Authors: Faith Hunter
Later, I opened eyes and rose, moving slowly. I turned to dead pig and settled to
eat, belly to ground. Ate old watery pig meat. Rick relaxed beside me, scent signature
changing again. He opened his pig meat and bread food and ate. He started laughing.
I turned eyes to him.
“This is the weirdest damn picnic I ever had.”
I chuffed with laughter. Licked pig juices from ground. Was not so good as boar killed
with Beast claws, but was tasty.* * *
I dressed while Rick watched. His eyes were human again, black as the night, Frenchy
black and beautiful. Finally I said, “What did Beast do?” At his puzzled look, I said,
“She held me down. Sometimes I don’t have access to the world through her.” Which
just sounded all weird, since I hadn’t told Rick about the second soul living inside
me, or how she got there.
Rick grinned slowly. “She scent-marked me.”
My brows went up.
“Then she draped herself across me and licked me. I figured she wanted to be petted,
so I did. Then she ate her dinner and I ate my sandwich. And she shifted back. I think
she was
claiming
me.”
“Yeah,” I said, uncomfortable with the subject of Beast’s feelings for Rick. “She
was.” I buttoned the shirt and tucked it back into the pants. The blood was stiff
and dried. I left the boots off. “So, what now?”
“Now we go back to town and finish the crime scene.”
One of the phones vibrated on the grass. It was the official cell given to me by Leo.
I picked it up, and Leo’s picture was on the front. “Yellowrock,” I said.
Bruiser growled, “Katie was attacked at sunset. Natchez may have started out as our
foray, but once our forces were split, they used it to their advantage. We need to
get back to New Orleans
now
.”
“On the way,” I said. Rick was already picking up the blanket and our stuff. I grabbed
up my gear and we raced back to the limo. It was gonna be a long night, and for some
reason, I was feeling all mellow and peaceful and easy. I smiled as we ran.
* * *
We left our luggage for later pickup in the house we had rented and damaged, and tore
back toward New Orleans. I was in Grégoire’s limo with Alex, Bruiser, Derek, and Eli.
The limo had taken some hits during the fight with the blood-servants, and I wasn’t
looking forward to telling Grégoire that his ride was now damaged. Derek’s other men,
the injured and the healthy, were in the truck that had brought our gear and in the
rented limo that Leo and Grégoire had arrived in. Leo had commandeered his own helo
and he and Grégoire were already halfway back to New Orleans.
So much was left undone. We had never met or confronted the master of the city, the
vamp whose name I couldn’t pronounce, Big H. It was a serious breach of vamp protocol
to enter an MOC’s city without going the first night to say howdy. Of course, it was
a worse breach to go in and shoot up and behead his guests, so maybe I was overthinking
things. Or maybe I’d just made another fanghead enemy. Go, me.
In the limo, Alex was intent on something on his electronic gear, shoving in little
finger-sized drives, saving, adding other files, oblivious of us. He had a plastic
Coke bottle with a tall straw in the drink holder meant for crystal champagne flutes.
Eli and Bruiser were discussing tactics and strategy for securing the humans and vamps,
and on the phone to Leo and Grégoire and once to NOPD. Laying out plans.
Bruiser was in charge of this gig, not me; I was just muscle, a shooter, and I was
stretched out on the rear seat, letting the events of the night flit through my brain
like bats in candlelight, small things illuminated for a moment before darting away.
I was aware of everything. The smell of dried blood and sweat on all of us, the stench
of sick and dead vamp, tired humans, blood-servant, and the smell of cat caught in
my clothes. The limo engine purred. The softer sounds of Alex’s electronics whirred
and clicked. The night, like black velvet, pressed against the windows. The men glanced
back at me often, their puzzlement a faint tinge of scent on the air. The road bucked
constantly beneath us, the expansion joints making the car rock.
I knew that Rick was in a car somewhere behind us. I could feel him. His concentration.
His intensity. I guessed he was driving and talking and giving orders. Cop stuff.
