True Dead

by Faith Hunter

  “What did we do about Derek?” Eli asked.

  My heart clenched, which he surely felt. “We had a funeral. A big one. Marching band through the streets of NOLA. Dancing and wailing.” Tears gathered in my eyes. “He was in a white casket in one of those glass sided carriages, drawn by white horses instead of the traditional black horses, because his mama wanted them. We gave his family a significant gift. We . . . We grieved.”

  Eli nodded. Time passed. We sipped, enjoying the quiet and the rain. “So,” he said.

  “So,” I repeated.

  “We gonna talk about how I know when your heart beats? When it speeds up and slows down? That our hearts are beating in sync now?”

  “We could. Or we could just let it lie and see if it goes away.”

  Eli made a ruminative sound. “And if I want to talk about it?”

  “Stop being such a girl,” I said.

  Eli chuckled. “Okay. How about we talk about Leo’s presence in the city and his change in status. The priest’s collar was a shocker.”

  “He’s outclan.”

  “I got that part, babe. I’m more interested in how that came about and what it means for the future.”

  “I only know what Leo told me, half of which he guessed about.”

  “Better than nothing.”

  “Okay. After the fire, Sabina swam back. It was nearly dawn. She busted through into Leo’s mausoleum. The heat had woken him, and he’d been trying to get free, but he wasn’t strong enough yet. Or coherent at all. Sabina fed him, but she didn’t have much to spare. She was burned badly. She got him to safety in the water pit. She fed him and brought some humans to feed him. At some point, she disappeared and never came back.”

  I looked down at my hands on the oversized tea mug. The saying on the side read “Undead Life Sucks” and showed a vamp with bloody fangs. It wasn’t funny, but the mug held more tea than most. I said, “Grandmother must have trapped Sabina shortly after we were at the Damours’ warehouse. According to one of the now true dead vamp prisoners, the u’tlun’ta ate her piece by piece while she screamed.”

  “Not your fault, babe,” Eli said.

  “Yeah. Right.” But we both knew I was blaming myself. Old life patterns, like accepting guilt not my own, were hard to break, no matter the evidence. I picked an easier subject. “I’ve been reading Immanuel’s journal while you lazed around and drank vamp blood,” I said.

  “And?”

  “All the troubles in New Orleans went back to my Grandmother and to Immanuel. To the time in the 1800s when Tsu Tsu Inoli—Mark Black Fox, a skinwalker of Grandmother’s lineage, and nearly as old as Gramma—ate him.”

  “And do you know why?”

  “Yeah. And it’s the reason Grandmother ate Sabina. To get the artifacts that were in vamp hands. Artifacts, amulets, made with arcenciel blood. So they could change time to suit their needs, and use the powers in the amulets to save the remaining Skinwalkers and bring back skinwalker power. I’m figuring Gramma blamed all vampires for the destruction of our people and wanted vengeance. Instead she and Ka are imprisoned in null rooms.”

  “Changing time. Seems to be the theme of your life.”

  I snorted. “And the ringleader—puppet master—is still out there. Leo’s my master, Mainet. He has a title. The Heir. Which is scary because it means the heir to the Sons of Darkness”

  “Leo’s outclan now,” he said, “and since the outclan can’t be bound, technically, Leo has no master, unless it was firmly established before Leo rose again.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “The Heir? You challenged him to war.”

  This time I flinched a little.

  “Yeah, I know all about it,” Eli said. “Alex showed me the footage. You were pretty pissed off.” He gave me a side-eye grin. “You missed an amazing battle while you were saving my life, but that ending was appropriately gruesome and bloodcurdling. Did you know you had blood dripping off your hair? Bet you scared the pantaloons off the old EVs.”

  “I saw.” I had seen the footage too. Once. But I had turned away when Eli died, and I still couldn’t talk about him dying on the floor at my knees. Not yet. Maybe not ever. “Leo visited you once while you were in the hospital,” I said, changing the subject.

  “I remember. Outclan priest,” Eli mused. “Never been one of those has there?”

  “No,” I said. “He had already claimed outclan status, but . . .” I stopped.

  “Out with it.”

