Swamp Kings 1 (Bayou Bishops #18)

CHAPTER THREE

Kult checked on Garbagio as the Bishop’s Swamp Dragon drifted to a stop at the pier. He chuckled at finding him still sleeping.

“How’s our lil’ hero doing?” Bishop asked as he removed his earmuffs and seatbelt. Kult did the same, again checking his passenger strapped snugly to his body in one of those cool carrying wraps. “Sleeping like the living dead.”

Bishop spoke a string of soft French as he peered down at Kult’s newest addiction. “You know what they say,” he said. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Mon Dieu, he is precious.”

“He is indeed,” Kult agreed with a big grin, the sight of the angelic, peaceful face filling him with a million watts of unholy energy.

“My wife is pregnant with our first,” Bishop said, hopping off the boat and grabbing a rope, securing it .

“Congratulations,” Kult said.

“I’m terrified,” he confessed quietly then looked down the pier. “Here comes T-Bagio’s mah-mah.”

“Oh boy. Round two,” Kult said at the man’s warning with a dash of humor. He hopped onto the pier and spotted the blond head of curls torpedoing toward him.

“She looks like she’s ready to Bat-tie,” Bishop chuckled. “Nitro,” he called, waving an arm.

“Bat-tie, huh?” Kult mumbled, puzzling over the card game term while bracing for Butterfly impact.

He gathered his facts, front and center. It was his time with Garbagio. Wasn’t his fault it fell during the Terror Travels through the swamp, but he wasn’t about to give up a second with him for any damn thing. Already, he was conniving for more time, not less.

“He’s fine!” Kult swore quietly at a panicked Butterfly closing in fast.

“Give me my baby,” she whispered next to him on the dock.

“He’s sleeping!”

She pulled the black material away from his face before aiming tear-filled eyes at him, then her finger. “I swear to the good Lord,” she muttered, clamping her mouth shut as she continued her fury-ogling .

“There is no safer place for my Garbagio than wrapped in these guns, sweet Mother.”

Her head began shaking at him now. “ Your Garbagio?”

“Well, you don’t like calling him that. He’s your Bagio and my Garbagio.”

She wiped her falling tears and Kult leaned and delivered a peck to her forehead.

“His eardrums are probably busted from these godawful, terrifying boats!”

“Oh no, they are absolutely not,” he cooed down at their sleeping warrior. “I protected him. You know I did, of course I did,” he nodded at his prince.

She shoved his shoulder. “I don’t get enough of him,” she complained, her words tight.

He eyed her, the need in her voice bouncing right off that rabid shield he kept their baby wrapped in. Their son. “You do have him three fourths of the time,” he gently reminded.

She wiped more tears. “While I’m sleeping doesn’t count!”

“I offered you any part of the schedule,” he said, almost cooing.

“I know you did. Plus, I have Pain to share him with,” she half whined. “And since when do you even get a say, I thought this was my baby!”

The idea that she was right put him in that odd corner he didn’t care to visit. “I thought you would be happy to have my help,” he said, not liking that he lacked a better reason. And the idea of him not having access to the baby, well, he didn’t want to deal with that messy bomb unless absolutely necessary. Which was beginning to feel more urgent with every hand-off.

“Look,” he said, getting closer to her. “I don’t know why, but… I seem to need him as much as you do. Maybe more.” Fuck, he hated admitting that.

The look she gave him buckled his knees in relief. It fucking worked. Tears and all. “You’re right,” she wailed, wrapping her arms around him. “Of course you can have him as much as you need!”

“Alright,” he consoled quietly, putting himself between her and the remaining nosy Kings eyeing their emotional circus as they passed. She pressed her head on the baby as Pain came up the dock with wonder-brows.

“Get her,” Kult mouthed with his own wide-eyes. “Do you want him now?” he offered her.

“No,” she gasped, reaching up to pet Kult’s face right as Pain wrapped his arms around her from behind.

She sucked in a breath and turned, melting into him with more sobbing. “You both need him more than me,” she wailed.

She was one hundred percent right on that. They both needed him more than they’d ever needed anything. It was officially the first puzzle he burned to figure out but didn’t want to touch. Didn’t want to know the answer.

He allowed himself to be distracted with his sleeping Angel of the Garbage, sliding his thumb along the perfect, silky temple.

