her friends kill the dragon, but are too late to catch Fred. Ryan calls in a favour with her family’s company, and an express train takes them to the city.

Rousseau has taken Gilbert’s father and daughter hostage, expecting Gilbert to be the one who followed him. Millie, keeping her promise to the banker, surrenders to Fred in exchange for the release of the Goldman family. In a confrontation with Rousseau, Millie disarms him and escapes with the Goldmans. Millie lets Rousseau live so he can be held accountable. Ryan (Rhiannon) takes her family home back from her uncle, who had hired Rousseau to kill her family. Gilbert returns from Scorched Bluffs with Millie’s daughters, and a still-healing injury that has left him with a permanent limp.

Also By

Legends & Legacies

No Land for Heroes

No Port in a Storm

No Legend Lives Forever (2024)

A storm is brewin’ down in the bayou,

Rattlin’ these bones of sugar cane.

Yes, a storm is brewin’ down in the bayou,

A storm of fire, and long held pain.

The war drums are ready, fires are lit,

We’re fightin’ for our tomorrows,

A pound for flesh, but two for blood,

We gonna paint those masters scarlet,

Let ‘em weep and wail their sorrows,

Drownin’ in that black bayou mud.

Oh, a storm is brewin’ down in the bayou,

Our voices thunder, tears as rain,

Yes, a storm is brewin’ down in the bayou,

Won’t stop till we break these chains.

— Marigot Folk Song

1

Rattling Cages

Millie

In the dead hours of the night, Wyndford was as quiet as it ever got. The yowl of a street cat clashed with the clatter of cartwheels on cobbles, making the ghostly elf perched on the roof of a tenement building wince. Mildred Berry flicked her ears to shake out the sharpness of the noise and turned her focus back to the building next to her.

The Wyndford City Jail was built out of the same granite as the rest of the city, a four-storey block of a building in the centre of the city. It had a steady business for the first hour she’d watched, drunk after drunk was escorted through its doors. Some went quietly, others singing or shouting. A fog rolled in off the lake during the second hour, muffling the sharp edges of the city. A lucky break for her. The fog would help to obscure her in an already dark night: a few of the officers she had were elven, and their eyes could see in the darkness just as clearly as her own.

A narrow alleyway separated the roof of the jail from Millie’s perch, littered with trash and squabbling rats. Once upon a time, Millie wouldn’t have hesitated at the distance. She’d have leapt across it with the confidence that only came with young joints and the sense of invulnerability that got people killed. Instead, tonight she had a length of sturdy rope in hand and a plan.

Rising to her feet, Millie spun the loop of rope a few times to build momentum and released it, sending the lasso across the empty space and hooking it onto one of the jail’s chimneys. Pulling the rope taut, she tied off her end onto one chimney on the tenement. She’d checked it over for any weakness, but the grout of the brick was sturdy and the bricks whole. It might not hold a full-grown human man, but a petite elf? Not a problem.

Pulling her newsboy cap low to cover her hair, Millie climbed onto the rope, arms held out to either side to keep her balanced. Her moccasins’ thin soles let her feel the hemp rope as though she were barefoot. Millie tested her weight on the rope, and while she felt it sag slightly under her, it held. Carefully and quickly, she put one foot in front of the other until she reached the jail’s rooftop. She crouched once she’d made it, ears perked for any sounds of commotion.

Somewhere in the jail, a drunk man was singing, his voice faint and surprisingly on key. Millie raised her eyebrows as she realised he was singing an old Union marching song, something she hadn’t heard since the war. Either that was a good sign, or it meant exactly nothing.

Creeping across the roof, Millie found the trapdoor that led down into the jail’s interior. She made out the runes and sigils of an alarm, and a magical lock, but there didn’t seem to be a mechanical one. Then again, most jails were built to be difficult to break out of, not to break into.

She placed the flat of her hand on the runes and watched the faint glimmer of magic die. Most of the time, the way magic reacted around Millie made life difficult, so she was happy to use the strange effect to her advantage whenever she could. Lifting the trapdoor carefully, Millie heard the clink of a hook and eye latch. Pulling out a small knife, she slid it along the crack between the trapdoor and its frame until she caught the hook. With a little wiggle, she freed it from the loop of metal that had held the trapdoor in place.

