Skinwalker

by Faith Hunter

Page 34

 

  There was startled silence; then the crowd reacted, half in exultation, half in buzzing, whispered dismay. It took me a moment to realize why. Until now, Leo hadn’t named a clan heir. Clearly some of the vamps in the place didn’t like his choice. Despite myself, I took note of who wasn’t pleased and wasn’t afraid to demonstrate it. The most obviously ticked off was a swarthy-skinned vamp I thought might be Rafael Torrez, heir to Clan Mearkanis—blood-master once Ming was declared true-dead. A number of other vamps were looking his way to gauge his reaction.

  Violence and dominance pheromones swirled in the room and Leo looked up, his genial smile still in place. But when he spoke, there was a steel edge to his voice that hadn’t been there an instant gone, though he didn’t look Torrez’ way. “And as my guests, partaking in the hospitality of my house, I trust you will abide by all conventions and protocols in welcoming new Mithrans and my clan heir. ”

  It took a moment, but Torrez visibly controlled himself and plastered a false smile on his face. He pushed to the front of the crowd, where he took Amitee’s hand and kissed it, murmuring something I missed. With the kiss, the entire room seemed to relax, and I figured that whatever was afoot in vamp politics, like whatever Leo had going on in the human population of the hood, was going to take a backseat to the celebration.

  I got a look at the new vamps. They weren’t uncontrolled, ready to vamp out and drain the humans; they looked elegant, sophisticated, and rich. So I avoided them like the plague. But I did get a good look at Leo’s son, who appeared genial, urbane, and approachable. However, when I got close, he turned fast, eyes going vampy, sniffing and searching the crowd, so I ducked my head and slipped away. No point in spoiling the engagement if he came on to the little nonhuman in the room for a quick snack. I haunted the back hallways instead.

  Near four, after avoiding Leo and Bruiser in a cat and mouse game of “hunt the girl,” I slipped outside and called Bluebird Cab. Rinaldo, off from his third-shift job on Sunday night, picked me up half an hour later, full of startled questions now that his regular passenger had come up in the world. I said something about an invitation I hadn’t realized would be so vampy, and how happy I was to get out of there—all true—then sat silent in the backseat, holding myself separate from Beast and her demands. And for once, I didn’t beg for a trip through a fast-food joint.

  There were violent undercurrents in the vamp social fabric, riptides of political unrest, problems I hadn’t known existed. It was the kind of thing that cop Jodi Richoux would want me to tell her, and that I was prohibited from sharing on pain of that slow and grisly death, as spelled out in my contract. And . . . I had created friction between Bruiser and his boss. I was still beating myself up about both problems when I went to sleep near dawn, without shifting, yet again.

  Monday in New Orleans is laid-back. Not as relaxed as Fridays, but close, though without the dedicated party expectation of the day before the weekend. I elected to stroll, but with purpose, revisiting all the places I had been and places Beast had shown an interest in.

  Wearing my light cargo pants, a tank top, and flip-flops, I tied two crosses around my waist and stuffed a stake in my undies and two in my hair, just in case, though I didn’t really think I’d be out long enough to lose the protection of daylight. I added sunglasses. Dressed like a local, I strolled, sniffed, and window-shopped.

  I don’t wear much jewelry, as a hurried shift will leave it broken in the dust, along with torn and mangled clothes, but when I spotted a silver and stone ring and a nugget-style necklace in the window of a narrow storefront, I couldn’t help myself. I went inside and when I came out, I was wearing the set, along with the gold chain and nugget I seldom took off. The new necklace was made of Baltic amber, warm, yellow, fifty-million-year-old tree resin that brought out the amber of my eyes. The nuggets were as big as pecans and looked really good with the gold nugget. The silver setting of the ring was styled like cat’s claws holding the stone. It was destiny. The set looked really classy against my burnt orange T-shirt, and though I remembered girls from my youth saying I shouldn’t mix gold and silver, they weren’t here to tease me.

  Back on the streets, I strolled, but I wasn’t rambling for the ambiance, I was hunting the rogue, tracing the path Beast had taken on her first tracking expedition. My nose is better than most humans for reasons I’m not entirely certain about, but I put it down to the number of years I spent in cat form. I had thought the memories of that time and my early life were gone, never to be recovered, but since Aggie and Leo had brought some back, in startling, three-dimensional, five-sense clarity, perhaps there were others, deeply buried. Really deeply buried.

  Three blocks from the river, I spotted Antoine down the block from the hole-in-the-wall eatery Rick had taken me to. The Cajun was wearing a T-shirt, baggy shorts, rope sandals, and dreadlocks in a thick ponytail knotted at his nape with rope. The hair threw me off for a moment, as it had been hidden under his big white chef’s hat before. He didn’t see me, so I stepped into a recessed door and watched. He was in a hurry, heading away from the river.

