Bird Brained by Jessica Speart Page A

ceremonies left lying beside the Miami River. The most memorable had been a goat’s head I’d stumbled upon, its white muzzle stained where it lay in a pool of brown blood. Next to it, a Santeria vessel had been overturned. But I was damned if I was going to cave in to yet another boogeyman in the dark.
    “What their gods are big on is blood—and not just from animals, either.” Santou’s voice seared through me. “A hell of a lot of their ceremonies go way beyond a blessing or two at marriages and births. I’m talking black magic, and playing with people’s minds. This stuff is as powerful as voodoo—maybe even more so. And they don’t take kindly to strangers butting in.”
    “I never realized that Cajun superstition of yours ran so deep, Jake. Besides, mind games don’t work unless someone is a true believer. You’re overreacting. I’ll be fine,” I remarked impatiently.
    Santou stood up and went inside without a word, returning a few moments later. “I want you to carry this with you at all times,” he said, thrusting a small spray can into my hand.
    I didn’t need a ray of moonlight to read the label. I already knew what it was, and I hated pepper spray. It had been used as part of my education at Glynco, a U.S. Fish and Wildlife training center, where an instructor had taken great pleasure in making sure that each and every one of us got hit with a dose in the face. It didn’t matter that coolers of ice water had been placed directly at our feet; I still couldn’t get the fire out of my eyes and lungs fast enough. The only consolation had been that even the most macho guys were brought to their knees for a good twenty minutes.
    “No way, Santou. This stuff is death in a can.” I set it on the bench between us.
    “For Christ’s sake, look at where you live,
ch
è
re
. There’s enough crime on this street alone to make New Orleans look safe. Now you’re telling me that you might be running around getting involved with practitioners of black arts?”
    “Why is it that I never give you the fifth degree about cases you’re working on?” I shot back. “Yet you constantly feel it necessary to question and prod everything I do and say?”
    “Because you work alone, Rachel; I always have backup. I see you walking by yourself into situations and taking stupid chances. You never bother to consider the consequences.”
    I shot him a warning glance but Santou ignored it, determined to drive his point home.
    “Since the day we met, I’ve spent way too much time worrying about you and the foolhardy choices you make,” he said, a harsh edge to his voice. His finger traced the faded red scar on my neck that had been made by the kiss of a razor. “That’s a permanent reminder of one of your run-ins. And let’s not forget the housewarming bomb you received in Vegas.” Santou played with the Saint Christopher medal that dangled from a chain around my neck. A gift from its previous owner, it had been meant as a memento to keep me safe. So far it had.
    “This won’t be enough to protect you next time. I love you, Rachel. Don’t make me regret that.” Jake picked up the pepper spray and dropped the can inside my shirt pocket.
    “Danger comes in all different forms,” I sharply reminded him. “Sometimes it’s a razor. Sometimes it’s white powder that people snort up their nose.” I instantly regretted the remark, as Jake nailed me with a look that chilled me to the bone.
    “That was my past, Rachel. What we’re talking about is your present and our future.” Santou picked up the wine bottle and refilled both our glasses. “This is something we’ve been needing to discuss for a while anyway. It might as well be now.”
    My stomach twisted into a tight knot, already aware of where the conversation was leading. “Backup or not, your job is just as dangerous as mine,” I pounced, taking the offensive. “The only difference is that I manage to live with what you do. Why can’t you accept me