Blood Cross: A Jane Yellowrock Novel

by Faith Hunter

  “All of them are destroyed after fifty years?”

  Bruiser hesitated. He looked intensely self-contained, as if he picked and chose what he wanted to tell me out of a basket of history, gossip, and myth. I’d have felt better if he had rocked back on the chair’s back legs, tapped his fingers on the table. Anything. But he was as motionless as Leo, except that he still breathed and his heart still beat. “There are rumors that some scions, specially loved ones, might be kept longer. But no evidence of it has ever been uncovered.”

  “So if one of the long-chained ones, say, one kept around a lot longer than the usual fifty years, found sanity, he might have memories of the first sire’s old methods. And he might have started the experiments again. That might be why Sabina didn’t smell anyone she knew, except that it was an old Rousseau.” At Bruiser’s confused look, I explained about the burial sites and the crosses, about LeShawn and the kidnapped witch children. And the priestess’s claim that a witch child had died at the burial site.

  When I was done, Bruiser said, “Rumor claims that Renee Damours of Rousseau Clan found sanity before the purge, and her brother Tristan not long after. Their children weren’t so lucky.” Bruiser must have seen my reaction. “Yeah, Tristan was her brother and her husband. The breeding program wasn’t just practiced on their master’s slaves. Rumor persists that two of their children and another brother are still among the long-chained, alive, somewhere.”

  “These children. They’d be how old?”

  Bruiser showed his teeth at me and saluted with his coffee cup. “Three hundred years, give or take a few decades.”

  Back in the city, I stopped at the house and called Jodi Richoux. “What, Yellowrock?” she said as she picked up. “I’m up to my ass in blood at the moment.”

  Which sounded like one of my worst days, but I didn’t sympathize. I filled her in on the situation. She didn’t deny when I suggested that she’d been investigating the witch children’s disappearance herself after her aunt had died. “I need back into the woo-woo room, and I have pertinent info to trade for it,” I said. “The Rousseau clan home is empty, open, and looks as if there’s been a fight inside. George Dumas says the security was breached at two a.m. It has something to do with a vamp war brewing.”

  Jodi cursed. “I could have gone all year without hearing any of that. I’m working a gang murder in the Warehouse District. Crips took down a handful of MS 13 leaders and two vamps, a massacre that might be tied into your vamp war. Woo-woo room is open for you anytime, but be there at five to decompress and reorganize.” She hung up.

  I blew out a breath. Southerners were supposed to be polite. So far, I wasn’t seeing it here. Rick returned my call and I asked to see the vamp files again. I needed to go back and find everything they had on the Rousseau clan. When he asked why, I gave him the same spiel I’d given Jodi and he said to come on in. I had free access. Lucky me. Without taking time for a shower or a nap, I grabbed a few things I might need, hopped back on Bitsa, and gunned the motor for NOPD. Sleep pulled at me as I rode. I needed rest, but I couldn’t stop. Not until the kits were safe.

  “How about you leave me the keys this time? Or prop the door open with a chair?” I shoved one of the little plastic chairs across the dull floor tiles with a screech.

  Rick smiled and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, effectively blocking the only exit, crossed his arms, and gave me his best bad boy grin. If I hadn’t been worried over the kits—the children, for pity’s sake—I might have been appreciative. I blew hair out of my face and fisted my hands on my hips. “What?”

  “How long since you slept? You look like sh—really tired.”

  “Gee, thanks. You sure do know how to make a girl feel pretty.”

  “Pretty you’re not. Interesting, yes. Intriguing, yes. Pretty is too . . .” He scrunched up his face, thinking, looking at the faded ceiling tiles. “Too soft for you.”

  All of a sudden the anger that had fueled my body in place of sleep escaped in one huge irate sigh. And because there was nothing else underneath the rage, supporting it, giving me strength, I burst into tears.

  When I came up for air, I was sitting on the table leaning into Rick, my face buried in his chest, my tears soaked through to his skin. Which smelled really wonderfully good. Faint shirt starch, aftershave, Ivory soap, gun oil, and man. I tightened my fingers on his jacket, not wanting to let go. It was stupid and girly and . . . But I felt safe for the first time in . . . well, a long time. His hands made wide circles on my back and shoulders, massaging me through my shirt. I settled my face on his shoulder, not wanting to look up. Not wanting him to see me. I was an ugly crier. Red nose, snot, puffy eyes, ick.

