by Faith Hunter
Lincoln Shaddock removed an envelope from his pocket and extended it. Cia accepted it. The twins gathered up their belongings and raced to their car to find Evelyn asleep in the backseat. They were halfway down the mountain before they caught their breath. “That was wicked weird,” Cia said.
“Yeah. Let’s get Evelyn back to Layla and start studying up on how to get purified before the blood magics sink too deep.”
“Yeah. Good plan.” Cia tore open Lincoln Shaddock’s envelope and drew in a slow breath.
“How much?”
“A hundred thousand dollars. Combined with Evie’s estate, I think we just made enough money to put a huge down payment on a house, sister mine.” They started to giggle. Neither of them said anything about the hysterical edge to their laughter, or what it hid. Not yet.
• • •
When the twins left the elegant house in the Montford Historic District, Layla—sans makeup and wearing old jeans—was crying and hugging her mother, having wrapped her in a blanket in the middle of her bed. She was force-feeding her water and Gatorade and cucumber sandwiches.
“Like, who keeps cucumber sandwiches on hand?” Cia said as they walked out of the house.
“People who don’t know the value of leftover homemade soup and yeast bread from Seven Sassy Sisters’.”
Cia said, “Oh yeah. We eat, and then we figure out how to get the blood magics off us.”
“Done.” Liz took a slow breath. Her lungs and ribs didn’t hurt, not at all. She didn’t want to say the words, but couldn’t keep them in. “Jane Yellowrock might have saved our lives. If Romona had gotten free and drawn on the blood magic of the mountain . . .”
“Yeah.” Cia’s tone was grudging. “We’d have been her dinner.”
The silence after her words stretched as the sisters got in the car and drove away. Cia finally said, “When you had the rock on you, the rock Evangelina threw at you when she was trying to kill us all? I tried to push it off. I couldn’t. It was too heavy. You weren’t breathing. Like, at all. Jane—in her cat form—pushed it off. She saved you. I think she saved Carmen that day too. And she did what we couldn’t when she . . .” Cia heaved a breath that seemed to hurt. “When she took care of Evie too.”
Liz knew that took care of meant killed.
“Not because we didn’t have the power or the skills to handle Evangelina, but because Jane thinks, instead of being frozen by fear.”
Liz blinked away tears and said, “Why didn’t you tell me? Now we have to forgive her for killing Evangelina.”
“Which is why I didn’t tell you. I’m not . . . I wasn’t ready to forgive.” Cia turned away, looking out into the night. “Maybe I’m ready now.”
“Yeah. Well.” Liz took a deeper breath than any she had been able to manage in months. “The blood magic? I think it healed me.” She took another breath. “No pain.”
“Crap. We used blood magic, just like Evie did.” Cia’s mouth pulled down. “And it felt good.”
“Addictive good,” Liz whispered. “I can feel the pull of the mountain even now. We are in so much trouble.”
“Yeah. But there is a silver lining. The totally cool Christian Louboutins Layla gave me—once I get the blood off them.”
Liz erupted with laughter, which was what her twin intended. “Us. She gave them to us.”
“Fine,” Cia said. “And the cash. Share and share alike.”
“Yeah. Like always. Even a blood curse we don’t know how to get rid of.”
“We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Beneath a Bloody Moon
Author’s note: This novella takes place (in the Jane Yellowrock timeline) after Blood Trade, after the short “The Devil’s Left Boot,” and before Black Arts. It takes place over two days in February, before Mardi Gras.
“Jane.”
I turned to the side and pulled the cell closer to my ear so my partners couldn’t see the stupid smile on my face. Deep inside, my Beast rolled to her paws, gathered them tight beneath her, and started to purr. I could hear her response in the tone of my voice when I drawled, “Ricky Bo LaFleur, as I live and breathe.”
He chuckled. “You’ve been in New Orleans too long if you’re picking up the lingo and the accent.”
Too long without you. But I didn’t say it. I was getting smarter. Finally. Our jobs and his little problem meant stealing moments when we could, and none of them were particularly satisfying. Rick is a special agent with PsyLED, the Psychometery Law Enforcement Division of Homeland Security, and so some things he can’t share. His job takes him all over the Southeast. My job means traveling too, hunting and killing rogue vampires or keeping the secrets of the sane ones, so ditto on the not sharing. It puts a barrier between us.
