by Faith Hunter
In a rush, all the manic energy drained out of me, like water flowing from my fingertips and puddling on the floor of the vehicle. My limbs went weak, my eyes were too heavy, and my head lolled back against the backseat. I was pretty sure I was passing out. I said something bad just as unconsciousness took me. My last sight was the sun trying to rise, a gray haze on the eastern sky, reflected in broken window glass everywhere.
• • •
The sun was high in the sky when I heard a hollow knocking and my cell buzzed at the same time, waking me. I picked up my cell and looked around at traffic. It took a moment to remember why I was sleeping in the back of the SUV on a crowded city street. There was a parking ticket on the windshield wiper. Great. And Eli stood at the broken passenger window with a peculiar look on his face. I waved Eli in, opened the cell to answer the call, moistened my cracked, dry lips, and said, “Speak to me, oh genius, geek, and computer prodigy.”
“Those are pretty much all the same thing, you know. Ummm. Are you okay?” the Kid asked. “You sound kinda . . . I don’t know. Happy.”
“I’m always happy. Tell me something I don’t know. And say hi to your brother.”
I held the phone out so Eli, who was easing into the SUV, could hear.
“Yeah. Sure. Hey, Eli. Whatever. Is she okay?”
Eli closed the door on the traffic, looked me over, and shook his head, bemused. “She looks like a homeless person who spent the night in the back of an unsecured SUV, wearing a bacon shirt.”
“Yeah? Get a pic. Jane, the car tailing you was a lease that came back to Florence Falcon. Florence is a false ID, with a social that originated at the same birth month and state as Paul Reaver. Florence works for Paul Reaver. Whoever created the fantastic IDs did a pis—uh, a poor job of separating the locales and the timelines. You want me to send this to Jodi?”
“Yeah. Tell her I was being tailed. And that they boxed me in and tried to kill me.”
“What? Are you okay?” Alex sounded weirded out, which didn’t make much sense because people were always trying to kill me. “Eli?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m ducky,” I said. Eli grunted agreement. “Jodi might want to—wait,” I said. “Send the info to Jodi and to the ATF officer in charge of the bomb delivery. What’s his name?”
“Special Agent Stanley. Got it.” I could hear bewilderment in Alex’s voice. “Eli, is she really okay?”
“She looks fine but the SUV is damaged.”
“Later, Kid.” I hung up and looked at Eli. “What’s up?”
“We lost track of you on the far side of the river,” he said, mildly. “It took us four hours to find you, and when I did, you were asleep.”
“Oh. That was . . .” I realized he had been worried. Both of the Youngers had been terribly worried. Thinking I was hurt. Or dead. Which was really sweet, and would probably insult them if I said so. I settled on, “That was horrible of me.” I crawled back into the driver’s seat, explaining. “I was talking to Soul and she said she could find me in the gray place of the change, so I went into it. And I was attacked by vamps. And they beat me up and were planning to kill me or kidnap me. Then I think . . .” I pulled the tangled memories back into place, and examined the different scent patterns from the attack. “I think, maybe, an arcenciel came—not Soul—and the vamps did something to it or tried to, but it got away. And they knocked me out.”
Eli was staring at me with an indecipherable expression. “Unconscious.”
“Yeah. Mostly. I think the vamps were chasing the arcenciel and that’s why they left me. And then Soul came and woke me up. And attacked me, maybe because she thought I should have saved the other arcenciel? Or maybe because she thought I had attacked the arcenciel? Anyway, then I shifted into Beast. And that’s when it got strange.”
“That’s when it got strange.”
I had a feeling that Eli was making fun of me and I squinted at him in threat. “We fought and she turned into a three- or four-hundred-pound tiger and I bit her throat and swallowed her blood. And then she took off. And then I shifted back to me. Only her blood left me drunk as a skunk, ’cause she’s an arcenciel too and their blood’s really tasty.” I chuffed a laugh. “So, anyway, I got dressed and back in the SUV.” I looked around me again at the traffic. “I think I drove here and fell asleep. Because of the druggy blood. But I’m sober now. Mostly.”
