Raven Cursed jy-4

by Faith Hunter

  Grégoire, insulted, retired to his suite with his twins, having a midnight blood-snack and a massage, leaving me with orders to find Shaddock. Things weren’t going well for the local vamp, and if Grégoire’s expression was indicative of the future, Shaddock wasn’t going to be master of any city, anywhere. Ever.

  Back in my room again, I closed the door behind me, stripped off my fancy jacket, and opened my cell. There were no voice mail messages or texts from Molly. No calls from Evan either. Nada. Nothing. They wouldn’t call now, not this late. There was also nothing from Rick.

  I was closing the cell when it rang, startling me. I flipped it back open, my heart in my throat, but it wasn’t Mol. I narrowed my eyes at the number on the screen. It wasn’t one I wanted to hear from right now. “Yellowrock.” I let my tone show my lack of pleasure.

  Bruiser hesitated as if reading my emotions from the single word. He said, “Leo is dispatching the Rogue Hunter to the service of Lincoln Shaddock.” Bruiser was sounding all formal, which he did when he was acting strictly in Leo’s behalf, and not entirely with his own approval. When Leo wanted me to sleep with Kemnebi, Bruiser had used the same tone.

  “Yeah? Would this have anything to do with old Linc being a no-show? Again?” I asked.

  “There has been a disturbance. You will provide him and his clan all reasonable service.”

  “I don’t sleep with Leo’s pals,” I reminded him.

  His voice was warm, a low burr, when he said, “You have been remarkably resistant to my charms.”

  Ooookaaay. I opened my mouth and closed it. Not gonna say anything I was thinking.

  “Now,” he went on, his tone sharpening, “Leo hears rumors that his pet Rogue Hunter has claimed the title of his Enforcer. Is this true?”

  “Ummm?” I got a sudden bad feeling. “Maybe.”

  “Brilliant.” But I could tell he really meant stupid. “The Enforcer is a titled position in a Master’s household. Have you drank from him? Have you drank from any Mithran?”

  “Nooooo.” I drug the word into three syllables.

  “Don’t, for a period of two moon cycles, unless you want to be bound to that vampire as an Enforcer—a top blood-servant similar to a primo. One sip of blood will seal the contract.” I let a breath go, a long exhalation he couldn’t hear. Not a problem. I had no intention of drinking from any vamp, ever. “Please . . . attempt to be less foolish,” he said. The call disconnected.

  I was still holding the cell when it rang again. I was a popular gal tonight. “Yellowrock.”

  “Jane. It’s Adelaide. We need you at the compound.” Adelaide, tall and blond, the blood-servant lawyer who wanted to be my gal-pal. Before I could respond she said, “Lincoln’s chained scions have been let free of their shackles. They killed—” Her voice shut off as if someone had garroted her. I heard a breath drawn, full of tears. “They killed Sarah. She turned twenty-two yesterday. She was just a child.” There was a sob in her voice. She had liked Sarah.

  This was why Leo had turned my services over to Shaddock. Young rogue-vamps who killed humans were staked. By me, if they got out of the scion lair; opening a scion lair with unchained rogues was a near guarantee that some would get out. I chose my words with care. “Why hasn’t Lincoln handled it? Or Chen?”

  Her voice changed, growing stilted and sharp. “Mr. Shaddock isn’t on the premises at the moment. He is not available. And Chen is elsewhere employed.”

  “Ah.” Crap. Shaddock was missing from more than his parley talks, and Chen was hunting him. “And the person who set the rogues free?”

  “We have the event on digital video, and the perpetrator is contained.” Her emphasis on the word contained made me think her culprit was not in the best shape.

  “I’ll be there within the hour.” I tossed my vamp-hunting gear on the bed, catching sight of myself in the long mirrors as I moved. I was no clotheshorse, but I looked pretty good in harem pants, boots, white silk shirt and short vest. Too bad I wasn’t going to get a chance to show the outfit off. While I talked on the cell—ordering the supplies I needed, and my SUV brought around front—I stripped and pulled on leather studded with silver. Weaponed up, stakes in my bun, and every vamp-killer blade and gun I owned. And strode toward the door to the hallway.