  “Sorry.” My voice was rough with tears. I cleared it and tried again. “Sorry I got your shirt wet.” Rick eased me back. When he could see me, I realized that the bad boy image was temporarily gone and something deeper, richer, was in its place. A strange feeling, prickling like fur, danced down my spine, expectant, waiting.

  His mouth came down slowly, hovering near mine. I could smell his breath, which carried coffee and something sweet, like pastry. He held my eyes, a question in his, as if asking permission. When my hands tightened on his shirt, he pulled me closer. To the edge of the table, my legs beside his. Eyes on mine, he drew a fraction nearer. I raised my face, just slightly. A delicate, slow dance of approach, warming. And he touched my lips with his.

  It was a gentle brush, a delicate sweep of his lips over mine. And then a hover, questing, his mouth barely touching. Lips parted slightly. Fractionally. I sighed. Closed my eyes. And the worry and fear and tension seeped away. I let his arms hold me.

  Instead of deepening the kiss, which I expected, he brushed my lips with his slowly back and forth. Murmuring, “It’s okay, Janie. It’s really okay.” His arms firmed. Lips hardened on mine. He pulled me closer. Finally I slid my arms around his shoulders and held on, feeling Beast purr steadily in my mind. His tongue touched mine and my sigh became a thrumming hum of sound. One hand cupped my head, cradling me, his thumb on my cheek. One hand stroked slowly down my hair and back.

  Long moments later, I smiled against his mouth and felt his smile follow, breaking the intensity. I eased back and met his gaze, which was warm and focused on me with tight concentration. “Thanks,” I said, my voice rough.

  He grinned and broke away, steadying me as I found my balance. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now. But”—he eased back and looked at his watch—“let’s talk.”

  We did. I filled him in on everything that had happened, everything I had learned, from my impromptu history lesson, to all my guesses. I put it all together for myself and for Rick, from the smell on Bettina’s hands at the vamp party, to the rising of a gangbanger tattooed with crosses. “I think the Damours—Renee, Tristan, and maybe their brother—were all witches, were all the long-chained, and all woke up. I think they might have perfected a spell to make progeny who don’t ever go insane, and don’t react to crosses. I think they’re working on a spell to bring sanity to any rogue.” I studied Rick. “If they succeed, there’ll be no stopping the vamps. No way at all.”

  Rick was quiet, his face in cop mode—a hard, unfeeling mask. After a long moment he said, “I’ve heard of Renee Damours. Word is, she made a play for the master of the Rousseau Clan about thirty years ago and lost to Bettina before she disappeared into the city’s underbelly. But all we got is rumor and gossip. We don’t really know anything.”

  He turned to the vamp file cabinet and opened the second drawer, withdrawing two files. I hadn’t gotten to this batch in my study. One thin file was a history of the purge. A thicker one was a history of the Rousseau Clan, which I took, and, at his instruction, thumbed to a section on the Damours, all five of them. I flipped to a page detailing Renee’s history, to discover that most of the info was speculation and rumor gleaned from unnamed sources; it was only marginally better than nothing. According to the file, Renee Damours didn’t attend parties, didn’t a
ttend gatherings—the command performances of the entire vamp assembly to deal with matters of the vampire state or the health of its members—no matter who demanded them. She didn’t travel, and didn’t troll for fresh meat. “She’s a stay-at-home kinda gal,” I said, “for decades. She’s got to have cabin fever.”

  Rick hummed a note of amused agreement.

  She seldom left her lair, which was rumored to be in the Warehouse District, the same part of the city where the most recent vamp party took place—when I saw the witch glamour and the watching witches. Not likely that the witchy happenings were an accidental concurrence; at this point, I wasn’t willing to believe in coincidence.

