Blood Trade jy-6

by Faith Hunter

  He laughed, the sound not particularly lighthearted. “Sometimes fiction writers get it right. Sometimes not. And sometimes only nearly so. Yes, we’ve been called Renfields, the special servants of the undead. And I will live a long, long time. Perhaps as much as three more centuries.”

  “You’re hot, in an old, cold house. Even with my skinwalker metabolism, I’m chilled.” I knew two other blood-servants who had higher-than-human body temperatures. “Grégoire’s B twins, his primos, are they Renfields? Because they’re the longest-lived servants I know of.”

  Bruiser tilted his head to me, the gesture oddly and uncomfortably like Leo’s. “Yes. Brandon and Brian went through the process over a hundred years ago and both survived. They are the only other Onorios whom I know. If I tell you that Renfield is a derogatory word, will that only make you use it more often?”

  “Probably. Once, a long time ago, you said something about there being a way for you not to drink. For you not to be bound.” He had also said it was a way for us to be together, but I didn’t repeat that part. “Was it this Renfield thing?”

  “Yes. I had thought many times about trying for Onorio status.” He shifted on the bed, leaning forward and taking my hand. His skin was feverishly hot. “I can share my thoughts and will and power with someone I bond with, much like a master vampire does with a primo blood-servant, but without the actual servitude. And, best, I have to drink only once or twice a year to maintain my status, and then from any Mithran. I am free of Leo. If I wish to be.”

  “Sooo, why didn’t you do it sooner?”

  “All blood-servants think about it at some time or another. It is a powerful position among the Mithrans. And we think about requesting that we be turned. But there is danger in either process.”

  “Yeah. Ten years of insanity, chained in the basement,” I teased.

  “The devoveo is a rite of passage,” he said, amused.

  “The devoveo is a time when the vamp disease makes humans go insane, reworks a human’s body and brain into something new—” I stopped, remembering the insectoid movement of the Naturaleza that Eli and I had tried to kill.

  “Son of a gun,” I said, thinking, trying to put it together. “The Naturaleza here have been twice transformed. They got turned the first time; then they started drinking their fill, which made them stronger and faster and harder to kill, better at healing. Then they got the vamp plague.” I narrowed my eyes, trying to bring it all into focus. It was here. The answer of what had happened to the supervamps was here. “And then someone started including magic powered by a full witch circle, and that did something more, probably something unexpected, and now they’re transforming into something else. It’s all connected somehow.” It felt right. But there were still puzzle pieces missing, important stuff I needed to know, stuff that might help me kill supervamps and find Misha. Flying by the seat of my pants usually endangered only me. This time other people were in danger and I didn’t like the feeling of responsibility.

  A knock sounded at the door, two soft taps. “Up and at ’em, Legs,” Eli said. “We got vamps to behead.”

  “I’m up,” I called out. “I’ll be ready shortly.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t get all gussied up. It’ll be a bloody night.” He moved on down the hall.

  “Jane?” Bruiser rolled off the mattress and to his feet, once again watching me with that intensity, unexpected and unnerving. “I can’t join you hunting.” He placed a chaste kiss on the back of my hand. “I have other duties. Be safe.”

  With no other words, he disappeared back through the bath into his room. Leo-type duties, I assumed. He might not be bound to the MOC, but he was still employed by the chief fanghead.

  Alone in my room, I pulled my braided hair into a fighting queue and dressed in vamp-fighting gear. I’ve worn lots of different things when fighting vamps, from nightclothes and flip-flops—total accident—to full-on, high-impact, plastic motorcycle armor secured into my leathers. With the new vamps, I’d need all the good stuff.

  I started from the skin out with the silver-over-titanium chain-mail collar Leo Pellissier had given me to replace the one lost in his service. It clasped in place over the gold nugget and mountain lion tooth on the doubled gold chain. I’d bought the chain before the price of gold soared so high. I couldn’t have afforded it at today’s prices. I unrolled and donned the silk-knit long johns that were perfect for hot, sweat-generating sports in cold weather, and laid out the now-tight leathers.

