Broken Soul: A Jane Yellowrock Novel

by Faith Hunter

  Want, Beast thought. Want this. This mate. I breathed in, and Bruiser’s scent was searing and honeyed, like caramelized sugar, scorching in the pan. Want, she purred, the sensation like velvet sliding through me, shredding the endings of nerves in my palms and breasts and puddling between my thighs.

  But you wanted Rick. And he failed us, I thought at Beast. The old hurt rose up, and I saw again his face, suffused with desire and magic as he walked away from us and toward Paka.

  I no longer wanted Rick. I didn’t. But the pain was still raw.

  Mine. Now! Beast thought. But I was caught between two needs, protection and desire.

  Bruiser’s hand soothed my cheek, down along my neck, and cupped my head, tilting my face farther upward. His other arm slipped around me, drawing me close. Moving slowly, as if I might leap away, like a wild animal, caught delicately in his hands. His body like a furnace, like an oaken fire in the midst of winter, melded to mine.

  This not Rick. This is mate. Beast struggled, wanting free. Pain raced along my nerves and through my fingertips as her claws threatened to pierce my flesh.

  I raised my hands and placed my palms on his upper arms, feeling the corded muscle hidden beneath the inhumanly warm flesh. I tightened my fingers over his arms, careful of the pain in my fingertips. Not pulling him closer. But not pushing him away either. His lips brushed warmth through me and I closed my eyes, scenting, tasting, feeling, knowing. Heat spread out from the center of me, bright and painful and needing.

  Jane wants. Jane wants mate. Jane is foolish kit not to take. Stupid, Beast hissed.

  His arms tightened, pulling me closer. One hand slid low and cupped me in, toward the center of him. His tongue brushed against my teeth and my breath hitched, feeling-seeing-tasting the thought of Bruiser and me in my bed. Beast swiped claws of desire through me. Heat billowed up from the center of me to throb, low in my belly. Electric pulses thrummed through me, burning with need. And yet I held back, seeing, hearing all those unanswered questions between us. All that depth of the unknown. I didn’t want to take a man to my bed again without honesty between us. Yet, my arm slid up, one hand cupping his head, the other riding low, one thumb on the edge of the waistband of his slacks.

  At that thought, Beast paused. Bruiser would know the I/we of Beast, she murmured.

  As if he sensed both my need and my pliant uncertainty, Bruiser’s lips curled up and he chuckled into my mouth, his laughter a rumble of delight, a vibration that met and merged with Beast’s laughing purr. Settled low in me, throbbing.

  Bruiser would take the I/we of Beast as mate. Want this. Like hunting, slow stalk and wait in sun for perfect prey.

  Bruiser pulled away, ending the kiss slowly, his lips clinging and withdrawing all at once. I opened my eyes to see his, watching me. So close. The heat of his kiss made my knees weak. I wanted more. I wanted. And he knew it. His eyes shifted to my mouth, his own still holding that half smile.

  Beast pulled back. Mate. Mate the I/we of Beast. Mate all of what we are.

  Yes. That, I thought. I licked my lips and said the first thing that popped into my head. “Do you read Latin?” And then blushed like a schoolgirl. Idiot. Stupid. I am so stupid!

  Bruiser laughed, the vibrations rushing up through my chest, pressed against his. “You are a never-ending source of delight,” he said. He kissed my forehead as if I were a favored child, released me, and walked away, taking with him that extraordinary warmth. Leaving me feeling abnormally chilled in the May-warm house.

  Not knowing what else to do, not sure what had just happened, I crossed my arms over my chest, thinking, Holy crap on crackers with cheese, and followed him into the kitchen.

  “I assume you are talking about the papers Grégoire gave to you,” he said, stopping in front of the box in question. “Make me some coffee and I’ll see if I can help.”

  It wasn’t what I wanted, not at all, but it also seemed like a fair trade, and perhaps a chance to ask of the former primo what I had asked of Grégoire. I used the semi-new coffee machine to brew Bruiser a perfect cup of golden roast and poured myself a mug of vanilla-flavored tea, with hazelnut creamer and a half teaspoon of sugar, keeping my hands busy so I didn’t have to look at Bruiser as I served him. Keeping my head down, thinking. Feeling his lips on mine again. It had been a chaste kiss. Not much tongue. No grinding body to body. The warmth cached within me flared at the thought and I swallowed a soft gasp. Drank the hot tea to cover my reaction. And burned my tongue, which served me right.