Opening the trapdoor just enough to peer inside, Millie took stock of the situation. There was a ladder that led down to the attic, with bundles of cloth, dried rations, and more stored inside. She eased herself down, moving slowly and quietly down the ladder. The attic was dusty from disuse, and Millie pulled her shirt up over her nose to keep from sneezing. She crossed the floor, following the nails in the floorboards that told her there was a crossbeam underfoot. The floor wouldn’t creak where it was supported, nor was it as likely to give way if a plank was rotten.

The man she was looking for was below, and the thought made her heart race. Millie could kill him tonight and end the cycle of suffering that he’d put her and so many others through. She wanted to do it, to make sure Frederic Rousseau would never hurt another person and give herself peace of mind.

How often had Millie waited for him, locked in a half-flooded cell in the Marigot jail? Crumbling brick walls that let the water in whenever it rained, it was a far cry from the dusty, dry Wyndford building. Her last stay in Marigot had been shortly before the war turned hot, and Millie remembered the feeling of rough scales coiling around her ankle as a palemouth viper soaked up her body heat underwater.

Millie blinked, realising that this was the first time that Fred was in a real cell. Every time she’d been tossed into the rat-filled bowels of the centuries-old fort that served as the Marigot jail, Fred had been put up in an inn across the street until he sobered up enough to retrieve his property.

Closing her eyes, Millie let herself remember what those nights were like. Rats were attracted to the smell of food and drink in her hair, or the blood that seeped from the cuts she’d sustained in the inevitable brawl Fred would start.

The rats attracted the vipers, who were far more palatable. The trick was to snap its neck before the snake realised you’d grabbed it. Its head tried to bite you even after you’d killed it and the snake started to stink badly enough to chase away the remaining rats. Marigot Jail didn’t feed its prisoners the way Wyndford did. You had to catch your supper if you wanted to eat.

The stink of snake musk was only a memory now, though Millie could smell Fred through the dust of the attic. The rotten smell of old drink mixed with the regular prison smells of piss and unwashed bodies. Crouching by a floorboard, Millie used her knife to pry up the nails that held it down. Pulling the plank up, she peeked down to spot a familiar blond head buried in bandaged hands.

So he wasn’t asleep, good.

Slipping through the space the removed board gave her, Millie climbed down the door of an empty cell until she was face to face with the man she’d spent so long hiding from. The sounds of the jail were quieter once she was inside. Someone was still singing, but it was muffled by the layers of stone and wood between them.

Frederic Fucking Rousseau looked up from his cot, his eyes searching the darkness of the otherwise empty cellblock. Lionel, Fred’s ever-loyal servant, lay in the far corner of the cell, deeply asleep.

Mil? Fred asked in a whisper. I know it’s you.

There was no one to stop her if she sank the knife into his throat. She could do it, step up close to the bars and just—

Have you come to gloat, then? he asked, voice raspy. He smiled as she stepped into the light, and Millie crossed her arms instead of lunging at him like her instinct screamed to do. The healer says I won’t be able to walk again without using a cane.

Are you saying I should have shot you in the head? she asked, sinking her emotions deep into her belly. Away from the surface, away from him. The night she’d shot him in the ankle, she’d been too exhausted and shaken to keep her composure. He had kidnapped a little girl, and wanted to take Millie back. The thought of it still made her stomach churn.

I was wondering what had made you go soft, Fred said, rheumy blue eyes fixing her in place. He was stone sober, she realised. Maybe for the first time in years. But I’ve had a lot of time to think, Mil. I think you know deep down that I’m the only one who’ll love you for what you are. He smiled again, but the expression was soft and sad.

You’re wrong, she started. This wasn’t going right. She was supposed to have the upper hand, but a sober Fred was a dangerous Fred. It was so easy to underestimate Fred when he was sober. He still looked like a drunk, swollen and ruddy-faced, but somehow the drink had left his mind in pristine form despite the years of abuse.

Am I? He sniffed, and pushed himself up to stand on his good leg, using the bars of his cell for support as he hobbled closer. I learned my lesson. You marked me the way I marked you. I shouldn’t have forgotten who you are. I shouldn’t have given so much of myself up to the drink. But you saved me by sending me here.

The blood drained slowly from her, leaving Millie cold despite the layers she wore. He was up to something, and she wasn’t sure what he was getting at just yet.

