by Faith Hunter
“Moutons say dey get here in 1760, but my family, de Landry’s, land in New Orleans in April 1764, but dey don’ get here in dis town till 1769.” He smiled his pretty teeth at me and waggled his brows, lifting and shifting the stone bowl from palm to palm like a magician with nifty a trick or a ball player half-tossing his ball between innings. “My granmere one dem Bordelon sisters, Cally Bordelon.”
I began to see a glimmer here. Lucky Landry was way more than a butcher with a melodic quality to his voice. Here was a tattooed man from a witch family, a man with a rogue-vamp hunter suddenly stuck in his town, and in his power. And wouldn’t you know it, Lucky’s family had a Hatfield versus the McCoy’s feud going on with vamps. I narrowed my eyes at him
“Like my history, you do?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I grinned back and set the empty beer bottle on the table with a soft snap. “I’m waiting for you to get to the part where you need me for something.” Lucky’s smile got wider and he pointed a finger at me as if acknowledging a clever point in a debate. “But you’re trying to keep me here until it’s too late to leave town safely, even if I got my bike going again, which isn’t likely.”
“Smart lady, you.”
“If I was smart, I’d have pushed my bike back to I-10 and slept under a tree, where only the mosquitoes would have sucked my blood and the nutria chewed on my bones.”
Lucky laughed at that, his black eyes flashing.
And that was when it hit me. The history he knew so well, his nearly mesmeric story telling. His witch family origins. The flames on his arm that had seemed to waver. The tats were a lot like a scenic tat I’d seen on another man’s arm, chest, and shoulder. Spelled tats. “You’re a male witch,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “And you want me in this war.”
I caught a hint of movement from the corner of my eye, and everything went dark.
* * *
Beast’s claws flexed in my brain, waking me, yet holding me down. Through her memories, I knew instantly that I was in the best room of Miz Onie’s bed and breakfast, lying on the edge of the bed, my hands and feet unbound and hanging over the side. Even without Beast’s memories, I’d have guessed where I was, by the colors I could see through my tangled lashes: the emerald green bedspread, moss green walls, striped green drapery, and greenish fake flowers in a tall vase gave it away. That and the fact that Lucky Landry was sitting in a chair in a wide bay with tall windows and a door. That and the fact that I smelled his special peppers and spices in my hair. All that and the fact that my head was aching, yeah, that was a clue. “You sucker punched me,” I growled, Beast in the tone. “With a spice bowl.”
Lucky nodded. “Sorry bout dat, I am,” though he didn’t sound very sorry, and proved it when he added, “Ruin me a good batch of my special spice mixture.”
Yeah. Funny guy. I grunted and sat up slowly, holding my head with one hand. It was pounding like a bass drum interspersed with clanging cymbals, sharp pain in every pulse. “What do you want?” I snarled when I could, though it came out more like a whisper.
“I tried to call Leo Pellissier. Him no take my calls. I want you to call him and ask him for help.”
“No.”
Lucky’s eyebrows went up and he smiled. But this time the genial Cajun butcher was gone, and a powerful witch smiled in his place. I could feel the power crackle in the air. Male witches were very rare, most of them dying in their youth of childhood cancers. I thought about that for half a second until Beast informed me that Lucky had divested me of my weapons. My leather jacket was hanging open, and my holsters and blade-sheathes were empty. Nary a gun nor a knife nor even a stake was still on me. Which really ticked me off.
I let a bit of Beast flow through me, and knew that my eyes were glowing gold. Beast was an ambush hunter herself, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be ambushed. Lucky’s body tightened at what he saw in my eyes, and he made a little swirling motion with one finger, not hiding that he was preparing a magical defense.
Tension stretched between us, pulling like a rubber band. The door in the bay was open and the night poured in, smelling of night-blooming flowers, the stagnant water of swamp, the fresher scent of a recent rain, and the herbal tang of vamp. I heard a car passing by outside, the engine noise muted, the tires loudly splashing through a puddle.
I had met a few male witches in my life, way more than most people ever met. But as a traveling rogue-vamp hunter, I tended to end up with the supernats of any town I visit. My best pal was earth witch Molly, or had been until I killed her sister. Long story. Anyway, her husband was a witch, still in the closet, still hiding what he was. Her son was a witch, and I’d seen a third male witch die at the hand of a sabertooth lion. Another long story. My life was practically full of them. Now this dude with spell-flames licking up his arm.
