[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine by Barbara Monajem Read Free Book Online Page A

of the painted messenger boys who set up sexual contracts between patrons in the sex clubs. With his physique, they’d hire him in a snap.
    The last thing she wanted was to cruise the sex clubs, and she didn’t even have entrée to some. Not that a pretty, scantily dressed girl couldn’t get in if she chose—but at a potentially horrendous cost.
    She and Pauline had hired Zeb for heavy chores before. If he had no work, he might be available to mow her lawn—hopefully today—so she could question him about what he’d been doing on the mound and why he’d taken the knife.
    On the way home, she stopped at the bookstore for a cappuccino. A display at the front of the store featured the most recent Constantine Dufray biography. She resisted temptation and went to look at the romance shelves. After spending fifteen minutes not making up her mind, she gave in, picked up a copy of the biography, and sat at one of the tables in the cafe. The author claimed to have dated Constantine in college. Hopefully her memories weren’t entirely accurate, particularly not the bit about his thirteen-inch penis.
    Not that it mattered to Marguerite one way or the other. Despite that kiss, she wasn’t really involved with the rock star, and she wasn’t going to be.
    “Good God, Marguerite,” said an irritable male voice behind her. “Tell me it’s not true.”

CHAPTER THREE
    C onstantine wrapped his arms around the huge branch on which he sat and laid his cheek against the roughness of the resurrection fern that covered its upper surface. From his vantage point high up in the live oak at the top of Papa Mound, he could see all three mounds and the museum. Over by Mama Mound, his people were clearing what little trash remained from last night’s concert. He’d had them remove the firewood and kindling from Papa Mound first. The disgruntled Myra, after bitching at them for a few minutes, had retreated to the museum.
    His guide, still in the form of a crow, perched twenty feet away at the end of the branch. It didn’t say much; it didn’t need to. The damned crow radiated self-satisfaction. One would think, judging by its glee, that it and not Constantine had kissed Marguerite.
    It had also convinced itself that a torrid affair would soon ensue.
You may even marry her
, it said.
    He refused to rise to that bait. Another marriage was even more impossible than casual sex. He had to get his mind under control first. The only way to avoid hurting the woman was, quite simply, to avoid her altogether.
    For the umpteenth time, he wished he could get rid of the damned bird. Far too often, its advice was cryptic andcontrary to logic and common sense. During his worst periods, he’d taken potshots at the current manifestation, but the guide always showed up again, patient, persistent, and, in retrospect, usually correct.
    Always
, the crow said.
    He refused to get into that argument either. The guide wasn’t infallible, but it saw patterns that Constantine couldn’t, and its timing wasn’t always right. Now and then, they managed to work in sync. The guide had pestered him to hold that impromptu concert at the Indian mounds, and everything had gone well enough, or so he’d thought… until this morning, when it became all too obvious it hadn’t.
    It was a step in the right direction,
the crow said.
    Toward controlling the powers of his mind, yes. Toward identifying his Enemy, maybe.
    Toward getting laid
, the crow added predictably.
    He tried to address the bird with logic. He didn’t trust Marguerite. Well, he didn’t really trust anyone—but he couldn’t let her come to harm. “If I don’t get involved with her, she’ll have a better chance of survival. I’ll head out west, disappear into the mountains, and become a hermit. If I’m not around to be accused of anything, the Enemy will leave her alone.”
    Silence. The crow gazed into the distance.
    “It’s not a cowardly approach,” Constantine insisted.
    The bird ruffled its