Old Friends

***Dru's POV***

The air hangs thick as roux left to scorch in a cast-iron pot, humidity gluing my shirt to my spine. Around us, Vermilion Court simmered—a dead-end strip of cracked asphalt where shotgun houses slumped like drunks against each other. Spanish moss dripped from waterlogged oaks, their gnarled roots buckling the sidewalks into jagged stone teeth. Somewhere, a screen door whined on rusted hinges, slapping rhythmically against a frame bloated with rot.

A man bursts out of the house, screen door slamming behind him. He’s a mountain of a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and wearing a leather jacket similar to the other two. Clutching my duffel bag in one hand and a .44 Magnum in the other, barrel still smoking. The *Lou Nwa* (Black Wolves) patch—a snarling wolf with flaming fleur de lis for eyes—marked him as a crew even the bayou’s ghosts feared. His Dyna Glide hog idled at the curb, handlebars wrapped in gator hide, tooth-studded grips flecked with dried reptilian blood. Swamp mud crusted the fenders like concrete, embedded with crawfish shells and shotgun casings.

Behind him, Louise staggered into the doorway, clutching her bleeding shoulder. Her mouse-brown hair was shellacked into stiff, over-teased bangs that jutted skyward like a cracked crown, reeking of Aqua Net. Caked makeup—blush applied in clownish circles, lipstick bleeding past her lipline—made her face look like a toddler’s crayon masterpiece. Her neon flowered muumuu strained against her bulk. The fabric screaming under armpit stains, while her dingy bunny slippers, one ear torn clean off, slapped against the warped floorboards, leaving smeared crimson trails as she shuffled back.

Beneath the porch, feral cats with mange-scabbed fur slunk through a graveyard of empty Thunderbird bottles. The air reeked of kerosene and cat piss, undercut by the cloying sweetness of Louise’s gardenia perfume—a scent that clung to my nightmares.

“Mèsi Bondye! (Thank God!),” she spat, her voice a venomous slur. “You shoot like une mamie (an old lady)!”

Danni spun, eyes blazing. “Mwen pa fini ak ou! (I ain’t done with you!) Next bullet goes between your yeux (eyes), sòsyè (witch).” He fired a warning shot at her feet, the blast splintering the already buckled porch boards.

Louise flinched, her bravado cracking like eggshells, “You think dis’ll end with him?,” she cackled, blood dripping down her muumuu as she glared in my direction. “I pulled you from dat fire’s ashes like a crawfish from the boil—my claws did the work. Should’ve let you crisp up. Save us all de trouble!” She scrambled back inside, bunny slippers squeaking on the blood-smeared linoleum, her retreat blurred by the rain now sheeting off the broken gutters in a corrosive curtain.

The sky bruised to a sickly yellow-green, thunder growling like the Lou Nwa’s idling engines. Lightning fissured the clouds, illuminating the Wolves’ patches in stark relief: the flaming fleur-de-lis eyes glowed like live coals.

He finally looks in our direction and registers the standoff—his men aiming at the house, Dragon aiming at him. Eyes locked on Dragon’s Kimbers pointed directly at him, then flick to me peeking out from behind Dragon’s soaked white shirt, translucent against the tattooed saints on his skin.

Lowering his gun slowly, voice ragged with emotion, "Mwen ti princess danjere… (My dangerous little princess). Mwen finalman jwenn ou. (I finally found you). All dese years… Li fè mwen kwè ou te mouri (She made me believe you were dead). Soufle mwen (Destroyed me).” He extends a scarred hand, palm up, towards me. His voice cracking, "Pa kache dèyè li (Don’t hide behind him). Mwen se san’w (I am your blood). Mwen p’ap janm kite’l fè’w mal ankò (I’ll never let her hurt you again).”

“¿Sangre? (Blood?) Blood don’t stop bullets, viejo (old man). She doesn't remember you! Back. Ahora (Now), until mi princessa is ready to acknowledge you as her familia,” Dragon warns him, the Kimbers steady in his grip, rain dripping off their barrels into the .44 Magnum’s chambers.

Danni’s jaw twitched, the scar on his neck pulsing crimson as if the memory of boiling oil still seethed beneath his skin. He took half a step forward, boots crunching gravel into the quagmire Louise’s yard had become, but froze when Dragon’s thumb cocked the Kimber’s hammer. “Ou think I’d hurt her?” he growled, Creole thickening his rage. “Mwen pa gen tan pou jwèt sa yo! (I don’t have time for these games!) She’s mwen ti fi (my girl)—”

“Not anymore,” Dragon cut in, Spanish accent sharpening. “You lost dat right when you let Louise steal her.”

