by Faith Hunter
After the walls were finished, the hardwood flooring was in, and the place was painted, the free weights and workout equipment would go up here, along with a rubberized fighting mat.
I nodded. Said all the appropriate things. And told them I had to get a nap. They laughed at me. I levered myself / dropped down to the floor below, dodging a man carrying an extendable ladder. I made another muscle, posing for him, trotted down to the first floor, and found my bed. Even with all the noise, I slept for hours.
I checked the weather when I woke, and the high today was supposed to be a chilly fifty-two degrees. I pulled on undies, leggings to protect my legs from the weapons harness, and a nice long-sleeved silk tee. Over that went the harnesses, the weapons, a skirt with slits for said weapons, a thin knit turtleneck tunic sweater that matched my eyes, and stakes in the top of my French braid. It was daylight, and I was overdressed for daytime in NOLA, but Bruiser was picking me up. It was lunch and business—the Gumbo Shop on St. Peter Street. I left a note for my partners, both of whom were still sleeping, before I tiptoed out. The sun was shining, the breeze was out of the south, and the weather was practically balmy. I texted Bruiser that I would walk in his direction to meet him, and he could pick me up. I initiated my GPS so he could follow my progress, and started down the street.
The sound of traffic was all around, a steady, never-ending roar. People talking. Music playing, some live from street musicians, some from cars as they passed, some from clubs. The smell of spicy food made with thick roux and onions and peppers, meat smoking on a grill, seafood fried in lard. Coffee. Exhaust. The mixed scents of water from the Mississippi, the bayous that ran through the city, and Lake Pontchartrain. Urine. Vomit. The city had hosted one of its ubiquitous celebrations the week before and we hadn’t had a gully washer since a magic storm held the city captive. Few humans could smell it, but I could. I passed two homeless men sleeping in a doorway. Another slept on the ground in an alley.
A car with a mismatched paint job and spinning wheels rolled past and two kids wearing navy blue hooded jackets leaned out the windows, sitting on the window edges, catcalling, telling me that they had some big . . . uh, things for me. I laughed and ignored them. If they tried anything I had some things for them too, and they were shiny and sharp with the word no written on them in blood.
They pulled away when they realized they weren’t getting a rise out of me. I strolled past two- and three-story buildings, almost all with galleries and wrought-iron balconies, restaurants and storefronts and candy shops, selling kitsch or food or drinks or a combo of all three. A surprising number were closed, working shutters latched, doors padlocked and sometimes sealed with chains. Rents were high in the Quarter and times were hard in the city. There had been an influx of money in the years since the last major hurricane, but the city was still trying to recover.
I hadn’t really liked New Orleans when I moved here. It was supposed to be a short-term job, then back to the mountains and my apartment in Asheville. And then I met Rick. And Leo offered me a more permanent job. And I found an excuse to stay for a while. I’d been stupid. Rick had “player” written all over him and I hadn’t bothered to notice. I had needed to solve the mystery involving the missing witch children, then kill off the vamps who had been taking and sacrificing them for the power in their blood. The continuing danger to the witches had been another reason to stick around. I’d needed to find a way to keep the local vamps in power when big bad fangbangers wanted to take over the city and its cattle, meaning humans and witches. Now there were the Youngers, my family by choice. And there was Bruiser. That man was a reason to stay here. I’d stayed. I’d cleaned up a lot of messes. If the Sangre Duello was the last mess I needed to clean up, I would have no reason to stick around. Except the Youngers and Bruiser. The Youngers were family. They had made it clear that they were in this for the long haul. Would my honeybunch want me to stay? We hadn’t talked about it. Hadn’t talked about what-ifs. Maybe things were too tenuous to plan ahead? To dream ahead? That left me feeling odd, empty. Maybe a little bit lost.
My Beast sent me images, one superimposed on the other, memories of snow piled two feet deep, pristine except for the prints of deer. Of tall waterfalls sliding between iced rocks. Of her lithe body leaping from an ice-crusted tree, thick tail rotating for balance and direction, landing on a buck racing down a steep ravine, sinking teeth in at his spine. Of dropping on one at a summertime watering hole, sinking teeth into its muscled throat, holding it until the prey passed out from lack of air. Of the spurt of hot blood and the taste of raw venison.