The relationship—if I could call it that—with Rick was still wobbly: bruised by miscommunication, stupid accusations, big-cat pheromones, and worse, the tattoo spells that kept my were-cat sorta-boyfriend in human form. Oh. And the were-taint that was said to be communicable by, um, having fun. Okay, maybe relationship was too strong a word nowadays. I pulled my hip-length hair across my shoulder as I walked out the side door and onto the porch. “So, where are you?”
“Too far for a meet and greet. I hope to get your way soon and make up for lost time, if you still have room for me with all the new men in your life.”
“New men?” Incredulity laced the word.
“The Younger brothers?”
I’m not the most man-savvy gal in town, but even I detected the hint of jealousy in his tone. “Partners, Ricky Bo. Not hanky-panky.”
“Good.” His voice dropped into the big-cat-purr register, more vibration than note. “I was kinda hoping you’d save all the hanky and the panky for me.”
“I was leaning that way. But for that to work, we need to cross paths sometime. You suck at the boyfriend stuff almost as much as I suck at the girlfriend stuff.”
“Soon,” he promised, “we’ll remedy that. But meanwhile, would you be interested in a side job for Uncle Sam?”
I sat on the edge of the porch, my legs in the weak March sun, feet in the lemon thyme ground cover. The smell wafted up from my feet and tickled my nose. “PsyLED?” The arm of the government that employed Rick seemed more likely to want me on a dissection table than on their payroll. Of course, maybe not. They had hired Rick. “Do they know . . .” About me? Not said aloud.
“That I’m dating a statuesque Cherokee? I told them all about us. They’re good with it.”
The subtle emphasis on statuesque Cherokee told me that he was keeping my secret. Not that my being a skinwalker would be secret for long. Not now that I had been outed to the paranormal world in such a spectacular way—by changing to one of my animal forms in the back of a car—in front of numerous people, including the vampire Master of the City of New Orleans, Leo Pellissier. It was the only thing that had saved my life. But yeah. My anonymity wouldn’t last long. “Why don’t you do it, what’s the job, how dangerous, and how much?”
“You don’t have to sound so suspicious,” he chuckled, “because this one is boring and the pay sucks.”
“Oh, well, as long it’s all that.”
“And more, Jane. Seriously, though, there have been a number of wild dog attacks west and south of you.” His tone changed and I couldn’t tell at first why. “They’ve been going on for four months with increasing severity. All on the full moon. All the victims died. Eaten.”
Werewolf, I thought, feeling all the joy leach out of me. I had helped decimate the pack of werewolves that had invaded Louisiana, killing almost the entire pack to save Rick from them. Instantly I remembered the sound of gunfire, the sight of wolves falling and dying, their howls and screams of fury and pain.
My team and I had saved Rick, but he’d nearly died. And saving him had left him scars, not the least of which were the spelled tattoos the
alpha wolf-bitch had tried to eat from his arm and shoulder. She had mangled the tattoos badly, and messed up the magic spelled into them, which now kept him from turning into his were-cat black leopard form on the full moon. He had been tortured. Raped. Abused beyond sanity, yet he had survived. Rick was tougher than nails, which was not something I had expected when I met the pretty boy on my first day in New Orleans.
His tone in the safety zone of cop-speak, he went on. “The attacks started in Alexandria, and at first seemed to follow a trail leading south, along I-49.” The location and trail indicated that there could be a connection between the decimated werewolf pack and the pack of so-called wild dogs. Wild dogs didn’t follow highways. Werewolves might. “Recently the attacks have been centered near Chauvin, which is two hours from New Orleans and south of Houma. And I’m stuck farther north for the next few days.”
I thought about that. Centering in one location meant that they had chosen hunting ground and claimed territory. However many there were now, they were likely getting ready to expand their numbers—build a big pack. And two hours was within the distance I could safely travel from New Orleans. Long story, but I was bound to the MOC, the chief fanghead. Only he didn’t know it. The job Rick offered was doable. And I was bored. . . .