I knew that his inhuman unit and Soul were with him, but I was no longer jealous.
I could feel his relationship with Soul and it was nothing like what he felt for me.
She was his mentor, friend, and teacher. He honestly just liked her. I wasn’t sure
that knowing what Rick was feeling and doing was a good thing, and though it was nice
on one level, I hoped it would fade soon. It was distracting.
And I could feel something else, like a disconnect in the fabric of the world. That
was a little poetic, especially for me, but there it was. Something was wrong. We
were under attack. We had caught one traitor, so . . . how had de Allyon known we
were in Natchez?
Was
there another traitor in the close-knit group, maybe someone near the top of the
vamp-chain? Not someone at the top of Leo’s group, because a master vamp knew the
heart and mind of everyone he drank from. That left the lower-level vamps and Derek
and his men. Again. I scrubbed my face with my palms and pressed them against my eyes.
We had lost the opportunity to use Angel Tit to feed our enemy info when we captured
his assassin. Was there a way to use that?
I pulled my cell and sent a text to Alex. “Is Cheek Sneak our bad guy?”
He texted back “Still looking.” Which was no help at all. With Eli taking his cell,
he knew we were onto him. If he was the bad guy, he wasn’t likely to make another
mistake.
“How about the others?” I texted again. “Anyone likely?”
Alex looked up at me a moment later and nodded, a scant movement of his head, and
sent me a text back. I read it, closed my cell, and put it away. So. Alex agreed with
me. It was one of six people, with Cheek Sneak at the top of the list He was probably
dirty. Not definitively. Which was no help at all, really. I remembered thinking recently
that once a list of suspects rose above five, things got complicated. Like now. And
the Kid had some new info for me, stuff he’d downloaded off the computers at de Allyon’s
before Rick took over. I remembered the green and red computer or battery-backup lights
in the room where I’d fought the first vamp. The Kid had gotten in there and downloaded
all the PCs. He was freaky smart. He was gonna be a huge help to me, even though he
did need a shower again something bad. Stinky little fart.
The limo was breaking every traffic law there was. We passed no cops, lucky us, thanks
to someone’s interference, maybe Leo’s. Maybe he had called in a few favors. Or Bruiser
had. Operations involving vamps meant that the system worked differently—that whole
“Some pigs are more equal than others” deal. I just rested through it all, letting
the world pass me by for once. Not fighting for once.
When New Orleans’ bright lights lit up the horizon, Bruiser’s cell rang. “George Dumas,”
he said. He got a funny look on his face. His eyes slanted up and met mine. His accent
went all British and snooty as it did when he was under stress or worried or really,
really angry. Based on the way his eyes went dead, I was betting on anger this time.
“Yes. I know who Lucas Vazquez de Allyon is. If you harm Katie, your blood, and the
blood of your people, will run in the streets.”
I sat up slowly.
“We are,” Bruiser said. His eyes bored into mine. “Have you replaced your dead Enforcer?
Yes. Jane Yellowrock is with us.” A cold smile lifted his lips. “Good. We accept.”
I had a bad feeling that the “we” part, of the “We accept,” actually meant me.
That cold little smile stayed in place as Bruiser hit
END
and speed-dialed another number. I was more shocked than anyone when Sabina answered.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dumber Than Dirt
After Bruiser hung up the phone with Sabina, the tension in the limo was as sharp
as lightning, all of us staring at Bruiser. I said, “Let me get this straight. I just
got accused of the murder of Ramondo Pitri, and according to vamp law, I have to go
to trial. Like now.”
Bruiser nodded, his lips pressed tight. “Not tonight. But soon. Within two days.”
“But that murder accusation could prove to be a political error on the part of de
Allyon, who was angry, probably ticked off by the attack on his Natchez property.
But for whatever reason, he blamed me and is using the death of Pitri to get back
at me.”
The men reacted to the “for whatever reason” part of the statement with various amounts
of amusement. I ignored them and went on. “By accusing me of murder, de Allyon opened
the door to forcing his blood-feud back under the Vampira Carta. Right so far?”