“No,” I said again. “I’m not calling Leo. And if you hit me with a spell, I’ll make you regret it.”
“Make me?” He sounded mildly incredulous. Then his mouth pursed in thought. “Some spell you gots on you? To do combat wid me? Some witch spell like dat charm on you bike? Keep away/don’-steal charm?” His finger stopped swirling and the tension in the air seemed to float out the window into the night.
I had no spell, no real defense against magic, but I did have Beast, and I had seen her neutralize spells meant to harm me in the past. So I kept any trepidation I was feeling stowed deep inside, my eyes almost lazy, and I let my lips lift just a tiny bit on one side.
“Okay,” Lucky said. “Why you not call Leo for me?”
“I’m not a deal broker.”
“Mebbe you change you mind when I tell you rest a my story.”
“Skip a few centuries to the part where I rode into town.”
Lucky nodded, lounged back in the chair, and pointed to my side. “Aspirin and water for you headache.”
I didn’t usually take drugs, but I did drink the water while Lucky got to his point.
“Suckhead coonass clan, Clan Doucette, in bayou, gots my daughter.”
I nearly choked, blinked, set down the glass, and shifted into a more comfortable position. “Okay. That I didn’t expect.” Coonass was an insulting word for Cajun, and it was interesting that Lucky, a Cajun himself, called another Cajun coonass. “Okay,” I said again. “I’m listening.”
“When Leo and Amaury Pellissier kill off de blood-master of Clan Chiasson, dey leave suckheads in swamp. No trainin’ dey gots. No law. Some insane for decades. Suckheads and witches in dis town not get along, not never. Now dem suckheads got my girl, stole her dey did. Kidnap.”
Beast shifted her claws in my brain and said, Kit? We will save kit. I nodded, as agreement to Beast and as a signal to the witch in the chair to continue.
“I want her back. Word in de street is Clermont Doucette boy gone turn my girl and run wild with her, or mebe chain her up in he attic for ten year.”
I blew out a sigh and felt part of the pain in my skull decrease. Skinwalkers healed a lot faster than humans, even after getting whapped over the head with a hunk of rock. I touched the sore place on my head, thinking. “Is your daughter a witch? Dumb question,” I answered myself. “Daughters get one of their two X chromosomes from their father. The trait passes on his X chromosome and so of course she’s a witch. Got it. Witches don’t take well to the turn. They sometimes stay in the devoveo for forever.”
“She is witch, yes. Devoveo? Dis mean insane? Insane forever?” Lucky snarled. “Not my girl. No. I kill dem all firs.’”
“Yeah, yeah. I got that you’re ticked and wanting to stake every vamp in sight. You shoulda said all this in the first place, not coldcocked me. Understand that I am not happy and this is not over. But okay. I’ll call Leo.”
Lucky tossed me my throwaway cell, an unlisted one I had purchased at RadioShack. I’d had no calls on it in the last week, not one, because no one knew the number and I hadn’t called anyone to share my new contact info. I hadn’t even stopped at a library on the road to update my website
and check for potential jobs, because I knew certain of Leo’s contract employees could tell if I had done so, determine which town I had updated from, and come looking for me. The only way to be invisible these days was to stay totally and completely off the grid. And even then it was hard.
I had to call Leo anyway. My retainer had run out, and I needed to make sure the vamps had received my resignation papers and clarify that I was done working for and with the vamps of New Orleans. The last job in Asheville had done a number on me in lots of emotional ways, and I’d had enough. My retainer had run out two weeks past, and I had mailed back all the electronic devices that tied me to the MOC of New Orleans. In the packet, I had included a letter of resignation, as well as an “intent to vacate” the premises to my landlady.
I had hit the road, sightseeing in the Deep, Deep South in preparation for heading back to Asheville. My belongings were packed in boxes back in my freebie house, ready to be shipped out. It was past time to make sure the chief fanghead understood that I was really going away. Getting him to man up and take over this vamp problem left by his power-crazy uncle back when he was the man in charge and Leo was only his heir would be a suitable and satisfying going-away present. I had been putting off this phone call for days.
“So?” Lucky said. “You gone call?”
“How old is your daughter?” I asked.
