Blood Trade jy-6

by Faith Hunter

  “Yeah?” I gave her my back and slammed my foot into the silver chain again. “How many humans in that house just off of Orleans Street did you drink down and kill? Huh?” I felt Soul at my back, but I kicked the cage again, shouting, “How many?”

  The vamp on the floor of the cage started laughing, and if it started out as a pathetic gallows laughter, it ended up the goading taunt of the unrepentant killer. He dropped his hands and opened his eyes in the dark, staring at me through the gloom. “I lost count of the adults. But the children,” his laughter grew in power and resonance, seeming to bounce off the garage walls, “I remember them, each and every one. I drank down their terror and their whimpers. I sucked down their fear and panic like the elixir of life it was.”

  I felt Soul step back. I smelled her reaction and so did our captive. With that fluttery, feathery motion, he crossed the small space to me and reached out, gripping the silver supports of the cage with one hand, his palm and fingers not smoking where they touched the metal. He pulled himself to his feet and crouched, his hair a scant inch from the cage top. His bare body was covered in scars and welts and fresh skin from the accelerated healing. Even starving, he was healing.

  “Come here, nonhuman woman,” he said. This time he was speaking to Soul. “I will show you what I do to women. I will show you how I drink them down.” He closed his eyes at the remembered experience and swallowed, his dry throat making a noise like rubber tires on muddy earth, a squelch that lasted far too long. It left me with a sensation of how much he had enjoyed drinking the helpless to death.

  Soul turned and left the garage, closing the door with an entirely different sound. I didn’t know how she could direct emotion into the sound of steel on steel, but I felt it. Soul would not try again to interfere with my treatment of the prisoner. She wanted him dead too.

  Francis laughed, the sound low and vicious. “She should have stayed. I would have told her how my cattle died, with the women and their children weeping and begging.”

  My foot slashed out and hit the cage so hard it slid across the small space into the back wall. Francis’ laughter died. He gripped the cage, stinking of ammonia and death, his body whipping with the force of my kick.

  “Which vamp is in charge of the Naturaleza of this city now that Esther McTavish is true-dead?” I asked.

  His face changed, his eyes bleeding back to near-human, his fangs snicking back into his mouth. He dropped to his knees on the floor of the cage. “She is dead?”

  “Yeah. Headless, in the living room. And the basement was full of dozens of dead humans and several other vamps, all staked with silver.” Francis’ eyes lost focus at the thought, and when he didn’t reply, I said, “It looked like there had been a fight. A Blood Challenge, maybe?”

  “Naturaleza do not challenge. They die by blood feud. They die by war. And each war is different from the others. How did my mistress die?”

  I smiled this time, and his eyes widened at the expression. “She was staked through the abdomen and her head sawed off. Not hacked off. Sawed.” I chuckled slightly. “It’s the way I killed Lucas de Allyon, and it takes determination, a lot a free time, and a really sharp blade.”

  His face changed again, and this time I couldn’t follow the emotional voyage. “You are the creature who killed my master?”

  “Yes. In mortal combat, mano a mano, so to speak. So. Who might have killed your mistress and her scions? And who is in charge now?”

  “There are three possibilities.” Francis sank back onto the cage floor and wrapped his arms around his legs. “I’ll give you one possibility for each Naturaleza blood meal you provide.”

  I was willing to dicker, because I knew that nothing acquired—or given up—easily is truly valuable, so I thought about his offer and who I could hit up for blood meals while I let the silence build. “All three names,” I said finally, “today, for one drink, Fame Vexatum style.”

  The vamp frowned, but I could tell he was going to bargain. That was one thing the older vamps understood—the art of bargaining. They had lived preretail, when humans often traded goods for goods in a marketplace. “One possibility,” he corrected me, “per drink, full meal, Fame Vexatum,” he said.

  “All today—three drinks, for three names, within the hour. And if you drink and don’t tell, I’ll treat you like I did de Allyon.”

  “To give you the names is to foreswear my allegiance. But the words I say will guide you.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  Francis seemed to ponder that a moment. “I will give you the possibilities first. Then, if you are satisfied, you will feed me.”

