Blood Trade: A Jane Yellowrock Novel (18 page)

“Not a lick,” Eli said. “I’ll be out front of the hotel in fifteen. We can load your bike up in back.”

“Yeah. Okay.” I hung up and started gathering clothes and toiletries for my new charges, my brain feeling like it was stuffed with steel wool, all snarled and useless. Beast was clearheaded and happy. She had a kit to mother. Sometimes my life made no sense at all.

•   •   •

Back at Esmee’s, I looked over at my new charges sitting at the breakfast-room table, eating leftover piglet sandwiches. “Bobby? Can you take care of Charly while we’re gone?”

“I’m her babysitter. I always take care of her,” he said.

“Ah. Good.” One problem solved.

“She takes her nap at three,” he said, “and she gets her next medicine at five.”

Charly looked up at me from the plush chair, with a foam-backed blanket over her legs and snugged to her armpits. Her hair was dull and lifeless, and Beast peeked out from my eyes, seeing the sick child. At her feet, Bobby turned on the TV, starting
Beauty and the Beast
, which seemed oddly apropos. Charly pulled the blanket higher, up under her chin. “Are you really my mama’s friend?”

I felt itchy under her stare. Thinking about Misha. And the friends we might have been had I ever had the slightest notion of how to make one.

“Uhhh. Yes. Yes, I am,” I halfway lied.

“Are you gonna find my mama and bring her back?”

Beast slammed down on my mind, her claws shooting through me with an instant headache. “Yes,” Beast answered, my voice low and gravelly. “Will find her.”

•   •   •

“You do know how stupid that promise was,” Eli said to me later as I sat at the breakfast-room table with the cell phone in my hand, staring at the blue screen. Papers and laptops and e-tablets and phones were scattered across the table top, along with coffee cups and mugs and small plates and scraps of food.

Before he left and went back to Jackson, where he lived and worked, Gordon had suggested that we might be more comfortable in the larger dining room, but the breakfast room was closer to the kitchen, the coffeemaker, the teapots, and the food. All pluses.

I closed the phone with a snap. Since we got back with Bobby and Charly (and Esmee had gone bonkers over Charly, putting her in the princess room, and Bobby across the hall from her, and all that rigmarole), Alex had been working on locating the blood-servant and vamp Misha had purportedly gone to visit—Wynonna and Charles Scarletti. The Kid had four computers and laptops going at once. It was something to see. I had tried to contact blood-servants in Natchez, to ask about missing humans and vamp properties with basements. I was figuring that Misha had ticked off a vamp and was stuck in with the food supply. Maybe it’s cliché, but basements and vamps have always gone together, maybe because the rooms are underground and keep out the light, or because of the old saying that vamps keep their young chained in the basement for ten years until they cure. But whatever the reason, vamps always seem to have basements. Or safe rooms. Or both. Basements were rare in the Deep South, because of hurricane storm surges and high water tables, so I assumed this had to be fairly easy to narrow down. I had been wrong. The online site for the property-tax division of the Mississippi Department of Revenue wasn’t particularly helpful or user friendly. It was taking time we likely didn’t have.

Nothing was happening. The sun had risen and the sick vamp in the silver cage in the garage was asleep. Leo and Bruiser weren’t taking my calls, and I was loathe to phone my own witch contacts, Molly and Big Evan. I guess killing a family member makes people stop being your friends.

Misha’s book research had now impacted my own investigation. I needed to concentrate on the vamp angle, as in tracking them down and killing them, per my contract with Big H, but now any action I took might conceivably endanger Misha. Big H had said something about magic when I talked to him, so maybe I should call a local witch—but witches didn’t advertise their covens. Whatever was going on in Natchez sounded like a story that a reporter/book writer would jump on in a skinny. But my reporter/book writer was missing. Wouldn’t you know it?

“Did you hear me?” Eli asked, irritation in his voice.

“Yeah, I heard. I kinda figured it was a stupid promise even before I said it. But”—I shrugged—“I said it and I meant it. I’ll find that child’s mother or die trying.” Eli shook his head, an unreadable expression on his face and no telltale change in his pheromones. He was easy to read only when his scent pattern changed, which I hadn’t told him. A girl needs an edge sometimes.

As I sat, phone in hand, it buzzed and rang and Reach’s icon appeared on my screen. Darth Vader’s fanged happy face was silly, but, like earlier, I had a feeling between my shoulder blades that things were going downhill fast. I pressed the
SEND
button and said, “Reach.”