You think I shot you in the ankle to teach you a lesson? she asked, her whisper getting dangerously close to a hiss. He was right, though. Millie had wanted to hurt him, to make him feel just a sliver of all the suffering he’d inflicted on her and her friend Rhiannon over the years. To leave him with a permanent reminder of what he’d done. He’d arranged the killing of the whole Colfield family, sending Millie and other assassins to eliminate any other claims to the family’s fortune so that Rhiannon’s uncle could inherit the whole thing. Millie reminded herself of why she was there. Rhiannon didn’t know, but it was for her benefit that Fred wouldn’t die tonight.

Why did you come then, Mil? Fred asked, resting his head against the bars. If it wasn’t to gloat, then why are you here?

I’m going to testify, Millie said, straightening her shoulders. About what you did to the Colfields.

Fred looked through the bars at her, his brow knit slightly in confusion.

And then what? he asked. They’ll arrest you for Marigot. Or are you going to ‘testify’ against me for that, too?

Yes, she breathed. About all of it.

Fred pushed himself up straight, grunting as his fresh scars pulled on healing muscle. Rhiannon’s dog had savaged his arm, and the scars that peeked out from under his bandages were an angry red. It looked like a vishap had gotten at him.

"Well, if you’re going to tell the truth, Fred whispered, his eyes fixed on hers. You’ll hang right next to me. I appreciate the romantic gesture, Mil. Together, we face death, just like old times. Us against the world."

Millie’s hands gripped fistfuls of her shirt and it took every shred of composure she had left to stay rooted where she was, and not launch herself at the man on the other side of the cell door. Why had she come here? What was the real reason? It was hard to remember with his words bouncing around inside her head.

If you plead guilty and testify against Harrold Colfield, they won’t hang you. Millie took a deep breath, forcing her heartbeat to slow and her hands to still. Rhiannon Colfield will arrive later today to make you an official offer.

Fred listened, eyebrows raised.

And what life would there be for me? A known coward, left to rot in a cell until I die from sobriety? He cleared his throat and shook his head slowly, eyes slipping from Millie to focus on the ground between them. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to talk her out of it.

I tried, Millie said, and scowled at the smile that appeared on his face. But she’s a kind woman, Fred. Even after everything you did to her—

That we did, he corrected.

Don’t try that on me, Millie hissed. I kept her safe for years. I taught her how to survive. I might have hurt a lot of people in the past, but I did right by her.

They watched each other in the weak moonlight, filtered through the fog outside.

I never meant for you to take the fall for that, he whispered.

But you did in Marigot, she countered. You didn’t even hesitate back then. The ‘Butcher of the Bayou’ was too perfect of an excuse for that fucking ritual we found O’Leary doing. Couldn’t let a human be caught performing sacrificial magic, now could we?

Fred’s face fell, and if she were less familiar with his moods, Millie might have thought the grief there was genuine. Maybe it still was, but that meant nothing. It was easy to grieve a mistake when you weren’t the one whose life had been ruined.

That was an order, he said, rubbing his face with his newly scarred hand. It came down from top brass. I hid you so you wouldn’t be pilloried. What was I supposed to do, Mil? They would have labelled you a traitor, a heretic.

You were supposed to set me free, Fred. Her voice was harsh, and Millie had to pull herself back from breaking out of her whisper. She wanted to yell at him, scream it until his ears bled. Instead she swivelled an ear toward the door You were supposed to set us all free after, not kill everyone off one by one. Not keep me in a fucking cellar for three years.

Fred’s shoulders sagged, and he eased himself back onto the cot, his injured leg stretched out in front of him.

You’re right, he said. He smiled at her, looking as tired and sad as she felt. Neither of them were young like they had been during the war. It had drained them both, leaving them broken and grim. Better late than never, right? he said, running a hand through his hair. I’ll tell your friend I’ll testify. But I need you to promise me something.

"I don’t need to do anything," Millie hissed.

Well, then please promise me you won’t forget. Once a master, always a master. I know that better than anyone. Your friend might act like she’s grateful, but she’s back in society now. She’s the wealthiest woman this side of New Haven, and she’s going to forget you the same way I forgot who you were to me.

Even after all these years, Fred’s words could knock the air from her. Millie grit her teeth, refusing to let him see just how deeply that had cut. Rhiannon wasn’t like that, she wasn’t like Fred at all.

