The Louisiana humidity was thick enough to chew, but the smell of powdered sugar and chicory coffee made the sticky air entirely forgivable.
I carefully carried a grease-stained paper bag of fresh, piping-hot beignets to our table outside the small French Quarter café. Dr. Veronica Vance was currently tapping a brass compass against the edge of the wrought-iron table, frowning deeply at the needle as it spun in lazy, erratic circles.
"The local magnetic declination shouldn't be fluctuating by forty degrees, Gregg," she muttered, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses as they slipped down her nose from the heat. "Unless a high-voltage underwater cable is leaking current into the swamp, there is absolutely no geographic reason for a compass to fail in the Honey Island Basin."
"Veronica, it’s not a cable," I said, setting the bag down and dusting a stray cloud of powdered sugar off my sleeve. "The locals call it the Honey Island Swamp Monster. Seven feet tall, webbed feet, eyes the color of burning coals, and a terrible attitude toward tourists."
She scoffed, reaching into the bag without looking and pulling out a pastry. "A bipedal hominid living undetected in a heavily charted American wetland is biologically impossible. It’s likely a feral hog population or a misidentified black bear suffering from alopecia."
"Feral hogs don't carry off entire fishing boats, Veronica. And they definitely don't leave webbed footprints in the mud that match the ones from the 1970s case files." I took a bite of my beignet, accidentally inhaling a speck of sugar and coughing.
Veronica didn't miss a beat. She handed me her water napkin, her lips twitching with amusement. "Your 'monster' is an ecological myth, Gregg. Designed to keep teenagers out of dangerous alligator territory."
"My gut says otherwise," I gasped, wiping my face. "And my gut also chose the café with the best chicory coffee in New Orleans. Which you are currently drinking."
"The coffee is acceptable," she conceded, taking a sip and letting out a soft sigh. "The humidity, however, is doing unprecedented things to my hair."
I looked at her. The damp southern air had turned her usually neat, pinned-back hair into a soft, unruly halo of curls. It made her look less like a stern government scientist and more like... well, just Veronica. It was incredibly distracting.
"I think it looks nice," I said, the words slipping out before my brain could stop them.
Veronica froze, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. She looked up, her green eyes locking onto mine. For a second, the bustling sounds of the French Quarter—the distant jazz trumpet, the chatter of tourists, the clattering of plates—just faded into background static. The air between us felt suddenly warmer than the Louisiana summer.
She cleared her throat, a faint blush creeping up her neck that she definitely couldn't blame on the sun. "Be that as it may," she said, her voice a little softer than usual, "we need to be on the airboat by dusk. The atmospheric pressure is dropping, and if your 'swamp monster' operates on a nocturnal predatory cycle, I want my infrared cameras fully calibrated before it gets dark."
"Right. Cameras. Science," I stammered, recovering my composure and checking my watch. "We have two hours. Plenty of time for me to convince you that the Rougarou is also real while we drive to the marina."
"The Cajun werewolf?" Veronica rolled her eyes, but the small, familiar dimple appeared on her cheek. "Don't press your luck, Gregg. One imaginary swamp beast at a time."
Outside the café, the afternoon sun began to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the cobblestone streets. As we gathered our gear, Veronica’s hand brushed against mine over the handles of our equipment bags. Neither of us pulled away for a beat longer than necessary.
"Ready to go look at some oversized hogs, partner?" I asked, grinning.
Veronica hoisted her camera strap over her shoulder, giving me a sharp, playful nod. "Lead the way, Gregg. Try not to get us eaten."
