by Faith Hunter
“I learned things from her,” he said. “Not enough to pay the price of my soul for what I did. But I learned things. You told Shimon that the white werewolf ate his brother, but he already knew that some part of Joses/Joseph was still alive. He knows Joses’s heart is in New Orleans, and I don’t know how he learned its location except from Edmund’s mind, gleaned during the final minutes of his possession. Shimon wants the heart and wants Brute dead. And wants you dead for feeding Joses to the wolf.”
I drew in a breath, slow, steady. “Is Jodi in danger?” Jodi worked for NOPD and was from a witch family. And she had Joses’s heart.
CHAPTER 16
Once We Finish with the Mustache Twirler
“I’ve called Jodi in New Orleans and told her to check on the heart and make sure it’s in a safe place. Jodi says she’ll put it in a null room and get back to me.”
I said nothing. Just hugged tighter. Silence was a powerful tool for giving someone space to talk. Or not. As they wanted.
“I was blood-drunk for nearly a hundred years. When I came out of it I was angry. Angry for all the things Leo had me do, things that seemed right, at the time, because I was bound so tightly to him, but that were wrong. Evil, sometimes.”
He took a breath that shuddered through his chest. “I’m Onorio. I have . . . gifts. Yet I didn’t try to save Leo. Because of the way he used me, for so long, when the sword was striking, I hesitated. I could have reacted; might have saved him. But I didn’t move.” He sipped the amber liquid, scotch, I thought. Nasty stuff. “Leo made a weapon out of me. Made me a killer. And with Onorio magics, I was able to move as fast as a Mithran. Faster. And I let Leo die. I let my friend die out of pique and childish anger.”
“You were sworn not to interfere. The outclan priestess would have killed you instantly if you had tried to change the outcome of the duel.”
“Who’s life was the more valuable? Leo’s or mine?” Bruiser may have laughed, but the sound was too broken to be certain. “I thought I was doing the right things when I was blood-drunk. I thought it was the right thing when I used Onorio bindings on Nicolle, who is now pining for me, banished to Rosanne Romanello’s Sedona clan home. I thought it was the right thing to let Leo die. Just as I think it was the right thing to mind-bind that woman. But . . . my reason is so faulty, so defective, that I don’t know what is morally right and proper anymore.”
I squeezed his shoulders. Nicolle was a vamp Bruiser took from Grégoire’s home after she tortured some of the vampire’s people. That was the place I first smelled the scent and texture of Onorio magics, mostly hidden beneath the onslaught of other, more potent smells at the time. Softly, my breath featherlight on his skin, I said, “My grandmother did the same thing to me. I’ve often wondered if I would have been my grandmother’s willing assassin had I stayed with the tribe and not been thrust into the blizzard on the Trail of Tears. And I think I would have. I think the violence she bred into me when I was a child was addictive. I would have become more and more like her, until, or if, I finally saw the truth, like you have.”
“And what is that truth, my love?”
“That we are killers. Morally malfunctioning. But with the ways, means, abilities, power, and in the position to do the right thing in the end.”
“The end does not justify the means,” he said.
“We all have the potential to do awful things when our minds are not our own. Yours was not your own when Leo had you.”
A sudden thought came to me, and with it came the scent of shame. Rick’s mind hadn’t been his own when Paka spelled him and stole him away. Even though I caught the scent of magic, I let him leave with her instead of trying to find out what was wrong. I let him go because I was hurt and shocked and embarrassed at a public humiliation. That was something I needed to deal with.
“Now you have your eyes open,” I said. “You can go forward into the future with who you are now.”
“Meaning stop dwelling on the past and do the job that needs doing now.”
I shrugged against his back. He sipped again. I had the feeling this wasn’t his first scotch of the evening.
“Do you think the blood of the SOD made everything happen the way it did?” I asked as the liquor went down his throat with a soft sound. “I mean, Joses had been bitten by an arcenciel. They make vampires crazy. Leo’s uncle and then Leo himself drank from Joses, when he was raving insane, hanging on the basement wall. They imbibed dragon poison through the blood that they stole. That changed the way they thought, the plans they made, the alliances they made. Maybe even made them worse people than they would have been otherwise.” I felt surprise quiver through Bruiser. “And then you drank Leo’s blood as part of the primo binding. Not much, but maybe enough to make you think and be different from what you would have been otherwise.”