  Antoine took a direct route, striding hard and fast. A man with purpose. So I followed. Hands in pockets, I ambled up the street, around corners, keeping back, lazy and innocent but moving Beast fast when no one was looking, shadowing him in the tourist crowd. He ducked into a side door of the Royal Mojo Blues Company. “Well, well, well,” I murmured to myself. Did I follow? Not sure, and content to just watch, I sat at the tiny table of an outdoor café, ordered beignets—French donuts—and a hot chai despite the heat, studying the RMBC, lazing and calling it work. Nothing much was happening, but I liked the mélange of scents on the wind.

  I wasn’t far from the kill zone where the rogue had taken down the cops. That could be coincidence—the Quarter was small, after all—and Beast had noted a lot of vamp activity, but I didn’t know what to make of Antoine’s destination. While I people watched, I sweated and rested in the slow, heated breeze, eating three beignets, which left a dusting of powdered sugar on my shirt. Three more people entered the RMBC, two men and a woman in a long skirt and lots of dangling jewelry. Unlike Antoine, all went in through the front door, though the restaurant wasn’t open, a CLOSED sign in the front window. I was getting interested. I caught the eye of the waiter and held up a ten, which I left on the table for the bill and a comfortable tip.

  Antoine had entered at the side, near the outdoor seating, so I hopped the gate and followed through that door, which swung on silent hinges. Not breaking and entering exactly, but trespassing for sure. Inside, the heat, which I had somehow forgotten as I sat and sipped tea, was shut out, the air colder than the inside of a refrigerator. Chill bumps rose on my arms as I stood in the blackness and let my eyes adjust.

  The restaurant and dance hall smelled of old smoke, old beer, cleansers, a mixture of human and vamp scents, urine and sweat, fried grease, fish, beef, spices and peppers, and minty toothpaste, the scent dissipating as I waited. I followed the faint prickle of power on the air, Antoine’s power, familiar from the way it made my fingers tingle, as if the pads itched.

  I followed the power signature through the club as easily as a scent, leading me to the back. I could still smell Bliss’ blood, and an aromatic whiff of vamp blood, from the aborted staking, and another witch scent, a spicy and tantalizing perfume buried beneath the power signature. The scent perfectly fit the woman in the long skirt and jewelry.

  A door opened. The muted sound of a car engine passed, placing it at the front of the building. “Marceline? Anna? Y’all here yet?” It was the Joe. Rick. Which was just one coincidence too many. Or was it? Beast woke and rumbled quietly in my mind. I breathed in, sorting scents as well as I could in this form. Several vamps, including Leo, scores of humans, cigarette smoke. But no particular scent jumped up and screamed logic to me. Rick was getting closer. I had a feeling that if I just stayed put and asked what was going on, I’d be hustled of
f, so I looked for a hiding place. Nothing. No closets, no cupboards. I peered into the dark overhead. The ceiling was about fifteen feet above me, painted black, along with the exposed ductwork, wires, and fixtures. Beast liked the big duct, and I got an image of a huge tree limb on which to lie in wait for unwary prey. I could probably make the top of the duct if I jumped from the bar.

  Beast fast, I raced from the shadows and leaped to the bar top. Crouched on the balls of both feet and the knuckles of one hand. Scanned the room. And spotted a small ledge behind the bar. I gauged the distance, jumped, and caught the ledge with one hand. Swung toward the mirror. Why do all bars go for mirrors? So unhappy drunks can watch themselves cry? So drinkers on the prowl can look for likely sex partners? My fingers slipped and Beast swatted me mentally. My toe touched the mirror and I pushed off, using the swing to get my other hand on the ledge and lever my body up, the new ring cutting into my palm and finger.

  The ledge was eighteen inches wide, painted white to reflect tiny lights, which were off. Dust bunnies swirled around me, some big enough to be dust hippos. Beast sent an image of a rabbit the size of a small car. Good eating. I grinned and swiveled into a comfortable seat shadowed by, instead of on top of, the duct. From my vantage, I could see almost everything: tables, a curtained area behind the band’s stage, a long rack of individual keys behind a sign over the cash register. And Rick, walking into the room. The remembered stink of old cigar clung to him, and I wrinkled my nose. Fresh cigar smell is one thing. Old cigar is another thing entirely.

  “In here,” Antoine said, emerging from the back. Not from the hallway to the restrooms, but from the far corner, an opening I had missed in the dark of night and not visible from the shadows of the side door or over the bar. “Ricky-bo,” he said as the men shook hands.

  The front door opened again; Rick turned. A woman entered, a shawl around her head and shoulders despite the heat. The two exchanged a look as she folded the shawl. Her scent reached me and I tensed. It was the woman who slept with the rogue vamp. Surprisingly, she looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Had I passed her on the street? Not at Sunday church service, surely, not with her understated elegance. This woman would have stood out—blond, elegant, blue eyes and peaches-and-cream skin, silk and linen and delicate shoes, probably Italian. Big diamonds and gold at her ears and on her ring finger, along with a wedding band. Married. To Rick? Surprising jealously zinged through me. On its heels came the certainty that she was married to someone else, not Rick. The jealousy faded, but not my discomfort that it had emerged in the first place. Rick was too devious for my tastes. Too sly. Too . . . something. Which was why Beast liked him. All these thoughts in the time it took me to take a breath.