Eli shook his head slowly, still looking me over. “I thought I’d be bored in civilian life, out of the service. I had no idea.” Eli got out of the SUV and bent back in, his head low enough to see me. “Check your messages.” He closed the door, took the traffic ticket in his fist, and walked down the street. He got into his own SUV, a battered, unarmored, older model, and drove into traffic. He didn’t look my way as he passed.
I checked my messages, sixteen from Alex, each increasingly more panicked as he called and pinged my location. And one from Bruiser. I returned his call and left a message, ending with, “I’m bringing lunch. I’ll be there in an hour if the traffic is willing.” I tossed the cell into the seat, wondering whether he would be there at all. I was taking all sorts of chances. How weird was that? I wondered whether it was the drugged blood, and decided that it wasn’t, as I was now starving, moderately anxious about visiting Bruiser, and not feeling the least intoxicated.
I pulled into the stream of cars and turned on the radio to catch the Doobie Brothers singing “Black Water,” which was appropriate in so many ways. I was solving problems, identifying bad guys, discovering that things were much weirder than they seemed, and protecting the sorta innocent. Things were starting to happen here on the Mississippi. Oh yes, they were.
Only, not all of my conclusions were correct.
• • •
It was out of the way, but after a quick side trip to Cochon Butcher, I made my way to the French Quarter, turning onto St. Philip Street. Luck was with me and I slipped into a rare open parking spot on the street and locked the doors, which was stupid because I had no windows. Pocketing the keys, carrying the food bags, I walked in through the arched door to find the entrance empty. The old, Mediterranean-style building was tall-ceilinged and cool, a typical, comfortable French Quarter building. There was something homey and maybe a little well-loved-shabby about the place that was unexpectedly soothing. The entrance was quaint, the lighting modest, and the central courtyard was old-fashioned and relaxed with a burbling fountain, tropical plants and vines, table and chairs, two rockers. Old brick was exposed by broken stucco. Lots of tile. Nice. Quiet.
Standing in the arched entrance to the enclosed central courtyard, I thought about the step I was taking. I was sober, single, mostly sane, so if I was making a mistake, it wouldn’t be for the wrong reason.
I stuck my free hand into a back pocket, catching my reflection in a small hanging mirror in the archway. I was too tall, still too skinny, even with the added twenty pounds. Bronzed skin. Bacon T-shirt. No makeup. Hair up in a messy mass, stakes twisted to hold it in place. I considered my ghostly reflection. Not a pretty woman. At the moment not even striking. Lanky and plain. Except for my amber eyes. They were almost exotic. Almost. But not quite.
Inside, Beast was strangely silent. As if she had withdrawn completely. Or was watching me like prey, hidden in the deeps of me.
I turned my back to the courtyard and looked at the empty entrance; pulled on Beast’s hearing and listened to the voices muffled by the thick walls. Smelled fresh paint and mold and age. And I was surprised that I felt no desire at all to run.
“Miss Yellowrock?”
A large woman came toward me from the shadows, dressed in black from sneakers Velcro-ed on her wide feet to her bottle-black hair. “Yes. I’m Jane Yellowrock.”
“Mr. Dumas left you a key.”
“Unit eleven, right?” I took the key—a brass key, not one of the new electronic card keys.
“Up the stai
rs to the third floor. There is no elevator.”
I nodded and followed her finger to the stairs. They were long, curving at the landings, with a wrought-iron railing and bare wood treads. I carried the key in one hand, the heavy paper bag from Cochon Butcher in the other, and recalled what I knew of the old building. Useless knowledge filling an empty mind. The St. Philip was constructed in 1839 as two separate but identical residences, built by a wealthy Sicilian immigrant for his family and his daughter’s family. At that time, this section of the French Quarter was called the Sicilian Quarter, home to Italian families and businesses.
Over the years since, the building had fallen into bad disrepair, and was used as rental units through the Depression. In the 1940s the building was operated as a gentlemen’s hotel by one of the most notorious madams of New Orleans—Katie of Katie’s Ladies—originally my landlady, and Leo’s heir, though she had owned the joint under another name. All of it unimportant. My mind was swimming through murky, narrow passageways of insignificant memory, trivial inconsequence. As my feet climbed the stairs.