“The long boat carrying your wife and the sisters will be here in thirty minutes,” the Bishop called from down the dock. “We’ll fetch them when it arrives.”

Kult tossed him a waving salute and headed to catch up with the Creole and Marsh Kings as they were called. He glanced back, finding Pain and Butterfly on his heels.

“Well, he’s got one hour and fifteen minutes left,” he heard Pain inform Butterfly, bringing her happy gasp.

“You’re keeping track?”

“Well, I have to,” he assured with ease before whispering, “He’s a Trash Thief.”

Kult’s laugh flew out, followed by said Trash finally making a squeak. “Untie this thing, will you?” He stopped on the pier. “I want to be the one to show our Little Garbage Prince the swamp.”

“We,” Butterfly hurried, with a, “Ohhhh look who is wide awake!”

“He is,” Kult praised, adjusting his upper chest at his shoulder where they could see him, little face framed by the green camo winter suit protecting him from the elements. “Who is ready to wrangle gators?” he asked, making his way down the pier. “I hear there’s a beautiful woman who can teach you. But she’s already taken by a Viking. A swamp Viking,” Kult said. “Can you believe that? Vikings in a swamp? I guess you can, given your own royal trash lineage.”

Butterfly busted out laughing, shoving his shoulder. “Don’t teach our son mean things!”

“That’s not mean,” Kult cooed to him. “That’s just the ugly facts, yes? And we love all the ugly facts, no lying alphabets painting glitter on our bullshit, isn’t that right, Daddy Pain?”

“Daddy Pain!” she squawked. “We have got to consider another name for him to call you.”

Kult stopped in his tracks, eyeing her. “That’s the exact kind of glitter I’m talking about. Our son needs to be taught to embrace all the ugly truths of who he is and who we are, even who you are. We do not hide it. I will not,” he assured.

She dropped her head back with a little growl. “You’re right! I know it and I keep forgetting. Gonna take some getting used to. I just want to protect him from all that ugly,” she said, back to smiling at his little bobbing head and squinty eyes.

“He will become strong just like us,” Pain said, his voice soft as he stroked his cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Look at that serious warrior face. The truth will be the weapon that protects him and he will own it with all his courageous heart. ”

Butterfly and Kult both eyed Pain now. “That was fucking hot ,” Kult said impressed, getting Butterfly’s nods and laughs and kisses as Kult continued down the pier.

“So, you’re a poet and I didn’t know it?” Butterfly muttered behind him.

“Mommy Butterfly and Daddy Pain need to get a room,” he cooed to Garbagio as his cock remembered Mary. “And I need to get a room with Mommy Mary.”

Mommy Mary. The rogue idea of her getting pregnant had his mind suddenly tripping on itself. He surely wasn’t ready for that, not when he’d only just agreed to marry her. Plus, Garbagio was all he needed, all he wanted. He’d have to talk to her. Particularly about contraceptives. Pronto.

The music reached his ears long before the massive crowd of people came into view. “Holy fucking people nightmare, Garbagio,” Kult muttered, stopping long enough to get him situated back in the wrap. “Sorry buddy,” he said after getting him hidden away. “You seem to have some invisible sign begging people to violate all personal space rules.” He’d never witnessed more crude behavior from humans. Breath in his face, filthy undeserving grabby hands touching him. “But look at you in your Rambo-camo, you’re irresistible. That’s okay, I’m fully prepared to break hearts and fingers if anybody attempts to molest your space. We need to protect that. Can’t let just anybody barge into that sacred zone.”

As he neared the crowd, he spotted Atlas and Sync standing with Kaphas and his very favorite terror triplets. He realized the Marsh Kings had them surrounded as the people all around had a mix of reactions. Some walked by openly staring, but the majority either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Given the loud, energetic atmosphere, he was sure plenty of liquid courage ran through the veins in this swamp camp.

Fetch turned, no doubt sensing Kult. He always did, like some alarm went off when Kult crossed into his fetching zone. His favorite Fetchling the triplet called him. Now as he entered their circle, all eyes went to his prized possession strapped to him. “How’d he like the ride?” Atlas asked with a grin.

“Slept through the whole thing,” Kult announced, sliding the words out with pride while grinning at the shocked looks they wore.