“I don’t know. Every time I close my eyes, I see another victim,” he said. “Remorse and regret and repentance. Onorio powers are to bind and kill. Even you.”
“What about me?”
“Leo used his magic on you, against you, trying to turn you to his own ends from the moment he met you. Leo’s compulsion magic was powerful. And Leo’s magic through me made it more so. Leo knew I was deeply attracted to you. He used that attraction to control and compel both of us. And that, my dear love, is the biggest regret of all, that Leo had access to you through me.”
I had known all that. Had even figured that Leo had used Rick’s betrayal and my reaction to it to draw me closer to his side and closer to Bruiser. To say that Leo had been Machiavellian didn’t even scratch the surface of his hopes, strategies, schemes, and plots, layer upon layer for centuries. But I had been attracted to Bruiser, and when Rick left, I fell into Bruiser’s arms just like Leo had expected. What he hadn’t expected was for that attraction to dilute his vampire control over both of us. I said, “Until you fought him for control of your own life and mind.”
“I fought him for you, Janie. If not for you, I might have remained under Leo’s control forever. That alone makes me less than honorable.”
He had also been a teenager when Leo took him and claimed him and started feeding him blood. Stockholm syndrome times two. But I didn’t think he’d listen to reason or forgiveness, not in his current mood. “Maudlin,” I drawled out.
“What?” Bruiser sounded affronted.
“Isn’t that term for what you’re feeling?”
“Maudlin means oversentimental, overemotional, tearful, and lachrymose. I am none of those things.”
“Coulda fooled me. We were all his tools and weapons and targets. Even though he couldn’t blood-bind me, he still made me his servant. He knew I’d fight to keep the witches safe.”
Tentative, Bruiser asked, “Who will I be if I’m not someone’s servant?” And that cut right to the heart of the matter, drawing blood with a savage twist.
I remembered the words of the redheaded witch in the snow and said, “I don’t want a servant. I want a man with a mind of his own, wants of his own, and a life of his own.”
“I’ve had none of that. Ever. I’m not sure who I am. Not anymore.”
“I’m a war woman. I have to save my friends.”
Bruiser said, “You are a servant to your destiny.”
I scowled at that, wanting to disagree.
“And you may want a man with a mind of his own, but I’ve never had that. I’m a servant.” He made a huffing breath of surprise. “How . . . odd. That I didn’t realize that until now. I’m a servant, born and bred and twisted into shape by Leo for decades. To be a servant. And now to be your servant.” He seemed shocked and sad about that. His back straightened. He twirled the glass on the counter. “I’m yours to command.”
I didn’t want a servant but I wanted Bruiser. I had no idea how to merge the two desires. “And after all our enemies are dead and our friends are safe? Who will you be then?”
&nbs
p; “Our chances of surviving the Flayer of Mithrans are little to none.” He tossed back the scotch, pushed away from the kitchen bar, and away from me, and left the room.
Flayer of Mithrans, a terrible, wholly deserved title. I took Bruiser’s seat and prayed. Because there was nothing else I could do. Nothing at all.
* * *
* * *
It was after dusk and the snow/sleet/frozen rain mix had started and stopped a half dozen times. Two weather systems were vying for power over the Appalachians, one Gulf warm and the other arctic cold.
Soul hadn’t made an appearance at the inn. Bruiser was still overemotional. Eli was still single and snarly. Alex was still hunting Shimon Bar-Judas in every spa, hotel, and big private home he could find. Alex had also managed to get access to all the Regal’s stored security feed and was keeping an eye on every current thing at the hotel, the macabre hotel camera feed up on secondary screens the kids couldn’t see. PsyLED CSI, including my birth brother, ICE, and the FBI, had finally made it to town. They had begun carting bodies out of the hotel. The feebs were all ticked off to have missed the culprits, their body language furious and worried.