When Bruiser nodded, I said, “And so, based on that accusation, you got Sabina to
call a parley, under the flag of truce, with de Allyon, ostensibly to iron out details
about my trial. But at the parley, Sabina intends to force him back under the rule
of the Vampira Carta, all by her lonesome. Oh. And I can’t refuse the trial. Is that
about right?”
Bruiser chuckled, the sound unamused and harsh. “Yes. Not that anyone expects the
trial to go against you. But during the parley, which should last two hours, Leo will
be getting a feel for de Allyon’s forces, while Leo’s scions will rescue Katie.”
I sat back in my seat at that one. “Ah,” I said, finally understanding. Everything
about the parley was a feint except that last part—finding Katie. The limo had been
idling in front of my house for five minutes while Bruiser detailed the facts of our
current situation, and my place in it all, to our small crew.
“If I go to trial and get convicted, the penalty is death.”
“No,” he said gently “The penalty for this particular charge is to be turned by the
accuser, and to serve under him for all eternity.”
I thought about that for a moment. About being de Allyon’s plaything forever. About
the risk of Leo using a parley to rescue his heir. About the fact that Sabina would
not be informed of the subterfuge. It was audacious. It was sneaky and devious. I
liked it. Well, I liked everything except the part about me having to go to a trial.
Crap
.
I looked out the tinted windows at my house. I’d called it my freebie house for ages,
refusing to claim it. But lately I’d been calling it what it was. My house. My place.
I was part of the world of vamps whether I liked it or not, and that meant being part
of vamp politics. I
hate
politics.
Jane wants to be first with all her mates,
Beast thought at me, smug.
And Jane needs good den.
“And . . .” Bruiser took a slow breath and I tensed. “If you’ll bond with Leo properly,
and not do whatever you did to loosen the bond when he tried last time, he will be
able to use you in the parley,” he finished.
And theeeeere it was. I knew my face changed, because Eli said to him, “Man, you are
dumber than dirt. To have lived as long as you have, you really have no clue about
women.”
I could smell Bruiser’s sense of insult, tart and bristly on the air. I didn’t look
away from the house. “You need to get Leo and the other vampires to a safe haven for
daybreak,” I said, barely moving my lips, “someplace not on any record, and with lots
of protection around. Protection armed with high-caliber weapons. Bazookas if you
have them. I think Grégoire has a lair in the Garden District. I also think there
may be a lair beneath the Nunnery in the Warehouse District.”
“I know my duty,” Bruiser answered, confusion in his tone. “Leo and all his remaining
personal possessions have been moved to a safe location.”
“Well, goody for you,” I said, and my tone was adult and understanding and gracious.
Not. I opened the door and left the limo, stomped to my house, and let myself in.
I slammed the door. “He really has no clue. He is dumber than dirt,” I said to the
empty house. I went to my room and closed the door. Turned the small lock, though
I knew it was no impediment to Eli.
Once I shifted, my flesh wasn’t dirty or bloody anymore, but my clothes were still
grotty. I stripped in the dark, tossed my ruined clothes into one pile and the ones
that were just bloody into another, showered, and dressed quickly in the dark, pulling
on jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved knit T-shirt under my armored, vamp-fighting leather
coat. I didn’t expect to be fighting anyone, but the last few days had been hard on
my wardrobe. I didn’t have a lot of fashion choices left.
I could hear the guys moving around in the house, one upstairs showering, one in the
kitchen. I left without seeing either, kicked Bitsa on, and took off. I had no desire
to check out the security at Grégoire’s place—the Arceneau Clan Home—but it was part
of the job whether I liked it or not. I’d left the Pellissier Clan Home in the hands
of Leo’s true Enforcer and primo blood-servant, and that just got the place burned
down. It wasn’t going to happen again.