  “Done.”

  “You have my former mistress, Esther McTavish.” At my lifted brow, he waved that away. “But of course she doesn’t count, due to the pesky circumstance of her unfortunate demise. Charles Scarletti is Esther’s favorite scion.” I must have given something away when he said the name, because Francis gave a chuckle, low and hollow, like something from a Friday the 13th remake. “Yes, Scarletti joined us quickly after we arrived from Atlanta, eager to taste the wonders of the Naturaleza.”

  “One.” I made a little give-it-to-me gesture with one hand.

  He gave me a sly look. “And then there are the ones closest to Hieronymus’ heart.”

  I drew in a slow breath. “Zoltar and Narkis?”

  “I am not foresworn,” he reminded.

  “Yeah. Whatever,” I whispered. “Big H’s sons. I am so stupid.”

  I left the garage, dialing the number Big H had given me for his primo, Clark. When the call was answered, I said, “Jane Yellowrock here. I need three full meals for a hungry vamp prisoner. How quickly can you get them to my base?”

  “I take it that you have bargained with food?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Half an hour. If the vampire hurts one of my master’s blood-servants, I’ll kill him,” Clark said, his tone conversational.

  I felt a real smile cross my face. “I’ll hold him down for you.”

  Clark laughed, and it was strangely carefree for a guy who had just threatened death on a vamp. “One thing. Is the vampire in question ill with the Sanguine pestis?”

  Crap. I’d forgotten that. Drinking from an uninfected human might infect the human. “Yeah. Send me someone who’s had the vamp plague and has gotten better. And thanks for thinking about that.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Yellowrock. All in a day’s work. Shall I send someone to supervise the feeding?”

  I thought about what he might mean and said, “To keep the vamp from taking too much or hurting the . . . um . . . donor?”

  “Exactly.”

  Both, then. “Well, you need to know that silver isn’t going to hurt him and can’t be used as a deterrent.”

  “Yes. I understand. But sunlight is still effective. And it’s daylight.”

  I chuckled again, squinting up at the sun. “Yes, it is. Sure. Send along a bodyguard or two. And feel free to hurt the little vamp if needed, but don’t burn him to a crisp. He’s essential to my investigation for a while longer.”

  “Understood. Half an hour, Miss Yellowrock.”

  I hung up without telling him that his master’s sons were plotting against him, and went into the house. I came back out with the dart gun and medical kit, loaded the weapon with a one-dose dart, walked into the garage, and, without asking his permission, shot the vamp. He wasn’t expecting it, and the dart hit him midcenter of his body, just above his navel, where a mass of fading, puckered scars showed. Francis yelped and flung the dart away, cursing. It landed at my feet and I picked it up, turned on my heel and left the garage. Just before I closed the door behind me, I said, “You’re cured. You’re welcome, suckhead.”

  Back inside, I was putting away the weapons when my phone rang. I could hear a car and the sound of tires on roadway in the background. I was on speakerphone. “Yeah.”

  Eli said, “Two things. One: no way to track Misha’s location from her
cell. It’s a dead end. Two: one of our staked vamps was Charles Scarletti,” he said, “his human servant, Wynonna, dead in the crook of his arm.”

  “Well, crap. My sources in the Natchez vamp community are dying off faster than I can locate them for a tête-à-tête. According to Francis, Narkis and Zoltar have been plotting against their dad.”

  “He did name his boys Narkis and Zoltar.”

  “Good point. I’d have shot him too. Okay. I’ll get the Kid to see what he can dig up.” Pun intended. Before Eli could groan, I hung up. Staring at my cell, I considered my next call. I now had names given to me by a caged prisoner, yet I needed more data. I dialed Bruiser.

  “Jane,” he said, and my insides twisted. “How are things there with the boyfriend?”

  I sighed, but kept the sound away from the phone. How was I supposed to answer that when Bruiser and I had . . . issues? Beast’s wanting-to-fool-around issues, and my the-man-betrayed-me-and-should-die-for-it issues. I decided to ignore it all. “Just ducky. What effect would vamp blood have on a child with acute lymphoblastic leukemia? The worst kind of all.”

