Belle of the Bayou

Bad move, cher. Not just the slip of her kitten heel on the rainy February cobblestones in the Fourth Ward. She got caught snooping. Detective Deleon clucked and strutted like a rooster in his rush to clear her from the scene, waving cigar smoke to and fro as he gesticulated amid the thick air of the speak easy. An experienced crime reporter, Marie knew better than to let the coppers catch her on the wrong side of the line, but curiosity had gotten the better of her.

Maimed.

That was the only word for what she saw that poor man was under the sheet before they hurried and hid him from her prying eyes. It was as if a wild animal, some kind of bear or big cat, took its paws across the man's face in a criss-cross fashion. Torn, not cut. But the man was a gangster, decked out in furs. He was bound to have enemies. Could it have been murder?

---

Marie retreats to her apartment above her mother’s voodoo shop in the French Quarter. Incense and jazz drift through the floorboards. The rent is reasonable but her mama didn't forget she owned prime real estate in New Orleans when she decided to rent it out, as she often reminded the thirty six year old spinster before asking after her love life. Today is no exception.

"Have you found a good man yet, mon amour?" Arielle calls from behind the counter as Marie trudges up the stairs, struggling to get the image of the maimed man out from behind her eyelids. So much blood. She has seen bodies before but nothing so savage. She shivers.

---

Deleon corners Marie outside the police station, one massive hand crossing her path and blocking it instantly. "A proposal, cher," he purrs. He feeds her selective details in exchange for shaping public narrative. He’s charming, faintly amused by her suspicion. His blonde hair smells like cinnamon. They agree to work together, unofficially, and he withdraws.

---

High-society fundraiser in a chandelier-lit ballroom in a plantation mansion. Women in mink stoles and men with gold cufflinks. Marie tags along as her mother's guest—a benefit of being rendered fatherless by war and having a mother who sold love spells and read fortunes for the rich and famous. She dances with the handsome Detective, there as the guest of the widower police chief dancing with her mother.

Another death interrupts the orchestra during intermission: a flautist with the same torn face. Panic ensues and the organizers call the fuzz. Marie takes a look at the body and spots Deleon slipping out into the alley behind the venue before the police chief cordons off the stage. Exiting through the alley, she finds large, bloody cat-shaped pawprints in the freshly fallen snow, but no Deleon. The blood fades as the prints exit the alley and disappear in the foot traffic of the street. How does no one see such a big cat?

---

Marie interviews witnesses at both scenes and investigates old archives at the newspaper office looking for evidence someone had seen this cat. Instead she finds a pattern of killings stretching back decades. Always at night, always a criminal. The man from the speak-easy was, in fact, a notorious gangster and the speakeasy was outside his territory.

It was under the protection of another gangster, known as The Beast. The Beast was also at odds with the flautist from the fundraiser—who was, by all accounts, a scoundrel working for a rival gang. Folklore columns reference a lion spirit haunting the Quarter. Luckily, she knows an expert in New Orleans folklore, and she owes her a rent check.

---

After asking her usual questions about Marie's romantic entanglements (or lack thereof), her mother confirms the legend: there is a beast lurking in the Quarter, a man who feeds the lwa with blood to keep his power in exchange for a monstrous form. "A beast who wears a badge is still a beast." She rummages around in a drawer and comes up with a gris gris bag, which she presses into Marie's palm. "For protection," she whispers.

"Protection from monsters?" Marie scoffs, handing the bag back. Her mother refuses, pushing her hand away.

"From wicked men with handsome faces."

"Aren't you the one always asking when I'm going to fall in love?"

"Oui," the old woman nodded. "Mais non, he cannot be this handsome Detective. He's trouble, mon amour. You mark my words."

"Why?"

"I sensed death on him at the gala. If he's not your beast, he knows who is."

Marie begins to suspect Deleon is both cop and culprit. There had been only one set of disappearing footprints in the snow, and they had been bloody. When she had seen him dip out into the alleyway, his hands had been in his pockets. The black wool of his tuxedo hid any stains from view. Could he have used his hands to do that to the flute player's face?

---

After a meeting for coffee and case notes where he laughed at her big cat theory as a fairy tale, Marie follows Deleon to a warehouse near the docks. She waits until she sees him leave again, then sneaks into the warehouse using a lock-picking set her father left her in his will. Inside she finds contraband, gambling tables, and men who defer to Deleon like a king. She learns that last one as they refuse to release her until he gives the all clear, tying her to a chair beneath an unusually clean skylight in the warehouse.

When he returns, she witnesses his transformation. His bones crack, his shadow stretches, a golden mane unfurls around a feline face. The Beast stands roaring in moonlight, half man, half monster. He smells her fear on the air, his nostrils crinkling, but does not kill her. Instead, he confesses: the murders protect his criminal empire from rivals. Fear is currency.

"Sometimes literally," he laughs, holding up a ledger and tossing it back onto his desk. Deleon offers Marie access to his criminal empire, protection from harm, and passion in exchange for silence. Marie feels the pull of desire braided with dread. She kisses him and asks for more time as she slips the ledger into her bag.

---

Back above the shop, Marie’s mother prepares a ritual under February’s full moon. She claims it can ward off werebeasts, and Marie is pretty sure she's going to need it. Arielle warns that loving a beast never tames it—it only teaches it new ways to bite. Marie decides not to save him, but to expose him. She uses the ledger and the witnesses to put together a scathing expose that shines a light on Deleon's crimes. She submits it to her editor just in time for the Mardi Gras edition.

---

Deleon confronts her in Jackson Square during the parade, half-man, half-lion beneath a carnival mask. No one has seen him since the paper hit the stands that morning but here he was, ready for a party in full Beast mode. He makes a drunken swiping motion at her and she screams. His claws glance off her skin like some kind of armor lay upon it. She would never again mock her mother's rituals. Her scream draws attention. Police close in. He could flee. Instead, he locks eyes with her—betrayed, almost tender. He raises the other paw, ten feet away and unarmed.

---

Gunshots shatter the revelry; he's hit four times. Two in the gut, one in the arm, and one in the chest. Deleon shifts back to human form, roaring against the St. Louis Cathedral bells as they toll the hour of his demise. Marie runs to his side, whispers in the void left by the absence of music and gunshots, "I would have loved the cat-man, but not the monster." He tells her she was the belle of the ball the night they danced as he bleeds out over confetti and trash.

---

Spring threatens the Quarter, but the chill of February's events keep Marie at odds with Arielle's prying.

"Have you found a good man yet, mon amour?"

"I was almost in love once, maman." She takes a drag off a cigarette—a new hobby. "Almost"