Blood Cross: A Jane Yellowrock Novel

by Faith Hunter

  I opened my eyes. I was lying on my back, looking up. I was at peace, so calm it was like being a feather on the breeze, floating. Above me, a shaft of sunlight pierced the roof, shining down through swirling smoke. Particles shifted and eddied in the bright light. I turned my head. I was in a dark room. Shadows crouched in the corners. The air was warm and dry, my skin crusted with salt. My hair, which had started out tightly braided, was loose on the clay floor beneath me and across my shoulders. I smiled. “I remember my name.”

  A soft chuckle came to me through the dark. “Dalonige i Digadoli. Golden Eyes. It is a very pretty name.”

  I sat up. Across the sweat lodge, Aggie One Feather sat on a carved log, her legs outstretched. She was smiling but there was a shadow in her eyes, hidden and private, closed and weighted, that she didn’t want me to see. Trepidation stirred in the calm center of me, like a whirlpool opening in a pond. “What?” I asked.

  She stared at me, as if trying to read my soul through my eyes. “Dalonige i Digadoli, Golden Eyes, is not a traditional name for one of the People.” I shrugged, not knowing what to say. “And the animals you named. So many. So strange. Your parents were Speakers of the language of the People. Both of them.”

  I understood what she was saying. The number of Speakers left among the People was less than a hundred, even counting both Eastern Cherokee and Western Cherokee. If my parents had been Speakers, then their names would have been known. Aggie would have heard of them and know they had lost a daughter. But she had never heard of such people, and therefore, I couldn’t have Speakers as parents. Yet I had memories of them speaking the language. It wasn’t possible.

  But then, Aggie didn’t know how old I thought I might be. That was one of the secrets I had to keep, along with my skinwalker magic. I could tell her neither truth as my safety lay in my anonymity, though I had a feeling that Aggie had guessed I hadn’t been entirely honest with her.

  “Do you remember their names?” Aggie One Feather asked, her voice carefully neutral.

  I shook my head. “Edoda, my father, was ani gilogi, Panther Clan. Etsi, my mother, was ani sahoni, Blue Holly Clan. Elisi, my grandmother, was Panther Clan, like my father. I don’t remember anything more.” Liar, liar, pants on fire! Can she see the lie? “My name . . . I don’t know. It was just my name.” I hesitated. I didn’t want to lie to this woman. The People did not lie, even to the white man, who never spoke the truth. And one never lied, not ever, to an elder, even now, when most young had so little respect for the aged. So I asked a question instead. “The animals . . . What do you think the names meant?”

  Aggie stood, lithe and fluid, her body belying her age, which was somewhere past fifty, if I guessed right. “I don’t know,” she said. “I will ask my mother. Come. It is time to go. And it is too late for me to take you to water today.”

  There was something in her voice that led me to think she skirted the truth with careful words, either to keep truth from me because she feared it, or because she feared me. Or perhaps because she didn’t know what she wanted to say. But she didn’t look at me. Not once.

  I followed her into the sunlight, which was blinding, the air after the hurricane clear, the sky almost as blue as home, in the mountains of the Appalachians, the mountains of the People.

  Aggie stripped and turned on a spigot I hadn’t noticed, high on the wall. Water shot out and she rinsed, her skin pebbling from the cold. I kept my head turned, and when she was done and stepped away, Aggie kept her head turned as well, each of us offering the other privacy in a very public bathing. There were no towels, and we blotted off on the sweat-soaked robes before pulling our clothes on over wet bodies. Aggie gathered up our dirty robes in a bundle under one arm and gestured to the lawn, away from the sweat lodge. I plaited my hair in a single long braid as we walked, and let it hang, wet and dripping, down my back.

  Silent, we crossed the yard to Bitsa. I stopped at my bike. Aggie came around to the other side and paused, her eyes on the bike. “Lisi,” I said, searching for formal words, proper words, to bring the truth from her. “Your heart is heavy. May I . . . share your burden?” That felt right.

  She shook her head, eyes on the bike. “I am not burdened, daughter. I will call when I have a clearer understanding.”

  And I would have to be satisfied with that. “Thank you, Egini Agayvlge i. I will wait to hear your counsel.”

  Aggie nodded, and a slight smile crossed her face. “I wish my own children would be half so respectful.” She turned and went to the small house, opened the door, and went inside, closing the door behind her.

