Death's Rival jy-5

by Faith Hunter

  I came to, on the grass beside blanket. Ricky Bo was there, green cat eyes watching me. I panted, smelling his lust and Jane’s on the air. Watched him. Liked the smell of the cat inside him. Different from smell of Beast-cat, but fertile and young and full of strength. I pulled paws under me and stretched, arching back, stretching out front legs and chest and spine. Yawned, showing killing teeth. I padded across blanket. Rick’s body went still. Smelled his scent change. I huffed. No need to fear. I leaned over him, sniffing, sucking air in through mouth, over scent sacs in mouth. Liked his scent.

  “Jane?” Rick asked, his voice tight. “Are you there?”

  I licked his face, rough tongue on his pelt and skin. I rubbed my jaw over him, depositing scent. He did not move. He stayed still, not sure if he was prey or mate. I draped legs across him and lay on him, belly to belly. Licked again. Stared him in face, in eyes. Mine. Always mine.

  Rick raised hand. Stroked along Beast side. Scratched under jaw and up near ears. I huffed and laid head on his chest. Heard his heartbeat grow steady. I closed eyes. Let Rick groom me.

  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 her
e 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.