  Bruiser sat at the table and took a smaller pasteboard box from inside the metal one. Within it were several pairs of white gloves, and I figured they were intended to keep finger oil off the papers. He put on a pair, though they were tight and the fingers too short for his long, slender hands. Beautiful hands, with well-shaped knuckles and long phalanges. Hands I wanted to touch. I gripped the mug tighter.

  Handling the papers carefully, he scanned the pages I had left open. “Italian,” he said, musingly, “like all of the Romance languages, has roots in Latin, but Italian is closest to the ancient tongue. Its poetic and literary origins became more standardized in the twelfth century, and this was written much later than that. It’s dated the tenth of July, in the year of our Lord, 1593.”

  I knew a lot of that, but the professorial tone relaxed me, as it was undoubtedly intended to. I slid his coffee cup closer to him and Bruiser picked it up, sipped, eyes on the paper. “This is a letter, signed Pope Clement VIII.” He raised his brows and looked at me over the lip of the cup. “This should be in the archives of the Vatican. In a museum somewhere. And Grégoire just gave it to you?” Bruiser smiled, shaking his head. “You do have an effect on people, Jane Yellowrock.”

  Bruiser started reading aloud, in English, translating from the letter as he went. It wasn’t a smooth and effortless translation, but it was way better than me trying to key the letters and words into an online translation site. I took a chair across from him and watched his mouth as he read, half listening to the minutiae of church politics that had nothing to do with witches. Until he read, “‘As to the workers of the magickal, my dear Paulinus, they are a hindrance to the church, and much as the Christ killers . . .’” He glanced up at me. “He’s talking about the Jews. The Roman Church declared them Christ killers so they could take their property under religious law, even though the Romans themselves actually killed him.”

  I nodded. I knew that.

  “‘. . . and the Mohammedan troubles, the magickal must be sought out with a firm and thorough hand. Our dealings with them must be meticulous to reduce their numbers comprehensively and quickly.’”

  “That’s horrible,” I said. “That sounds like genocide.”

  “It was exactly like genocide. Religion as a political entity is always horrible,” Bruiser said, his tone final.

  “But—” I stopped. My religion wasn’t supposed to be horrible. It was supposed to be based on love and generosity and forgiveness. But history had always suggested otherwise. And my other spirituality, the Cherokee, had a bloody and violent historical aspect that made the old pope’s comments seem conventional. How was I supposed to look at the mores of history and compare them to today’s violence and judgment? Current events suggested that humanity was no better today than it had ever been, that we had learned nothing. And my own job description suggested just the same. Vampire hunter. Vampire killer. My throat clogged on the implications, I said, “Go on.”

  “That’s all. The rest of the pages in this folder appear to be from the same era and written by the same hand. Politics. Purchases of land. Taking of property and holdings from the people ‘disappeared’ by the Church.”

  He shifted through the papers, pausing to read here and there. I refreshed his coffee, feeling disturbed for lots of reasons. He closed the file and stood, returning it to the box, his fingers moving through the pages and files. He reached deeper in and pulled out a very old book. “Ah, this is what you’ve been hoping for, I think. Treatise o
f the Magikal.” Bruiser opened the book and paged through the front; looked at me from under his eyebrows. “Shall we take this to the other room?”

  “Yeah. Okay.” I started him a fresh cup and followed him to the living room. Overhead, I heard stirring, as Alex got up for the day and went to the bathroom. Soon he would bring me info on Satan’s Three, and my quiet time would be over. And I’d go back to being what I was and doing what I did. Bruiser sat on the couch, and after a moment, I curled up on the other end.

  “This book is from the seventeen hundreds, printed in Germany. My familiarity with the tongue is limited, so I’ll read, translate, and then summarize it for you.”

  “How do you know all this stuff? Languages and all. I mean, I know you’re old, but—” I stopped myself. “I mean you’re not old old, but you’re . . . just . . .”

  “Old?” he asked, that same warm laughter in his tone. I shrugged uncomfortably, and he asked, “How old are you, Jane?”