  I inserted the flexible plastic into the specially made slits at elbows, knees, and my own customized areas: inner elbow, back of knee, and groin—places vamps wanted to drink from. The plastic on the inside joints had to be very pliable, and so, while it wasn’t very thick, it was filled with silver foil set into the plastic when it was poured. I pulled on the skintight leather pants and a fleece top before lacing on my combat boots. I zipped up my pants and stomped the boots hard before starting the arduous procedure of weaponing up.

  I carried thirteen crosses, all silver, all tucked away into pouches or under my jacket so the silver glow that alerted me that a vamp was near didn’t alert them that I was near. Crosses worked on vamps when other forms of religious icons didn’t, because vamps had been created with the wood of the three crosses of Calvary. It had been an act of black magic that went wrong. And didn’t it always?

  Three throwing knives were in sheaths specially made into the jacket front. Thirteen ash stakes and thirteen silver ones, each about fourteen inches long went into various loops and sheathes, ready at hand no matter how my body might be positioned, the sharpened tips either pointing away from my body or into the plastic protection of the body armor. Five fighting blades came next: the newest vamp-killer I strapped to my left hip for a cross-draw that resembled a sword draw in many ways; a blade into each boot sheath, one into my holster harness, and one in a spine sheath in the back seam of my jacket—a last resort draw that meant I was in major trouble.

  The weapons harness was custom, and not the easiest thing in the world to put on, so I laid the harness out on the bed beside the jacket with the weapons: four semiautomatics—two nine millimeters, two .380s with red polymer grips—each with its holster, in the proper spot on the straps. Each weapon got a thorough look-see; I pulled back on the slide and removed the round from the chamber, ejected the magazine, and inspected the weapon for any visible problems. I saw none, at which point I reinserted the magazine and chambered a round. To make sure I had maximum firepower, I ejected the magazine again, reloaded the ejected round, snapped the mag home, and put the safety on. It was just dumb to run around with a chambered round and the safety off. I’d done it before, of course. But it was dumb. Each weapon got the same treatment. All four weapons were perfect, though all of them would be due for disassembly and cleaning soon. Like in the morning, after a night spent firing them. I holstered the semiautomatic pistols with regular ammo on the right, and the weapons with silver-based ammo on the left.

  The Benelli M4 Super 90 slid into the spine sheath for an overhand draw. The M4 wasn’t beautiful to anyone but a gun lover. Its steel components had a matte black, phosphate-treated, corrosion-resistant finish that reduced the weapon’s visibility during night operations, like tonight. I didn’t know how well the new vamps saw in the dark, but it had been impressive last time. I’d have to think of a new term for them—not supervamps, which made them sound like a good thing, but more like vamp squared, or snake vamps, or maybe spidey vamps. “Yeah,” I muttered. “Spidey vamps tweak my spidey senses.”

  The shotgun was nearly idiot-proof, requiring little or no maintenance, and operated in all climates and weather conditions. It can fire twenty-five thousand rounds of 2.75- and 3-inch shells of differing power levels without any operator adjustments and in any combination, using standard ammunition or well-made, hand-packed rounds, without replacing any major parts. The smoothbore, magazine-fed, semiauto shotgun had been a big investment, and I had studied long and hard before putting my
money down. It was a modern weapon, utilizing the autoregulating gas-operated—ARGO—firing system, with dual gas cylinders, gas pistons, and action rods for increased reliability. It can fire and can be adjusted or fieldstripped totally without tools. It’s perfect for close-in fighting in low-light operations. Even after all these months, I thought it was a totally cool weapon. Mostly, though, I just liked the fact that it was idiot-proof.

  The M4 was loaded for vamp with hand-packed silver fléchette rounds made by a pal in the mountains. Fléchettes were like tiny knives that when fired spread out in a widening, circular pattern, entering the target with macerating, deadly force. The fact that each fléchette was composed of sterling silver decreased their penetrating power but made them poisonous to vamps, even without a direct hit. There was no way a vamp could cut all of them out of his body before he bled out or the silver spread through his system. Well, until now, when they seemed to heal despite the silver in them. I opened the cock, inspected each round with eye and nose. Closed it and murmured, “Lock and load.”