Several of the Marsh brothers turned and greeted him with a camaraderie eerily comforting to him. The entire swamp had that effect from the moment he set foot in it. If he believed in reincarnation, he’d be sure this place was buried somewhere in his bones. Somehow, some way, these were his people. A delectable puzzle to distract him from those he wasn’t eager to unravel .

“I bet you were wide awake on that ride,” Sync said.

Kult eyed his brother, reaching out and grabbing his shoulder. “More alive than I’ve ever been and even more thankful for it.”

Laughing agreement passed around them as Kult held the clear gaze of his estranged sibling. “Pencil me in for a fishing date. I’d like to catch up with you.”

Sync’s bright smile touched something in Kult that made him want to wrap the man in a fierce hug for about five minutes. For so long they’d been running, hiding, fighting. Surviving. And now… Kult noticed things. The air in his lungs. The smells. The insects chattering about all the… normal things.

“I don’t believe we’ve officially met.”

Kult turned and found familiar smiling blue eyes level with his. He looked down at the man’s outstretched hand.

“He’s their Seer ,” Fetch said, moving to stand on Kult’s other side.

Kult regarded his Ex-Fetcher, finding a mild warning in his icy gaze.

“I don’t always have to see, ” the man said when Kult considered his hand again.

“What’s the criteria?” Kult felt the need to ask.

“If you wanna be seen or… if God wants me to see. ”

Right. Something told him that if it was the second, then there would be no negotiating. Not long ago, he’d have grabbed his hand and let the powers of his nightmares crush him but since Butterfly, he knew better than to fuck with that strange God power. The only puzzle sizzling up his mind was why he needed to grab that man’s hand and yet why he should never touch it.

Kult locked gazes with him, showing him he feared nothing. Light or dark.

He reached out with his right hand and their palms collided with such power that Kult’s breath got punched from his lungs. He held on tight to Seer’s hand and gaze as power pirouetted through blood and bones, holding him down while it ransacked his soul. It threw open trap doors beyond every wicked crack and evil crevice and didn't stop until it found the darkest hell inside him. Fetch and Fathom’s powers entered him, riding alongside the man’s, strengthening Kult’s legs and spine while the wicked things in his soul were forced to swallow this... debilitating light . This man brutally raped the darkness with it. The exact way the darkness had brutally raped him.

Fin’s eyes were before him now, hard, merciless, and unforgiving. “This part is finished,” he whispered, as bright blotches bled into Kult’s gaze before exploding into a blinding light.

*** *

All eyes had turned to watch Seer shake the man’s hand. It was a sight to see as an observer, but Spar realized something extra special was happening the moment the Kult dude’s breath exploded from his lungs. The man stood with his eyes so wide on Seers who ended up using both hands to hold him. Whatever was happening had those three giant triplets flanking the dude like a second skin. They intently stared at the Seer’s face but didn’t interfere, like they knew something.

Spar’s muscles were locked up with whatever they knew, whatever was happening and the second both men in the handshake collapsed, Spar lunged for Seer along with the one called Kaphas, catching him. The three triplets formed a bed with their arms, holding the other man who still had the baby in that body wrap. They eyed each other and whispered strange words that made Spar’s skin tingle. He suddenly had the oddest feeling that they were three angels. Standing by and guarding. Protecting.

“What happened!” Bishop shoved through the bodies, hurrying to them as they eased Seer to the ground.

“He touched that dude,” Spar said, winded by whatever had actually occurred .

Bishop’s hands shook as he held Seer’s head and tapped his face before shooting a glare to the triplets. “What’s wrong with him!”

“He’s healing,” one of them said calmly.

“From what?”

“From the power that used his body,” the Kaphas dude said, kneeling next to him. “This power... it healed our brother,” he told Bishop.

“Healed?” Bishop gasped, looking at the freaky golden gaze before pulling Samuel’s head to his chest. “Christ,” he croaked, breathless as he closed his eyes. “He’s okay. He’s okay.” He aimed his dark eyes at Spar and the terror in them hit right in the chest. “Help me bring him to the Basilique, brother.”

“I can help,” Kaphas urged, getting Bishop’s nod as they lifted him.

“Oh my gawd, what happened to him?”

Fucking Wanda.

“He healed my brother,” Kaphas said, a mix of awe and curiosity coloring his tone.

