Dark Heir

by Faith Hunter

  Holding myself still, I considered what Eli had said. From one perspective it was a stunning betrayal, and my heart hurt, far deeper than I had expected. They should have told me. But from the perspective of a military man, one grounded in strategy and tactics and need-to-know, it probably seemed like the smart thing to do. With Alex collecting data, Eli knew who all the players on the field were: who was watching me, who was collecting information, who was spinning it, what it looked like when it was reported, and who it was being reported to. Except for the last part, it was all in the family.

  My tone just as mild as his, I said, “You didn’t think about telling me all this?”

  “I did. But.” He turned his eyes back to the road and pulled into the sparse traffic. Passing headlights created planes of illumination and zones of shadow on his brown-skinned face. He was thinking, trying to find words to tell me something important, something he found difficult to say. “You were making money. You were seeing George. You were happy for the first time in a long time,” Eli said. “I didn’t see a reason to tell you something unnecessary and bring you down, not for a situation that would never affect you. Did I screw up?”

  “I think so.”

  “You’re not sure?” Eli snorted again and slanted his eyes at me. “That is such a girl remark.”

  “Yeah. It is. Doesn’t change how I feel about you and the Kid conniving behind my back. How would you feel if I did something to try to keep you safe or happy or something?” And I knew it was a mistake the moment the words left my mouth. Because Eli grinned, showing teeth, the way Beast shows teeth—to make a point, and not a nice point either.

  “You mean like you not shifting into an animal with a tracking nose because you’re afraid to leave me to fight Santana alone?”

  I let the question hang in the air between us for a while because, well, he was right. Which I hated. I frowned at his self-satisfied grin and finally said, “Is this what family does? All this conniving and arguing and keeping secrets? ’Cause I don’t like it.”

  Eli’s face fell into what might have been his normal, regular, ordinary smile, had the Rangers and service to his country not beat all the softness out of him. “It’s okay, babe. You’ll get used to it.”

  Which made me feel all warm and fuzzy, because that meant that he and Alex weren’t planning to take off anytime soon. They were sticking around. Being partners didn’t mean they’d stay. Being family meant they’d stay. “I’m sorry I didn’t shift.”

  “I’m not. That sucker woulda eaten me alive and spit out the bone splinters.”

  I laughed softly. “Yeah. He would. And thank you for telling the U.S. government lies about me.”

  “Anytime, babe. Anytime at all.”

  * * *

  We got back to Samuel Square Park and tootled down Loyola Avenue as the sky grayed and the shadows changed depth, shrinking, drawing into themselves, as if the sun injured them. The new town house smelled of fresh paint, adhesives, wood, and floor finisher—lacquer or whatever they used to make wood shiny. We got out and I lifted my head into the wind currents, drew my lips into a snarl, drawing the night air into my mouth and over my tongue with a soft scree of sound. Flehmen behavior. Beast behavior.

  Over all the outgassing building materials, I smelled fresh plantings, turned soil, and flowering plants, primarily jasmine, a floral that seemed designed by God himself to ruin my nose. Along with the floral bouquet, I scented chlorine and burned vamp flesh and fresh and old werewolf blood. My lips fell back into neutral and I shrugged at Eli, who had a tiny smile on his face. My cat-like responses didn’t bother him at all, which made me even happier on some level I didn’t look at too closely. The Youngers were becoming family, which meant that they had power over me, over my emotions. I’d cry like a child if they left me. “All the scents, including the biggest concentration of dead human and werewolf blood, come from the backyard. There’s a pool.”

  Eli clicked the dart to the highest dose, shouldered the oversized trank gun, tossed a massive gobag over one shoulder, and moved away from the street. I followed. “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  “Well, we could go in slow and easy and hunt him down, step by step. Or I could get a good vantage, and you could race naked through the backyard and draw him out. And then I could shoot him.”

  “Naked.”

  Eli’s grin widened. “Works for me.”

  I almost said something snarky and then I realized he was pulling my leg. “How ’bout I keep my clothes on.”

  “That’ll work too, but the video won’t be nearly so much fun to watch later.”

  I shook my head in resignation, then rolled my head and neck on my shoulders, working out tension. “Okay. Gate.” I checked the wind, pointing to the downwind side of the yard, to a gate that was padlocked. “That entrance.”