No masters, Fred said. No kings. Remember?

You don’t get to say that, Millie snapped. She spun on her heel and climbed up the cell door to the hole she’d made in the ceiling. His words chased her up into the attic, and she wasn’t fast enough to escape them.

Don’t let her make the same mistakes I did, Mil. You deserve better than that.

2

Retribution

The Red Hand

The person who went by The Red Hand watched the pale elf emerge from the jail and cross her rope back to the building she’d used to surveil the police officers. Deep in the shadows of a tenement across the street, the Hand lowered the spyglass from their eye and checked that their hood was still drawn low over their face.

Curious. What had happened in the jail that made her less careful on the elf’s exit? She hadn’t checked for any witnesses other than a quick glance down the alleyway.

The rope was severed on the jail’s side, though the figure hadn’t seen how the elf had managed it. She didn’t have her axes with her, and no gunshot echoed through the sleepy Wyndford streets. Magic, perhaps? Raising the spyglass to their eye once again, they watched the Bayou Butcher quickly pull her rope up, coiling it around her forearm and hand before tying it off. The clothes she wore were plain, a child’s shirt and breeches that made her look like an underfed youth, but her skin practically glowed in the night’s fog.

The Hand didn’t need to follow the Butcher to know where she was going, but they would trail her back to the banker’s home the same as they had every night since her arrival in Wyndford.

The children had been a surprise, but any doubt that Mildred Berry was the Bayou Butcher had evaporated the first night she had snuck out of the home to case the city jail. The Hand moved quietly, descending from their own perch, feeling clumsy compared to the silent movement of the elf. They had lost her those first few nights. She’d disappear behind a building and be gone when the Hand reached it, or the clatter of a late-night carriage passing by covered her scramble up a building where they did not yet dare to follow.

The years since the war had done little to slow her, it seemed. The Hand smiled under their hood as they slipped out from their hiding spot to follow the pale elf home. It was a relief that the elf had not gone soft like the captain had. It would have soured what the figure had planned.

Ten years ago, the elf had murdered someone dear to the Hand. Eight years ago, she had burned Marigot down, uncaring who was caught up in the flames. But soon, the Bayou Butcher would face the consequences she’d evaded for so long.

3

Long Lost, Now Found

Nathalie

Nathalie Wolfe was perched on the edge of the carriage’s bench, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Holding herself rigid, she didn’t allow herself to crane her neck and gawp at the Colfield Manor as it came into view. A grand old building, built from local granite as grey as Wyndford’s morning sky.

There had been a time when the Colfield estate had been a place of wonder for Nathie, when it meant summers visiting the lakeshore, splashing in the waves with her cousins and building sandcastles that Nathie would invent tragic backstories for. There was always a dramatic betrayal among the family, a love lost, and then ended with the ghosts of isolated widows haunting the halls of the misshapen sand piles.

She had never intended for her stories to be anything but flights of fancy, but sometimes Nathie wondered if her stories had prophesied what befell the family years later. Nathie had lost her parents to sickness and war, only to lose her dearest cousins in a massacre only years later. In time, Nathie even became the mournful widow of her own stories. Wealthy, reclusive, and more than half mad with grief.

What she hadn’t known, and couldn’t have known, back during those summers was that all injuries healed in time. Even grief, though its scars never disappeared. A second husband came and went, though Nathie didn’t miss that one nearly so much. But there was also her son, precious and dear, lighting up her heart and home. It was a shattered life, but one that Nathalie had been slowly piecing back together when a telegram had arrived from the Stratton Detective Agency.

Rhiannon Colfield was alive.

The news came as a shock, even though it was what Nathie had prayed for. Her baby cousin, so gentle and sweet, had survived the massacre that took her parents and elder brothers. When the Colfield police department didn’t find Rhiannon’s body, Nathie had been certain that her favourite cousin had been taken for ransom. She had hired the Strattons to find Rhiannon, and to let Nathie know as soon as the letter arrived, demanding funds for Rhi’s safe return.

The letter never came. There was no lock of dark hair sent in an envelope, no shakily penned letter in Rhi’s handwriting. Nothing for over five years. Nathie hadn’t realised she’d given up hope until the Strattons’ telegram arrived a week ago.