“Who’s his brother?” she called as they went.

“Nobody you know,” Spar answered, still pissed from her earlier bullshit move. For once she’d shown signs of humanity only for him to learn it was linked to a paid job. With Juliette. For me to know and you to find out , had been her childish answer .

They made their way to Seer’s little house at the rear of the Basilique as a sobbing Cherie came flying across the yard toward him.

“What happened, oh my God!”

“He’s fine, he just passed out,” Bishop hurried.

“He healed my brother,” Kaphas said. “He has very unusual powers.”

“He has God,” Cherie said, running ahead and opening the door for them.

“God,” Kaphas mused, like the term was new to him as they hurried him to their private quarters and laid him on the bed. “Which one?”

She pet his face and kissed his forehead.

“The Christian God,” Bishop said, straightening and eyeing him before holding his hand out to shake it.

The man regarded it. “Do you have power?” he asked with curious eagerness.

“No, I just wanted to thank you for your help.”

“With your hand.”

Bishop’s gaze briefly met Spars before he said, “It’s normally what handshakes are for, yes.”

“But your Seer did it to heal.”

“He’d be an exception.”

The room went quiet as Kaphas stared at Bishop’s hand then finally reached out with his.

“That’s all there is to it,” Bishop said, gripping his hand.

Spar watched the exchange, glancing up at the dude who also stared at the simple gesture.

“Thank you,” he said, looking at Bishop as he continued shaking. “For being… a friend.”

Bishop nodded once. “It is a pleasure, mon frere.”

Their hands stilled. “That’s the French language. Zhah-pron boh-koo duh shoze. Zhuh puh parl-ay set mil san swas-ont deez weet long meh long-glay eh mah long prin-see-pal. Mah fam luh parl. Ell sah-pel Celeste. Say mon ahnzh.”

Spar’s jaw fell open. He’d never heard his own tongue like that. Somehow every syllable felt like smoldering silk. With utmost fluency, he’d told them he knew seven thousand one hundred sixty-eight languages, with English being his primary tongue. Like his wife, Celeste. Who was his angel.

“Well, that’s fucking handy,” Spar said, getting those golden eyes on him.

“How do you know Handy?”

“Not… that Handy,” Bishop cut in. “The slang type of handy. It means... useful.”

The man’s mouth tugged a little. “I’m familiar with it. As well as the fucking. My brother Kult loves that word. As does my brother Harlow. Fetch, Fathom and Fin love the word in regard to sexual relations with their wives. As do I. ”

“Okay TMI,” Cherie cried quietly, sitting next to Seer on the bed.

“That’s an acronym for too much information,” Bishop informed him with a grin.

“Meaning it’s private,” Cherie added. “You don’t discuss that meaning of the “f” word with other people. Besides your wife.”

“My brothers and I need to discuss it,” he said, sounding confused and getting Cherie’s hand up.

“That's fine, but I am not your brother.”

“You are not,” he said, or realized. “My apologies,” he added after a few seconds.

“You’re learning quickly, mon frere,” Bishop chuckled.

“I’m getting a crash course in human complexities,” he said, looking at Spar now. “That’s what Kult told me this is called. Are you married?”

“Mon Dieu,” Bishop said, drawing the man’s gaze.

Kaphas wondered, “Your God?”

“It’s an expression for here we go ,” Spar helped dryly. “Yes, I’m married to answer your question.”

“If that’s what we’re callin’ it,” Cherie barely muttered.

“I actually don’t want to call it that but have no choice,” Spar aimed at her.

“Is there more than one type of marriage?” Kaphas wondered, like it would be news to him .

Cherie stood with her hands on her hips, eyes locked on Spar. “He rolled dice to pick his wife and let’s just say the fate of the roll wasn’t very nice to him.”

“Fate of the roll?” Kaphas wondered. “Dice do not have fate.”

All heads turned to the single chuckle Seer gave. “Those dice do,” he said getting Cherie’s gasp and mouth immediately on his. “Mmm,” he murmured in a pleasure Spar envied more than he dared admit as Seer made shooing motions at them.

“Take good care of my brother,” Bishop said with a grin, leading them out. “I’ll lock the door behind us.”

