Black Arts

by Faith Hunter

  “Two months ago, Leo sent Grégoire to Atlanta, to reorganize De Allyon’s clans, to bring to the light the Naturaleza who refused to accept Fame Vexatum.”

  I knew Grégoire, Leo’s secondo heir, had been sent to clean up the mess there, but I’d assumed he was back by now. And “bring to the light” was formal vamp-speak for killing a misbehaving vampire true-dead. Fame Vexatum was the way vamps lived in the modern world. They pretty much starved, but the starvation allowed them stronger mental gifts of compulsion and more mental control than other vamps, Naturaleza vamps, had.

  “It’s a real mess,” he continued, opening a can of Red Bull. “De Allyon had a human breeding and slave program on a farm in the hills near Chattanooga.” Whatever he saw on my face made him chuckle dryly. “Yeah. Federal cops are involved, and PsyLED, and because of all the hoopla, Leo has instituted the hostage chapter of the Vampira Carta with Lincoln Shaddock.”

  “Hostage?”

  “Yeah. When Leo put Shaddock on notice for a decade of reorganization before he could apply for Master of the City status again, he set up an exchange provision.”

  I thought back to the night, months ago, of the gather, the ceremony where the chief fanghead of Clan Shaddock heard the result of his request for an upgrade in status. I remembered something Leo had said during the ceremonies. I quoted, as nearly as I was able, “For a certain amount of time there was to be the ‘customary and agreed-upon exchange of blood-servants and scions.’”

  He pointed a finger of approval at me. “That. A couple of our vamps and blood-servants are in Asheville, dealing with organizational stuff, so we get a new human and a vamp in exchange.” Wrassler drank down his Red Bull in three swallows and crushed the can. He tossed it into the recycle bin, where it clanged around with the rest of the aluminum. “Quarters are tight here as it is, until Leo moves into his new clan home, and no one’s happy about the new people. We had to clear out two bedrooms with four beds each already, four more for the gather, and the rest of us are bunking in together.”

  I sipped to hide my smile. “Sounds cozy.”

  “Not. Anyway, none of this household stuff is your job, since you already updated the hardware, but the gather will be.”

  “I’m supposed to be here before dusk to go over security for the ceremony.”

  “Come hungry. Stephen is making his signature chili, so hot it’ll melt your eyeballs and fry your brain.”

  I finished my Coke and tossed the can. “Somehow that sounds more dangerous than delicious, but I’ll be here.”

  “You only live once. Unless you’re a vamp or a cat.”

  I chuckled at the joke, ignoring his speculative expression. Yeah, I got killed, turned into a big-cat, and came back to life in the back of Leo’s car. Not going there. And didn’t say it aloud. “See you tonight,” I said, and made my exit from vamp central.

  CHAPTER 5

  Molly’s Dead Body

  The sun was rising over the French Quarter as I tootled home, trying not to think about all the things I had to do today. Trying to relax and enjoy the morning air swirling inside my helmet, warmer with the sunrise and the promise of springtime. Spring came early this far south, and flowers were already blooming, hints of the coming season in window boxes and narrow courtyards.

  The Quarter smelled of water from swamp, bayou, and the Mississippi churning nearby, of petroleum products and emissions, whiffs of garbage that hadn’t been picked up yet, and food. This early in the morning the air was redolent of strong coffee with chicory, bacon frying, eggs, grease, and cane syrup, the fresh smells overriding last night’s older cooking smells: seafood and grease and hot spices.

  My stomach rumbled, and rumbled again when I realized that some of the smells were coming from my house. As was the babble of morning cartoons, the ringing of cell phones, and the chatter of news programs, so loud I could hear them in the street when I turned off Bitsa and pushed her down the narrow, two-rut drive. My quiet sanctuary was quiet no more, and I decided that I really didn’t care. Especially when the side door opened and Angie Baby and EJ hurtled through and right at me, screaming a chorus of “Aunt Jane, Aunt Jane, Aunt Jane!” I nearly dropped Bitsa catching them. Yeah. This was why it was all okay.

  “Morning,” I said, hugging them and then easing them to the ground. “Am I in time for breakfast?”