The building was cool, but not cold, and I could hear window units purring and gurgling through doors on the landings, trying to take away some of the early-season humidity. On the third floor I found unit eleven. The door was marked as the Owner’s Suite and, like the others, was rented out. I knocked and then looked down at my hand. Watched as it inserted the key. The lock turned, clean and well lubricated with graphite, but ancient.
I pushed open the door, closed my eyes, and inhaled, smelling more fresh paint, adhesive, stone, carpet, and his citrusy cologne. Beast moved finally. Tilting her head. Mine . . .
He called out, “Come in. I was just preparing a salad.”
I stepped inside and closed the door. Watched as my hand locked the door latch and turned the dead bolts. When I faced the room, my boots scuffed on the carpet, the kind of carpet that you glue down in squares. The kitchen had dark wood cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and what looked like white quartz tops, similar to what Leo had going into his new clan home. An island and tall, white, upholstered bar chairs separated the cooking area from the rest of the apartment. The couches in the main room were contrasting burnt peach and brown. A wine cabinet was off the sitting area. A bedroom to the left, shrouded in shadows. The unit sported a double balcony looking over Philip Street—a pricey view, but the rooms were less ornate than I had thought he would require.
Feeling light, as if I weighed nothing at all, and at the same time as if every move I made was weighted with importance, I walked in and pivoted carefully, entering the kitchen. Bruiser stood in the small kitchen area, concentrating on the salad, letting me acclimate to being there. His attention was deeply focused on the clear glass bowl filled with greens, white cheese, cranberries, walnuts, sliced grapes, and cherry tomatoes. I set the bag on the bar, watching as he poured balsamic vinegar and olive oil over the salad concoction and tossed it with two silver spoons. Bruiser handling silver was odd. Maybe the oddest thing about the moment. Until I noticed his clothes.
I had seen him in jeans and leather and dress slacks and tuxedoes. Never in thin cotton pants, wrinkled and hanging low on his hips. He sported a thin white cotton T-shirt, his body outlined clearly. His feet were bare. I always had a thing about men’s bare feet, and Bruiser’s were beautiful, his toes long and dusted with dark hairs that lay flat against his skin.
His face was unshaven, the whiskers a paler brown than the roots of his hair, closer to the sun-kissed golden brown of his hair in late summer. Mine . . . Beast said again.
Still without looking up, he reached for the bag and removed the contents, the chilled bottle of wine first. “A good choice. Buttery with a hint of lemon.”
I lifted a shoulder diffidently. He knew I hadn’t picked it out myself. It was one he had ordered at Arnaud’s. I didn’t know whether he even remembered that. But he had liked it then, so . . .
Deftly, he opened the bottle. Poured two glasses and tasted one. I lifted the other and held it. My fingers trembled, a faint and delicate vibration. The glass was cool against my palms.
He began to remove the take-out packages. “Cochon’s duck confit and . . . Andouille sausage,” he said, approval in his voice. He opened another and said, “Their roast oysters on the half shell and . . . goat-stuffed biscuits. A little piece of heaven,” and this time there was reverence in his voice. “Steamed vegetables and a side of pickled baby squash. Roast asparagus.” A smile in his voice, he said, “You brought green things.”
I shrugged, pleased. “I was feeding you.”
His teeth showed, white and even when he laughed. “And for that I thank you. But this is a feast, Jane. There’s enough food here for days.”
I lifted my eyes from the food to Bruiser’s face and said, “So we don’t have to leave anytime soon.” He stilled. His pupils widened slowly as he stared at the food in his hands. Even more slowly he lifted his gaze from the packages on the island to take me in. His mouth opened slightly and his scent changed, heated and . . . heated. It was hard to breathe. Impossible to stand there, waiting. Uncertain what he would do.
He met my eyes, an electric spark at the connection that shivered through me from the arches of my feet to the short hairs on the back of my neck. He gazed at me—hair, stakes, mouth—as if the sight of me was the air he breathed. The sun that lit his world. The moon in the dark of a perilous night. As if he’d been denied breath and sunlight and moon-glow for too long.
