Slowly opening my eyes, I could feel the intense rays of the morning sun burning my skin. My head ached like somebody had spent the night pounding on it with a wooden hammer.
I’ve been drunk plenty of times before, but nothing had ever made me feel this bad.
I dragged myself out of bed looking for some aspirin and water. That’s when I noticed my clothes.
Same ones I’d been wearing last night.
What the hell did I drink?
As I rummaged through the bathroom medicine cabinet, I could hear sirens in the distance. At this time of the morning, with hardly any traffic in the Quarter, the sirens echoed off the buildings and seemed to be coming from every direction.
Weird.
Whatever was happening must’ve been pretty bad to have NOPD running Code 3 through the French Quarter this early.
I started my usual morning routine and put on a fresh pot of chicory coffee. As it brewed, I became more aware of the hunger pains deep in my belly.
Except this didn’t feel like hunger.
Sharp, piercing pains shot through my midsection, almost like I’d swallowed shards of broken glass and now they were trying to claw their way back out.
While I waited for the coffee, I flipped on the television, hoping to catch the local weather.
The weatherman was just finishing his forecast when a breaking-news alert flashed across the screen.
The reporter was standing on the corner of St. Peter and Royal Street.
“Another tourist has been reported missing from the French Quarter overnight,” she said. “This is the fifth tourist to disappear since the beginning of the year.”
Damn.
This city was getting worse every day.
Good thing I wasn’t a tourist.
By the time the coffee finished brewing, the sirens sounded like they were right below my window.
The PD sure was being awfully damned noisy for this probably being some tourist getting their car burglarized overnight or some poor panhandler, off their meds, raising hell in the street.
Then the pain in my stomach got worse.
It felt like something was trying to claw its way out of my bowels.
I walked into the kitchen and reached for a coffee mug. That’s when I noticed my hands.
There was something dark underneath my fingernails.
Dirt.
At least I thought it was dirt.
Where the hell would I have been digging around last night?
I turned on the faucet and started washing my hands. As I scraped underneath one of my fingernails, the dark crust softened and streaked red across my fingertip.
I stopped.
That wasn’t dirt.
It was dried blood.
I stared at my hands.
What the hell did I do last night?
I couldn’t remember one damned thing- yesterday was a total blackout.
Then I heard voices and commotion downstairs.
Now that was strange.
Whatever NOPD was dealing with had apparently followed me home.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and took a sip.
The second I swallowed, it felt like hot lava had hit the pit of my stomach.
My mouth filled with saliva.
I knew what was coming.
I barely had time to turn toward the sink before I started vomiting everywhere—the kitchen floor, the cabinets, the counter, and finally into the sink.
It came out of me like somebody had opened a spigot connected straight to the pits of hell.
After what felt like forever, it finally stopped.
I stood there breathing hard, staring at the carnage.
What the hell did I eat for supper?
Then I saw something in the sink.
Mixed in with the bile and whatever else my stomach had rejected was the strangest thing I had ever seen.
Something was looking back at me.
A blue eye.
A human eyeball sat near the drain.
Beside it was a man’s gold wedding ring.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t move.
The room started spinning. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
I stumbled backward and dropped onto a barstool.
That’s when I noticed the clothes on the floor.
A pair of pants.
Shoes.
Neither belonged to me.
Now I was really confused.
I sat there trying to piece together the night before, but there was almost nothing.
Just fragments of memory popping up.
Drinking.
Walking.
Maybe Bourbon Street.
Then nothing.
Footsteps thundered up the stairway.
A lot of them.
Apparently my building had become the center of attention this morning.
Then again, this was New Orleans. There was always something crazy going on.
Especially after a full moon.
I was still trying to remember what happened the night before when my front door suddenly burst open.
NOPD officers poured into the apartment.
“Hands! Let me see your hands!”
Before I could even understand what was happening, they had me on the floor, my arms pulled behind my back and handcuffs around my wrists.
Four officers held me by my arms and legs, dragging me downstairs toward the waiting police cars.
My head was still pounding.
My stomach was still burning.
And all I could think about was that blue eye staring up at me from the kitchen sink.
Then one of the officers keyed his radio.
“One suspect in custody,” he said.
There was a short burst of static.
Then he added:
“The Rougarou has been captured.”