  “One moment.” I heard clicking and realized he was typing. Looking something up in a database I knew nothing about? I wanted access, but was in no position to ask for it. Dang it.

  “The news is neither good nor bad,” he said. “Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it does not. Are you talking about the little girl? Misha’s daughter?”

  “And you know about Charly how?”

  I could almost hear his smile when he said, “Reach, of course.”

  “Humph.” This call was on an official cell, so I figured that Reach was listening in. I said, “Hey, you big-eared rat. Telling tales works both ways.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Bruiser said softly, “Thank you. Jane, if you decide to try to feed the child, I’ll ask a Clan blood-master to attend you. Reach. I suggest that you call me. Now.”

  “Thanks, Bruiser.”

  I hit END and waited as I walked back out of the house, the cell in hand. The door closed behind me, leaving me standing in the chill air. Seconds later, my official cell rang. “What the hell was that about?” Reach demanded, heat in his voice.

  There were lots of reasons why I’d given Reach away, the most important among them that Bruiser would have figured it out soon anyway and asked me why I let it continue. Being on retainer to the MOC meant I had to play politics, protect myself, protect the chief fanghead, and protect his interests. No way was it in Leo’s best interests to have Reach listening in on the calls. And it sure wasn’t in my best interests, not anymore. Now that I had the Kid, it was time to take Reach down a peg or two. I shook my head. “You figure it out, hotshot.” And I hung up.

  “You’re just getting all your jollies today. Aren’t you?”

  Without turning around, I said, “You do know that sneaking up on a skinwalker is dangerous, right?”

  Eli laughed. “I like you. I might be certifiable for it, but I like you.”

  It made little sense—except that somehow Eli had become family—but I smiled and ducked my head around to find him leaning against Jameson’s car. He still smelled of charnel-house effluvia. “Yeah. I like you too,” I said.

  “So, why are you so jumpy today? Leftover depression working itself out of your system?”

  I started to deny having been depressed, but it would have been a waste of time and a lie. “Probably.” I felt better having said it aloud again. And I was jumpy. I frowned. “Want to spar?”

  “Been hoping you’d ask. I found a gym over the garage.” He jerked his head at the building and I followed him, our boots loud in the thin winter air. “So,” he said as we climbed a set of outside stairs to the garage’s second floor. “Are we ever going to end up in the sack together?”

  I was startled and then amused. “Ewww. It would be like sleeping with my brother.”

  Eli burst out laughing, looked back over his shoulder, and teased, “So let’s get it on, baby.”

  I shook my head. “Idiot.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Wrong species.”

  We were still laughing when we reached the room over the three-car garage and I stood in the doorway, taking in the gym. “Swuuueeet.” It had everything: free weights, a ballet barre, a total-workout machine that targeted different muscle groups, ski machine, stationary bikes, two treadmills, a hot tub in the corner, a large open space with thick rubberized flooring suitable for yoga or sparring, and a shower and dressing area. I pulled off my boots, tossed them in the corner, and removed my weapons. In the opposite corner, Eli was doing the same, our reflections casting back to us from a wall of mirrors.

  “When we last sparred, how much were you holding back?” he asked.

  “You walked out of there.” When he looked confused, I added, “I left your joints intact, didn’t break your spine, and didn’t hit you in the xiphoid process, piercing your diaphragm or liver. For starters.”

  Eli nodded. “Let’s keep the same rules, then. You hold back. I’ll try to kill you with my bare hands.” I was still laughing when he attacked.

  Beast slammed to the surface and spun me to the side, my left hand sweeping into a claw that had to hurt as my nails grazed his ribs through his shirt. He retaliated with a leg sweep and a series of fast punches, all below the belt, followed by a chest strike intended to bruise a breast. Two of the punches and the chest blow landed. I oofed out a pained breath and hit in him square in the jaw, twisting into the motion with all my new, more muscular body weight. A lesser man would have been lights-out. Even Eli might have hit the floor, except that he landed on a weight bench and rolled over it, giving him the seconds needed to shake his head and come back at me.