  I slid it into the sheath and opened my door. Eli was leaning against the far wall, spine and one foot on the wall, arms hanging loose and ready. He was dressed for vamp fighting in gear that resembled mine, no matter that he’d refused not that long ago to wear leather. It looked good stretched across his shoulders, his scar rising from the high collar and snaking up his jaw. “Took you long enough,” he said. “Painting your toenails?”

  “You waited three minutes, give or take, while I did a weapons check,” I said.

  He answered with a lazy not-smile, pushed off the wall, and said, “You smelled me?”

  “I heard you. Your combat boots make an awful noise on the carpet. The clomping stopped outside my door. You got the addresses?”

  He nodded and tilted his head to the harness on the bed. “Need help?”

  “Yeah. It gets harder and harder to get dressed by myself.”

  “Well, I’m better at undressing women, but I’ll give it a shot.”

  “You’re a gun whore.” It was the standard chatter between us, comfortable and easy.

  “Turn around. None of this would be so hard if you hadn’t gotten so fat.”

  “I put on muscle. You helped.” I slid into the jacket, the weight settling on my shoulders. The jacket was heavy, with a thin layer of silver-plated links between the leather and the lining. A small surprise for any vamp who wanted dinner. Eli helped me into the harness and started on the buckles and tabs, making sure the weapons were all easy at hand.

  “All the weapons secured. Release straps secured,” he said. “Extra mags?”

  I opened the weapons bag and took out four magazines, inspected them each, and tucked them into the special pockets: two on the right for the nines, two on the left for the .380s, all loaded with standard ammo. Everything about my gear was special and it had cost a fortune. Some women spent money on shoes and mani-pedis. Not me. My next weapons purchase would be to acquire two new nine mils. The .380s had their uses, but in a firefight it was handy to use interchangeable ammo. “You got some of those sleepy-time bombs we used the last time we were here?” I asked.

  Eli yanked the harness to position it midline with my body, so the M4 was straight up and down my spine. I had to raise my arm up high to pull the weapon, but it was out of the way until needed. There was another way of wearing the weapon on the harness that allowed it to hang free, within easy reach, but secured beneath my arm. “Yeah,” he said. “But I can’t get any more, so we have to be thrifty. Okay,” he said, giving my clothes one last jerk. “Good to go.” And he slapped me on my butt.

  The growl from the doorway froze us both. Then Eli moved, and was holding a nine millimeter in a two-handed grip, pointed at the door, his feet positioned, legs braced for firing. He had a bead on Rick.

  “You move, you’re gonna bleed,” Eli said. “You already jumped me once. Not gonna happen again.”

  “He’s not going to jump you,” I said, my voice without inflection. “He’s going to jump me.”

  Eli’s eyes flicked from Rick to me to the bed, and back to Rick as something seemed to rearrange itself in his head. “Same difference, were-cat. She’s on my team, my pack. Back off or bleed.”

  Before any of us could decide to react, a green ball of fur slammed into Rick’s side and knocked him off his feet. Again. I chuckled and walked from the room, stepping over the cop on the floor and the kitten-sized predator at his throat. “Some people never learn. Do they, Pea?” I patted her head and practically skipped down the stairs. “Hey, Rick. I like your pet!” I called over my shoulder.

  Out in the SUV, Eli buckled himself in and pulled into the street. The sun was about two hours from setting, and that gave us plenty of time. I waited, knowing the Ranger was biding his time to say something about the contretemps in the hall. But he said nothing, and as we turned in to town, I caved. “Okay. What?”

  Eli’s mouth did that nonsmile thing and he said, “Your business.”

  I felt myself flush, and the stupid guilt I’ve lived with all my life rose like a whirlwind, even though I had done nothing—nothing—wrong. My own physical responses made me mad, and I shoved down hard on the useless guilt. “Yeah. Mine. My business.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Maggots. I Hate Maggots.