  “Uncle Eli is putting it on the table right now,” Angie said. “He’s makin’ us French toast,” she said, saying it like it was an exotic, mysterious food. And then I heard the term.

  Uncle Eli?

  “And syrup,” EJ added. “Lossa syrup.” He whirled and raced back through the open door and inside, his tiny blue sneakers pounding. Angie pulled me in after him, and I shut the door on the chilly air. I washed up and locked my weapons in the weapons safe in my closet, since I didn’t want to open the safe room. No need to make the kids think they should explore.

  I joined the others at the table. Evan and his kids sat with their backs to the windowed wall over the sink; my chair had the best vantage point since Eli was cooking, my back to the kitchen windows, but with both entrances in sight. Alex dragged to the table and slouched into his place, still wearing his flannel SpongeBob pj pants and holey T-shirt, eyes glued half-shut, and his body stinking of sweat. He might have steered himself down the stairs while asleep, but if so, he’d picked up his electronic tablets on the way. Or maybe he slept with them cradled to his chest. I grinned to myself, betting the latter.

  Eli shoveled two pieces of French toast onto each child’s plate; onto the adults’ plates, he shoveled bacon and eggs, with sides of French toast. I say shoveled, because the flexible spatula looked big enough to garden with. He slid the syrup down the table into Big Evan’s hand and Evan poured syrup onto the children’s toast. “Thanks, Uncle Eli,” I said, letting my lips curl up on one side.

  He grunted, sat, and started to eat, but was interrupted by Angie, the bite halfway inside his mouth. “God is great, God is good.”

  EJ finished with “Let us thank him for our food.”

  “Amen, dig in,” they both said. And did.

  Eli finished the bite and chewed, his eyes looking over the people gathered at the table. When he reached me, I waggled my eyebrows, as if to say, Fun, eh? He wiggled his eyebrows back, a bored, minuscule brow-twitch while he swallowed, and took another bite. Yeah. Like having a real family.

  The Kid stuffed in an entire piece of French toast and chewed, eyes still closed. He drank down a half mug of strong coffee after and made an exaggerated sighing sound of happiness. It looked as if he’d had a rough night.

  When the children finished and had been dismissed to morning TV, Alex managed to get his eyes and vocal cords to function and said, “I found where and when Molly came to NOLA.”

  • • •

  Once the anger—on Big Evan’s part—and the delight—on my part—ended, he pushed his tablets across the table and said, “It wasn’t easy. That side trip she took? It was most likely to her mother’s house to pick up a credit card.” He took a swig of coffee and poured another mug, looking at Big Evan under heavy lids. “She lied to you, man. Your mother-in-law, I mean, when she said she hadn’t seen Molly. She not only saw her, but she rented a car for her in Knoxville, on her home PC. And she gave Molly a credit card. Molly used the same credit card for gas, food, hotels, everything. But for the last thirty-six hours or so, there’ve been no charges on it.”

  The Kid handed me a slip of paper, folded. Evan’s eyes followed the motion and he frowned, but Alex quieted his worsening anger with the words “That’s for that Leo stuff you asked for.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire, I thought. But it was a good lie, as it kept Evan calmer. I glanced at the page and said, “Hope you didn’t catch Big Brother’s eye on this one.”

  “No chance of that. I’ll have more intel later.”

  “Okay.” I pushed back from the table. “When you find where Molly went, let us know. I have an errand to run for this.” I ta
pped the paper and left the house, wondering why the Kid hadn’t wanted Evan to know what was on the paper—the words The Hilton on St. Charles Avenue. Checked in two days ago, under name Bedelia Everhart. Paid up front for seven days. The room number was at the bottom. And then I realized. Evan would have insisted he go with me. And what if Molly was dead in the room?

  The hairs lifted on the back of my neck. Molly had been in New Orleans for two days and hadn’t called me. I crushed my fear and pain deep inside and helmeted up, letting the Harley roar for me as I pulled out and headed for St. Charles Avenue.