“Twenty-two. Firs’ college graduate in our family ever, she is.” His lips twisted into a lopsided smile, one with tears close to the surface. “Her my baby.”
“Name?”
“Shauna Landry.” The tears gathered. Crap. I hate it when people cry. “Black hair like mine, blue eyes from her mama. Beautiful from de day she born.”
I opened the cell and dialed Leo’s number at the Clan Home. The call was answered by an unknown voice, likely an upper level blood-servant I hadn’t met, and I said, “Jane Yellowrock for Leo or Bru—George Dumas.”
“One moment, please. I’ll see if Mr. Dumas is available.”
I figured I’d sit on hold forever, but the line was picked up in less than five seconds. “Jane.”
I couldn’t help the way my heart lightened at the sound of my name on his voice. “Hiya, Bruiser.”
“Where are you?”
“Little place called Bayou Oiseau. It’s in—”
“I know where it is. Are you . . . well?”
“I’m just ducky. Except that I landed in the middle of a war between witches and vamps. One left in full swing by Amaury Pellissier back in the eighteen hundreds, and Leo needs to deal with it. Oh. And I may be a prisoner of the witches. I’m not sure.”
Lucky chuckled softly at that, his power once again flowing through the air and up my arms and legs like either a promise or a threat. Okay. Prisoner. Gotcha.
Bruiser was silent for a moment, probably processing all that I’d said, and still he surprised me with his reply. “How can you not be certain whether you are a prisoner?”
“I’m not in a jail, I’m not handcuffed or chained to a radiator, and so far I’ve only been lightly beaten.”
Lucky shrugged as if to say, Some things are out of my control.
“Lightly beaten.” Bruiser’s voice was low and cold, and I remembered that he grew up in a time when men didn’t hit women. Not for anything. Bruiser had strong protective instincts, and his tone promised retribution to whoever had hurt me.
“Yeah, but I’m fine. Ducky, remember?” Before he could reply, I quickly recapped the history of Bayou Oiseau, told him about the daughter being held by the vamps.
Bruiser listened silently, but at some point I heard a click and figured I’d been put on speakerphone, which meant Leo was listening. When I reached the end of my soliloquy, I said, “Hey, Leo. I just can’t get away from you, can I?”
“No, my Enforcer. You cannot,” Leo said.
Ooookay. I didn’t like the sound of that at all.
“I remember this town and its people; they wanted only to fight. They refused our counsel and when more important political matters required our presence, we left.” Leo paused and I could almost hear him thinking. Patience isn’t my strong point and it was misery to wait, but I managed it. Go me.
“As my Enforcer, you have my authority,” Leo said.
I nearly cussed. That Enforcer thing had been nothing but problems, and it was all my own fault. Dang it. Me and my big mouth. I wished I had never heard the term. “I don’t work for you, Leo.”
The silence over the phone was electric, and I heard Leo take a breath that hissed. He said, “Consider it a new contract, a short term extension of the services you provided under the retainer you have resigned.”
Without waiting for me to reply, he went on. “You have the freedom to handle this situation any way you wish. If you must stake the leader of this so-called clan, one that has not sworn to me, yet exists inside my territory, then you may do so.” My eyebrows went up, but I didn’t say anything and Leo went on. “I will messenger over the necessary papers, and George will contact all legal authorities who might be involved or who might show an interest.” Meaning the local town cops—if any—the parish sheriff and deputies, the FBI, the Louisiana State Police, probably out of the Lafayette office, and PsyLED, the Psychometry Law Enforcement Division of Homeland Security. Which reminded me of Rick LaFleur and all the unsettled, unsatisfied elements in our not-really-a-relationship. Bruiser was gonna be a busy boy.
At that thought, almost as if conjured, Bruiser came on the line. I heard Leo in the background again, issuing orders. He sounded pretty ticked off, which made me smile. There wasn’t much I liked better than yanking a vamp’s chain. When Leo’s cultured French voice fell silent, Bruiser said to me, “We will attempt to smooth the way for you, Jane. But I will also send Derek and three of his best to assist.”
“Yeah? What am I being paid?”