  I huffed a breath. I hadn’t told anyone this yet. “When we were trying to save you, Leo accidently ended up with me in my soul home, with the angel Hayyel.”

  Eli frowned. “So that made him a priest?”

  “He thinks he was a priest from the time he rose from the dead for the second time,” I said, my tone saying I wasn’t so sure. “Thrice born does mean extra power and gifts, but Leo doesn’t want his blasted city back, and being outclan means he’s outside of fanghead political structure, and the fact that he saw an angel in my soul home means he’s more special than the usual outclan, soooo—.” I stopped, not sure what to say next.

  “Lucky you, Queen of NOLA.” Eli was way too calm for all this. I was freaking out.

  I blew out a breath. “Whoopie. The amulet Shaun was wearing disappeared off his beheaded body in the carnage at the clan home. I’m guessing that one of his people took it when they stuck him full of knives and pinned him to the wall like a bloody butterfly. And there’s worse.”

  “Always is.”

  Alex stuck his head out the side door and said, “Ayatas is here.”

  “Send him back here,” Eli said, before I could answer.

  “Copy.” Alex disappeared.

  I glowered at Eli and continued, “Hayyel is chained, or partially chained, wherever he is. I’m guessing partially chained, since he still manifested in my soul home. There’s a silver and iron ingot chain around his waist. He says my enemies are on the way and intend to do something to him. Use his power somehow.”

  “And you have how many of the amulets with arcenciel blood in them now?”

  “A flying lizard, a locket, and one the diggers found at Sabina’s chapel.” I pulled the ring out of my pocket and extended it to him. “It’s a crystal, sealed with silver, with arcenciel blood sloshing beneath. It has power in it.”

  Eli touched the crystal and yanked back his finger. His mouth turned down just the tiniest bit. “Is this as powerful as I think, or did I get something else from your blood?”

  “Beats me. Maybe it’s arcenciel blood you feel, something you got from Leo’s offering.”

  “Rule of three,” Eli said. “You have three arcenciel amulets. They have one. You have three brothers. They have one—Maniet. So when do we go hunting the location of the chained angel?”

  Ayatas stuck his head out the door. “Did someone say chained angel?”

  “When?” I asked Eli. “Soon as you can dance, my bro. Soon as you can dance.”

  CLAN PELLISSIER, ORIGINAL BLOOD-FAMILY HISTORICAL CHART

  Judas, the Eldest Son of Darkness. Sire of:

  Claudia Acete, a former slave of, and freedwoman of, Nero. Turned in Rome in A.D. 50. Dame of:

  Rufinus Agricola, a centurion in Hispania, turned in what is now Spain in A.D. 125. Sire of:

  Cesar and Ordonius Frunimius, turned in Spain in A.D. 400. Traveled to what is now France. They created a large blood-family and returned to Rome, where they fomented a blood feud against the Sons of Darkness in A.D. 950 and were destroyed. Dual sires of:

  Alazais Chevalier, turned in France in A.D. 900. Was taken by the Eldest Son of Darkness and forced into his blood-family as a slave in reparation of the blood-feud that killed Claudia Acete. The son felt a strong attraction to the boy and took him as companion, sharing his scions, his bed, and his own blood. This gave Alazais great s
trength. When his time of servitude was up, he left Roman territory and returned to France, where he became the sire of:

  Mainet Pellissier, turned in France in A.D. 1200. Was given rights to start a blood-family in A.D. 1450. In the years following, he turned several of his decedents, including Rudolfo and Amaury Pellissier. Rudolfo did not survive devoveo.

  Amaury Pellissier turned his sons and nephews, including Leonard Eugène Zacharie Pellissier, in 1525. Together they came to the Americas and started the Pellissier blood-family under the proprietorship of Clan Pellissier and Mainet Pellissier in France. They became one of the earliest independent clans in the colonies in 1724, and Amaury quickly became Master of the City of New Orleans. He took over the hunting territories of the Louisiana territories. Under Amaury, the territory spread and gained power.

  Leonard Eugène Zacharie Pellissier became Master of the City of New Orleans and most of the southeastern United States in 1912.