Carefully, trying to keep from hurting him, I said, “So. Okay. I’m to rule out . . . um . . . werewolves. That’s the job, and you’re too far away, and that’s why you aren’t doing it. So what about the danger and the pay? I’m still listening.”
“We need you to ride around, talk to the sheriff and the local law, see what you can sniff out.” He meant in animal form but wasn’t saying that over a phone. He added more slowly, “Inspect both the crime scene pictures and the scenes themselves. I’ve seen the pics, but you might see things I missed.”
Gruesome. The pics would be gruesome. But my other half, my Beast, wouldn’t be bothered by them. She liked to hunt, kill, and eat her dinner raw and still kicking. And she knew something about pack hunters and how they ate. Pack, she murmured deep inside. Hate pack hunters.
“Yeah,” I said to both of them. “So what else?” With cops there was always more.
“The sheriff asked me personally to look into this.” It took a second to make sense of the sheriff calling a special agent with PsyLED.
“And the sheriff is . . .”
He had the grace to sound embarrassed, even if only mildly. “Related. I have family there.”
“Reeeeeally?” I said, trying for droll but probably just managing sarcasm. “Old home week?” Rick ignored the tone and plowed on. “Uncles and aunts, my first cousin Nadine, the sheriff of the parish, a good number of other first, second, and third cousins. One second cousin who has a single-engine plane if you need to scout. LaFleur kids in the local schools. Some in diapers and day care. A few in nursing homes up in Houma and Terrebonne. A first cousin who has a hotel south of Chauvin who’ll donate rooms.” In other words a large extended family, people he cared for. “If you take the job, I’ll let them know you’re coming. They’ll help any way they can.”
“Uh-huh.” This sounded too easy. Had to be a catch. “How many people are whispering the word werewolf?” When Rick didn’t reply, I said, “And heading into the swamps and woods with torches and shotguns. And forming mobs with pitchforks and priests.”
Rick chuckled, but it didn’t sound amused. “It isn’t that bad. Yet.”
I put it together and shook my head. My words wry, I said, “Your cuz the sheriff called you and pleaded her case, and you pushed all the paperwork through to keep the family populace happy.”
“To keep Mama happy, actually.”
“Ouch.” Southern women were tough as nails. New Orleans women were that and more. Rick’s mama was a charming New Orleans woman, graceful, gentle, and delicate. She was also determined, strong-willed, and manipulative—scary good at getting her way. The whole barbed-wire fist in a velvet glove, or maybe pearls, pink pumps, and a horsewhip, or, worse, crinolines, debutants, and shotguns. Take your pick, that was his mother. I’d spent a week or so getting to know his family when Rick and I first started hanging out. His mama scared me.
“How many do we think there are?” I hedged. “Werewolves.” Not mamas. Fortunately there was only one of those.
“Maybe three. From the pictures and paw prints. One or two small, and one . . . big. Real big. I don’t want to say more because I want you to draw your own conclusions.
“You’re not to take them on,” he said. “That’s not the job. All we want is for you to rule out or confirm weres. Then, if you have time, see if you can determine a general direction or location. I’m thinking a day. Two, max. And PsyLED will pick up expenses and pay a stipend and—”
“I have a contract for this stuff,” I interrupted. “I’ll fax it to you. We can dicker. But there will be a contract, and liability will be covered by Uncle Sam. Flat fee and all expenses. And Leo has to vet it.” Leo was my boss, but he didn’t really have to approve the job. It was entirely up to me. But I wanted all my bases covered if I was going to accept a contract with PsyLED.
I could hear the smile in Rick’s voice when he gave me a fax number. “I’ll push it up the hierarchy and get back to you ASAP. Thanks, darlin’.” The call ended.
Darlin’? Where had that come from?
I walked back into the house. In the living room, Alex was bent over a bunch of screens, incorporating all of them into one huge touch-screen computer that would eventually cover an entire wall, his straggly hair hanging in tight curls, hiding his face. Alex was the tech guy for our security company, also known as the Kid for various reasons.
