But after he had washed his face and stripped down to his skin, lying atop the covers and watching the water stain seep its way ever wider across the ceiling, he knew that was a lie. He replayed the way Walker’s eyes glittered from under the shadow of his hat, and the sharp cut of his hair against his cheek—far too long to be fashionable, as people said. It lent something of the fey to his look, androgynous and somehow more dangerous than any blade or bullet he carried. Dangerous too the lines of his mouth, how they slanted in that crooked, wicked smile, his lips plush and full as any girl’s.

Eugene covered his face with his hands and counted his breaths until his heartbeat slowed. He must not think such thoughts so loudly. Soon it would be dawn and he would be back among his colleagues and his peers, and such thoughts had a way of writing themselves across one’s face.

Above, the stain seeped like an illness. Eugene closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

He dreamed of the swamp. He hadn’t had such dreams in years, not since he was a boy still plagued by night terrors and an overactive imagination. He was well acquainted with the medicines prescribed to subdue restless sleep, though he had weaned himself off them years ago, believing his worst nights were finally behind him. But with the bayou swelling, the water dredged up old memories. Ghosts and horrors that were never properly laid to rest.

Monsters writhed beneath its surface. The water was black in the moonlight, thick algae choking the ripples to a standstill. Eugene didn't want to see what lurked down there, but he stared, transfixed in silent horror, as the shapes moved over and under one another in long, sleek lines. Rough black scales slick with slime flashed across his vision, and crooked ivory teeth, and he could do nothing but stand paralyzed and watch them as they came.

IV.

It was early in the summer of 1918 when Mary Beth told him about the stranger in more detail. Eugene didn’t like to look at him. The man was slender, pale-skinned and dark-haired, his clothes impeccable and his nails neatly manicured where his hands rested folded in his lap. He didn’t look like the sort of man who worked for a living, which was reason enough for the folks of Chanlarivyè to ignore him, but it was more than that. There was something about him that exuded the quiet air of a predator in wait, cold-blooded and basking in the sun, his animal eyes fixed on Mary Beth—who never seemed concerned in the slightest. The man made Eugene uneasy, but Mary Beth was unbothered by his presence. She never gave him a name and she never offered to introduce them properly, for which Eugene was grateful.

“He looks out for me,” Mary Beth said in her matter-of-fact way, not looking up from braiding her daisy chain. “You don’t have to talk to him. He won’t bother you.”