“Company’s coming,” he said, sounding amused and gleeful and just a bit evil. He hung up. And the doorbell rang.

“I just know I’m gonna hate this, whatever it is,” I mumbled under my breath. I sat there, Eli’s and the Kid’s eyes on me as Jameson moved through the house to the front door. I caught the smell of cat and tightened up all over as Rick LaFleur’s scent blew into the room.

I had known on some level that Rick would show up in Natchez, in person—he was PsyLED’s hand of the law, after all—but it never occurred to me that he would come
here
, to
this house
. Stupid me. Worse, I didn’t know if he was here personally because of the case, the gig, and the missing humans, or because he still had feelings for me, or to arrest me for something. I let my mind range back over my kills for the last week. They seemed righteous to me, but . . . maybe not to a cop, with all the rules and regs and courts and all that.

“She’s right this way, sir,” Jameson said. I couldn’t help myself. I swiveled in my chair and looked as he stepped silently into the room. And I caught my breath.

Rick had changed from the pretty boy/bad boy I had met on my first day in New Orleans. He had been dressed then in jeans and Frye boots, looking carefree, a little bit dangerous, and human. A lot had happened between then and now. Now he was dressed in cop casual: charcoal slacks, black shirt, black jacket, and gray tie. He was clean-shaven, and with his Frenchy black eyes and hair, he looked good enough to eat. I smiled when that thought popped into my mind, but the smile slid away when I recognized his expression—closed, hard, unfeeling. I had accused him of trying to kill me when we last met. I sucked at relationships.

Behind him was Soul, one of his partners, a supernat of unknown origins, a tiny thing with silver hair, curves in all the right places, and eyes like the sky at night. She wore her traditional garb of flowing skirts and robe, today made of blue, heavyweight, watered silk in honor of the season. I hadn’t liked Soul the first time I saw her. It had been a stupid, instinctive, competitive reaction. This time, I nodded to her, determined not to be an idiot. Padding behind her was the white werewolf, stuck in wolf form, the neon green grindylow clinging to his back. The grindy looked like a green-dyed kitten, too cute to be dangerous, but her species’ mission in life was to act as a deterrent to the spread of the were taint. If Rick or his wolf tried to pass it along, she would attack and kill them without hesitation.

My eyes flowed back to Rick as Eli stood and shook Rick’s hand, then Soul’s. I stayed in my chair, watching them all, perhaps a little too intently. The wolf growled, and I said to him, “I carry silver shot.” The words were mild, but the growl stopped. The grindy chittered in what sounded like amusement, but I hadn’t learned to translate the language of the species, so what did I know?

Soul moved around the room and held her hand out to me in a pointed gesture. I met her eyes and slowly stood, taking her hand. She bowed over mine and I hesitated only a moment before bowing back, slightly to the side so I wouldn’t bonk her head coming up. But Beast pushed down on my mind and I followed her unspoken command, letting my bow drop lower than Soul’s. Beast was better at interpreting alpha gestures and relationships than I was. When I rose, I was being regarded with an emotion that was foreign to me—calm and centered and serenely Zen. I felt that calmness flow up my arm and into me. “Jane Yellowrock. We should talk, you and I.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

Soul released my hand, but the calmness stayed with me. I had no idea what her power was, but I liked what I had seen. Until she turned and touched Rick’s arm. The touch was almost intimate, and the calm she had lent to me cracked like a hot stone dropped into icy water. Deep inside, Beast hissed, and my eyes flared with gold. I dropped my lids fast. I had no idea what my face suddenly showed, but I knew I couldn’t stay in the room with all the people. My cat was too angry; I might hurt someone. Most likely me. I whirled on one toe and left the room.

In the mudroom, I slid into my boots and went out back into the cold. Bobby and Charly were in the yard, tossing a ball back and forth, Charly sitting on the bench, Bobby doing all the running. I hadn’t bothered with a coat, and the cold bit through my clothing with spiked teeth. I’d been living on catnaps and stress for several days now, and when I shivered, I told myself that cold and stress were the cause, not the look in Rick’s eyes or the touch between the partners. Not that I believed myself. I was such a liar.