  I jerked my eyes from my tea mug to his face. Chills snaked along my limbs, any remaining warmth from our kiss chased away by the question.

  “Are you as old as I? I was born in nineteen hundred and three.” His eyes were crinkled slightly as he watched me struggle with the question. “Until we emigrated to the colonies, I had a classical education, learning Latin, Greek, French, mathematics, philosophy, and history. Once I entered Leo’s household, I was tutored by a variety of Mithrans in numerous subjects. I like languages, their histories and mutability, the cultures they reference and revive from the ashes of time.”

  “I don’t know,” I blurted. A weight lifted from my shoulders when he didn’t react. “Found in the woods when I was twelvish. No memories. Raised by wolves. All that nonsense. It made the papers.”

  Mate to know all of I/we, Beast thought at me.

  Bruiser raised his eyebrows politely, asking silently for more. For no reason I understood, I answered. “I was about five on the Trail of Tears.”

  “The nunahi-duna-dlo-hilu-i,” Bruiser said softly, his voice holding no nuance at all.

  Shock that he pronounced it perfectly went through me and my heart rate sped. “Yes.”

  “The trail lasted from 1831 to 1838, and involved many tribes in the eastern part of the States. The Cherokees were the last tribe moved. Forcefully. Brutally. So you might have been born anytime from eighteen thirty to eighteen thirty-three.”

  He didn’t look like he was about to freak out so I nodded once, a jerk of my head.

  “You’re robbing the cradle, then,” he said. Humor filled his face. “You’re a cougar.”

  Laughter burbled out of me, part of it relieved nerves, the other part surprise at the play on words. “I’m not that kind of cougar,” I said, my tone lofty. Unthinking, I added, “I haven’t slept with you yet.” A hot blush followed the shock through me like lightning when I heard that last word come out of my mouth.

  “No. Not yet,” he agreed, but his words were no longer smooth, or amused. He sounded something else, something heated and waiting. Bruiser returned his eyes to the old book and started reading, his eyes going back and forth across the page.

  I managed to keep my breath from whooshing out with relief, but my skin felt hot and prickly. Beast purred inside of me, oddly satisfied. Upstairs, Alex started a shower and thumped around in the bathroom.

  Long minutes later Bruiser said, “The magical beings have existed for thousands of years. There are numerous kinds, and they appear to be divided along racial, ethnic, and familial lines, though that is thought to be due to travel restrictions and inbreeding in prehistoric tribal times, not an actual genetic or racial difference that denotes ability or power levels. The writer seems to be saying that all witches are equal. But not really.”

  “Helpful. Not.”

  “Mmmm. The persecution of the magical began after the fall of Atlantis”—his eyebrows went up together—“in the year 5,000 BC, following a great worldwide flood. That makes it seven thousand years ago. A flood that killed off The People of the Straight Ways.”

  “Say that again.”

  Bruiser looked up at me. “The People of the Straight Ways?”

  “Yeah. That could tie back with the l’arcenciel—the light-dragon that bit Leo and Gee. Back with stuff I heard when I was working south of Chauvin, hunting that escaped prisoner.” Bruiser inclined his head. “I was told that they built lots of the ancient canals found in Louisiana, Mississippi, Florida, New England, and all over the world. Do you know about them?”

  “L’arcenciel, or the arcenciel. The L is the article.” I gave a nod of understanding, and he went on. “I’ve come across the term once or twice, but not with any particular emphasis or related to any flood. Or related to the flood.” He closed the book and pulled off the white gloves. “You look tired. When did you last sleep?”

  I thought about that for a while and sipped my cold tea. “I don’t remember when I last slept for a whole night. I’ve been on vamp hours. And then my house was targeted by a bomb maker. And then I got cut up by a master swordsman.”

  “And broke his neck.”

  “Yeah. That too. So I don’t know.” I added, by way of ambush, “What do Satan’s Three want with Leo? And me?”

  With a faint smile, he said, “You’ll have to ask Leo that.” Bruiser held up the book and asked, “May I take this with me? I’ll read and summarize it for you as I go and send it to you via e-mail. The contents don’t sound as if they need immediate attention.”

  So much for verbal surprise attacks. I flipped my hand in a modified shrug. “Sure. If you find anything out about the iron spike of Golgotha or any of the other magical items, let me know.”