  Immanuel Pellissier was Leo’s heir but was sworn to Mainet.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to:

  Teri Lee, Timeline and Continuity Editor Extraordinaire. Thank you for keeping track of all the characters and if they are still alive . . . -ish.

  Mindy “Mud” Mymudes, Beta Reader and PR.

  Let’s Talk Promotions, at ltpromos.com, for managing my blog tours and the Beast Claws fan club.

  Beast Claws! Best Street Team Evah!

  Carol Malcolm for the timeline update for The Jane Yellowrock Companion.

  Mike Pruette at celticleatherworks.com for all the fabo merch!

  Lucienne Diver of the Knight Agency, as always, for guiding my career, being a font of wisdom and career guidance, and the woman who pulls me down to earth when I get riled and mouthy.

  As always, a huge thank you to Jessica Wade of Penguin Random House. Without you there would be no book at all!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book in the Soulwood series

  BLOOD OF THE EARTH

  Available now!

  Edgy and not sure why, I carried the basket of laundry off the back porch. I hung my T-shirts and overalls on the front line of my old-fashioned solar clothes dryer, two long skirts on the outer line, and what my mama called my intimate attire on the line between, where no one could see them from the driveway. I didn’t want another visit by Brother Ephraim or Elder Ebenezer about my wanton ways. Or even another courting attempt from Joshua Purdy. Or worse, a visit from Ernest Jackson Jr., the preacher. So far I’d kept him out of my house, but there would come a time when he’d bring help and try to force his way in. It was getting tiresome having to chase churchmen off my land at the business end of a shotgun, and at some point God’s Cloud of Glory Church would bring enough reinforcements that I couldn’t stand against them. It was a battle I was preparing for, one I knew I’d likely lose, but I would go down fighting, one way or another.

  The breeze freshened, sending my wet skirts rippling as if alive, on the line where they hung. Red, gold, and brown leaves skittered across the three acres of newly cut grass. Branches overhead cracked, clacked, and groaned with the wind, leaves rustling as if whispering some dread tiding. The chill fall air had been perfect for birdsong; squirrels had been racing up and down the trees, stealing nuts and hiding them for the coming winter. I’d seen a big black bear this morning, chewing on nuts and acorns, halfway up the hill.

  Standing in the cool breeze, I studied my woods, listening, feeling, tasting the unease that had prickled at my flesh for the last few months, ever since Jane Yellowrock had come visiting and turned my life upside down. She was the one responsible for the repeated recent visits by the churchmen. The Cherokee vampire hunter was the one who had brought all the changes, even if it wasn’t intentional. She had come hunting a missing vampire and, because she was good at her job—maybe the best ever—she had succeeded. She had also managed to save more than a hundred children from God’s Cloud.

  Maybe it had been worth it all—helping all the children—but I was the one paying the price, not her. She was long gone and I was alone in the fight for my life. Even the woods knew things were different.

  Sunlight dappled the earth; cabbages, gourds, pumpkins, and winter squash were bursting with color in the garden. A muscadine vine running up the nearest tree, tangling in the branches, was dropping the last of the ripe fruit. I smelled my wood fire on the air, and hints of that apple-crisp chill that meant a change of seasons, the sliding toward a hard, cold autumn. I tilted my head, listening to the wind, smelling the breeze, feeling the forest through the soles of my bare feet. There was no one on my property except the wild critters, creatures who belonged on Soulwood land, nothing else that I could sense. But the hundred fifty acres of woods bordering the flatland around the house, up the steep hill and down into the gorge, had been whispering all day. Something was not right.

  In the distance, I heard a crow call a warning, sharp with distress. The squirrels ducked into hiding, suddenly invisible. The feral cat I had been feeding darted under the shrubs, her black head and multicolored body fading into the shadows. The trees murmured restlessly.

  I didn’t know what it meant, but I listened anyway. I always listened to my woods, and the gnawing, whispering sense of danger, injury, damage was like sandpaper abrading my skin, making me jumpy, disturbing my sleep, even if I didn’t know what it was.

  I reached out to it, to the woods, reached with my mind, with my magic. Silently I asked it, What? What is it?