The witch adults were in the winery’s front yard, inspecting the hedge of thorns ward and discussing ways to make it more impervious to attack. They were less worried and more . . . having fun? Like a family reunion combined with bloodthirsty dangerous vamps on the prowl.
The local vamps and their humans were in and out of the inn and the cottages. I spotted my victim, Klaus, cheerfully following Shaddock or one of the other vamps around like a puppy. He didn’t even need a leash to be compliant to his current minder. Which made me a little sick.
The other prisoners were out like lights, under a sleep working, well secured with steel and silver.
The kids were watching a Disney flick and eating popcorn. Cassy was napping. She seemed to sleep a lot.
Sabina, in New Orleans, had disappeared. She had been hurt, burned, in the attack on the fanghead cemetery. She hadn’t been seen since her cell phone call to Alex.
HQ in New Orleans were not answering the phone or text or e-mail or anything. Alex couldn’t raise them at all. Alex couldn’t access the cameras in the old building. Alex—and thus we—were blind, though Eli had called in a favor, and so we knew the building at least was still standing and seemed to be occupied.
Jodi’s cell phone went to voice mail. The WooWoo room rang without an auto response.
And Brute had shown up again. He had dragged his big mattress into the TV room and was snoring like a freight train, Pea lying on his shoulders, the stink of wet dog filling the room. EJ was curled up against Brute’s smelly, hairy side, sound asleep, a bowl of popcorn in the curve of his little knees, spilling over. The cute nearly melted my heart.
Except for the kiddos, the tension in the TV room could have been cut with the blade of a sword. I didn’t know where the invading fangheads were. Alex hadn’t found the Flayer. Eli was running out of weapons to prep. It was the vamping hour . . . Crap.
I went to my suite and pulled out all my fighting gear and lined it all up on the bed. There was a lot of stuff. Of the fighting leathers provided by Leo, none had survived the many duels and battles and . . . Dang. The holes in the white leathers and the black leathers were significant and bloody and they still stank, even after Eli had cleaned the leather.
I tossed the ruined, holey whites and blacks into the corner and pulled out the big box containing the armor Eli had ordered. The smell when I opened the box wasn’t leather; it was vaguely chemical, sharp and bitter. The set on top wasn’t the camo I expected, but was scarlet. Not as flamboyant as Leo’s but made with military armor, Kevlar, Dyneema, and a layer of anti-magic.
The scarlet armor could be adjusted to fit the broad shoulders and narrow hips of my half-form perfectly. My old boots were still perfect on my paw-feet—not because the cold bothered me, but because I was tired of digging ice balls out from under my claws.
To go with the scarlet armor, I laid out the two gorgets to protect my throat: one gorget made of titanium overlaid with silver, and the more decorative, repaired, gold gorget set with citrines. I laid out the gold arm cuffs shaped like snakes, which had once belonged to a redheaded vamp who just would not die. When she finally was beheaded, and stayed dead, and Bethany died, I had ended up with the bracelets. The cuffs would be loose on my wrists, having been made for a woman’s upper arms, and they no longer contained magic of any kind, but they looked magical. I had thirteen wood stakes, thirteen silver stakes, and three glass vials of expired holy water—not that any vamp would know it was old. I had a boot box full of magazines loaded with lead-silver rounds and regular rounds. I had the double shoulder holster, a hip rig with a nine-mil and sheaths for the stakes. I had a sword sheath with a double-bladed flat sword for blood duels. I laid out three throwing knives. There was the Mughal blade in its red velvet sheath, my sword of office, a blade that came with a long history and a prophecy that the wearer would not die in battle, or some such nonsense. The Mughal blade was a gift from Bruiser.
I had le breloque. It glimmered a soft gold against the gray coverlet.
The Glob, with the Blood Diamond and the sliver of the Blood Cross, the iron of spikes of Golgotha, witch magics, and my own flesh cooked into it by lightning. It was an ugly, fist-sized weapon. I had used it to protect others and myself, but I had no idea if that was all that I could do with it.
