by Faith Hunter
“You’re different,” he said, squeezing my shoulders. “All muscley.”
“And you grew at least ten inches,” I hyperbolized. “You grew up on me.”
“Come on in and meet little Charly.” Bobby took me by the hand and led me into the living room area of the suite. A little girl was curled up on the sofa, watching TV. “Charly, this is Jane.” The little girl waved to me shyly. “Jane, this is Charly. She’s Misha’s little girl and my best friend.” The child was maybe seven or eight, skinny and pale, with thin brown hair cut in a pageboy to her ears. She was bundled up in pink velour sweats that were sized to grow into, and a blanket covered her legs. She wore a pearl ring on her left hand, something that looked too adult for her but seemed to fit. I lifted my hand in greeting, and she pulled the blanket up to her chest as if uncomfortable with my gaze, so I looked away and took in the suite.
Misha had paid for a hospitality suite with adjoining rooms. Fancy digs for a reporter-turned–book writer. There were children’s books and toys in a large wicker basket, a lavender hoodie jacket on a hanger on a hat rack instead of pitched over a chair back, a pair of women’s running shoes placed precisely side by side below the jacket, a packet of folders lined up neatly at the corner of a table. From the way her shoes were lined up and her hoodie so carefully hung, I didn’t think the control freak I remembered had changed all that much. A coat sized for Bobby was on a hanger on a doorknob to a room with two double beds. Across from it was a room with a king-sized bed. The place was decorated in beige and a soft rosy red, with dark wood furniture. A soothing palette.
Bobby said, “Misha is in the bathroom. We’re watching Disney. Charly likes The Lion King.”
I nodded, scenting again that faint hint of sickness. I looked Bobby over and thought about his scent rising to me when we hugged; he was fine. I looked at Charly again, my nose tracking both the sickness and the scent of chemicals to her. Her paleness wasn’t natural to her skin tone, but was the pale of anemia. Her hair lacked the sheen a child’s usually had, and was dull and far too thin. On the sofa arm beside her was a small clump of hair. There was another clump on her shoulder. And a small bald patch on her crown.
Her hair was falling out.
Charly was getting chemo.
Kit, Beast thought at me, staring at Charly. Sick kit.
I stood rooted to the floor, horrified and totally out of anything that might have resembled a comfort zone. I was in a hotel room with Bobby Bates and a very sick child. Fortunately, before I had to react to my sudden new knowledge, I heard a noise from the open door.
CHAPTER 3
I’ll Break Every Finger . . . One by One
A door opened in the room with the large bed and I turned in time to see a light switched off and shadows move. I had no idea what to do with my hands so I tucked them into my jeans pockets, but that felt posed so I gripped them behind my back, which felt even more posed, and I realized I was nervous.
Beast, who had been oddly silent, chuffed with amusement. Jane is afraid of prey.
Not afraid, I thought back. Uncertain, maybe. And she isn’t prey.
Prey or hunter. Or plant. Or earth and rock. Or water and air, she added with a soft snort. There is nothing else.
I stifled a sigh just as Misha walked into the room. She had changed since the children’s home. She was taller, her hair worn in a chic, tousled bob, and much blonder. The highlights made her blue eyes look bluer and accented her sharp cheekbones. She was wearing jeans and layered T-shirts in bright blues, shades of royal and indigo, fuzzy socks on her feet, and was color coordinated from top to toe. Her only jewelry was a large pearl wrapped in silver dangling on a silver chain. She moved with an unself-conscious poise. Misha had grown up. She stopped in the doorway and we stared at each other, silent. In the background, the volume went up on the TV as the kids got bored with watching us. I recognized strains from the animated Disney movie as I studied the woman in the doorway.
Beast was good at waiting games, but my nerves didn’t let me wait it out. I lifted a shoulder in a tentative shrug. “Hi.”
A slow grin spread across her face. She’d had her teeth fixed, and the effect was blinding white against her pale skin and all that blue. She looked gorgeous. “Hi back. Are we supposed to hug?”
I didn’t know what my face showed, but whatever it was made her laugh softly. “Yeah. I’m not much of a hugger either. And it feels stupid to shake hands.” When I didn’t respond, she said, “You’ve met Charly?”