He named a sum that would let me laze around for six months if I wanted to splurge, ten if I wanted to scrimp a bit. “It’s hazard pay,” he said, which took the joy out of my reaction. Yeah. I was going into unknown territory against an unknown number of vamps on one side and witches on the other—witches who might not like the way I handled things. “Call me daily with an update,” Bruiser said. “If I don’t hear from you for twenty-four hours, I’ll come myself. If you have been. . . .” He paused as if trying to find the right word and settled on. “Damaged, I will burn a path through the swamp wider than Sherman did during the war,” he promised. “Tell them that. And be careful, Jane.” The connection ended.
“He say you can stake Doucette?” Lucky asked, and his expression went fierce when I nodded. “Who gone burn a path tru’ dis town?”
I closed the phone, knowing that Lucky had overheard a lot of the conversation. “Leo Pellissier’s right-hand meal,” I said. “If I get hurt, he’ll make everyone pay, which means the witches too.” At Lucky’s shock I laughed, but there was nothing humorous in it at all. I had a feeling that Bruiser could be a very dangerous enemy, and it was nice to know he would revenge my death. Nice but cold. Being dead would see to that. So I just had to stay alive all by my lonesome. “Tell me everything you know about the Doucette vamps and everything about the witches. I need to know numbers, strengths, strongholds, and weaknesses. And make sure there are four more rooms available in this B&B. I have some men coming. Oh, and you pay for the accommodations. It’s part of my fee.”
“Dat Leo Pellissier pay you fee. You t’ink you get paid two times?”
I just stared at him and Lucky made a very French gesture, a tossing of one hand in agreement. He leaned forward, fingers interlaced, elbows on his knees, and dished about the vamps. I figured he was giving me everything he had on the vamps, and was holding back about 90 percent on the witches.
* * *
I started work the next morning just after nine a.m., when Derek and his guys motored into town in mud-spattered four-wheel-drive Humvees, vehicles last used in a war somewhere and decommissioned. Derek was a former Marine, still toug
h as Uncle Sam can make a man, and he ran a group of former military mercenaries who had originally banded together to fight rogue-vamps in their neighborhood in New Orleans. He was muscle and tech support too and had the toys and the know-how to do the job.
Miz Onie, an olive-skinned, dark-haired French woman, was agreeable to renting out her entire B&B, and laid out a huge breakfast for me, Derek, and his Vodka Boys: V. Martini, V. Chi Chi, and V. Angel Tit. Miz Onie might have been pushing sixty, but she appreciated the pretty vision of a man in a uniform, even a paramilitary uniform like Derek’s men wore—camo pants and Marine-green tees. She served up pancakes, several rashers of bacon, two dozen eggs, and a fruit bowl big enough to use as a hot tub.
We cleared the dishes of their edible burdens, then the table of the dishes, and laid out topo maps of the area, the guys using weapons to hold down the corners. “Our intel of the area sucks,” Derek said. “This is all Angel could find on GoogleMaps, and the printed stuff is so pixled out it’s pretty much useless. Everything’s flat so we got only rooftops and treetops to go by, and no one has done a street cam drive-by.”
“No streets,” Lucky said. The former Marine had guns on him in the echo of the first word. “Bayou only way. You want in, you go in by boat or gator-back.” He grinned at his own joke, standing in the door, seeming totally relaxed even with all the guns on him. His bare arms were upraised, holding on to the jambs of the door, the flames along one arm dancing with his power.
I rolled my eyes and said, “Meet the father of the kidnap victim.”
The Vodka Boys made half the guns disappear. The rest went back on the table, holding down the maps. Men and their toys. Of course, I had a vamp-killer in a boot sheath and six stakes in my bun, so maybe I wasn’t much better.
Lucky sauntered over, put a hand on the table, and rested his weight on it as the tattoos danced. “Dat right dere,” he tapped a page, “is Clermont Doucette Place.” The rooftop was reflective aluminum, making it hard to see anything except that there were lots of angles and offshoots, as if the Clan Home had been added onto by whim and caprice for years. The house sat on a narrow tongue of land, a bayou winding around the house on three sides and what looked like swamp on the other. Trash was everywhere, piles of unidentifiable things, but what we could see was not going to make any outright attack easy. Docks large and small were positioned around the house, sticking out into the water, and there were a half dozen outbuildings, animal pens, and even a rusted school bus under the trees. I almost asked how they got the bus out into the bayou, and then changed my mind. More important were the boats; at least six were pulled up to the dock and on shore, and I figured the tree canopy hid more. There were a lot of people at the house.