I got to the clan home in the Garden District near two a.m. and pulled through the
six-foot-tall, black-painted, wrought-iron gate, the twisted bars in a fleur-de-lis
and pike-head pattern at the top. As I braked at the back bumper of the black limo,
one of Grégoire’s identical twin blood-servants stepped to the porch holding what
looked in the night like a small Uzi. I killed the engine, unhelmeted, and unwound
my legs from the bike.
“Little Janie. I assumed you would be by here sometime tonight.”
“Security check. Will Leo and Grégoire be close by day? Close enough to be protected
by you guys?” I asked as I walked up to the porch.
“Close enough,” the B-twin agreed. “And the lair is hard-wired in to the security
here at the clan home.” The three-story house was larger and deeper than it looked
from the street, forty-six feet across the front and nearly twice that deep, taking
up most of the small lot. It entered into a foyer with dining room and parlor on opposite
sides and a wide staircase to the right leading up to the second floor, the stairs
carpeted with a blue, gray, and black Oriental rug.
Nothing décorwise had changed since my last visit except the clutter in the dining
room. Stacked on the floor and on the hand-carved cherrywood dining table and chairs
was a bunch of junk. By the sour stench of smoke, it was Leo’s junk, which meant expensive
art and collectibles. Over the scent, I smelled tea and coffee and something sweet,
like freshly baked pie or cake. My mouth watered.
The twin, who had no mole at his hairline, thus identifying him as Brian, closed the
door and murmured into his mic, “Janie inside. Resume patrols.”
“How many do you have patrolling?” I asked.
“Two shooters in the attic at front and back, five on the grounds. Brandon is at the
back entrance, and I have the front.”
I let a small smile form on my lips. “You know what I like about you and your ugly
brother?” He cocked his head in question. “You don’t get your panties in a wad when
I ask questions.”
“Boxers, not panties,” he said, showing his teeth in what could only be called a rakish
grin.
“Whatever,” I said, laughing. I pointed to the dining room. “I didn’t think anything
had survived the fire.”
“The servants got everything out of the library, all the paintings off the walls,
and most of Leo’s more valuable collectibles out before the fire spread. Grégoire
had them transported here until we can arrange for storage elsewhere. Until Leo can
rebuild. Sabina wanted you to have this. The Master of the City agreed.”
Brian was holding a leather-bound book and a pair of white cotton gloves. I looked
the question at him and he said, “Gloves. To protect the book.”
I slid them on and took the small, very heavy book. I didn’t know much about old books,
but I had a feeling that this one was
very
old. The leather felt slightly slimy even through my gloves, the paper inside was
thick, like paper handmade out of old cloth, and there were pictures in the margins.
The print was weird too, with lots of curlicues. Then I realized it was hand-scribed,
not printed, each letter and each painting inked by hand. This was a
really
old book. Maybe from the Middle Ages. I saw a few words that might have been Spanish
or maybe Latin. What did I know? I couldn’t read a word. “What is it?” I asked Brian.
He reached around me and opened it. On the right-hand page was a stylized drawing
of a vampire. There was no title on the cover or the spine, but I did find one on
the third page. “La Historia De Los Mithrans en Las Americas,” I said. I might not
read Spanish, but I got this one. “Oh, crap,” I whispered.
Brian chuckled. “Yeah. Those Mithrans love to see themselves in print and paintings,”
he said, sounding
very upper-class New Orleans in that moment. “It’s for interesting reading. Sabina,
the priestess, thinks you will find page 134 of particular interest.”
I turned to page 134 and found a drawing that slowly stole the breath from my lungs.
It was a drawing of a Spanish conquistador, his plate armor shining, one boot resting
on the fallen form of an Indian. The man beneath his boot was naked, his hair unbound
and tangled on the ground. He was dead, his blood leaking into the dirt from a large
throat wound. And his hands were furred and clawed. Silently I mouthed the word “Skinwalker.”
There were other naked Indians on the ground at the feet of the Spaniard; two had
yellow eyes like mine, one was a woman. She was alive, fear etched on her face in
stark black ink lines. “Can you read this?” I asked, tapping the text on the page.