The air crackled—cicadas screaming in the oaks, or was it the static before a lightning strike?—as Danni’s knuckles whitened around the duffel bag strap. For a heartbeat, I thought he’d lunge. Then his shoulders sagged, the fight leaching out of him like bourbon from a cracked bottle. “Non,” he rasped, more to himself than us. “Not again.”

Sizing Big Danni up from head to toe, I cautiously step out from behind Dragon. Whispering as I step closer to Danni, "The… the burn on your neck.... it was you. You tried to save me from her that night the house burned down."

Big Danni touches the scar absently, raw with grief, as if reliving that night all over again. “Wi. (Yes). When I tried to take you back. She barricaded you in dat closet, screamed you was ‘purifying.’ I busted through the window, glass shredding my hands—then dat oil…” His hands begin trembling with phantom pain.

“She threw lwil boullan (boiling oil) on me. You screamed… Ou te rele non mwen. (You screamed my name.)” I can see he is holding back unshed tears at the memory. "Dat sòsyè carved my heart out sayin’ you burned up in dat fire. Mwen (I) believed dat sòsyè (witch) ‘til Gwo Pistoleer—”, he jerks a thumb at the scarred one, “— went to fool around with dat teacher couple months back but saw you walking out of school instead. Saw de marques (marks), said you was trying to cover dem."

My eyes widened as I tried to connect the fragmented memories. I take another step towards Uncle Danni, but the shrill ringing of a phone stops me. Everyone glances around. I know it's not me, Louise wouldn't let me have a cellphone. Dragon holstered one Kimber, phone already buzzing in his free hand.

"You, Me," pointing a finger back and forth between us, "serious talk later about what else you can fit in them tight fucking jeans," I glared at him. Everyone around us died with laughter at my sudden outburst. Dragon just gave me a sheepish grin as he tried to answer the phone and ended up having to put it on speaker. Guns still half-raised at Danni, he freezes as his mother's voice explodes through the speaker.

Marisol was seething with anger, Spanglish sharp as a blade, “¡Mi’jo desagradecido! (Ungrateful son!) You aim esas armas (those weapons) at el hombre who dragged me fuera del infierno (out of hell)? ¡Tu padre (Your father)…that Colombian devil…Danni broke his face to save us! ¿Y así lo pagas? (And this is how you repay him?)”

Dragon staggered, Kimbers dipping, “¿Qué…? (What…?) Papá is—Why did you never tell me?”

Marisol's voice cracked with decades-old rage,“Porque el ‘jefe’ sigue buscándonos (Because the ‘boss’ is still hunting us)! Danni nos escondió (Danni hid us) in New Orleans! Y ahora (And now)—lower the damn guns and thank him!”

Uncle Danni huffs out a breath, nodding at Dragon, flicker of recognition in his eyes, “Mwen pa bezwen mesi (I don’t need thanks). But ou (you)…I should’ve known you were Marisol’s boy. You got her eyes.” He glares at the guns, voice dropping to a growl laced with dark humor. “Now lower those cannons. Seems me and your mama got a discussion comin’… real soon.”

Marisol shifted tones. Her voice softened, the years of survival tempering her rage into steel resolve—”Danni… come to dinner. Mi hija (my daughter) must be starving. We’ll discuss everything. Como antes (Like before).”

Uncle Danni chuckles darkly as he holsters his gun, shaking his head at Marisol's words, “You’re making me remember, Marisol. Your food was always good. Dako (Okay).”

Dragon grits his teeth, his jawline sharp enough to cut the gathering storm, pride warring with duty, “Solo por Dru (Only for Dru). But you and me—we’ll talk later, viejo.”

Marisol snorts upon hearing Dragon's words, “¡Y lleva flores!* (And bring flowers!) Danni knows I like gardenias!”

Uncle Danni barks a laugh as Marisol ends the call. Dragon holsters his weapons and slips his phone back in his pocket. Rolling his eyes, he helps me back onto his bike. With his jaw tight, he turns back to Uncle Danni, “Listen up, viejo (old man). We go 'with' you for now. But mi princessa," he cups a hand to my cheek and I lean into his touch, "stays conmigo (with me). Siempre (Always).”

Uncle Danni nods slowly, strapping my duffel bag to the back of his bike,“Dako (Okay). But you ride dèyè (behind) Lou Nwa. And pa pale (don’t speak) to me ‘bout ‘siempre’,” Danni spat, his scar pulsing as he strapped the duffel bag tighter. “You ain’t earned dat word yet. She was mwen ti princess danjere (my dangerous little princess) way 'fore you eva' came along…”

Looking at Uncle Danni, slightly curious, I asked, "Why do you call me that?"