  I valet-parked my bike, entered through the center of three huge arched openings, and headed for the elevator as if I had the right to be there. I rode up with a bellman and got off on the second floor, took the stairs up to the third floor, and made my way down the hallways to Molly’s door, checking the security camera locations. Molly’s room was in a little alcove at the end of the hall and out of the coverage area of the stationary camera, with a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on the knob.

  I was sweating and my palms were damp. My breath came a little too fast. I was nervous. Terrified. And I was angry. Molly came to New Orleans and she didn’t call me or warn me or tell her husband. She abandoned her children. Whatever had happened that forced her here, it could not be good. Some panicked part of the back of my mind was cursing and shouting and weeping. Beast was close under my skin, her pelt abrading my flesh, making me feel itchy and tight. A trickle of cold sweat slid along my spine.

  No one was in the hall but me as I knocked on the door. When no one answered, I gripped the lever handle and drew on Beast’s strength. Twisted the knob down and shoved. I heard the sharp snap of broken wood, the faint squeal of bending metal, and the door opened. I stepped inside and shut the door, leaning my back against it to survey the room.

  Molly’s scent filled my nostrils, warm as a hug and a mug of herbal tea. But Molly wasn’t here. I knew that by the fragile, old feel of her scent. But there was no trace of blood. The fear that had been my constant companion on the way over eased slightly. No blood. No smell of her death.

  I had more than halfway expected to find evidence of a fight, or the scent of Molly’s blood—or even Molly’s dead body—and the relief that rolled over me was as intense and pounding as an ocean storm. But it was arrested instantly. Molly wasn’t here. I didn’t have to deal with the horror of a murder scene, but I did have to deal with the stink of vamp and fear.

  I closed my eyes to take in the scents, breathing in through my open mouth, letting Beast help with the identification. Three vamps, I thought. My skin crawled, as if small snakes crept up my limbs, at the smells—vamp scent. Dry and arid, a faint hint of old roses, blooms wilted and hanging on browned stems, and the underscent of turmeric, slightly spicy and almost medicinal. Not vamps I knew. Nothing in the signatures that identified a particular vamp. Not yet. I opened my eyes.

  Three vamps against Molly. Not last night. The night before. Over thirty-six hours ago, just after Molly got here, three vamps had come to her room. The door hadn’t been broken until I broke it, so that meant either she had left the door open and vamps had somehow found her and kidnapped her, or followed her in at vamp speed or . . . Molly had let them in.

  The room was neat, the floral spreads on the double beds folded at the feet, one with an indentation on a blinding white pillow and rumpled white sheets, as if someone had lain down for a moment, but not spent the night. Or been tossed there and then pulled upright. The drapes were open, no luggage in sight from the doorway; the TV armoire in the corner was closed, hiding the TV, which was on, the sound muted, the picture flickering through the crack.

  I moved silently through the room, touching nothing. Molly’s suitcase was on a foldable stand to the side of the closet, the case open. A black cocktail dress and two pairs of dark slacks were hanging in the closet beside two jackets, one a knit sweater, but short-waisted—like a bolero, one a traditional business suit jacket that matched a pair of slacks. Two T-shirts and a pair of jeans. One pair of pumps and a pair of running shoes were on the floor of the closet. I had seen Molly pack for trips before. This was her standard weekend-off attire. Still in the suitcase were two nightgowns, Molly’s underclothes, slippers, and a robe. On the counter beside the bed was a bouquet of very wilted daisies, in a clear glass vase.

  In the bathroom, her toiletry bag was on the cabinet, zipped open, toothbrush and paste, comb, bar soap, and dried-out face cloth beside it. On the top I saw something strange—well, strange for Molly. With one finger I pushed the small bag open and discovered a long, thin plastic case. Knowing what I was seeing, but not believing it, I flipped the lid open. To see birth control pills.

  Molly was on birth control.

  I stared at the pack, stunned. Last I heard, Molly and Big Evan were trying for more kids. Lots more kids. Either something had changed or they were waiting or they were having marital problems and Molly was protecting herself or . . . Molly was having an affair and trying to keep from getting pregnant? Or I was out of the loop. Yeah. That. And none of my business, unless I discovered something about her disappearance that might be tied to the pills.