  Using a huge pair of metal cutters he removed from the oversized gobag, Eli had me in the fenced yard in minutes, backing away and closing the gate silently behind him. Then he did a little more covert B and E, traipsed through the house, and took a position on the second-floor balcony, looking out over the pool; I knew he was in place by his scent, flowing down with the humid breeze. The backyard was decorated like a courtyard, with palms, and heavy landscaping along the three fenced walls, with the wall at the house covered with blooming jasmine, the scent so strong it nearly made Beast sick. She sent me a mental image of her claws raking the wall of jasmine down and tossing it into the pool.

  Eli said, softly, “Go.”

  CHAPTER 20

  His Most High Toothy-ness

  I readied my M4, but even with the shotgun and its silver-fléchette rounds, it would take a lot of ammo to kill a were. A lot of ammo. The M4 was nearly idiotproof, requiring little or no maintenance, and operated in all weather conditions, even New Orleans’ storms. The smoothbore, semiauto shotgun could fire 2.75- and 3-inch shells of differing power levels, in any combination, with no operator adjustments. It could also use standard ammunition or well-made, hand-packed rounds without replacing any major parts. It utilized the autoregulating gas-operated—ARGO—firing system, with dual gas cylinders, gas pistons, and action rods for increased reliability. It could fire, be adjusted, or be field-stripped, totally without tools. It was perfect for close-in fighting in low-light operations like the night might turn into if we were partially but not totally successful in our aims.

  I racked the slides on two nine mils, which took some good ambidextrous moves, rounds in both chambers, both loaded with silver. I called out, “Hey, Brute. Where are you?” Nothing happened, so I called him again, adding, “We’re here to help you.” Which was sorta true, but the call was to no avail. The wind shifted, swirling slowly as the dawn air currents followed the Mississippi River, bringing the scent of dead bodies and water, and the smell of werewolf blood, old and sour, fresh and weak. But there was no sound or movement. No visible sign of the wolf, not even when I drew on Beast’s night vision, which turned the garden area into silvers and grays and greens.

  I spotted the bodies. These didn’t look or smell like homeless people. These smelled like shampoo and perfume and fear. Lots of fear. He had taken his time, a leisurely blood-meal with the terrified human females. It was hard to tell much else from the blood-scent and the feces. He had torn them apart and left them piled near the diving board, like so much human leftovers.

  But I didn’t smell the sickly sweet scent of were-death, just blood—werewolf and vamp. I gathered that the werewolf had gotten there after Santana finished dinner. Maybe both had been injured in the fight that took place there. That was a cheerful thought. I wondered what effect were-taint might have on the old vamp. If we were lucky, that was the second time the wolf had bitten him.

  The wolf still hadn’t appeared, and I so did not want to go looking under the banana leaves and the elephant-ear plants and the other big leafy plants that could hide a three-hundred-plus-pound werewolf. It was the perfect way to get ambushed. I’d rather bring him to me, which
would give me at least a little warning. So I whistled, softly. And said, “Here, Brute! Heeeere, boy! I got a treat for you.” Doggy talk. Werewolf trash talk. Talk sure to anger the were enough to bring him to me, even if he was gravely injured. “Here, doggy-doggy-doggy.”

  Deep inside me, Beast snorted with laughter and I had a mental image of her slashing the wolf’s nose with her front claws. “Here, doggy-doggy-doggy,” I called.

  Eli didn’t react, but I smelled his amusement, a happy scent, like bacon-flavored ice cream. Leaves rustled at the back of the garden. At my side, I saw Eli in my night vision, two fingers pointing. He had the were in his night-vision headgear.

  “Here, doggy-doggy.” I heard a low growl and called again, “Heeeeeere, doggy! Come on, boy!”

  The growling stopped but Brute didn’t come charging. The harsh scent of fresh blood swirled by on the wind. I walked along the side of the pool. “Brute. We’re here to help.” Yeah. With the sound of two guns readying to fire. I was stupid sometimes. “Seriously. I don’t plan to shoot you. Unless you try to bite me. Then I’ll fill your sorry butt with silver. Come on out. Please.” The leaves—banana leaves—rustled again, and I blew out a frustrated breath. I was gonna hafta go looking. And maybe get bit. Again. I hated this.

