Prologue

Children always rebel against their parents.  

The redolent scent of incense filled the warm, dark kitchen as you sat in front of the wood-burning, cast-iron stove, idly daydreaming as your mother finished braiding your hair. Fragrant bunches of dried herbs hung from the darkened wood beams of the ceiling, and your mother’s beloved pets, two six foot black pine snakes, languidly slithered across up the legs of your chair, looking for body heat.  “Don’t know why you insist on wearing these here pigtails, chere,” she muttered ruefully as she carefully wound a length of rare black deerskin lacing around the end of each waist-length braid.  “Hair’s too wild and pretty to be kept all cooped up.”

“Exactly, Maman, it’s too wild.  Don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”  You turned slightly.  “Finis?”

“Oui, bebe,” she cooed, before leaning down to squeeze your shoulders, wickedly whispering, “Mais, what’s life without a few wrong ideas here and there, hein?”

Ignoring her, you primly smoothed down the sprigged cotton of your new spring dress.  “It’s not a mistake if you already know it’s wrong--just a bad decision..”

Your mother softly snorted as she replaced the lid on the aromatic black castor oil that she massaged into your scalp at least once a week.  “Ma foi, I suppose that this is why they say youth is wasted on the young.”  Crossing her arms, and leaning against the stove, she fixed you with a look.  “Ma papillon, life is for living!  You can rest up all cold and austere when you’re sleeping in the ground, chere, but I don’t care what anybody says, I’m going to live, live, live until I die!”

“Live too hard, and you’re liable to die too soon,” you quipped.

Hands now on her hips, your mother looked you up and down.  “I swear, I don’t know what kind of throwback you are, papillon--ain’t no Leveau girl been as uptight as you since...since...well I don’t even know when!  That must be your daddy’s side.”

With a grin, you slid off the chair and bent down to kiss your tiny mother’s soft cheek.  “Why is it that whenever I do or say something you don’t like, all of a sudden, I’m my daddy’s girl?”

“Don’t try to butter me up, you smart-mouthed sass-bucket!”   She returned the kiss on your cheek as she gave your bottom a few rough swats.  “Don’t think you’re too big for me to tan your britches!”

“But, maman,” you started innocently, shaking your head, “I’m wearing a dress!”  She sneered at you in mock anger, but you knew that she secretly found you amusing.  

“So you off to that church again, eh?” she started, pouring the cup of water down the sink, and turning on the faucet to rinse the comb.

“I go every Sunday morning, don’t I?”

She shook her head.  “Definitely ain’t no Leveau.  If I hadn't had you myself, I’d have thought your daddy was cheating.”

You snorted, walking up to her and putting your arms around her waist as you leaned your chin on her shoulder.  “You could always come with me, you know.   Reverend Lenier would be happy to see you anytime.”

Her smile turned sly.  “And you can always come with me into the forest on the full moon.  See who’s there, and what we can get up to…”

Scoffing, you released her and turned away.  “Heathen.”

“Prude.”

“Jezebel,” you tossed over your shoulder as you opened the door.  

She snorted.  “This here so-called Jezebel is still your momma and she’s telling you you’re about to forget your purse, little miss know-it-all.”

“Oh!  Merci!,” you said, grabbing your purse from the corner, and tossing a careless Je t’aime! over your shoulder.

She waved you off.  “Go on, or you’re going to be late.  Not that you can’t afford to be--”

“Au revoir, maman!”  You ran out the door and into the fresh spring morning before she could get her back into another lecture.  

Later that afternoon, after church, you were walking  home when a red Mercedes-Benz C63 shot past you on the narrow country road.  Frowning, you realized that the driver must be from out of town, because no local would go that fast around the hairpin tur-

A sudden screech and crash made your heart feel like it was going to beat its way out of your body, and after a second of paralyzing fear, you ran, turning the corner to find the car had driven straight through the guardrail, into the swamp, and was slowly sinking.   Kicking off your shoes, and grabbing the lucky utility knife that you carried with you everywhere, you made a cursory search for gators and crocs before diving in, and swimming over to the car.  Fortunately, the swamp was relatively shallow, but still deep enough for the car to completely submerge, and by the time you reached it, the hood was already engulfed in the swirling brown muck.  

Even more fortunately still, the driver-side window was down, because you knew that you wouldn’t have the strength to open the door until the entire car was underwater, and by then the driver could have already drowned.  Said driver was unconscious, his head hanging, and the only thing holding him up was his seatbelt--apparently his airbag hadn’t deployed.  Holding onto the door with one hand, you opened your knife with the other, and frantically sawed at the seatbelt until it released him.  By then, only his head was above the water, so you grabbed him under the arms, set your feet against the door, and heaved him out of the sinking car into the swamp.  

With one arm under his arms and over his chest, and the other paddling desperately, you scissor-kicked away from the car, while still being careful to keep an eye out for the hungrier and more aggressive members of the local fauna.  When finally on firm land, you didn’t stop--not wanting to lie on the banks as croc bait, you maneuvered him over one shoulder and crawled toward the road until finally--energy exhausted--you collapsed into the ditch.  

The bump as his head hit the ground must have knocked some sense into him, because he moaned and opened his eyes.  Rising up on one arm, you looked down at him, relieved to see that he was still alive.  In the distance, sirens started to wail.  

“Are you an angel?” he groaned, eyes sliding shut, his voice gritty and deep.

“No, sir,” you answered shakily.  

“Sir,” he chuckled, and then coughed. “What’s your name?”

“Carmelle.”

“Nice to meet you, Carmelle,” he sighed.  “I’m Wu Yifan.  How old are you?”

“Sixteen, sir.  I’m about to be seventeen on Saturday.”

“Well, then,” he murmured, one hand sliding up into your muddy hair that had come undone sometime during your impromptu swim, “I guess that you’re old enough for kisses.”  He pulled you down, and though he did no more than firmly press your mouth to his, there in the ditch, in your once white dress covered with mud--

Your heart stopped.