  Bruiser took my mug and carried both empties back to the kitchen. I watched as he washed the cup and mug. I had watched Eli and Alex doing that for months, but this felt different. Weirdly domestic. Bruiser placed the cleaned stoneware upside down on a dish towel to drain and placed the book and gloves by the side door before returning to me. He bent over my chair and placed his head near mine, the heat of his skin a furnace on my cheek. Breathing into my ear, he whispered the words, “I should not suggest this to you, but—” He placed a kiss on my ear, and shivers thundered through me. I pulled in a breath that smelled of him, Bruiser. My hands tightened on the edge of the couch cushion.

  His lips moved on my ear as he said, “All magical items that interest the Mithrans go back to the Sons of Darkness, one of whom disappeared here, in New Orleans, long ago.” My confusion must have shown on my face because Bruiser said, “The makers of all vampire-kind, the sons of Judas Iscariot.” With no warning at all, he bent, slid his arms under my knees and around my back, and picked me up.

  My heart did a major stutter stop-and-go and I gasped. He carried me through the foyer and pushed open my bedroom door. My bed was unmade. My room was a disaster. This was not the way I wanted this to play out. “Bruiser. What—?”He dropped me on my bed. I bounced. I’m pretty sure I squealed.

  Bruiser turned on a heel and left me there, amid the twisted, unwashed sheets and squished pillows. “Get some sleep.” He shut my door.

  “Wh— Get some sleep? No fair!” I shouted through the door.

  I heard him chuckle as he let himself out the kitchen side door.

  “So totally not fair.” I punched my pillow. Not that I had indicated to him that I’d welcome any romantic overtures. Well, except for the kiss at the door. And maybe a hot make-out session in my shower once. And on a limo floor. But then there had been Rick, who had torn a raw, painful wound inside me. Maybe that was what Bruiser had been waiting for? For me to heal?

  Jane is silly kit, Beast murmured at me.

  I pulled off my clothes, dropped them on the floor, and smoothed the covers over me. Even with the sounds of hammers and skill saws in the background, where the house next to Katie’s was being renovated, I was asleep in an instant. But his words hung in my mind, part spoken in Bruiser’s voice, part from a fragmented memory. A Son of Darkness disappe
ared here.

  CHAPTER 13

  Who Was That Masked Man?

  I woke with a jolt, the dream slipping away. Which totally sucked, because when a dream-thought slipped away, it was always vitally important. All I could remember was Jodi saying something about penguins. No. Wait. It was Peregrinus. The old vamp in town, along with his partner, Batildis, and the blood-servant the Devil. The blood-servant who had hurt Reach.

  If Reach was telling the truth. Was Reach really hurt? Would he have made up something like being tortured by the Devil? The dream was about the vamp and the Devil—a blood-servant so terrifying she had no name, only a title, who had built a bomb and put it at my door. Maybe. Or perhaps it had been her master, Batildis. Where were the Devil and her vamps? In New Orleans? Was the Devil acting alone or with the help of other human followers, other blood-servants? What the heck had they gotten from Reach? I was having a hard time putting things together, because the bad guys had all the intel.

  These bad guys were vamps, so being here in New Orleans probably wasn’t because of just one reason, but many reasons, multilayered and overlapping. That felt right, but logic wasn’t pulling the dream any closer; rather, it was tearing at the dream like talons until there was nothing left but a feeling of disquiet. A feeling that I was missing something important, some instigating event that brought the attention of Satan’s Three to New Orleans. Unless that event had been publicized all over the world on TV. Yeah. I gave a mental sigh. It was looking more and more like this was all my fault. Again.

  My cell buzzed and I rolled over in bed to grab up the phone. It was a text from Soul, saying she was clearing her calendar. It was about time. I closed my heavy cell, staring up at the ceiling as the overhead fan twirled lazily above me.

  I heard footsteps in the foyer and a soft tap on my door. “Hold on,” I said. I flipped the covers away and looked for my black robe, which was nowhere to be seen, so I pulled on the wrinkled clothes I’d dropped to the floor. When I opened the door, Eli stood there, his dark skin appearing even darker in the shadowed foyer. He was wearing his business face, which meant even less emotional expression than usual.