I nodded.
“I have coffee and tea on the way up.”
“Tea, please,” I said, with my best children’s-home manners. Then, because I was getting more nervous, I added, “You look gorgeous.”
“And you look dangerous.” She flashed me a quick smile and I knew that she meant it as a compliment. “Just like you did back in the home, except with better-quality clothes.” She tilted her head. “I never had a chance to thank you.”
I just stared, not knowing what she was thanking me for, but obscurely pleased by the compliment.
“For what?” I finally said.
“Do you remember Ann Shelton?”
Instantly the vision of the bitter, angry girl flashed into my memory. Blond and blue-eyed, her mouth turned down in fury. She would have been cute except for the constant rage. Ann had picked fights anywhere she could, anytime she could, with any girl she could. Her forte was goading them into fighting and then ripping off the clothes of her victims, leaving them exposed, crying, and hurting. I had hated her, totally and without shame. “Yeah,” I said. “I remember. But I haven’t thought of her in years.”
“She was taunting me one day in school, in the gym locker room after volleyball practice. Her buds were around her, laughing. I was crying. I knew what was coming. And she pushed me. I hit a wall at my back. All I remember is that suddenly she wasn’t in front of me anymore. You were. And you said, ‘The next time I see you picking on anyone—anyone—I’ll make sure it’s the last time you do. Ever.’
“And Ann got up in your face and said something stupid like, ‘Yeah? Whatchya gonna do, bitch?’ And you got this look on your face. This look. And your voice dropped to this slow growl, and you whispered, ‘I’ll break every finger in your hands. One by one. And then I’ll break your nose so it will never heal right. And I’ll blacken both your eyes. And then I’ll break both your knees. You’ll be disfigured and have to go through multiple surgeries. And you’ll never be the same again. Ever. And if your little girlfriends try to stop me, I’ll do the same to them. One by one. Got it?’”
As she spoke, I remembered that incident and said softly, “Ann said I’d go to juvie.”
“And you said it would be worth it. And I never thanked you.”
I shrugged and crossed my arms over my chest. “I didn’t remember it was you. I just wanted to make sure she stopped picking on Bobby and kids like him.” I looked over at the TV to find Bobby watching us, though I was pretty sure he couldn’t hear a word we said over the Disney music.
“And none of us thanked you. None of the picked on kids thanked you back then. You risked a lot to make sure Ann Shelton stayed away. So. It’s a long time coming, but thank you.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. I shrugged again. That’s me. Just chock-full of social skills.
“I’ve been reading about you,” Misha said. “According to Reach, ‘Jane Yellowrock,’” she quoted, “‘is arguably the best vampire hunter in the business.’ And that was before the info was updated with all the kills in Natchez last year.”
I had no idea what to say to that, so I said nothing, which was better than opening my mouth and inserting my foot, boot and all. Just when the silence—my silence—became uncomfortable, a knock came at the door. Misha crossed the suite and opened it. A bellman entered, pushing a cart into the room. It was laden with a small cheesecake and a plate of petit fours, a bowl of Chex mix, a plate of chocolates, two juice bottles, a carafe of coffee, a pot of hot water, mugs,
clear glass teacups, and various tea bags. It was too much to hope for loose tea, even in a nice joint like this.
Misha tipped the bellman and then concentrated on making up a tray of treats for Bobby and Charly. I watched as she worked, trying to reconcile this self-assured woman with the Misha of memory. She glanced up and said, “Help yourself,” with that new, quick, professional smile, as she carried the juice and plate into the TV area.
I moved to the far side of the fancy tea cart, where my back went to the wall, leaving the entrance, the windows, and Misha all in my visual range. I picked through the tea bags and upgraded my opinion of the tea selection. There was a white peony, a green chai, and a spring oolong, all imported from China. There was also one called East Beauty Blooming Tea—a ball of green tea leaves sewn together by hand with jasmine and chrysanthemum flowers. When dropped in hot water, the tea ball would open, appearing to flower and bloom.