  It opened, my hand still above the knob. The smell of vamp swept in. I had a hand on a stake before I could catch myself, and met Grégoire’s gorgeous dark blue eyes. His delicate brows lifted, his gaze resting on my hand and the stake, unamused. I released it as if it burned. “Oops.” Grabbing a stake in the presence of a master vamp wasn’t smart.

  Grégoire laughed. Waving one hand as if he were dismissing the gesture of violence, he moved into the suite, graceful as a ballerina. His forward motion alone backed me up, his blond hair loose about his shoulders, his scent like aromatic lilies tonight. Grégoire was wearing midnight blue silk jammies that probably cost more than everything I owned, the shirt unbuttoned to reveal a pale chest, hairless and smooth. And he was barefooted. I don’t know why, but the sight of a man’s bare feet can make me melt. Of course, if a vamp wanted to get the drop on me, he would come at me just like this, looking innocent and harmless. I backed up fast, my hands off my weapons. “Grégoire.”

  “Rogue Hunter.” The matching bookend blood-servants stepped in behind him and shut the door. They were wearing even less than their master, silk pajama bottoms hanging low on their hips and twin looks of expectancy that sent warnings through me like lightning. “My master sent a gift for you,” Grégoire said. “I have been instructed to give it to you prior to your activities tonight.” He extended a black velvet box six inches high and fourteen square, like something from an expensive jewelry store.

  “Ummm.” One can’t be too careful accepting gifts from vamps. Sometimes they thought it meant they owned you. Not that I’d ever received a gift from one, if I discounted the sabertooth lion bones Leo had given me once and the cell phone. And the guns. And I discounted all that because it was business. But this wasn’t. “Okay. What is it and what does it mean?”

  “I have been assured that it is an indication of his satisfaction with your expertise and service, and to replace something lost in his labor. A boon, with, as you Americans say, ‘no strings attached.’”

  I took the box gingerly, as if it might explode, and set it on the coffee table in front of the couch. Grégoire sat in a wingback chair and waited, the twins at his back, eyes on the box. I took that as my cue to open the gift. I sat on the couch and raised the hinged lid. The inside was black silk, and on the silk was a jewelry display shaped like the neck and shoulders of a woman. No head. The shoulders were covered with a black silk scarf, lightly draping and partially obscuring a piece of jewelry beneath. I hoped the MOC wasn’t sending me jewelry. Or a promise that he wanted to take my head. There were all sorts of ways to interpret a headless mannequin.

  With a gesture suitable to a magician’s stage, Grégoire leaned forward and swept the scarf away. Beneath it was a mesh of interwoven rings. Leo had replaced my broken vamp collar, the one a werewolf had destroyed, crushing it with his massive jaws. I breathed out slowly. It was beautiful, made of three different sized rings, hooked together in an intricate weave. There were tiny, faceted stones attached, all in tawny gold colors, the shade my eyes flash when Beast is near the surface.

  “The collar is composed of two layers, which may be worn together or separately. The lower layer is made of sterling silver over titanium, for better strength and protection than the collar you lost to his service. The upper layer, which attaches so”—he indicated a delicate latching mechanism—“is decorative. Twenty-four carat gold rings with chocolate diamonds and citrines scattered across the surface. My master had it created especially for you so that you might wear it even when working in a formal gown and yet be safe.”

  I blinked. And ran his words through my mind again. Sterling, gold, and diamonds? This thing must have cost a fortune.

  “The silk scarf is my sm
all contribution.” He flicked it smoothly over my arm. “It may aide you when you hunt at night. It secures over the collar to hide the gleam of metal, and to assure that no rogue Mithran will recognize a weapon around your neck prior to an attack.”

  I looked up at the twins and licked my suddenly dry lips. “Is this okay?” Meaning, can I accept it without prejudice or would acceptance be a promise to hop into Leo’s bed?

  “When a master of a city offers a boon to a servant or employee,” Brandon said, “it’s exactly as my master has said—a gift only, a reward for a job well done.”

  Suu-weet. I reached to take the necklace but Grégoire’s hand was there first, vamp-fast. I yanked back my hand. Slammed back into the couch. He was standing in front of me. And I didn’t see him move from the chair. Crap. This was payback for reaching for a weapon in his presence—being taught that he was way too fast for me to kill. Having it shown to me that sane master vamp beats stupid vamp-hunter any night. A cold sweat broke out on my flesh and Beast was oddly absent, not bragging to me that she could win this fight.