Behind us, the screen door slammed again. Louise lurched onto the porch, her muumuu soaked in blood and rain, one hand clutching a gris-gris (Vodou curse) bag stitched from black velvet and greasy crow feathers. Her voice screeched like nails on a coffin lid: “Damballah (Vodou serpent spirit) swallow you whole, bébé (baby)! You think you escape me? Dis (This) curse’ll rot your bones ‘fore sunrise!”

She hurled the gris-gris (curse bag)—a stinking knot of grave dirt, baby teeth, and vulture claws—straight at my chest. Before I could flinch, Gwo Pistoleer lunged. His boot connected with the bag mid-air, sending it rocketing back at Louise. It struck her square between the eyes, bursting into a cloud of powdered bone and bitter herbs.

Louise gagged, clawing at her face as the curse’s poison seeped into her pores. Her skin blistered instantly, boils erupting like swamp bubbles. “Non (No)—non!” she wailed, stumbling backward. “Dis (This) was pour toi (for you)—dis (this) was—!”

Gwo spat into the mud, adjusting his cracked glasses. “Non (No), sòsyè (witch). Dat’s pour toi (for you).”

The Lou Nwa men roared with laughter as Louise collapsed, writhing, into the sludge. Her bunny slippers floated in the flooded yard, one torn ear bobbing like a drowned rat.

Gwo’s gaze turned on me now. The man took a couple of steps toward me, the sun glinting off his cracked glasses. “You were probably too young to remember, chè,” he said, his voice softening like the twilight haze over the marshes. “I’m your Uncle Danni’s half-brother, Keith.”

A firefly blinked lazily between us, and for a heartbeat, the air thickened with the smell of petrol and candied pecans—childhood smells that yanked me into the past. Keith’s voice continued to pull me under:

*“Ou wanted to ride on my motorcycle so tèlman, you tried to get on it all by kont ou.”*

The memory unfurled like a rusted film reel:

*Golden hour in the bayou. A younger Keith’s motorcycle—a dented Harley with a peeling sticker of Erzulie’s veve—parked under a cypress tree. Three-year-old me in a grass-stained pink tutu and plastic tiara, determined to climb onto the seat. The leather was sun-warmed, the foot peg slick with dew. Cicadas screamed in the trees. I hauled myself up, tiny fingers slipping on the chrome, laughter bubbling out of me like creek water—until my foot slid. The world tilted. My chin cracked against the peg, copper blooming on my tongue.*

*Keith’s shout—“Non, ti démon!”—as he lunged, catching me mid-fall. His hands smelled like motor oil and the spearmint gum he always chewed. Blood dripped onto my tutu, bright as hibiscus flowers.*

Keith pointed to the spot under my chin. “You still have the scar underneath, non?”

I rubbed the raised patch of skin, the taste of blood ghosting on my tongue. The bayou’s hum faded as the memory sharpened: *Keith’s panicked voice, the sting of antiseptic, Uncle Danni’s rumbling laughter as he dabbed my tears with his bandana.*

Eyes wide, I looked up at him. “I hit my chin on the foot peg. I could never remember how I got this.” My thumb pressed harder into the scar. “I just figured it was another keepsake from Louise.”

Keith’s smile dimmed. “Non, chè. This one’s from us. Dat scar’s your first trophy—proof you were born fearless.”

"Ou (You) were eseye (always) trying to do pou kont ou (everything yourself). Ou (You) were like a ti démon ( little daredevil). Nou (Thought) we were going to have vin anvlop (to wrap) you in bubble wrap chak jou (everyday)," he chuckled, shaking his head.

Uncle Danni wholeheartedly laughs out loud, "Ou (You) would wear your little tiara and pink tutu partout (everywhere), but nothing scared our ti fe princess danjere (dangerous little princess)."

I stare back, fists clenched at the memories just out of reach—ghosts in a bayou fog that even the storm couldn’t wash away. I let out a depressive sigh. Dragon takes note of my mood change and softly tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. He lifts my head up so our eyes meet. I was struggling to hold back the tears, mourning the life I should have had. He wipes a stray tear from my cheek.

"No more tears, mi corazón (my heart). We are leaving this place forever, together," he whispers in my ear. Kissing my forehead, he places my helmet back on as I take one final look at the house that had been my prison and my Hell for the last 13 years.......

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