  “Your eyes are doing a funky gold-glow thing,” he said, trying to distract me as he did a punch-kick-sweep-of-legs combo I hadn’t seen before.

  I dodged, blocked, and leaped over the leg sweep. “My Beast likes this,” I said, hearing the lower, coarser grate of my voice, a Beast growl.

  “Yeah? Screw your Beast.” He caught my hand and flipped me in some kind of throw I’d never seen before, and didn’t really see this time. I went flying. I landed on my back, hard. The breath whoofed out of me and I didn’t get back up. I lay flat, blinking up at the fluorescent lights swirling overhead. When Eli interposed his head between the ceiling and me, he was upside down and at an angle. I closed my eyes and waited for the ability to inhale. It was a long time coming, and when my lungs did finally expand, I thought I’d maybe broken something, it hurt so bad. It sounded horrible too.

  Beast receded with a soft purr. She’d had fun and was now leaving me with the pain.

  “What was that?” I said. Actually I whispered it, so I cleared my voice, took two slow sets of breaths, and tried again. “What was that?” It came out slightly better, but not by much.

  “That was your tax dollars at work—MAC, better known as Modern Army Combatives.”

  “That was cool. Teach me. You know. When I can stand again. Breathe again without pain.”

  Eli lowered his hand and pulled me to my feet. He still had my hand when the gym door opened and Rick LaFleur stepped inside, his eyes glowing that green glow of his black panther. He gave a low growl, and before I could disengage my hand, he leaped. Landed on Eli.

  The Ranger rolled with the impact, my hand jerking free. And suddenly the two men were yards apart, a spitting mad, neon green ball of fur and claws on Rick’s throat. The smell of blood filled the air, blood not quite human, not quite were.

  Rick screamed, a coarse, barking shriek of pain, all cat. The grindylow leaped away and landed on the nearest weight bench, her fur standing out all over, as if static electricity had filled her coat. Her jump left the raw, scored, bloody mess of Rick’s throat visible.

  He managed a wet-sounding breath, his hands reaching for his wound as his eyes blurred back to black. He was bleeding, but not the pumping of carotid blood, which would likely have been fatal because he couldn�
��t shift. This time, he’d live.

  Shock washed through me, an adrenaline wave that rocked against my nerves and rolled away. The attacks had both taken maybe three seconds.

  “You idiot,” I said to Rick, bending over Eli to see if the were-cat had punctured his flesh anywhere. “Did the idiot bite or claw you?” I asked the Ranger.

  Eli rolled slowly to his feet, inspecting himself in the mirrors without taking his eyes from Rick. “No. I’m okay.”

  The juvenile grindy chittered and mewled and spat strange sounds at Rick, and we didn’t have to speak Grindylowish to know she was giving her partner a tongue lashing. It was her ordained purpose in life to prevent him from spreading the were taint. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know,” Rick whispered to the grindy. I watched as the bleeding slowed to a stop and the flesh of his throat seemed to grow back together. “It’s close to the full moon, Pea. My cat got away, and I left my music in the room. It was stupid.” To me he said, “Sorry, Jane. My cat seems to think we’re mated. He didn’t like the way Eli was touching you.” To Eli, he said, “Sorry, man. Really sorry. It won’t happen again.” Rick turned and left the gym, and I stood there, still hearing the words, My cat seems to think we’re mated.

  I took a breath and smelled the scent of big-cat and blood. Beast rose in me, fast. I opened my mouth and scented the air across my tongue with a soft screeee of sound. Because even bleeding and shamed, Rick was still the prettiest man I had ever seen. We had been at odds for so long, yet at least part of him still wanted me. I blew out the breath.

  In the mirror, Eli shook his head. “You two have the strangest mating rituals I’ve ever seen.”

  I ignored that. “I feel all better now,” I said. “Thanks for the dance.”

  Eli snorted and led the way back outside and down the stairs. “Dance. Only woman I know who thinks combat is dancing.”

  I kicked him in the butt and looked at him from the side. “If you dance with me, you take your life in your hands.”

  “God, woman. I didn’t know you could flirt.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You might wanna rethink that.” Eli almost looked like he was blushing, which was ridiculous.