  Grégoire lifted the necklace and removed the upper gold layer, setting it aside. He unclasped the silver fighting necklace and moved. That air popped and I felt the wind of his movement on my face. I tensed. My jacket was pulled back, the jerk hard enough to make me gasp. The silver necklace settled around my shoulders, cold, and tightened on my neck. Grégoire’s fingers were no warmer than the silver. Grégoire’s fingers were touching the silver. Crap. A vamp who can handle silver. He had been silver poisoned recently. Surviving that might give him immunity. Thoughts fast and desperate.

  I heard the faint snick when the latch caught. And suddenly Grégoire was in front of me again, leaning over me. His hands on my throat again. I was inches taller than Grégoire, and pounds of muscle heavier, better trained, way better armed. And yet, if he wanted me dead, he could snap my head around and pop it right off. I had once fought Leo. I knew how hard masters were to beat. Gently, he pulled my leather jacket in place. Raised the zipper with a metallic ratchet. “Do we understand one another, ma chère?”

  “We do.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. They were dark with rage, pupils wide, as if he were slipping into his vamped-out state, yet held himself in check. He had that much control, was that strong. I took a breath, slowly, carefully. And drew on my Christian school girl manners, hoping it might be enough. “Please assure the Master of the City of New Orleans that his gift is received in all . . . humility”—I searched for more words— “and delight.”

  “And?” Grégoire asked.

  I swallowed. And? And what? “And . . . um . . . and the scarf is beautiful.” But that wasn’t what he wanted. “And . . . please assure that I meant no offense to the blood-master’s most trusted and beloved adviser and scion.”

  Grégoire smiled sweetly, almost angelically, and patted my cheek. “You have not brought me the witch who bespelled Lincoln Shaddock. And now he is missing again. Still bespelled?”

  “Probably.” I admitted.

  “I gave you a charge. Fulfill it.” He vanished with a whirlwind and that pop of displaced air. The twins were looking at me quizzically, and I realized that they hadn’t seen me almost pull a stake on their master. I sank back in the couch cushions and tried to remember how to breathe.

  I managed three insufficient breaths and stood. I needed out of here. “I’ll report back by sunrise.” They nodded, still confused, and I walked around the coffee table, the headless mannequin, and the golden collar, and out the door. Sometimes all a girl has is moxie, and when her knees are knocking and her heart’s racing and she’s sweating drops of pure fear, that’s a good time to draw on that feminine talent. That and prayer. Yeah. Prayer might be a real good idea about now.

  Crap. Grégoire had handled pure silver. Just like Leo could. Had Leo been silver poisoned once? And he was fast. Maybe faster than Leo. So why was Leo the Master of the City of New Orleans, and not Grégoire? And how was I gonna get out of killing Evangelina if Lincoln was trapped in her basement with a demon?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Things Had Just FUBARed

  I was at Lincoln Shaddock’s place in less than the time I had allowed myself. Unfortunately, so was Sheriff Grizzard and a strange woman. They both looked royally ticked off. He met me at my SUV and looked me over as I opened the door. As I climbed out, my eyes caught on the folded scrap of purple on the passenger floor. Someone had folded Evangelina’s scarf. I’d have to tip the valets well. They were going beyond the call of duty.

  I closed the door and Grizzard took in the array of weapons, most illegal. The woman stood at his shoulder, her hand on a pistol grip under her arm. Cop. Rather than defend my weapons, I pulled a blade and handed it to Grizzard hilt first. I pretended not to hear his shocked breath at the sight of the naked blade glittering in the moonlight. He took the hilt and turned it to the dim light while I unstrapped the blade sheath. “It’s a vamp-killer. German steel overlaid with sterling, hilt and blade all one piece. The hilt is molded over with high impact, crosshatched plastic for a better grip. The blood groove is extra deep. Killing vamps is bloody business.”

  “I hear their blood is like acid,” the woman said.

  “Some of them. Some not. Depends on the bloodlines.”

  “They’re talking about licensing these in Congress.” He looked up at me under bushy brows. “Talking about licensing vampire hunters too.”

