Brendan snorted. The moment he’d agreed to the job, Jillian’s book had been slapped into his hands. It had looked like any League manual, with its slate blue cover and intentionally vague title: Mystic Bayou: A Whole-Hearted Approach to a Blended Community. Jillian had gone into great detail describing what the locals called la faille and its history; which was impressive since even League scientists couldn’t give a definitive explanation for this mystical vortex, the tear in the fabric that kept this dimension separate from whatever terrifying things waited in the next dimension. He’d never been a fan of Lovecraft. There were no ley lines, no atmospheric anomalies at that spot just over the Afarpiece Swamp. It was just there, drawing supernaturals to the area like moths to a very dangerous flame. The locals understood that while la faille could appear to some as a beautiful shifting kaleidoscope of color, it was also dangerous for those who got too close, crushing organs and blood vessels with its enormous atmospheric pressures.
Jillian explained that Mystic Bayou had grown from a small pre-Louisiana Purchase human settlement that happened to be located near the rift, to a thriving community that included droves of shifters and fae and various creatures called to the location by the rift’s energy. After a rough start that involved some ancestor of the mayor’s dropping his pants and shifting into a bear to settle that particular conflict, the humans and the non-humans settled into a relatively easy relationship. The families intermarried, shared their traditions and their magic and their protection, creating the odd mishmash of culture that was Mystic Bayou.
The League originally thought to use the town as a model for how other communities could gracefully assimilate when modern technology eventually forced the magique out into the open. The League offered the town financial benefits and support such as medical services in exchange for cooperation. That was how Jillian came to the bayou. The League sent her to study the community, and she happened to fall in love with the local dragon-slash-sheriff.
Unfortunately, during her first few months, it became apparent that the rift’s energy was changing, altering the residents at a DNA level. The very thing that drew shapeshifters and fae to the bayou in the first place had turned on them. Shifter babies were born into all-human families. Adults who had been human all of their lives suddenly developed the ability to shapeshift or perform fairy magic.
While much of Jillian’s report was rather charming storytelling, she included multiple tables showing how the number of “remade magique” was increasing at an exponential rate, raising concerns about the areas surrounding the bayou and whether humans there would be affected. The League seemed very concerned about humans finding out about magique because of the rift. “Surprise! Monsters are real! Also, you might accidentally get turned into one” was not the way to ease humans into this brave new world.
“From cover to cover,” he promised.
“I respect a man who is prepared. Oh, and check the fridge,” Jillian said, holding up a post-it note she found on the counter that had “CHECK THE FRIDGE” in a neat, cursive hand.
He opened the door and found multiple containers full of delicious looking stews and soups, plus a six-pack of Guinness. “I hereby pledge to marry whoever did this.”
“Well, it was Clarissa Berend, Zed’s maman,” Jillian said. “She insists on making all of the housing as homey as possible. And you might have to fight a five-foot-six geriatric frogman for her hand. Also, you might have to fight Zed.”
Brendan pursed his lips as he recalled the size of the bear-man in question. “I will love her from afar.”
“Sound decision. I know that your position here won’t be comfortable, with your gift,” she said. “But anything I can do to make it easier for you, please let me know.”
“Do people here know what I can do?” Brendan asked.
“No, that’s the great thing about Mystic Bayou,” Jillian insisted. “Everybody’s something, so people don’t worry about it much. You’re defined by your personality, not your magie status. I’ll see you and Cordelia in the morning.”
Clearly, Jillian was some sort of shifter, though he couldn’t tell just what, and there was a newness to her nature. He was sure she’d never had to move an entire family in the middle of the night because the villagers suspected that she was not quite human. She’d never had neighbors recoil from her at the pub, or had mothers usher their children away from her for fear of what they thought she might see. He’d love to believe that this was some Utopia where his kind could live out in the open, but he’d seen his own family fall victim to fear and prejudice too many times to hope. He just wanted to get through his assignment here with as little fuss as possible, so he could get back to Ireland with full pockets and an unbruised arse.
Still, Jillian was a darling, so he smiled politely and said, “Thank you, Jillian.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Jillian said. “Get some sleep.”
Closing the door behind her, he eyed his bag near the bland beige sofa, unable to summon the strength to even think of unpacking. He walked into the sparkling clean washroom, blessing the name of Clarissa Berend. He made quick work of the shower, simply wishing to scrub the airplane filth from his skin. With a towel around his waist, he opened the window blinds and saw Cordelia’s bathroom window illuminated across the way. Cordelia had changed into nightclothes that looked far less sensible than her previous outfit—a tank top thing with razor-thin straps that bared her shoulders and long neck. She was carefully smoothing lotion over the curves of her cheeks, looking in the mirror like she expected to find something that would upset her. All he could see was smooth olive skin and graceful lines. Her hair was twisted in a dark haphazard coil on top of her head.
It definitely felt wrong to watch her like this, with her unaware, but she was hypnotic when she was at ease. The way she moved was so naturally graceful, like a dance—oh, shite, she was looking right at him.
She’d caught him, watching her like some sort of Peeping Tom while she was doing her bedtime grooming routine. And he had a meeting with her first thing in the morning. She locked eyes with him and nodded, then closed the blinds, denying him a last glimpse of her face.
He was going to need to dunk his head in the bloody coffee pot at dawn.
3
Cordelia
Cordelia had lost her tolerance for waking up in strange places.
Sitting in Jillian’s office bright and early the next morning, she buried her face in a cup of peppermint tea and prayed for it to jolt her brain into consciousness. The bright minty brew was just strong enough to mask the mineral aftertaste of the supplements she’d downed on her walk to the administrative trailer. The building was as cookie-cutter and impersonal as the rest of the campus, with most of the slick gray lobby space walled off with temporary partitions for Sonja, the mermaid from the night before who also happened to be the Director of Operations. Sonja showed up in most of the framed photographs scattered around Jillian’s space—Jillian, Sonja and a small, balding man with exceptionally long fingers; a selfie of Jillian and Sonja on an aging porch swing; an outdoor group shot in front of blooming apple trees with Jillian, Sonja, the burly mayor and his sweet-faced girlfriend, and two rather handsome men she hadn’t seen the night before. She got the distinct impression Sonja and Jillian had known each other well before their time in Mystic Bayou.