I didn’t usually care for flower-flavored teas, but I picked the blooming tea, which said something about both Misha and me, but I wasn’t smart enough to figure out what. I opened the package and dropped the ball into a glass teacup, not sure if manners dictated that I wait until Misha served me. But the thought of her waiting on me was an uncomfortable one, so I poured the hot water into the cup, over the ball. Instantly the leaves started to open and flower as the hot water rehydrated and relaxed them. It was like watching high-speed photography of a flower blooming, and I could smell the jasmine. As the tea steeped, I unwrapped a chocolate, leaned against the wall, and popped the candy into my mouth. The taste of hazelnuts, mocha, and vanilla, perfectly balanced, melted on my tongue. I’m not normally a chocolate eater, but I nearly groaned, it was so good.
“I know,” Misha said, walking back to me, a grin on her face. “Best chocolate evah.”
“Yeah. It is,” I said around the chocolate. “Um, why am I here?”
Misha pointed to the comfy upholstered chair set catercornered to the tea table, and I took my seat as she served herself chocolate and coffee. As she mixed her coffee, she said, “What did Reach tell you?”
“That you had a book deal. Book about vamps.”
“Yes.” She looked up under her brows, the grin still in place. “You don’t have to look so ferocious about it.”
“I’m not looking ferocious.” What does ferocious even look like? “I look worried,” I said. “Vamps are dangerous.”
“Not the sane ones,” she countered.
I sat back in the chair. “You’re kidding, right?”
For a moment, Misha’s face altered with some inexplicable emotion, but before I could identify it, the emotion vanished, replaced with the professional Misha. No, the professional Camilla Hopkins, reporter for Torch News.
“According to all my sources, the Mithrans who live by the Vampira Carta live by the rule of law, protecting blood-servants and blood-slaves, providing them legal rights and opportunities and the freedom to leave service anytime they want.” It sounded like a promo quote from a vamp PR firm. Just what we needed, the media believing the vamp crap.
I picked up my tea and sipped, stalling, trying to figure out why Misha was here and why she wanted to talk to me. “The Vampira Carta also tells them how to divide up territory,” I said distinctly, “and the cattle that live in it. Cattle are humans. They eat humans.”
That odd look flashed across her face again and it left me feeling cornered somehow, as if I was way more involved with the project than I knew about. Shock raced down my spine, hot and then frigid. What was her book really about? Some kind of exposé?
“Mish, what’s your book about?” I asked carefully, not letting my reaction show. “And don’t fob me off.”
Misha passed me a sheaf of papers, and I set the weak tea down to go through the typed pages. There were twenty, the content in outline form. The first pages had HISTORY, broken down into CREATION, MITHRANS, NATURALEZA, THE DIASPORA, EUROPEAN COUNCIL, NEW WORLD MITHRANS, and MISCELLANEOUS, with even more subcategories and suggestions and explanations beneath. The next section had POLITICAL HIERARCHY, with MASTERS OF THE CITY, HEIRS, SCIONS, PRIMOS, SECONDOS, BLOOD-SERVANTS, and BLOOD-SLAVES. “This is your outline for the book?” I clarified.
Misha nodded, sipping her coffee, hiding her lower face behind the cup. I remembered her doing that when we were kids, only back then it was orange juice or iced tea she hid behind. I flipped through the pages. There was one labeled HOW TO KILL MITHRANS—HUNTER METHODOLOGY. Another was labeled WHAT SCIENCE HOPES, and beneath that was a list of researchers’ names and the higher-learning institutes that paid them to think. One read MITHRANS AND MAGIC, another was labeled MITHRAN BLOOD AND MODERN PRESERVATION. There was MITHRANS AND WITCHES, and I flipped on through, not liking this. The vamps I knew were not going to like this, either. Leo was going to have kittens. And maybe kill me for being part of it in any way.
And then I found it. Near the back there was a section on VAMP HUNTERS. My name was at the top. The chill I’d been holding down shocked its way through me.
I had never hidden what I did for a living—killing vamps was my main source of financial income. I had a Web site dedicated to advertising my skills, with a headshot of me in vamp-hunting gear, a bio (mostly candid), and a list of kills. I hadn’t updated it recently, but clients could reach me through the contact link. No, I didn’t hide who I was or what I did, but I didn’t put it out there for the whole world to see either, especially in what could become a best seller.