  I helmeted up and took the long road back to the house I lived in until my contract was over.

  When I got home, a car was idling at the front door. A man stood on the front porch, his jeans tight, the long sleeves of a button-down shirt rolled up to reveal tanned, fit arms. It was Bruiser, aka George Dumas, Leo’s first human blood-servant, and his second in command, his muscle and security. My heart rate sped up just a bit. Six-four, weightlifter but not to bulging excess, brown eyes and hair. Clean-looking with a primo sculpted nose, long and sort of bony. I had a thing about noses and really liked his. In fact I liked almost every thing abut Bruiser, and so did my Beast. He hadn’t been around when Leo came visiting last night. Had he known about the attack?

  Bruiser swiveled like a dancer at the sound of Bitsa. His expression was solemn and he didn’t smile when he saw me. That couldn’t be good. I nodded stiffly, glad my face was hidden behind the face shield. Pulling Bitsa to the side and through the gate, out of sight, I locked the gate behind me. The ward was still on, and when I entered the house, a tingle buzzed against my skin, rough, like sandpaper, if sandpaper could hold an electric charge.

  Molly met me at the bottom of the stairs, wearing wide-legged capris, a tee, and sandals. Energy fairly radiated off her body. “Do we let him in?” she asked, waiting for me to make the decision on security.

  “Hi, Aunt Jane,” Angelina said, half hidden behind her mother.

  I picked Angie up and hugged her, saying, “Hi, Angie Baby.” I handed her to her mother. “You two go upstairs, okay? Just for a few minutes. I have a visitor.”

  “A bad man?” Angie asked, more in curiosity than fear.

  “Not a bad man,” I said. “Just not a good one.” A white man, I thought. Someone I can’t trust. The thinking was left over from a childhood I could remember only in snitches and snatches, but it was powerful nonetheless.

  Molly quick-stepped up the stairs, shushing Angie’s protests. The ward snapped off and a knock sounded instantly on the door, as if he had been waiting for it to flick off. Bet it had burned his knuckles the first time he tried. I opened the door and leaned negligently against the jamb, not asking him in, blocking the way, my body language aggressive and challenging. I might think he was gorgeous but I wasn’t ready to cede him that knowledge.

  “Bruiser. To what do I own the honor of this visit?” My tone said it was not an honor, and George’s brows rose, the gesture elegant and refined and annoyingly superior. The gesture was oddly similar to Leo’s, reminding me that he had been with the Blood Master of the City for a long time. A very long time. It helped to settle my hormones.

  “My master sends you greetings and a missive.” The words had an old-fashioned ring, a sure sign of a powerful vamp’s official notice.

  I had a feeling that this formal visit might be only marginally better than Leo’s kerosene and fire visit of the night before, and that brought out a belligerence I usually controlled better. I narrowed my eyes at him. “No shit?”

  George didn’t laugh, his eyes serious. He extended a roll of paper, a little smaller than standard eight-by-eleven notepaper. No, not paper; by the smell it was heavy vellum, rolled and secured with a scarlet ribbon. It was also sealed with bloodred wax.

  “My execution order? A warning that I’m about to be burned out? If so, it’s a day late.”

  Bruiser frowned, his brown eyes sincere. Not that sincere was
anything to trust in a blood-servant. “I heard about it, Jane. If I had known what he planned, I’d have tried to stop him. Or at least I’d have called and warned you.”

  “Big words. Nice plan. A day late and a dollar short. So, what is it?” I pointed at the roll.

  Bruiser looked at the vellum, his frown deepening. “I don’t know.”

  “Nothing good, then.” I took the vellum, slid the ribbon off, and gave it to George. I broke the seal with a fingernail. The note was short and pointed, handwritten in a slashing, cursive scrawl that screamed it was by Leo’s own hand. I read it aloud.

  “ ‘To Jane Yellowrock, Rogue Hunter. The instant that your current contract with the Council of the Mithrans is completed, you will vacate the City of New Orleans. Should you decline to comply, you will be brought to me. You will not leave again.’ It’s signed, ‘Leonard Pellissier. Blood Master of the City of New Orleans.’

  “Well, that was short and bitter,” I said. “I’m guessing the line ‘You will not leave again’ means that he’ll turn me, chain me in his basement, and let me starve. Not a pretty image. Your boss is certifiable, Dumas.”