  Rick passed me another sheaf of papers, photocopies of letters and news accounts with a face sheet titled “History of the Purge.” Date of occurrence: the late seventeen hundreds. Page two was a summary composed by Elizabeth Caldwell, who noted that Renee Damours had brought her chained family to New Orleans from Haiti and immediately purchased several large blocks of land, including some along the Mississippi, in the Warehouse District. Again, we were back to the Warehouse District. The entire district had smelled vampy. Renee could easily have a hidden lair there.

  Rick murmured, “Want to hire me to look up the current owners of her original land?”

  Without looking up I said, “Sure. Just put it on my tab.” I couldn’t help the wry smile that pulled on my mouth. I had hired Rick when he was undercover to look into some land ownership and purchases. So far, I hadn’t paid him.

  “You are going to pay me for my time, aren’t you?”

  I pulled a folded money order from my jeans pocket and held it out to him. He grunted, unfolded the paper to check the amount, and grunted again. “Nice. This is more than I was hired for. What’s the rest? Tip? Or do I have to . . . work it off?”

  His question had a decidedly erotic tone to it and I didn’t have time for flirting, not with Angelina and Little Evan missing. “Tip. Definitely tip.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “But you can buy the beer on your tip money on Saturday night. After the children are back home safe and sound.”

  “Deal.” His voice was toneless again, all business, the life-or-death business of being a cop. I sometimes envied them the ability to turn that stony, cold mien off and on.

  I felt a vibration and Rick pulled a cell phone from his pocket, opened the cover. His brows went up as he checked a text message. “I’m being shunted to the special cases division. I have a conference today at five in”—he checked the text again—“room 666. What kinda meeting place is this?” He closed the cell and put in back in his pocket. “ ’Bout time the brass gave me something to do besides paperwork. I hate paperwork. What?”

  I pulled my brows back down and stuck my eyes back on the file. “Nothing. Can I get copies of these files? It’s a hassle coming all the way down here every time I need info.”

  “You’ll miss me, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I haven’t slept in two days. I’m heading back to my bed.”

  Rick leaned in and pushed back the hair that brushed my cheek. Tucked it behind my ear. His fingertips were warm on my skin. “Alone?”

  I spluttered with laughter. This guy could twist anything into innuendo. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I certainly hope so.”

  So tired I could barely think, I made it home and to my rumpled bed, where I stole four uninterrupted hours of sleep, waking only when someone knocked on the front door, three distinct taps, leaving the wards sizzling in reaction. It had to have hurt, telling me that it wasn’t a delivery or a salesman. It was more imperative than that. I had a visitor. Or maybe a Visitor. The queen of England would knock like that, taps to announce herself, not to ask admission.

  I wrapped up in the chenille robe that came with the house, tied it snuggly, and went to the door. Peeking through a clear pane in the door’s new stained glass, I wasn’t surprised to see Mol’s oldest sister, water witch, professor, and three-star chef, Evangelina Everhart. Evangelina was a bigger, broader, more authoritative version of Molly, a three-star-general version of Molly, wearing a business suit, panty hose, and a posture so upright it looked as if she were born with a witch’s stick up her backside.

  She was carrying a suitcase. My heart did a nosedive. A cabdriver behind her unloaded two more cases onto the curb. Evangelina looked up and met my eye through the pane of glass. Too late to pretend I wasn’t at home.

  I opened the door and stood aside. Evangelina looked me over from bare toes to mussed hair. Her lips pursed, censure on her face at the evidence that I had been napping while her sister was in the hospital and her niece and nephew were missing. I grinned sourly and walked away without a word, leaving the door open. Evangelina and I weren’t the best of pals. To her, I was the Hell’s Angel, motorcycle-riding, bad-influence friend of her younger sister.

  I put on a kettle of water for tea, listening to Evangelina pay off the cabbie and carry her luggage over the threshold. The front door closed with a restrained snap. Molly’s ward was still up, but it clearly recognized family; she entered with no problem and stepped into the kitchen. Standing in the entrance, she sniffed, looking around again at what was left of the signatures of Molly’s broken, ripped wards. I could still smell the burned, scorched reek of energies torn and blasted through.

  “No one should have been able to break through this.” She sounded surprised. And maybe a little scared. “No one. Even an entire coven would have had trouble blasting through it.”