“Why would you roll dice for a wife?” Kaphas asked once outside, like it violated all logic and reasoning, which it did.

Bishop clapped a hand on Spar’s shoulder. “You answer that while I go check on our long boat.”

Spar nodded as he went off. “Thanks. Mon frere .” He then regarded the curious golden eyes locked on him, not wanting to be in the conversation anymore. “I’d like to forget the stupid answer to that question.”

The smile dawning on his mouth was one of pure comical cynicism. “Dice are used in games. Was this a game?”

Spar took a single breath along with twenty seconds, explaining the Fate Dice and its long- standing roll with the Twelve. At the end, Kaphas faced him fully.

“You misused the Dice. And now its Fate has taught you an invaluable lesson. Which is…” He aimed a puzzled stare at him. “Human complexities cannot be tamed by such a thing as… fate. Fate, is in fact, the essence of these complexities.”

“We see fate sort of like… the wind,” Spar explained, shoving his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants. “You throw five pieces of balled up paper into the air and they’ll all land in a particular spot, depending on the paper and the wind. Wherever they land, that’s the roll of fate or the Fate roll.”

Kaphas took several contemplative seconds before muttering, “Ballsy.”

Spar had to laugh at that, getting the golden orbs on him along with his smile.

“Kult would call it this.”

Spar realized then. “You love that brother a great deal, I see.”

He eyed the way his smile slowly dissolved into something similar to awe. “Love,” he murmured, fixing his gaze on the air before him. “What I feel for him… contains the greatest power my being has ever experienced. All the Kevlar in my cells and strength in my body and mind are miniscule next to it. This power exists also with my wife. When we made love for the first time, without realizing, I… fused with every part of her. Mind, heart, blood, bones and even DNA. She now has more of me in her than I have in myself,” he said, fascinated.

“Wow,” Spar muttered, getting his direct, worried attention.

“Is this wrong?”

Spar sputtered a few chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah man. It’s so fucking right.” He took in a heavy breath, amazed. “I don’t covet shit,” he informed, nodding at him. “But that right there. What you just told me? I covet the hell out of that. That’s called becoming one. Something I will likely never ever know thanks to my stupidity. Ah fuck,” he muttered as Juliette headed his way with a shit eating grin. “Here comes Bishop’s lil’ sis. Probably the one I would have married had I had the balls to act on a single fucking thing.”

“You must be Kaphas,” she said, walking straight to him with her hand out.

“She wants to shake your hand,” Spar said at seeing the wonder in his expression.

“To thank me?”

“It’s also used to say hello when you first meet people.”

“Or we can wave,” she said, doing that instead with a bright smile before turning it to Spar. She reached in the front pocket of her overalls and whipped out an envelope. “This is yours. Read it when I’m not around.” She suddenly hugged him and whispered, “For all the nice things you’ve done for me all my life.”

She released him and ran off in big childish skipping that had his chest in a vice of longing.

“This is a tragedy,” Kaphas marveled, like he’d been searching for a suitable term for his bullshit life.

Spar nodded, looking down at the envelope. “You nailed it, mon frere,” he mumbled.

“What do you think is in it?” he asked.

Spar took a breath and ripped it open. “Only one way to find that out.” He stared at the official looking document, speed reading up to the line that punched him in the guts.

He lowered the paper, looking around for Juliette.

“Is it a letter?” Kaphas asked.

“No, it’s…” He looked at it again, double checking he’d read right. “A writing of divorce. From my wife.”

“She divorced you? Why?”

The paper trembled in his hand as he closed his eyes shaking his head. “For five thousand dollars.”

“She divorced you for money?”

Spar folded the paper and slid it in his back pocket, his laughter coming in slow sputters of shock.

“Is this… comical in swamp culture?”

Now that was funny .

He looked around again and finally spotted Juliette on top of one of the houses. She blew him a kiss and waved real big. “Fuck, I’m ready to bat-tie that bastard Viking to have her.”

“What Viking?”

“The one she’s betrothed to.”

“This is allowed?”

“Really not sure. Don’t recall anyone ever challenging such a thing.”

“So… you would be the first.”

Spar nodded as he recalled the look on Juliette’s face when she was with that Viking . Purer love he’d never seen. Best thing he could do for her was leave her the hell alone.

“I would be the first…. But…. I won’t.”