  “I like Bruiser better.”

  “Tough.” I shut the door in his face.

  Molly’s chuckle sounded down the stairway. I felt the ward come on, the whole house seeming to buzz for a moment until it settled. “You think that was smart?” she asked me.

  “Not really.” Beast hacked in the deep parts of my mind. She had enjoyed it all very much, even still half asleep.

  “You like him, don’t you?” When I didn’t answer, she sang out, paraphrasing Rod Stewart lyrics, “I know you think he’s sexy, and you want his body. Come on, Big Cat, say it’s so-o-o-o.”

  “That is not right on so many levels.” I stopped at the bottom of the staircase, noting that the lamps of the night before were gone. I had forgotten to put them away, out of the kids’ reach, until we needed them tonight, but Molly-the-mom wasn’t forgetful. She was grinning down at me, one hand on the newel post, the other on the banister, her children on either side of her, Little Evan sitting, a thumb in his mouth, Angie wrapped around the spindles of the monkey-tail newel like a monkey herself.

  The house was hot and the air was sticky, still, and dead. The widows were open, but there was no breeze. My T-shirt stuck to me and my jeans felt like a damp second skin. I started to sweat in earnest and rubbed my palms on my jeans. I needed Molly’s help. “Molly, I need a favor. A witch favor.” The smile slid from Mol’s face, but I bulled on. “I smelled witch magic at a vamp’s first rising. I need you to ask around with the local covens, see what you can find out. If there’s any rumors that someone is working with the vamps.”

  A long silence settled on us then, Molly’s face, usually so full of expression, telling me nothing. Finally she sighed, and I felt a weight roll off me. “Okay. I’ll try. But the local covens aren’t real agreeable since Katrina and the fluff-up about witches not doing a good enough job to ward off the storm. The press hounded them. Is still hounding them. I’ll put out a few feelers and see what I get. But don’t expect much.”

  “Thanks.” Beast stared at my friend and the children through slit eyes, feeling protective and tender, feelings I echoed. Kits. Cubs. Safe, she thought at me.

  “I’m hungry,” I said.

  “Big Cat’s always hungry,” Angelina said.

  Molly swiveled her head to her daughter fast. “Why did you call her that?” she asked, her voice sharp.

  “You call her Big Cat.” Angelina looked up at her mother, her face taking on an unexpected eagerness. “Is it bad words?”

  I snickered and Molly shook her head, scooping up Evan and taking Angie’s hand. Together they started down the steps. “No, Angie Baby, it isn’t bad words. But it is a grown-up name for Aunt Jane. Like when Aunt Jane calls me Molly, but you call me Mama. Big Cat isn’t a name for little girls to use.”

  Angie’s face scrunched up and tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. My heart melted. I had a flash of a cave roof, melting down, stalactites dripping down to stalagmites. Then it was gone and the trio reached the bottom of the steps. I took Angelina up in my arms. “I have a secret,” I whispered, “just for you. Not for your mama.”

  “No fair,” Molly said.

  Angie opened her eyes, the tears miraculously stopped. “Just for me?” she stage-whispered back.

  “Yep.” I took Angie into the living room, away from the kitchen where Molly was going, Evan under her arm like a sack of potatoes. “A name, a secret name, for me. The name my mommy and daddy gave me when I was a baby.”

  “Not Aunt Jane?”

  “Not Aunt Jane.”

  “Does Mommy know it?”

  “Nope.” I sat her on the couch and knelt in front of her. “You want to know what it is?” When Angie nodded, I said, “It’s a very special name. You can tell your mama if you want to, but other than her, we have to keep it a secret for now. Okay?” Angie nodded again, her eyes wider. “And it’s in a different language, which makes it hard to say, so we’ll have to practice to get it just right.”

  Angie looked around me to the doorway of the kitchen, making sure her mother wasn’t in range of the big secret. “Okay, Aunt Jane,” she whispered. “We can tell Mama the secret after snack time. But right now I’m the only one, right?”

  “Right. My Cherokee name is Dalonige i Digadoli. It means Golden Eyes.”

  “Biscause your eyes are yellow?” she asked, mispronouncing the word, as she often did.

  “Exactly. Dalonige i Digadoli. Can you say it?”