  “That was my thinking. Cream and sugar? Mug or cup?” I waved at the table, an invitation to sit.

  Evangelina turned her intent stare to me. “Both, please, mug, and if you have a shot of whiskey to go in it, that would be nice.”

  My eyes didn’t bug out, but it was a near thing. I shrugged an apology. “I have beer.”

  Evangelina returned the shrug, saying “never mind” with hers, and sat at the table, kicked off her sensible shoes, pulled off her suit jacket, and leaned back. I could smell her feet and the odor of dried sweat and worry. She had been on the go and under stress for too many hours. She ran her fingers through her hair, scratching her scalp and yawning. It was the nearest thing to relaxed—or maybe simply exhausted—I’d ever seen her. “I think beer might clash with the tea.” When I laughed tiredly, she said, “I’ll get some whiskey later. For now, I apologize for waking you. How long since you slept?”

  It wasn’t the sarcasm I’d expected. It almost sounded concerned, which was nearly my undoing. Again. But I would not cry in front of Evangelina Everhart. I put cookies on the table, on a plate, cookies Mol had baked for her kids, white chocolate macadamia nut. They were still soft, and that fact brought tears to my eyes. It hadn’t been all that long since the children were taken, but it seemed like forever. Tentatively, I said, “Two days. Give or take.” Evangelina took the plate and rearranged the cookies, not as if she disapproved of my arrangement, but as if she needed something to do with her hands. Her face got more pinched, holding in her emotions, her eyes on the cookies. “Can you tell me what is happening?”

  For the second time today I recited the state of affairs of Molly, her kids, and the vamp/witch problem. When I finished, Evangelina said, “I heard that there was a vampire war threatening. Is that real or gossip?”

  “Real. I think. The vamp clans have realigned loyalties. Even though Rafael of Mearkanis is the one who might challenge Leo for master of the city, I’m guessing that Clan Rousseau is the one pulling strings, fomenting a vamp war. I’m betting that the political dissatisfaction is just a cover so they can get this rogue-spell to work without getting caught and executed under the Vampira Carta.” I put leaves into the strainer and the teapot into the sink, the familiar motions bringing me some much needed calm.

  “Not an unlikely assumption.”

  “What I don’t understand,” I said, “is why witches are helping them.”

  “That’s part of what I’m here to find out. I’ve put
in a call to the coven suggested by your Leo to meet tonight. Do you want to join us?”

  I looked at Evangelina in surprise. I had never expected her to include me in her witch business. “Um . . . he’s not my Leo. And I have a meeting with the local cops at five. I think they’ve decided to launch a special investigation.”

  “Too little, too late.” Her voice sounded weary. She ate another cookie, but I was pretty sure she wasn’t tasting it.

  We sat silent until the timer went off, lost in our own thoughts. I poured tea, and we drank.

  Then I made a phone call. I had something brewing in my mind—something that seemed a lot like a plan.

  CHAPTER 19

  No good deed goes unpunished

  Room 666 was just as dull and boring as ever, but this time it smelled heavenly. From the bottom of the stairs I smelled fried grease and onions and seafood. Jodi had brought takeout food with her, thank God. Despite my worry over the kits, my stomach growled as I pushed open the door.

  The cops were sitting around the little table, Jodi and Rick and another guy I didn’t recognize, all with colas in sweating cans in front of them. When I slid into the seat next to Rick, he gave me a look. “You coulda said you were coming too.”

  “I coulda. More fun this way.”

  Jodi said, “You two flirt on your own time.” Rick snorted. I popped my Coke open so I didn’t have to respond. “I’ve been offered this case because my boss is ticked that I have an in with vamps.” She glanced at me. “Since I attended a vampire council meeting.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” I said. Jodi and I had attended a council meeting together, a first for an NOPD cop at any level of authority. Her boss had been peeved not to be invited, and in a childish reaction, had clearly been giving her scut cases.

  “I can’t promise it will help any of our careers, especially if any more witch children are taken, but I’ve been offered the witch child kidnapping cases, the newest and the cold cases. Those previously investigated by my aunt Elizabeth. We’ll be under the SCD, the special cases division,” she said to me. I nodded. “The current investigation—”