“There’s something to be said for warm weather, lots of rain, and dining on gator,” I reminded her. “But yeah. I miss the mountains too.”
Hunt cow. Hunt cow in Edmund’s car, she sent back. It wasn’t going to happen. Edmund’s car was worth over three million dollars. Beast didn’t understand money or numbers greater than five and, like a cat, figured she could either wear me down or outsmart me into getting what she wanted.
I was halfway to the Gumbo Shop when I felt it. My predator responses zinging. The presence of someone watching. I was used to casual observers. The MOC’s Enforcer got a lot of that from locals and tourists too. This was the interest of a hunter, my body in his sights. Or hers. A sniper had targeted me not so long ago and that experience had left some part of me hyperalert, always vigilant, in the back of my/our mind. Beast knew when we were being hunted.
Not speeding my steps, I jaywalked across the street and stopped in front of a window as if attracted by the silver jewelry on display. But mostly just watching my trail and the parked cars and the buildings across the way for anything or anyone suspicious. I saw nothing. Except the car with the teens in it, cruising back around the block. This time the windows were up, the hecklers inside, and the car was moving slowly, at a walking pace. My walking pace. Which begged the question, were they tailing me for purposes of their own or were they tailing me because someone paid them to watch for me and tail me?
Beast sent me an image of her leaping to the hood of the car and swatting at them. I sent her one of them shooting her through the windshield. She snarled, frustrated. I wasn’t sure when Beast had developed this love of battle, but she was a lot more aggressive than before.
I tapped out a quick text to Bruiser. Where are you?
He sent one back. Ten minutes out. Held up. Get a table. Be there soon.
Too far away. Across the street, in a second-story window, I saw movement. The window was up about six inches. Something small and round emerged into the sunlight. Gun barrel?
I walked into the shop and quickly beyond the entrance. I pulled a twenty from the tiny pocket in my waistband. To the redheaded woman in the back of the shop, behind the counter, I said, “A car is following me. Can I get out the back?”
“Cop car?” she asked, reaching under the counter. “Or gangbangers?”
“I’m going with gangbangers. Clothes are alike.”
She brought out a sawed-off shotgun and laid it on the counter. I froze until I saw it was pointing away from me. Sawed-offs had a hella kick, but the redhead was a big woman and looked as if she knew her way around the weapon. She had full-sleeve tats with skulls on both arms, a dragon on the left, and black roses on the right. The tats extended up her neck where blackbirds flew into her scarlet hairline. She asked, “Dark gray four-door sedan with a blue driver’s door?”
I thought back, surprised. “Yeah.”
She lifted a horizontal slab of counter and said, “Put your money away and get back here. That car has been up and down the streets around here for days. I’ve called NOPD every day, and they did a stop and frisk, but they got zilch. There’s nothing they can do until the guys commit a crime. Get outta here. Back door leads to a long narrow courtyard and an apartment. My landlady lives there. Knock and tell her Andromeda sent you. She’ll let you out to a covered passageway. Follow her directions out to St. Pet
er Street.”
The Gumbo Shop was on St. Peter. There would be collateral damage if I was followed. I looked over my shoulder to see the mismatched car pull to a stop in the street. This wasn’t accidental or coincidental. They were here for me. Beast moved to peer out of my eyes. Fight? Can eat one?
Seeing the car stop, Andromeda cursed and leaned down to press a red button on the side of the cabinet. Even her fingers were tattooed, with musical notes and barbed wire. “Silent alarm,” she said. “The security company will contact the cops and we already have video running.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone,” I said to Andromeda. I sent a fast text to Bruiser, pulled the H&K nine-mil, and joined her behind the counter. The display cases were old-fashioned and though the fronts and tops were glass, the sides and back were constructed of heavy, old wood. I pulled my vamp-killers and placed them on the counter. “You ever fired that sawed-off?”