I closed the pages and set them on the table between us. The anger I had kept from my face vibrated through my voice when I said, “You’re making me a target. And you want me to help you?” I stood and pivoted on my heel, heading for the door. Somehow Misha reached it before me.
“Not outing you,” she stated. “Not going to say anything you don’t want said.”
I let a small smile pull up one side of my mouth. “Oh yeah? You gonna let me have the right to edit out anything I don’t like?” Misha’s face fell. “I figured not.” I reached around her for the doorknob.
“Okay,” she said. I stopped. “I’ll let you read over anything I write about you, and if it’s wrong or untruthful I’ll take it out.”
Which wasn’t a huge help. The truth was bad enough, and I wanted to keep the few secrets I had left to myself. But if I left the hotel room, even the right to take out the lies would be off the table. I was smart enough to know that much. Reach would tell her anything she wanted if the price was right. If I stayed, I might be able to bargain for my privacy and secrets. My fists clenched and opened as I hesitated. “What do you want from me?”
“I need an intro to Hieronymus here in Natchez and to Leo Pellissier in New Orleans. I’ve tried but they won’t talk to me. I need someone to give me that extra edge.”
I stepped back and stared at her, waiting, giving Misha a chance to make her case.
“My book deal is structured so I get the biggest payout on delivery of the manuscript. I need the money.”
“We all need something.”
She ignored my derision. “So far, all I have is a contact with a primo blood-servant of a minor clan here in Natchez, a human I talked to ten days ago named Bryson Ryder.” She was watching my face, and hers fell. “You’ve never heard of him?”
I shook my head. I didn’t remember that name from my quick perusal of the Natchez files, and the first thing I had looked at was clan names, their blood-master’s heirs, and primos to get a handle on Natchez’s organizational structure. “Clan name?” I asked.
“Clan Petitpas.”
I shook my head. There was no such clan, not among Natchez’s established houses. Misha turned her head away, letting that blond hair cover her face for a moment before lifting her eyes. “Bobby said you would help. He said to tell you that I need you.”
Bobby looked up at the sound of his name and I met his eyes across the room. The words I need you triggered a memory from our mutual pasts. Bobby Bates lying on a playground, beaten and bloody, the b
ullies having run off, one eye already blackening, his red hair mussed and filled with playground dirt. “I needed you, Jane,” he had whimpered. “And you came.”
Unlike when I had trailed Ann Shelton and her pals down to the gym, finding Bobby on the playground, being attacked by a small group of vicious boys, had been luck. If I hadn’t . . .
Bobby looked from me to Misha and back. And smiled.
“Okay.” I hadn’t expected to speak—I certainly hadn’t expected to agree to help Misha write a book—so I clarified, “I’ll tell you what I can that isn’t covered by the employee/employer relationship.” I walked back to my chair and picked up my teacup. “You do know I work for Leo, right?” She nodded, and I sipped. The tea was light and flavorful, delicate like the “flower” that had bloomed in the cup. And from out of nowhere I got an idea. Go me. “I’ll share, but I want it both ways. I’d like what info you already have on the local vamps.”
“Quid pro quo,” Misha said, her eyes dancing. “Fine. As long as you agree to not write a book on the subject.”
“Write a— Yeah, sure. Fine. Done. I’ll try to arrange intros. But if the vamps you want to talk to say no, then I have no control over that.”
“No ambushing them in alleyways and making them talk by threatening to break their fingers one by one?” She smiled, her blue eyes sparkling.
“No. None of that. They’d break me in two with one hand tied behind their backs. I want all this in writing.”
“I’ll have my lawyer send you something to protect your interests and privacy and give you the right to read the book before it goes to the editor. So let’s start there, with the Mithrans’ physical strengths. My sources tell me that the Naturaleza are harder to kill than regular vampires. Yes or no? And Jane. Thank you again.”
I didn’t try to stifle my sigh this time, remembering the feel of Lucas Vazquez de Allyon’s flesh trying to reknit and heal, even as my blade severed his head. “Yes.” I drank my delicate, flowery tea, feeling like an idiot. I had been played. I knew that. I just wasn’t sure how it had happened. “Definitely yes.”