  Under the Hill wasn’t deserted, but neither was it bustling; few people were out and about, with the reports of missing citizens keeping most indoors. In the sunlight, Under the Hill looked odd; it was a place for the shadows, the dark of a new-moon night, hard rains, and stifling summers. By day, the gardens of the earth witches were brilliant with flowers and winter vegetables, and the buildings that were painted were done so in vibrant color—blues, greens, barn red, and one old house that was lilac with pale lavender trim. It looked like something out of a Grimms’ fairy tale, and probably was. It was attractive on the surface, but likely dark and bloody underneath. Cars were parked here and there, but not well-waxed vamp mobiles. These ran from well-kept older models to rusted-out hulks, SUVs and vans, some with conspicuous baby seats, others painted with advertisements for dog grooming, pet walking, personal gardeners, bakers, rune casters, artists of every stripe and kind. The typical witch wagons. Like Molly drove. I shook the thought away. You can’t force someone to forgive you, not even a once-best friend.

  When we parked, I searched for Silandre’s Saloon but couldn’t see it. It was downhill, closer to the water, and faced south. The buildings where we were parked faced north. The warehouse where we met Big H for intros was in the middle somewhere. Except for age, their history as saloons, and association with vamps, the structures had nothing in common. We left the SUV unlocked and walked back to an address the Kid had given us.

  It was empty, containing only the stink of age, river rats, and roaches. The next address was equally empty and disused. But the third one set my Beast senses tingling. The structure was a former warehouse and loading dock, converted into a saloon back in the day when Under the Hill was notorious for the kidnapping of women and young boys and their sale into sexual slavery. It was two stories, the bright sunshine showing a brick exterior and rusted antique iron shutters on both floors, the corrosion gathered in the corners and across the center support bar. The trim was unpainted and mostly rotten, with only traces of green paint showing here and there. The porch was better made, though, rust-stained concrete with terra-cotta pieces set in, like something constructed in the nineteen sixties, but getting to it meant a huge leap where the steps had rotted away. The porch roof was rusted tin, and the rust running down from the constant rains had tinted the rotten wood a deep brown.

  I could smell the dead from ten feet away and wrinkled my nose, making a spitting sound a big-cat might make before I could stop myself. “What?” Eli demanded, sotto voce.

  “Unwashed humans inside,” I said, as softly as he. “And like the last house, DBs. Don’t know how many, but dead bodies.”

  “Reconnoiter,” he said, and motioned me t
o move counterclockwise around the house while he went clockwise. I wasn’t a witch and I didn’t feel any witch energies, so widdershins was fine by me, but it would be different if spells were being cast here. Witch houses had to be approached very differently. I pulled a .380 and stepped off the sidewalk.

  The surrounding shrubbery, all overgrown and spindly, hadn’t felt the sharp edge of pruning or lopping shears in years. The foundation was cracked and broken in several places, the crawl space narrow and currently unused but smelling of the recent occupation of chickens—wet feathers and chicken poop. The windows at the side, like the front, were covered with iron, but they hadn’t been sealed for as long as the front ones. Air still moved through some of the cracks, smelling of blood and rot, and the sickly sweet, beery, herbal scent of Naturaleza. The mingled stench made my skin crawl. I wasn’t gonna like what we found inside.

  From the building to the side, I smelled onions cooking, overlying the stink of turpentine and glue—the telltales of a live-in artist’s studio. From somewhere upwind I caught the odor of blood magics in practice, harsh and fetid, but the unpredictable winds that always ran along the Mississippi River carried it away, leaving the nearer rot of the warehouse/bar at my right.

  The back of the warehouse had been added onto, hiding the old carriage and wagon bays behind more modern but moldy siding. The new windows were shielded by shutters—the new steel ones designed in Asheville by an entrepreneurial vamp, with electric motors to open and close them. There were two cars parked at the back stoop, shiny and glossy with very darkly tinted windows, the way vamp cars are supposed to be.

  We met at the cars, and Eli’s eyes asked me if I found anything. I touched my nose and drew a finger across my throat, which made him snort, a breath of sound. Apparently, tough army dudes don’t draw a finger across a throat to suggest a dead body. Still keeping his weapon low but at the ready, he pointed me back the way he had come and he took my path. I shrugged and continued my widdershins way, still trying to work it all out. It was like a video-game puzzle in the back of my mind, the blinking lights and neon obscuring more than revealing what was missing.