In her lap, Nathie worried at the cuticle on her thumb, watching through the window as the carriage approached her cousin’s manor. Nathie was no Colfield, or she would have fought the dreadful Harrold for the deeds to this home. Rhiannon’s mother and Nathie’s were sisters, twins. Their daughters could easily have passed as sisters themselves. Both had long, dark hair like their mothers and porcelain-pale skin. The major difference, aside from disposition, was their eyes. Rhiannon had pale hazel eyes shaped like a rising sun, while Nathie’s were wide, blue, and deep-set. Sullen, just like she was.

She frowned. Could Rhiannon still smile so widely that her eyes scrunched up into slits? Did she still try to maintain her composure until she dissolved into mad giggles? After losing her family, how could she?

The carriage arrived at the manor’s front entrance. Nathie clenched her hands so tightly that her knuckles turned white. A last, desperate urge gripped her to tell the cab driver to turn around and take her back to the hotel where she was staying and return with a letter instead.

We’ve arrived, Ma’am, the cabbie said. A polite older elf, the man clearly had some orcish relative that had passed down a faint green hue to his skin. The thick moustache he wore hid any sign of tusks. Not that Nathalie would have treated him any differently. He climbed down from his perch and opened the door for her like a proper gentleman. Nathie smoothed away the last of her doubts and smiled at the elf as he offered a gloved hand to help her down.

Taking it, Nathie descended onto the cobbled drive of the Colfield estate for the first time in over a decade. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and frowned. It didn’t smell like she remembered. The warm smell of the stable was still there, as was the faint scent of the rose garden she knew was in the back lawn, but there was something else that tinged the air.

The sharp report of a rifle split the lazy afternoon, and Nathie ducked. Had someone come to eliminate Rhiannon at Harrold’s request? Gathering up her skirts, Nathie dashed for the door and shoved it open.

The cabbie was calling after her, but she needed to make sure her cousin was safe. Nathie couldn’t lose Rhi as soon as she’d found her. In a panic, she threaded her way past the servants and out onto the back landing, snatching up a brass candlestick on the way by. It was far from efficient, but it would have to do.

Bursting outside in a flurry of black skirts, Nathie held the candlestick ready to bring down onto the skulls of whatever blaggards Harrold had hired this time.

It was immediately shot from her hand, the candlestick’s reverberation stinging Nathie’s palm as a parting kiss. Clutching her hand to her chest, Nathie hissed and looked up to see how many there were.

Two women stared back at her, one tall and looking breathtakingly familiar. The other was someone that Nathie could never forget. Paler than the dead, an elf with lilac eyes held a rifle trained on Nathalie, a wisp of smoke drifting from its muzzle. Between them, a huge Moorlander mastiff got to its feet, lips peeling back from his teeth in a warning snarl.

Who the hell are you? the elf asked, voice cold.

Nathie stared back, eyes wide and wild as she took in the tiny woman who had just shot at her.

Silver-white hair was cut short in the Ogausan style, cropped close to the skin along either side of her head and longer in a braided strip down the centre. The elf had been dressed up in a grey skirt that was far too well made for her station, and had stripped off the walking suit jacket, leaving her in a blouse she’d rolled up to her elbows. She would have looked utterly pathetic if it weren’t for the hardness in her eyes and the way scars covered her arms.

She was small, even for an elf… but it was unmistakable. This was the Bayou Butcher, the Ghost of Marigot, the woman that had destroyed Nathie’s life.

Nathalie? Rhiannon’s breathless question shook Nathie from her stupor. She wanted to sweep forward and pull her cousin into a hug, but the elf still had a rifle levelled at her, and Nathie wasn’t about to do something stupid and die right after finally finding Rhiannon. The dog’s snarl faded, and he looked up at his mistress, tail wagging.

Freed from the pull of the albino elf, Nathie looked at her cousin for the first time in nearly ten years. She was beautiful, tall and strong, her dark hair pulled up into a pile on her head and… she was dressed much the same as the elf, her blouse revealing strong shoulders and tanned, muscular arms. Hardly the build of the proper young lady that Rhiannon had been as a little girl. Wherever she had been, Rhiannon had hardened in her years away.

Heat welled up in Nathie’s throat. She choked it down, barely able to blink back the tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks.

Where have you been? she whispered, pressing one hand to her mouth. If only Rhiannon had come to her, Nathie would have kept her safe from the world until she was ready to face it.