  “Congress is always talking.” I gave him the sheath and tucked my box of supplies under one arm. “The sheath attaches to your belt and upper thigh. Consider it a gift. Who are you?” I asked the woman.

  “Loretta Scoggins, sheriff of Madison County.”

  The drill-sergeant-sheriff who cussed like a sailor. I handed her a blade too, considering it a point of good PR. Leo could replace them. Grizzard and Scoggins started working on the straps and I led the way to the door. “Pickersgill tells me Lincoln is missing,” he said.

  “Yeah. And I have to go save him from the wicked witch of the west. But first we have to restore order to the chained ones.”

  “Is that gonna be hard?” Loretta asked.

  I laughed, the sound too dry for real humor. “It can be.”

  Pickersgill was standing at the entrance, the two and a-half inch steel door held open. Soft light filtered out, illuminating the shrubs at his side. He was a slight, nondescript man, not nearly as pretty as most vamps, which means he was brought over because he had something to offer his maker. With his history, that meant his military and political smarts. I nodded to him; he nodded back and shut the door behind us. “You came alone? Not with your boys?”

  “You were insulting last time. How bad is it?” I asked.

  “They tore into her. Drained her dry. I’ve called in all the help I could find on short notice—four Mithrans and a dozen blood-servants. I even tried to get Gertruda, the Mercy Blade, but she’s spending the night at the hospital, healing the humans of were-taint. Sheriffs,” he said, shaking their hands. He pointed to a security consol. On a screen was the scion lair. Blood was splattered everywhere, centered on a girl lying on the cold stone. She looked dead. Rogues were racing around the room, as if chasing imaginary prey. Others were standing in the corners of the room, immobile. All the cages were open. Pickersgill punched a button and said, “The human came in to feed them, and the Mithran came in behind her.” On the screen, the door opened and Sarah entered, a sweet-faced girl with balletic movements, as if she danced to songs only she heard. Behind her a tall vamp entered, moving fast, creating a fuzzed-out image on the low-quality video He hit the girl. She spun away, and before she fell, he had opened the first cell.

  “Now all of them are unshackled,” Pickersgill said, returning us to the current feed, “and one is the blood relation of a Mithran who is here to help.” Translation—the vamp would resist if I had to kill his kin. Lucky me. More vamp politics, which I sucked at.

  “I want to see the vamp who let them loose.”

&nb
sp; Pickersgill frowned, but led the way down the stairs into the windowed room, our reflections moving like underwater undulations, the way they might look in bullet resistant glass. Last time I was here, I hadn’t realized they were bulletproof. Which translated to freaking expensive.

  The place smelled of vamp and barbeque smoke, heavy on the sage. Someone had come straight from the restaurant. We reached the lower level and I looked over the vamps and blood-servants clustered in a sitting area. They were all dressed in jeans and leather. The servants were wearing silver chain mail armored vests with high collars, leather and silver cuffs over each wrist. Not bad, and totally unexpected in a vamp’s household.

  At a gesture from Pickersgill, they parted, revealing a vamp curled in a fetal position on the floor. He had wood stakes in his belly, immobilized and bleeding onto a plastic sheet, which struck me as neat and tidy, or way too prepared. He had silver shackles on his wrists. And a pink glow all over him. Crap. Evangelina had spelled him to set the chained ones free. What was the witch doing? Trying to get herself killed? “Keep him shackled, but take out the stakes. I have a feeling he was spelled to set them free.”

  “Evangelina,” Pickersgill said. It sounded like a curse. “My master has placed her under his protection. We cannot harm her.”

  I sighed and lifted a shoulder. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Grégoire has ordered me to bring her to him.” A truly vicious smile grew on Pickersgill’s face. Grégoire outranked Shaddock. He could do anything he wanted to the witch. “Let’s get to work,” I said.

  “They ain’t gonna be injured,” one of the vamps said. It still surprised me to hear a vamp speak with any accent other than European, and the country drawl was jarring, not that I let on. I acknowledged the heir and her daughter and looked at the speaker, an emaciated woman with collar bones sharp as plow blades. She looked stubborn. Angry. Desperate. I asked, “Is your true child one of the escapees?” Meaning born from her body in the traditional human manner.