His brother Eli was standing in front of the wide-screen TV, a forty-five-pound hunk of iron disguised as a hand weight in his left hand. He was watching the news—CNN, NBC, and Fox in three corners of the screen, and a local station on the fourth, as he did reps. Ten reps with each arm, his dark skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, his muscles bunching and relaxing, his workout clothes sweaty and sticking to him. He’d been at it awhile and he looked good. Eli was a totally buff former Ranger who ate only healthy food in healthy portions, and who exercised and trained daily. Like all day. As if Uncle Sam’s army might call him back any minute to fight a war, and he wanted to be ready. Eli didn’t have a nickname. Yet. Or maybe never. Some people just didn’t need one.
“You looking at my butt, babe?” Eli asked, without turning around.
“I’m not your babe. But it’s a nice butt,” I said. Without raising his eyes, Alex made a gagging sound. Eli tilted his head to me, giving me his version of a wide grin—lips moving a fraction of an inch, a hint of his pearly whites. Expression-wise, Eli was a minimalist all the way. “It is,” I said.
“Babe, I know my butt is good. Real good. But I’m taken. Keep the eyes off my butt.”
I grinned at him and cocked out a hip, waggling the cell at him. “Yeah, I know. No poaching on Syl’s territory. But I could take her, you know. I could.” Sylvia Turpin was his hunny-bunny, and also the sheriff of Adams County, out of Natchez, Mississippi.
“Chick fight,” the Kid muttered, and I could hear the laughter in his voice. I decided to stop the teasing before we all started trying to outsnark each other.
“YS might have a job,” I said. YS came out Wiseass, which was our current nickname for our security company, more formally known as Yellowrock Securities. I let my grin widen. “With PsyLED.”
“No sh—way,” the Kid said, lifting his head, his eyes bugging out. Eli went still, his left arm frozen midcurl.
I raised my eyebrows. “You lost count, didn’t you?”
Eli frowned. “That was just cruel, babe. Cruel.”
I laughed. “Yeah, now your arms will be all lopsided. When you finish pumping up and showering, we can talk about the job. Meanwhile, Kid, e-mail Rick LaFleur our standard short-term, hunting-only, no-termination contra
ct, and the liability one and”—I waved my empty hand in the air to suggest my uncertainty—“something to cover us having to kill supernats to protect the human populace in any life-threatening, emergency, crisis, legal-mumbo-jumbo situation. And whatever else you think we need.” The Kid had taken over the company paperwork and instituted files’ and files’ worth—various contracts, disclaimers, exclusions, standard expenses, and even a rider list (things the customer had to provide for us to do a job), all in legalese. Reams of the stuff. Ten times what I used to have as a one-woman company. He was a teenage mutant ninja geek, and he was worth his weight in gold, even at today’s rates. I rattled off the fax number. Eli headed upstairs to shower, muttering under his breath about cruel women.
I got my old laptop and did a sat-map search for Chauvin, Louisiana. It was an odd little place by mountain standards, mostly a lot of water, a lot of swampy ground, a lot of weird canals going everywhere and nowhere, and most of them looking unused, some flatland along Highway 56, and less lining Highway 55. The city stretched out along the two parallel roads, hugging them like lifelines, which they probably were during hurricane season.
Chauvin was in Terrebonne Parish, the sheriff’s office in Houma, north of Chauvin. So far as I could tell, Chauvin had no independent police and depended on the sheriff for law enforcement. There was no public airport closer than New Orleans, no hospital in Chauvin, and most of the parish social life seemed to take place in Houma. So I’d start out there. Assuming I took the job.
Eli trundled down the steps, the scent of vanilla preceding him. The shampoo had been a prezzie from his girlfriend, and Alex had razzed him unmercifully about how sweet he smelled and how his old Ranger buddies would think he was pretty. Neither man was homophobic, and Eli took the teasing well, which all was a sign of how important his relationship with Syl was. He rounded the corner wearing only jeans and a T-shirt slung over one shoulder. Sweet mama, he looks good. And he knew it, flaunting it. And I have been too long without Ricky Bo. I just shook my head as he opened the fridge and pulled out a container of boiled, peeled eggs.
