Bad Choices (Hypernaturals 8)

The Sisters From Hell

We pulled up the sandy road and rolled to a stop in front of the Avion trailer. It is about thirty feet long, corroded by salt air, and looks as if it pre-dated Hurricane Ike by decades. It could have been brought here after that, or it could have been carried back here from wherever it washed away to. It appeared as if it has been batted about by some floodwaters, given where some of the dents on it are. Or maybe there is a gas station someplace missing its canopy over the gas pumps now...

Out in front of the aluminum house on wheels sat four women, around a campfire, under a blue canopy. The canopy anchored on each corner by blue plastic fifty-five-gallon barrels, presumably full of water. This is the place. These women are the source of our problem. The ones that started the chain of events that led Morgan and I to be here, along the way introducing us to the perversions Morgan and I now will have to deal with.

Morgan and I walked up to them, and they looked at us with suspicion. Rightly so, although they could not know just how suspicious of us they should be yet.

As this is not meant to be a friendly meeting, I looked them over with a very jaundiced eye. These are all older sisters to Pierre. I am garbage at estimating people's age, and that ability has utterly died in Vampiredom. We all look mid-twenties, other than William had. When your eight thousand plus, you get some wrinkles. Wild ass guess put the oldest is in her spry nineties somewhere, and the youngest in her seventies or eighties. Either that or the salt air and excessive sun aged them the way it did Andrea's truck. That means Pierre is at least twenty years younger or so. Maybe thirty. An 'oops' baby I assume, and one that pushed the limits of the human fertility window.

The mailbox up at the sandy street for this little plot of land has a very faded 'Laveau' painted in white letters on a cheap, originally black mailbox. Corroded aluminum, like the RV. Salt air is a bitch.

Morgan opened this encounter with an encompassing gesture: "You are the Laveau sisters. You have a younger brother named Pierre, who lives out on the West end. You used to have a nephew named Andrea." Morgan looked around. "Where is the little dog?"

I liked that last touch. If we are going to get a response out of them, that should do it. The apparent oldest one asked in a strong voice, belying the way she appeared, "What do you mean 'used to', missy?"

This is what is wrong with expectations. Expect a crones cackle, get a rich alto.

Morgan made a tossing away gesture and said in a flat tone of voice: "He is gone. Where is the little dog?"

I was hoping they did not put the dog into a black cauldron and cook it. These four are distinctly witchy.

That caused more stirring "Someone took it. What do you mean, gone?" The woman is now irritated.

As that is Morgan's goal, she stayed irritating.  "Your plan to literally fuck with the Astral family has turned to shit. We are here to ask you why you were doing that in the first place."

As Morgan prompted them with her confident words, based on the data we now have, I was labeling the Laveau women in my head. Like Sirens who attack me, I am using their clothing colors. The youngest is 'Blue'. Next to her is 'Yellow'. The other two are both wearing black, so I went with 'BJ' for black jacket, and 'BS' for Black Shawl. BS is the oldest one who has been talking so far.

Blue had been sitting with most of her back to us, spun around on her stool. "Little missy, unless you are wanting' a curse on you and yours, you had better start a'talkin', and I mean talkin' NOW!."

Terrifying.

Morgan shrugged. "Well, your curse is about as scary as the idea that you are about to grow wings and fly away. You are not because you cannot. I, on the other hand, am actually powerful. Also, I brought my Vampire with me. Say 'hello' my lovely."