Day of Independence by William W. Johnstone

for a thrust. “Nobody, but nobody, fails Abe Hacker and lives to boast of it,” he said. “Go to hell, Jess!”
    Hacker rammed the dirk into Gable’s throat, just under the man’s chin. He pushed until the blade went in to the hilt, then withdrew it again.
    Wiping the knife clean on the sheet, he said, “Are you dead, Jess?”
    One look at the man’s face, frozen in a death mask of agony and horror, convinced Hacker that he was.
    Hacker slid the dirk into his pocket, then slapped the sides of his huge barrel of a stomach.
    â€œNow, time for a little bedtime snack, I think,” he said.
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    Henriette Valcour woke from a restless sleep and a warning dream.
    The fat man had killed again... but so far her Baptiste was safe. The dream had made that clear.
    Still, she was fearful and rose from bed and sat by the dying embers of the fire.
    Was it the fat man and his strange, blood-blackened knife that had scared her so badly... the dire fact that by killing with his own hand he’d gained enormously in power?
    Or was it just old Jacques St. Romain with his talk of the loup-garou ball to be held right there in her own bayou?
    Earlier that day, Jacques stood in his canoe and hollered at Henriette from a safe distance, his eyes fixed on the still surface of the water.
    â€œLas’ night I seen their lanterns in the swamp, me,” he said. “Over on the bank by the dead tree. When the loups-garous got lanterns, I t’ink it means they plan to have their ball in this bayou.”
    â€œGo home, Jacques,” Henriette had said. “Hang a colander on your door.”
    â€œI ain’t got one of them, Madam Valcour.”
    â€œYou got a calendar, you?”
    â€œGot a Union Pacific Railroad on my wall, but it’s for 1882.”
    â€œIt will do very well, Jacques. Nail it to the outside of your door,” Henriette said. “The loups-garous will stop and count the dates, just like they count the holes in a colander. They can’t add up real good, they always make mistakes and have to start over and over again.”
    â€œHow come the loups-garous got to count stuff, Madam Valcour?” Jacques said.
    â€œIt’s just how they are, Jacques. They’ll count anything, the holes in my colander and the numbers in your calendar, and never try to get through our doors.”
    â€œThem’s words of good advice,” Jacques said. “Soon as I get home, I gonna nail that Union Pacific calendar to my door, me, and keep them loups-garous busy.”
    Then, before he paddled away, the old man said, “I got some fish an’ a piece of poke loin from a hog I shot t’other day. I’ll t’row them on your po’ch, Madam Valcour, but don’t you go lookin’ at me none, you.”
    â€œGo right ahead, Jacques,” Henriette said. “I’m going inside now anyhow, me. Got a turtle in the pot.”

    Henriette had no fear of werewolves, poor, cursed creatures that they were, and the colander was powerful protection. The loups-garous were also deathly afraid of frogs, and there were plenty of them jumping around her home.
    So let the werewolves enjoy their ball and howl at the sky. If they did not trouble her, she would not trouble them.
    It was the fat man who scared her so.
    He was evil and dangerous, and Baptiste was in peril as long as the man lived.
    Restless, Henriette left her chair and stepped onto her porch.
    Fireflies danced in the gloom of the swamp and the air was heavy with the perfume of night-blooming wild petunias. The moon was not yet full, but it was as bright as a silver coin.
    If she was to be Baptiste’s guardian and save him from the fat man, she needed more power.
    Henriette untied her nightgown and let it drop and puddle around her feet. Naked, she tilted her face to the dark cauldron of the sky, stretched out her arms to the moon’s radiance, and bathed in its mother-of-pearl