“I am possessed of a classical education,” Brian said with a pretentious sniff, “but
that book isn’t Latin, Greek, French, Italian, or modern Castilian Spanish. It’s some
archaic form of Spanish. I can make out the name of this vampire, however.”
He reached around me, his body heat enveloping me like a warm blanket, and turned
one page back. I had sparred with the B-twins once and their body heat had made the
windows of the room sweat. I was cold now and wanted to lean into him. But I didn’t.
I couldn’t. Grégoire’s blood-servant pointed at the subtitle on the top of the page.
“‘Lucas Vazquez de Allyon.
El Rival de la Muerte.’ Death’s Rival.”
I took a slow breath, the air painful against my tight throat tissues. Lucas had known
skinwalkers. Had killed skinwalkers. De Allyon was not just Leo’s enemy. He was mine
as well.
“I have to get back to the door,” he said. “You’ll need to talk to Leo about the text.
He can read it.” Brian walked away.
I remembered seeing books in the Pellissier Clan Home before it burned, secured in
small, locked cases in his library and in his music room. How could I ask Leo about
the text without having him see the yellow eyes of the prostrated Indians and draw
a conclusion I wanted him to avoid? He had already seen me in a partial shift. He
knew I was some kind of supernatural cat, though not a were. I didn’t smell like a
were. Unless I left the vamps, and the hefty paychecks they offered, the time was
coming when my secret would be made public, whether I wanted that to happen or not.
But I wanted it to be a time of my choosing, not something that I let happen with
no direction, no control.
I studied the small painting beneath de Allyon’s name. It was a pen-and-ink miniature
of a vampire in his fully human guise, his eyes and hair dark brown, his nose large
and Roman, jaw firm, forehead wide, with a beard and mustache in the style that used
to be called a Vandyke. He wasn’t pretty, not even handsome, but he looked powerful,
forceful, domineering, a man who never took no for an answer. The artist had managed
to catch the brutal curl of his lips, and his disdain for anything and anyone who
wasn’t him.
The heavy paper moving stiffly, I turned the page back to the picture of the conquistador
and his dead prey, staring at the yellow-eyed woman, terrified at de Allyon’s feet.
I realized that he wanted all of his enemies beneath his feet, and probably all his
women. Captive and fearful.
On the next page was another miniature, but now de Allyon was wearing cloth pants
and an animal skin over his shoulders. It was a mountain lion pelt, the puma’s head
propped on one shoulder, showing killing teeth. The chill I was feeling spread and
my fingertips tingled. Lying dead at his feet were more mountain lions. One had a
human head. Another had human hands and feet. One was a black panther, the melanistic
Puma concolor
, a mythical beast as far as science was concerned. All were bound and bleeding from
many wounds, but the largest wounds were at their throats where fangs had torn them
out. De Allyon had killed my kind and drunk their blood.
Sabina had said, “Your enemy will know you by your smell.” She knew.
The protectors of the Cherokee had been captured and slaughtered to feed the blood
appetite of a Naturaleza vampire. I felt tears prick at the back of my eyes and I
breathed deeply to control my reaction, but my hands grew icy and my breath came short
and fast.
The vamp was sitting in a gilded chair, vamped out, fangs down, his eyes black and
scarlet, and he was holding a golden bowl, filled with blood. Blood streamed from
his mouth and down his naked chest. De Allyon looked odd. It took a moment to figure
out why he looked so different from any other vamp I’d seen. He was . . . not fat,
but not cadaverously skinny. Most vamps looked . . . starved. Yeah. That was the difference.
Things started to click into place in my mind as I stared at the bloody, violent creature
on the page. With the blood flowing down his chin and chest, it was clear the artist
had been trying to show us that de Allyon had been drinking blood. A lot of blood.
When vamps drank a lot of blood, they were well fed and powerful. Only the Naturaleza
drank as much as they wanted.