  Placing my feet with careful precision, I approached the banana plant, the stink of blood and injured dog wrinkling my nose. “Brute?”

  With the business end of the gun in my left hand, I pushed back the leaves. And found Brute.

  The white werewolf was lying in a pool of his own blood and looked wrong. Just wrong. His back legs bent the wrong way, his throat had been ripped open and still leaked fresh blood. He had been beaten, mauled by vamp fangs, and maybe whirled by a vamp, twisting his back legs until they broke and splintered. He was barely breathing.

  Dying, Beast thought at me. Will go to angel Hayyel.

  “No. Not in my plans,” I said to her, setting the safeties and holstering all the weapons. I had rounds in each nine-mil chamber, which was a stupid way to holster them, but I might need the weapons. Fast. So I left them there, stupid or not. Louder, I called, “Eli! Injured werewolf. Near death. Rick said we should get a vamp to feed him if he was injured. Suggestions?”

  I heard him land in the garden after leaping off the second-story gallery, a deliberate choice on his part, as I knew he could have landed in total silence. Thoughtfully, he said, “Not really. Leo and his people hate werewolves.”

  “Yeah. Well, if he dies, we’ll lose any and all info he gained from fighting the SoD. So give me vamp names in order of likelihood.”

  Eli pulled a minipenlight and inspected the wolf, the light flashing over the bloody body so fast, I couldn’t tell what more I was seeing. “He’s barely breathing,” Eli said. “Blood loss, shock. Leo owes you a boon. The so-called big honking boon. You could call him.”

  That was true. I hesitated, my fingers poised over my cell phone in my pocket. A boon that big was worth a lot more than a werewolf’s life. Which was a horrible, foul, selfish thought; my old pal guilt gripped me in her cruel hands and twisted. But that boon could save my own life someday. Or Molly’s. Or those of my godchildren. How much was Brute worth? I hadn’t realized I had pulled my cell until after I’d dialed Bruiser.

  “Jane,” he answered, warmth in his voice. With just one word, I could tell he was tired, sleepless, like me. Pulling a second all-nighter, except for the short nap in my bed.

  I blushed. I could feel it creeping up my neck. “Santana and Brute fought. Brute’s hurt. I need him alive to tell us what he knows about Santana. Joses. Whoever. And I have to call Jodi, to report the three women Santana killed, so I need Brute handled stat.”

  Bruiser rephrased carefully, as if he wasn’t sure what I had said. “Santana fought Brute and the werewolf is still alive?”

  I looked around the garden, only now seeing what my nose had told me. Blood was spattered everywhere. There were broken pots and overturned lawn chairs. “Yeah.” I bent low to hear the soft, wheezing escape of air from damaged lungs. “Barely.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.” The call ended.

  I stared at the cell. Bruiser hadn’t asked where I was. He didn’t have to. Bruiser knew where I was. All the time. I cocked my head, holding the cell that was a leash and a prison and a spy, thinking. Wondering if I had exhausted the ways that I could turn the cell to my advantage.

  Beside me, Eli put away the penlight and turned on a larger flashlight, the beam so bright my eyes teared up. It was the brilliance, not the vision of the battered dog, that brought my tears. Wolf, I reminded myself. Werewolf. Not dog. It wasn’t a dog covered in blood, seeping from dozens of wounds. Not a dog with glazed eyes. A wolf. A werewolf.

  One who was dying. One who had saved my life once upon a time. Who had gone into battle with me against common enemies.

  “Well, crap,” I said, kneeling in the bloody grass. Getting anywhere near an injured werewolf who couldn’t shift to heal himself was stupid. Helping said werewolf was suicidal. “Medical pack.” I held back my hand and Eli placed the mesh bag into my palm as if he’d had it ready and waiting. “I am not predictable,” I said as I unsnapped the pack and pulled on nitrile gloves. They were Pepto pink. Cute.

  “Sure you are, babe. I’d treat the throat wound first. And try to not get bit.”

  “Thanks,” I said making sure the sarcasm was properly expressed.