She looked at me, taking in the golden glow of Beast in my eyes. “You’re Jane Yellowrock.”
Three young men moved toward the shop, their gaits streetwise and threatening. Two of them hid their faces in their navy hoodies and reached into their jeans in a weapon draw. They were older than I’d first thought. Twenty-somethings, not kids. “I am.”
Fight! Beast said.
“This is my daddy’s gun. It’s got a kick, but yeah. I can handle it.” She withdrew a small nine-mil from below the counter too and racked the slide.
“Bloods? Crips?” I asked as the guys moved through the traffic. Behind them horns blared, but the mismatched car didn’t move.
“No one’s seen Crip or Blood for weeks. Word is that the fanghead MOC took them out.” She shot me a glance. She meant my boss. “These are homegrown gangs, filling back in where the national boys used to be. Call themselves the Zips. They paint big navy blue Z graffiti everywhere. They’re looking to make a name for themselves. My brother runs with the Razors, another local gang. This is Raz territory.”
Out front, the young men gathered in a tight grouping, one talking, by his body language giving orders. He was wearing khakis, no hoodie. “This could get messy,” I said.
“No shit, Pollyanna.”
Am Beast. Not Pollyanna.
I chuffed in amusement, showing teeth.
The woman picked up the sawed-off and held it in a one-hand grip, the other hand holding the nine-mil, her feet spread. She knew how to make an impression. The modified barrel looked like a cannon.
The guy in front opened the door. Came in out of the glare, blinking, arm up, gun held in a street-style shooting angle, sideways. With that stance, if he hit us, it would be by accident. Andromeda said, “Stop or die.” When they kept coming, she fired the nine-mil.
CHAPTER 5
I Can’t Shoot a Suspect on the Ground
The round hit the wall at the floor, a deliberate shot. “Next one draws blood,” she said over the ear-blasted dead air left behind.
“Give us the woman,” Khaki Man shouted. His eyes were wide. He hadn’t expected armed resistance. Or getting shot at.
“No,” Andromeda said.
The men spread out in a small semicircle, blocking the front exit, two hoodies on the left, Khaki Man on the right. Andromeda shifted the nine-mil to the man on the far left. “I got the navy jackets. You take out the other one,” she said.
I let Beast flood into me. My heart rate sped. My breathing deepened. I took a breath, smelling testosterone, aggression, and chemicals in their blood. And I caught an unexpected scent.
Of wolf.
The guy in the center fired. Time slowed, that battlefield awareness that showed me the angle of the shot. The blast stole the last of the silence. He missed us both.
Andromeda fired the shotgun. It deafened. Stole the air. Replaced it with a roiling cloud of gunfire residue. The guy in the middle stumbled and fell.
The other hoodie fired.
I firmed my aim. Fired twice. Andromeda dropped the shotgun and fired the nine-mil. All three men were on the floor, one with a large, circular shot pattern on his chest. Messy.
Fun, Beast said. More!
I raced around the counter and disarmed the three guys—even the dead ones—by gently shoving the weapons to the side with my foot. Carefully. People had died by kicking guns and getting shot. Out front, the gang car took off.
“What the hell?” Andromeda shouted, barely heard over the deafness of the gunfight, furious.
I tracked the unexpected scent I had caught just before the firing started, to the khaki-clad guy. Over the damage to my ears, I heard sirens and Andromeda cursing as she spotted the bullet hole damage to the walls and the jewelry cases. Scowling, she took in the damage to one cabinet: the wood that had once been beautifully carved, swans with long necks intertwined, and the antique glass, which was now all over the floor. She cursed long and hard at the damage. I took her weapon from her and set it with mine on the counter. Texted a fast 911 to Bruiser. Then, Shots fired. Am OK. Cops on way. Call lawyer. I added the address.
I got back, There in 22.
Twenty seconds later, Bruiser sprinted to the front of the shop and stopped. He was breathing hard, eyes wide and determined. He had been ten minutes away when this all started. He got here a lot faster, on foot, running. He opened the door, needing to see me, his scent washing into the room, over the smell of weapons fire, full of fear. I smiled at him and said, “I’m not hit.”