You know her? the elf asked.

She’s my cousin, Rhiannon whispered. Whatever held the women in place broke. Rhiannon pushed the barrel of the elf’s rifle down and closed the distance between Nathie and herself.

Nathie met her, sweeping her little cousin up into a big hug, and realised with delayed shock that Rhiannon was now the taller of the two. The emotions no longer could be held back, and a gasping sob wrung itself from her throat as Nathalie finally held her cousin again. Her fingers were greedy, digging into Rhi’s shoulders as though if she didn’t hold on tight enough, Rhiannon might once again disappear.

"Where have you been? she repeated, barely able to form the words. I looked for you. I looked everywhere for you." Doubt crept in, twisting around Nathie’s words even as she spoke them. Clearly, she had not searched hard enough or long enough after Rhiannon had gone missing. At the time, Nathie had felt she was doing everything she could, but she had barely been hanging on to her sanity back then. How much had she missed while caught in one of her fugues?

A canine huff announced the mastiff, and Nathie glanced down to see him lean his head against her cousin’s hip, giant eyes fixed on her. Good boy, she thought. At least Rhiannon hadn’t been truly alone for all those years.

It wasn’t safe, Rhiannon whispered, and while her voice was steady, Nathalie could feel the tremble in her shoulders. No one was safe.

The doubt was squashed by indignation, and Nathie pulled herself back to stare into her cousin’s eyes, wiping away some tears on Rhiannon’s cheek with a gentle thumb. The gesture was so familiar that it almost took Nathie back to the summers when life had still held promise. Wiping away her darling cousin’s tears after Rhiannon had tripped and scraped her knee while playing tag.

Who told you that? she asked, her voice sharper than she’d meant it to be. Nathie frowned in concern. I would have kept you safe, Rhi. You know I would never hurt you. I would have destroyed anyone who came after you. Anyone who even thought of coming after you.

About that, the elf said, clearing her throat from where she stood. Nathie shot her a glare, indicating that her interruption was not wanted. No doubt the elf had been the one who sowed paranoia in Rhiannon’s mind. Hadn’t she done enough damage to Nathie’s family? Now she had poisoned Rhiannon’s thoughts, making her not able to trust her own cousin.

How do we know you’re not just another Harrold? The elf raised an eyebrow, resting the rifle against her shoulder in a casual threat.

How dare you, Nathie whispered, holding Rhiannon tightly. She wanted to stride over to the elf and knock her down with a well-placed slap. Instead, out of consideration for her cousin, she clenched her jaw and forced herself to ease her grip on Rhiannon. A deep breath helped hold the anger back, but only just.

I would never hurt my cousin, Nathie hissed through bared teeth. How dare you, of all people, suggest otherwise? This was dangerous, she knew. Provoking the Bayou Butcher could end with a bullet in her breast, but the wrong-headed insult of being called untrustworthy by a woman who had killed children.

Millie, go home, Rhiannon said quietly. Nathie isn’t Harrold. It’s going to be a long day. I’ll come by this evening to see you and the girls.

Rhiannon’s words might have been quiet, but Nathie watched with a dark glee as they shattered the elf’s aggressive posture. The Butcher blinked those strange eyes of hers and slowly looked away from Nathie to fix on Rhiannon. Pressing her lips together in a smile, Nathie let go of her cousin’s shoulders and took Rhiannon’s hand in hers. She watched the elf’s eyes flick down at the gesture, and the smallest of frowns appeared on that unnaturally pale brow.

Nathie waited, biting the inside of her lip as she prepared for the onslaught of the infamous Butcher’s temper.

Fine, the elf said, fixing her eyes back on Nathie. They watched each other for a moment. The anger that Nathie had expected simmered behind lilac eyes, but there was another emotion that tempered it. What it was, Nathie couldn’t say. She didn’t know enough about the elf’s mannerisms yet, but that would change.

Fyo, you make sure Ry doesn’t get into trouble, alright? the elf told the mastiff. Much to Nathie’s regret, the dog sat up straighter and gave an affirmative whuff. Moorlanders were supposed to be trained to only accept commands from their masters, yet here was Rhiannon’s listening to an elf, of all things.

She will be fine, Nathie said, a bit of an edge creeping back into her voice.

The Bayou Butcher nodded to