  There was no answer. There never was. But as if the forest knew that it had my attention, the wind died and the whispering leaves fell still. I caught my breath at the strange hush, not daring even to blink. But nothing happened. No sound, no movement. After an uncomfortable length of time, I lifted the empty wash basket and stepped away from the clotheslines, turning and turning, my feet on the cool grass, looking up and inward, but I could sense no direct threat, despite the chill bumps rising on my skin. What? I asked. An eerie fear grew in me, racing up my spine like spiders with sharp, tiny claws. Something was coming. Something that reminded me of Jane, but subtly different. Something was coming that might hurt me. Again. My woods knew.

  From down the hill I heard the sound of a vehicle climbing the mountain’s narrow, single-lane, rutted road. It wasn’t the clang of Ebenezer’s rattletrap Ford truck, or the steady drone of Joshua’s newer, Toyota long-bed. It wasn’t the high-pitched motor of a hunter’s all-terrain vehicle. It was a car, straining up the twisty Deer Creek mountain.

  My house was the last one, just below the crest of the hill. The wind whooshed down again, icy and cutting, a downdraft that bowed the trees. They swayed in the wind, branches scrubbing. Sighing. Muttering, too low to hear.

  It could be a customer making the drive to Soulwood for my teas or veggies or herbal mixes. Or it could be some kind of conflict. The woods said it was the latter. I trusted my woods.

  I raced back inside my house, dropping the empty basket, placing John’s old single-shot, bolt-action shotgun near the refrigerator under a pile of folded blankets. His lever-action carbine .30-30 Winchester went near the front window. I shoved the small Smith & Wesson .32 into the bib of my coveralls, hoping I didn’t shoot myself if I had to draw it fast. I picked up the double-barrel break-action shotgun and checked the ammo. Both barrels held three-inch shells. The contact area of the latch was worn and needed to be replaced, but at close range I wasn’t going to miss. I might dislocate my shoulder, but if I hit them, the trespassers would be a while in healing too.

  I debated for a second on switching out the standard shot shells for salt or birdshot, but the woods’ disharmony seemed to be growing, a particular and abrasive itch under my skin. I snapped the gun closed and pulled back my long hair into an elastic to keep it out of my way.

  Peeking out the blinds, I saw a four-door sedan coming to a stop beside John’s old Chevy C10 truck. Two people inside,
a man and a woman. Strangers, I thought. Not from God’s Cloud of Glory, the church I’d grown up in. Not a local vehicle. And no dogs anymore to check them out for me with noses and senses humans no longer had. Just three small graves at the edge of the woods and a month of grief buried with them.

  A man stepped out of the driver’s side, black-haired, dark-eyed. Maybe Cherokee or Creek if he was a mountain native, though his features didn’t seem tribal. I’d never seen a Frenchman or a Spaniard, so maybe from one of those Mediterranean countries. He was tall, maybe six feet, but not dressed like a farmer. More citified, in black pants, starched shirt, tie, and jacket. He had a cell phone in his pocket, sticking out just a little. Western boots, old and well cared for. There was something about the way he moved, feline and graceful. Not a farmer or a God’s Cloud preacher. Not enough bulk for the first one, not enough righteous determination in his expression or bearing for the other. But something said he wasn’t a customer here to buy my herbal teas or fresh vegetables.

  He opened the passenger door for the other occupant and a woman stepped out. Petite, with black skin and wildly curly, long black hair. Her clothes billowed in the cool breeze and she put her face into the wind as if sniffing. Like the man, her movements were nimble, like a dancer’s, and somehow feral, as if she had never been tamed, though I couldn’t have said why I got that impression.

  Around the house, my woods moaned in the sharp wind, branches clattering like old bones, anxious, but I could see nothing about the couple that would say danger. They looked like any other city folk who might come looking for Soulwood Farm, and yet . . . not. Different. As they approached the house, they passed the tall length of flagpole in the middle of the raised beds of the front yard, and started up the seven steps to the porch. And then I realized why they moved and felt all wrong. There was a weapon bulge at the man’s shoulder, beneath his jacket. In a single smooth motion, I braced the shotgun against my shoulder, rammed open the door, and pointed the business end of the gun at the trespassers.