He let a harsh breath go, gave me a nod, and let the door close. George Dumas, elegant and urbane, no longer out of breath or terrified, was standing there with his cell phone to his ear, talking, when the cops pulled up. There was something disarming about the appearance of the local celebrity, casually talking on the phone, and I could see the cops instantly decompress, though they came at him with weapons drawn. Bruiser held his arms in the air, and though my ears weren’t healed, I could make out the soothing timbre of his voice. It was pacifying. Calming. In control of himself and everything around him.
The cops nodded, entered. Andromeda and I were standing with our hands up. The cops took in the three guys, looked at us, and looked back at the three guys. The one on the right was still breathing. “Jane Yellowrock?” the older cop asked.
“Yep.” I pointed with one finger to the breathing guy. “Be careful. That one is werewolf. They can bite when they’re in pain.”
The cops shuffled back through the opening, though to give them credit, they did keep the door open.
“Werewolf?” Andromeda squeaked. And then she laughed, sounding half-hysterical, saying, “There wolf.” When I didn’t respond she added, “Movie quote.”
I grunted. The guy on the floor was making strange puppy sounds and hair was starting to sprout on his hands and face. Reddish hair. And he was the only one of the attackers not wearing a navy gang jacket. Interestinger and interestinger.
“What are we supposed to do?” the cop holding the door asked.
“Get us out, seal the place up, and . . . Well, crap.” I huffed in annoyance. “And call PsyLED. They have agents in town. I can give you the numbers of two of them.”
The cops didn’t ask for the numbers. They were still freaked at the idea of a were.
Bruiser reentered. His nostrils widened at the stench of werewolf blood; Onorios have better-than-human sense of smell, but he hadn’t caught it the first time. His eyes searched me for signs of bite marks or torn flesh. I gave him a thumb up to let him know I hadn’t been bitten. To the cops he said, “Medic is caught in traffic. If you can clear the street they can get in to help that one.”
“We need a werewolf cage,” I said again.
Bruiser frowned and punched in a number. “PsyLED has portable cages.”
“If you have silver ammo,” I said to the cop, “now’s the time for it. If he gets shifted and is still in pain”—I glanced at Andromeda and half-joked—“things’l
l get messy.”
Andromeda laughed, the sound only slightly panicked now that the shooting was over. “Call me Andy.”
“Jane.”
“I can’t shoot a suspect on the ground,” the cop said.
“You can if he’s a menace to the public.”
The cop looked at the wolf, at his partner, at me. “You shoot him.”
“Not my job once the cops are here. I’d stake him if he was a vamp and a menace to the public, but not a furball. He’s all yours.”
The guy on the ground started growling. He must have had strong feelings about the direction of the conversation. More hair sprouted. The cop cursed under his breath and changed out mags while calling his supervisor.
After that it was disorganized organization, with the cops putting a round in the were’s knee to keep him in a partial shift and out of action. The wolfman was seriously ticked off about being shot again. The local LEOs took our weapons. All of them. Even the stakes.
And my adrenaline dissipated enough for me to realize two humans had attacked me and now they were dead. Twenty-somethings, not children. Violent and ready to kidnap or kill me, or some violent combo of the two. But still. Humans. There was a time when killing humans would have broken my heart, sent me into depression. But there are just so many times one’s heart can be broken before it hardens in some sad, fragmented, disarranged formation, where it doesn’t work right anymore. I felt almost nothing and I was more sad about that than I was about killing the gangbangers.
Unconcerned, Beast thought, Jane is war woman. I/we are Beast. Killed enemy.
All the last of the battle energy drained out of me. I sat on a stool perched in the corner, sick to my stomach.
Rick walked in the door, his cat scent sending the doggy on the floor into spasms of fury. He flashed his badge and ID, then glared and pointed a finger at me. “We need to talk about my new housecat.” I nodded once. To the cops he continued, “This is a PsyLED investigation. I’ll take over as OIC until my superior arrives.”