  But Molly had been out of the room overnight. If Mol was on birth control pills and she was planning to be gone several days, she’d have taken them with her. So she planned on coming back when she went out. Or was carried out. Which meant that however she had left home, she was now gone unexpectedly. This was not good. I slid the pills back into place and closed the lid. I moved back into the room proper.

  It looked as though Molly had arrived in New Orleans, taken a short rest, and started to unpack, which sorta eliminated the idea of vamps following her to her room and then using vamp speed to get in. But what say Molly had been going for ice or something and the vamps had followed her in? It was possible. So Molly had come to New Orleans and checked into a hotel. And then been abducted? I closed my eyes again and breathed through my open mouth, searching for even the slightest scent signature. The fear I had detected when I entered the room was still strong on the air. Panic pheromones. Though without any trace of blood. Nothing to suggest she had been injured. But she was gone and her things were still here, which was suggestive of her leaving under duress. Eyes still closed, I tried to envision Molly walking in to the hotel, her suitcase handle extended, the bag rolling on two wheels. Walking down the hall from the elevator, wearing a coat against the weather. The coat was brown, and looked good with Mol’s reddish hair. In my imagination, her pocketbook was hung on one shoulder, a pocketbook that was as big as a shopping bag, to carry all her kids’ stuff and her paperback novel and her phone and her electronic tablet. I opened my eyes, searching for the coat and bag.

  Neither was in sight. I walked around the room, looking. Gone. Could Molly have grabbed up her coat and left willingly? Not been kidnapped? Not . . . Frustration zinged through me like a bell ringing, leaving my nerve endings tingling with worry. No. That wasn’t right. There was nothing willing about the smells here, but they were so old, and buried under the air-conditioning and air fresheners and carpet cleaners and detergent.

  Human stinks, Beast murmured. I sucked air in through my mouth, across the roof and tongue with a scree of sound. Letting Beast smell. Fear. Purpose. Anger. Annoyance. But I/we do not smell panic, she thought. Smells on air say she was afraid but not lose-bowels-in-death afraid.

  She went with them willingly, but also against her will. As if she stomped out, slinging her coat. But as if she had no choice, I thought back, understanding what Beast was trying to say.

  Molly went with the vamps. That meant I needed to call Leo. Either he knew what had happened here, or he sanctioned what had happened, or he could find out about it. Unless someone was in revolt against him. It had happened before.

  I left the room, and stood outside the door as I punched in Leo’s number, trying to decide what I wanted to say. The call went to voice mail, and I spoke softly into the cell, my words as formal as I knew how to make
them. “Leo, Primo. My friend Molly came to New Orleans. Three unknown Mithrans took her from her hotel room about thirty-six hours ago. She went unwillingly. She hasn’t been back. Please contact me and tell me what, if anything, you know about her situation.” I ended the call.

  Feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the hotel’s air-conditioning system, I forced myself back to work and studied the security cameras on the way out. There was one stationary camera pointed at the elevators and fire stairs, which I avoided by keeping my head down and walking near the wall. Provided there were no problems with the system, hotel security should have footage of the vamps who came to take Molly, and the four of them as they left.

  If I had known all this stuff when I went to see Leo earlier, I might have gotten some info from him. And certainly more help. Now I’d be asking the Kid to commit another crime by hacking into the security system. I was going to hell. Yeah.

  • • •

  Standing in front of the hotel, I texted a note to the Kid. Can u safely access hotel security cameras on 3 flr frm time Molly checked in to 12 hrs after? I hit SEND and got a text back while I was waiting on the return of Bitsa.

  Can do. Erase text.

  “Yeah,” I said softly to myself, following orders and erasing the texts. “So your brother doesn’t flay me alive for leading you to the dark side and putting your parole in jeopardy. Which, to him, would be just as bad as blowing up the planet Alderaan with the Death Star. And I’ve been living with the Kid too long if I know that geeky bit of trivia.”

  “Sweet bike,” the valet said, pushing Bitsa back to me. “One of a kind?” he asked, his smile wide in a dark-skinned face. Approachable. Nice. Helpful maybe.