  Angie stumbled over the name several times before she got the syllables right. “Good,” I said. “But say it very softly. The Cherokee people speak very quietly.”

  “Like everything is a secret?” she whispered.

  “Yeah. Like everything is a secret and everything is special.”

  “Dalonige i Digadoli. Golden Eyes,” she whispered.

  “Perfect. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

  “Me too. Mama says we can have Oreos and tea, biscause the milk is being bad biscause of the ’lectricy went off, biscause of the nasty storm.” She tilted her head, her long hair falling to one side. “Mama says all your meat is getting icky too. She says you need to jerk it. Why do you have to jerk the meat, Dalonige i Digadoli?”

  I took Angelina’s hand and led her to the kitchen, where my best friend looked up from laying out cookies and pouring hot tea. “Jerk meat? That’s a very good idea, Molly. I like it.”

  I oven-broiled and ate a steak so rare it ran blood when I cut it, while the kids and Molly feasted on tea and cookies and sliced fruit. Then Molly, Angelina, and I spent the rest of the morning slicing and seasoning the ten pounds of Beast’s steak I had tucked into the freezer when Ada knocked off the power. I had hoped the electricity would be back on before the freezer warmed up, but that hadn’t happened. When I left the house a little after noon, it was with a belly full of rare steak, pasta, and salad. The pungent aroma of cooking seasoned meat scented the house.

  CHAPTER 4

  We invade her territory

  After first making sure no one was watching, I grabbed a handhold and jumped the fifteen-foot-tall brick fence to my landlady’s and rang the bell at the back door. Katie’s Ladies was the oldest continuously operating whorehouse in New Orleans, and her ladies’ primary clients were vamps. Even with vamps, there was pillow talk afterward. Or maybe during—what did I know? But I’d learned something of value to an investigation before, when I went to visit.

  Troll appeared after only a moment, yawning, a meaty fist covering his mouth, his bald pate shining as if freshly waxed in the dim sconce lights in the hallway. “Morn-awn,” he said through the yawn, his big teeth seeming to reach for air. “You must be psychic.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Some of the girls are up. Having a snack in the dining room. Help yourself.” He slung a thumb haphazardly toward the dining room. Seemingly offhand, as he headed left
toward Katie’s business office, he added, “Bliss is with them.”

  Guilt stabbed me, as I’m pretty sure Troll intended. I hadn’t seen Bliss since I ditched the little witch in a ladies’ room in a French Quarter club, bleeding profusely from a vamp bite, while I went tearing off after her attacker. I’d not even thought about leaving her bleeding—maybe to death—at the time, so intent was I on catching the young rogue. Since Molly came to visit, I hadn’t been over here much, compounding my inattention. “Yeah. Thanks,” I said. I stuck my hands into my jeans pockets and meandered right.

  I heard their voices and caught their scents from three feet outside the door, and stopped, listening, quickly determining that four of the “ladies” were having a midmorning snack of coffee, tea, chilled boiled shrimp, and pastries. I picked out the voices and scents of Bliss, Najla, Christie, and Tia, who was rhapsodizing about her latest vamp conquest. My mouth turned up with real amusement at what she’d taught him to do. I hadn’t even known sex was possible in that position, especially while a vamp had his fangs buried in her femoral artery. She finished with “Mr. Tom says Carlos is ready to make an offer for me, and I’ll be his blood-servant for, like, a hundred years, which is way better than a human man who might dump me when I get old, and I won’t get old anyway with Carlos. Well, I will but not for, like, forever.”

  “Come on in, Jane,” Bliss said, when Tia paused to draw breath.

  “Why come you thinking she out there, girl?” a strangely accented voice asked. “What? You smelling them again?”

  It had been years since I’d been teased and bullied by the girls in the children’s home where I was raised, but it still got to me, even if I wasn’t the actual recipient of the persecution. “Bliss has a real good sense of smell,” I said from the hallway. Hands still in my pockets, I stepped into the room. Giving the bully a look with just a hint of Beast peeking out, I added, “No need to be mean.”

  “You eavesdropping, Janie?” Christie asked, her irritation a sharp tang on the air. “No need for you to stand in the cold like a lost child looking in. There’s room at the table for one more, even if you are an inhibited and stuffy little churchgoer.”