A Guardian Angel-in-training. A soul-eating djinn. A werewolf ex-convict torn between love and vengeance. More than a heart hangs in the balance.
Season 1 of Into the Wild Dark
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Wrongfully-convicted Jack Slobodnik wants his life back. Four years...
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Ch. 1: Jack's Package
WARNING: This story contains strong language, some depictions of violence, and mention of sexual assault.
August 1 | Near Midnight
My Lyft dropped me at the entrance to Bourbon Street. A crowd made it impassable by car. Horns honked over the ever-present sirens in the distance while clubs spilled tunes into the hot city. Doors were flung wide as the thighs of familiar lovers, and trouble beckoned at every corner, but I wasn't on the hunt for it.
Mom had pressed five crisp twenty-dollar bills into my hand, saying, "Go hang out with people your own age."
Thus, I wilted in the rabble. The loud summer night wrapped me in a sweat. I ripped off my clip-on tie, accidentally dropping the damn thing in a greasy puddle when a mob of tourists shoved past. "Hey, watch it, assholes!" I glared after them.
"Don't hurt 'em, Buzzcut. They're just looking for the razzle-dazzle of titty bars." A leggy blonde flashed a smile and cleavage from a venue balcony. Leaning over the wrought iron railing, she flirted. "Where're you headed, sugar? A wedding or a funeral?"
I touched my collar with a self-conscious laugh. Dad's hand-me-downs fit like secondhand embarrassment. "Fresh out of prison," I admitted.
"Oh! Well, good luck, then." Blondie awkwardly faded into the background. I shook my head. I needed to get laid, but her disappearing act was probably for the best.
The city hadn't changed. Neon lights in the heart of the French Quarter still blinked tirelessly. The place still burst at the seams with live music, drive-through daiquiri shops, and strip clubs. But, after being locked up for four years, I wasn't the same. The overeager community college kid, once naive enough to believe dreams could come true in New Orleans, was gone. Experience-sharpened eyes saw how desperately the city propped up illusions.
Annoyed again, I navigated the throng of people to a decent pub. I ducked into the building and elbowed my way to the bar. "Double shot of vodka." Enough of the stuff to dull the PTSD to a minimum. The nape of my neck prickled at someone standing too close behind me.
Relax, Jack. No one here is a threat. Bussing the water-ringed countertop with the sleeve of my borrowed shirt, I reined in the paranoia. When a drink appeared in front of me, I gulped the burning liquid, winced, and exhaled with a satisfied groan. The spunky beat of a pop-country song played under the hum of conversations around me. Glasses thumped, and ice clinked. Things mellowed out.
"Gimme another." I plunked a crumpled wad of cash down.
The bartender's hooded eyes flicked from the scar near the left corner of my mouth to my tattooed knuckles. Despite the muscles bulging beneath his tank, the expression on his face said he thought I was the intimidating one.
Funny. Press releases were lined up to show the public I wasn't the bad guy. Unfortunately, the news wouldn't run for weeks. The latest shitstorm of an interview had taken place earlier that day. News Lady had butchered my last name.