  I eased my hands under Brute’s jaw and applied pressure to the werewolf’s throat, to either side of his esophagus, so he could still breathe. He was unconscious or too close to death to snap at me. His breath rate was fast, his heartbeat was faster, stuttery, uncertain. His body smelled sour and sick, the smell of death clinging to him.

  I felt something hard beneath my fingers, like bone or . . . metal. Holding pressure with the heels of my palms, I let my fingers follow the shape. It revealed itself to be a chain, like a dog collar, but it was too thin, too delicate. The heft and shape were more like a fashion necklace, and there were things hanging from loops on it. I slipped it from the folds of the wound and discovered that it was wrapped around Brute’s bloody jaw. Keeping my flesh away from the wickedly sharp teeth, I eased it free and handed it to Eli. “What is it?”

  A long moment later Eli said, “If Alex can recover any data from a bunch of jump drives hanging on a gold chain and covered with were-blood, it might be something. If the blood can’t be cleaned away, then you’ll have a nice necklace.”

  “Jump drives?” I asked. “Thumb drives, flash drives? Same thing?” Eli nodded and I said, “Reach said that Satan’s Three took his data. They could have used jump drives.”

  “Or sent it to themselves. Or to the cloud. Or just copied the hard drives.”

  “Adrianna had marks on her throat near where she was bitten by the Son of Darkness.” Marks that could have come from the gold chain I’d been holding as it was ripped off her. The gold chain that was dangling in Eli’s fingers, the links the same size as the marks on her neck. Reach’s data? One chance in a . . . couple hundred. Maybe.

  Santana was a child of the Roman Empire and had been kept prisoner for the last hundred years. He’d had only a few days to learn about the modern world and would have concentrated on the things he needed to survive: food—human cattle—shelter from the sun, a safe place to lair up. Electronic hardware had to be way down on the survival list. If he took the necklace from Adrianna, it was because he thought it had significance, like magical powers. And for us, maybe it did.

  “Get back to the house. Now. Before anyone gets here. Get the Kid working on it. Tell him I’ll buy him a whole computer store if he can save the data.”

  Eli chuckled and disappeared into the night, taking his flashlight with him, leaving me in the dark with a dying werewolf, Brute’s blood on my hands. “Come on, boy,” I said gently. “If you die now, you’ll never have a chance to get revenge for my Beast slicing your nose open.” Brute didn’t react, but he didn’t stop breathing either, w
hich was good enough for the moment.

  In less time than he had promised, Bruiser walked into the walled garden, three shorter forms behind him. By their smell, I knew they were vamps. And by the smell alone, I could tell they were agitated, vamped-out. Such concentrated blood smell could make the young ones vamp-out and go on a feeding frenzy. “Bruiser? You sure about this?”

  “Not in the least, but he assures me he can control them and that they need a challenge to remember that they are Mithrans, not simply meals to the more powerful among them.”

  “He?”

  Magic rose; icy prickles danced along my skin, sharp and burning cold. I knew that magical signature. A fourth form walked into the garden, a man of middle height, lithe, and so powerful it hurt where his magic touched me. Edmund Hartley’s power seemed to hurt the three young vamps as well, because the small group came to an abrupt stop. And danged if two of the three young vamps in the bloody garden weren’t vamps who had been drained by Joseph Santana the day he escaped. Vamps who had been prey to Santana.

  “Vivian, you will restrain the wolf. Liam,” Edmund said, “you will open your wrists and hold them over the wolf’s mouth. Rebecca, you will stand aside and wait your turn.”

  I rose, straightened my shoulders, and backed away, moving at glacial speed. I didn’t want to incite their hunting instincts by any movement or gesture that looked like running away or as if I was afraid. I let Beast enter the forefront of my brain and glow through my eyes.

  I am Beast. Beast is not prey.

  You tell ’em, baby.

  Am not kit.

  I meant— Never mind.

  When I was standing near Bruiser, arm to arm, the warmth of his body heating me through my clothes, I spoke softly. “You cannot tell me that Edmund lost his clan to Bettina. That vamp is crazy strong, and crazy controlled.”

  “Not everything is about physical and metaphysical power, my love. And not every battle is won through Blood Challenge. Some are won hours or days before that, in other battles, or in parley, in exchange for favors rendered or promised.”