I laid out all of Molly’s trinkets, witchy amulets given to me over the years. There was a tiny hedge of thorns captured in a small amulet. There were witchy locks that usually went on my bastardized Harley. There were other, less powerful things I had used over the years. And there was the bone earring carved like a coyote, the earring that had appeared in my stash after a night of really bad dreams. Molly hadn’t made it. It just . . . appeared. Presto. Like magic. Good magic. Safe magic. I smiled at the thought. Bruiser, still quiet, had been sitting in the small chair in the corner, watching me lay out my toys, his eyes hooded with grief. He lost Leo. He expected to lose me because I was still dying, albeit more slowly. And his grief and malaise were like a cheese grater on my nerves. I wanted to kick him, but that seemed really unkind and unproductive.
I set the armor and amulets on the bed and said, “Dude. I think all that advice about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and just getting over pain or guilt or abandonment is hogwash. But wallowing in the filth of your own past isn’t helpful either. The things you went through don’t own you. You own them. What you do with them, how you survive, whether you survive what was done, is up to you. I love you, but you have to make a decision. Give up or fight.”
“Leo’s fight?”
“Leo’s gone. It’s our fight now. Who cares who started the battle as long as we finish it?”
Bruiser’s eyes went narrow in thought. I left the gear strewn across the big bed and returned to the TV room. On the way down in the elevator, I received a text from Jodi Richoux, the cop in NOLA who had the heart of the elder Son of Darkness. Attached was a photo of the heart. There was some sort of mass on the side and things were sticking out of the heart itself, like arteries and veins. It wasn’t showing any signs of rot—not at all. It was still gross. Below the photo were the words Is safe in a Null Room. Shape and color suggests lung and blood vessels are growing. No sign of decomposition. Lachish Dutillet is in null room next door. She says to burn it. Witch council is considering.
I studied the heart. If it could regrow the entire body, which had been posited, it would have all the power but none of the memories, none of the learning or training. It would be a mindless vessel for the FOM to use as he wanted, until the body and brain developed new memories and personal will to go with the new physical life.
I detoured to the back of the house, following my Beast-nose, and found Brute, who was now curled up on a bed with EJ and Angie Baby, the infant between them, and a neon gr
een Grindylow resting over the wolf’s back. At some point in the last few minutes, the kids had been put down for naps—with a three-hundred-pound werewolf nanny. And Big Evan had to be okay with it. They were on his bed.
The paranormal creatures were alert, watching me in the doorway, so I waggled my fingers at Brute, asking him to come with me. He slowly untangled himself from the small bodies and left them asleep as he gingerly stepped to the floor. Pea, the grindy, held on to his white fur. In the hallway I showed the resident werewolf the photo of the heart. Brute licked his lips and chuffed at me, recognizing the heart.
“Yeah,” I said. “Leftovers. It’s regrowing. What happens when there’s a full-grown body and brain to go with the heart?”
Brute tilted his head to the side in question.
“Could the Flayer of Mithrans use his brother’s body and magic to make his own stronger?”
Brute’s ruff stood on end and he growled softly. His crystal blue eyes narrowed and he held my gaze in a very nonwolf, nondominant stare.
“That’s what I thought.” I should never have given the heart away. Brute should have eaten it all and then we wouldn’t have this danger. Brute turned and crawled up onto the bed. He curled around Angie, put a paw against the baby’s side, and lay his heavy head on EJ’s hips. The grindylow crawled around his shoulders and neck and snuffled in close. Brute blew out a breath and closed his eyes. He really was in protect mode. I had no idea what the wolf thought about the baby witches he was protecting, but I figured an angel-blessed wolf wasn’t the worst creature to have as a guardian. EJ curled his chubby fists in the white fir and held on in his sleep. Angie Baby snored softly, her breath puffing into the white fur. “You keep them safe,” I whispered. “No matter what.”
The wolf didn’t answer but his ears twitched to show me he had heard.
I turned and found myself nose-to-chest with Big Evan. I looked up. “Umm. Hi?”
