Holy Father, what kind of beast from hell was this?

Stricken, the priest fell to his knees, scrabbling for his rosary, sending up prayer after prayer in his terror-riddled, near-paralyzed state. What had he gotten himself into? What?

He heard voices. From the other side of the church. Dear God, he couldn’t be found like this…had no explanation. The fiend turned and ran, sweeping almost silently across an expanse of lawn, then into the darkness.

Mathias crumpled into a heap. Tears tracked from his eyes. Tears of fear. Tears of remorse. Tears of a broken, faithless man.

“Our Father,” he started to mumble, but the words stuck in his throat. His tongue was thick and awkward, his repentance too little, too late. He’d gone too far. Crossed a burning threshold from which there was no return. Prayer wouldn’t help. Confession, the ultimate cleanser of all sins, was no longer his salvation.

The truth of the matter was that he, like so many before him, had sold his very soul to the devil.

And Satan wanted his due.

CHAPTER 16

B oomer Moss had hunted gators all his life. Sometimes he’d done it all legal with a tag, in season, and sometimes, like tonight, not. He figured alligators were mean sumbitches who deserved to die, and if he could make a few bucks off their hides, their heads, and their meat, all the better. He was doin’ the world a big fat favor by takin’ the motherfuckers out, one slithery life at a time.

The fact that there was a season for the huntin’ and tags to be purchased and forms to be sent into the government really got his balls in an itch. His family had been hunting the swamps, ponds, lakes, and canals around New Orleans for over two hundred years. The government had no business, no damned business tellin’ him what to do.

Besides, huntin’ in the swamps in the dark was a rush like none other. Boomer had a few beers stashed in a cooler as he trolled the black waters and passed the ghostly, skeletonlike trunks and roots of the cypress trees. He had his snares set, but you could never tell when you might come across a gator in the water, dormant season or not.

Sometimes he’d kill himself a raccoon or an opossum or a snake if he could catch one. He figured these swamps belonged to him. Here he ruled, and the bounty of the boggy land was his for the taking. He didn’t want to mess with any tags—hell, no. And he knew a raccoon or skunk was better bait than the cow guts sanctioned by the state.