I headed toward the kids, and when he saw me Bobby tossed me the ball. It was high and to the left, but I jumped, caught it, and underhanded it back to him. The ball hit his chest. He tossed it, far more lightly, to Charly. We three played toss the ball for several minutes until Charly visibly tired, at which point Bobby pulled me to the bench, pushed me to sit, and picked up the little girl. With a small smile, he placed her in my lap and sat beside us. The day was clear and chilled and silent, no birds twittering or chirping, no sound of traffic. It was peaceful, and I felt Soul’s calm try to rise up my arm again. I shoved against it, and Beast added her power to the intent; the spell of false calm fled.

“We need to talk,” Bobby said, staring at the ground between his feet. The adult-sounding words nearly mirrored Soul’s, but his lips were pushed out in something like an obstinate pout.

“Yeah? ’Bout what?” I asked.

“About my dreams. Misha is in trouble.”

I didn’t understand what one had to do with the other, but I asked, “You dream?”

Bobby nodded, eyes on the dirt at my feet. “I dream about stuff that’s gonna happen. And stuff that’s happening now. It started when I was fifteen. People made fun of me, so I stopped telling them.”

I shivered again, this time not even a bit from the cold. “Oh,” I said. Unspoken between us was the fact that I’d left Bethel when he was fifteen. “Ummm. Prophetic dreams? Is that why Misha called you a dowsing rod?”

Bobby shrugged and scuffed his toe in the dirt.

I cocked my head, thinking about the dowsing rod label. I had no evidence, but if Bobby’s dreams were prophetic and if he was dreaming about Misha being in trouble, then at least she was still alive. Though it might have been better if he’d dreamed an address, or, even better, a dream that would have kept Misha from leaving in the first place. Not voicing any of that, I asked, “What do your dreams tell you about her?”

He nodded, then shook his head. “Not much. She’s in the dark. She’s . . . kinda like drunk.”

Drugged, maybe. Since she went to see a vamp, she was likely blood drunk in a vamp’s lair, drained dangerously low of blood and filled with endorphins that gave a false sense of safety, pleasure, and ease to the victim.

“She’s sitting up and she’s trying to fight, but she can’t.”

I didn’t know if he’d understand the word, but I asked, “Is she under compulsion? Is someone trying to get inside her brain to make her do things?”

Bobby shrugged. He’d given me all he knew. “Thanks, Bobby. You did good.” He was beaming when he lifted his head, his mouth pulling his freckled cheeks into apples. I remembered that same happiness from the children’s home, anytime someone gave him praise. It didn’t happen often. “If you think of something else or dream something else, let me know,” I added, and he bobbed his head with determination. “You did good too, little girl,” I said to Charly.

The little girl went still, like, nearly vamp still, for a dozen heartbeats. Then she swiveled in her seat and wound her arms around my neck. I inhaled slowly as she said softly against my collarbone, the breath of her words warm, “Well. I did well.”

I chuckled, remembering English and grammar lessons that were always ongoing in the group home. Obviously, Misha had continued them with her daughter. “Yeah. You did well.” I felt her smile against my throat. And I heard Bobby’s breath hitch just before the smell hit me. Werewolf. Grindylow. And no Rick or Soul with them.

All in one motion I rose and set Charly on Bobby’s lap. Turned and faced the door to the house. The wolf and his rider stood on the stoop, the wolf’s hackles raised, his head and ears low. “Stay put. Keep Charly here. Don’t move,” I said.

It wasn’t smart to challenge a ticked-off werewolf, but it was certain from his body language that he wasn’t gonna back off, and the wolf and I needed to get a few things straight. I stepped away from my charges, meeting and holding his gaze in challenge. The wolf had crystalline eyes that sometimes looked blue and sometimes looked gray, but always looked threatening. Or had since I coldcocked him and broke his jaw the first time I laid eyes on him in human form. I let a taunting grin spread over my face. “You here to even the score, Dog Boy?” I asked.

He growled and rushed me. Beast rose in me and took over.

Everything happened in a single breath. I inhaled and ground the balls of my feet into the grass. As the chilled air flowed into me, the two-hundred-plus pound wolf roared and leaped. Cold air flowed through his white hair, rippling. His mouth opened, lips drawing back to expose killing teeth. I braced, fisted, punched, all my body weight torqueing into the blow.

My fist hit the wolf’s snout in midair. The roar turned to a squealing yelp as I spun to the side and the wolf shot past me to crash into a tree. He fell and lay at the base of the old live oak, leaving the leaves shivering. I exhaled and shook out my fist.