Something turned over in me, something liquid and heavy, like some unfinished thing in a womb, waiting to be born. It settled low in my belly and heat spread through me, thick and viscous and sweet, like warm honey. Mine . . . Beast murmured. Mine . . .
Ours, I thought.
Ours, Beast purred back. Ours . . . ours . . . ours.
Carefully, but without looking at what he was doing, Bruiser set the packages on the bar. They landed with a papery sliding and the sharper snap of plastic. His lips parted and I thought he might speak, but instead he came around the island, stepping as if in a martial movement, carefully balanced, ready for a strike. When I didn’t back away, he lifted a hand and slid it around my neck. His palm was warm, feverish in a human. But we weren’t human. With the other, he reached up and removed the stakes, one at a time, setting them on the counter. My hair slid and tumbled, a languid glide. His hand followed, smoothing my hair. Like soothing a beast.
I licked my lips. Went stiff all over. Bruiser’s hands went motionless.
I whispered, “When I was five years old, I was on the Trail of Tears. My grandmother forced me to change into a bobcat. Wesa. Then she shoved me away, into the snow. Alone. I was starving. Freezing. A long time later, I don’t know how long, I found a buried carcass of a deer in the ice, a rare find then, after the white man had paid our young men to kill off so many. I was eating. Not paying attention.”
Bruiser’s hand slid down my hair again, once, as if he stroked the pelt of a cat. His eyes held mine, giving me time.
“It was the kill of a mountain lion. She came back and caught me. Attacked. Was trying to kill me. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was terrified, fighting for my life, but that was no excuse. I dropped into the gray place of the change and I stole her body. It was black magic. Her soul is inside with me still. She’s a killer. Predator. So am I. If we—”
Bruiser’s mouth landed on mine. He crushed me to him. If I had been human, I would have broken. I hadn’t even seen him move.
His mouth slashed across mine, our teeth clacking. Bruiser’s tongue scoured my lips. They felt burned, almost painful. I opened my mouth and sucked him inside. Pain ripped at my fingertips as Beast’s nails pierced my flesh, and dug gently into Bruiser’s sides. He didn’t pull away. He laughed, into my mouth, the sound desperate and joyous. His leg separated mine, a tango step, had there been music, had we been dancing. Holding me against his body, he bent over me as we ki
ssed, our feet moving in synchrony. He whirled us slowly, my hair slinging out.
I slid my hands up his back, beneath his shirt, claws scraping. Beast’s claws, extruded from my fingertips, scraping hard enough to hurt, not deep enough to break skin.
No gray place of the change, just us, just Beast and me, in one body, at one place and time.
Bruiser slipped one hand under my shirt, his palm fevered on the skin of my belly. His scent was heated metal, citrus, and need. His hand found my bare breast and he hissed as he inhaled. Gently, he cupped me, gathering up the firm flesh. His warm fingers tightened on my nipple. His mouth disappeared and so did my T-shirt as we danced through the room. Cool air brushed across me. His lips landed on my breast and he sucked the nipple into his hot mouth so hard I gasped. Grabbed his head, pulling him even closer.
He growled. Bit my breast. A nip. “Harder,” I growled back.
Instead there was a mass against the backs of my knees and the world tilted. I was falling. I wrapped one arm around him. Landed on the bed, his weight trapping me.
Trapping me.
His kissed my throat. Teeth grazing.
Trapping me! Like the night when Leo—
I tensed, my body suddenly cold. I shoved, fought. “No! Nononono!”
Bruiser pulled away, horror and understanding in his eyes. His voice fierce, he said, “This is not then. This is not him. This is you and me.” He gripped my head in both hands so hard it hurt and he held me with his body and his eyes, the golden lights of my Beast dancing, reflected in his depths. Beast pressed a paw on the panic I hadn’t even known was there. Isolating it, pulling it away from me. Her claws held me safe.
I felt the fear float away as if it fell over high falls and downdowndown, to disappear into the froth of nothingness. “Yessss,” I hissed, my voice too low, too deep.
Mine . . . mine . . . mine . . .
Ours . . . ours . . . ours . . .
