Destiny's Child (Kitsune series Book 3) (10 page)

NINE

“We thank you for your sacrifice,

little lamb upon our table.

You gave your life to become stew,

with the most exquisite flavor.”

                                                      —Sacrifice

                           
                              Elektra Blue

Hot tears brimmed my eyes.  I’d failed, and people were dead.  I hadn’t been good enough when it counted.

Missy called back, “Everything all right, Evil?

Sitting on my knees, Evelyn kept the gun pressed snuggly against me, easing her grip on my throat.  I coughed and sucked in some precious air.

“Peachy,” Evelyn called back.  “Brat and I were just having a heart to heart.”  Her smile faded.  Her gaze slid across my face, measuring, evaluating.  “That thing we left back on the roof, what is she exactly?”

“My mother.”

“I didn’t ask who.  I asked what.”

I wished I could lie for a good cause, but even that was beyond me.  Like my mom, I was…  “Kitsune.”

She grunted, absorbing the information like a punch.  “Some kinda demon fox?  That makes you a demon, too.”

We’re not demons at all, but think what you want.
  “Some people call my father king of the demons.”

She grinned.  “Welcome to the club, sister.  My old man was hell-on-wheels and a mean drunk besides.  So, how’d you slip those cuffs?  Dislocate your thumbs and slip your hands free?”

“Magic.”  That was the only word I had for my powers since science was stumped by what it couldn’t measure or explain.

“Demon-magic.”

I shrugged. 

She changed subject, “What is Shaun Cameron to you?” 

“I’m one of his students.”

“Shaun, is he human or demon?”

I felt the copter losing altitude.  “Human.” 
Hot and sizzling, hundred percent prime beef.
“But I could be wrong.”

“He any good in the sack?”

I sighed heavily.  “Wish I knew.”

Missy came back and eyed Evelyn and me curiously but said nothing about our seating arrangement.  “We’re setting down.  Prepare to move out.”

Evelyn’s grin was back in place.  “Gotcha.”  She pulled the machine pistol’s muzzle out of my chest and lashed out with its butt, a swift, brutal motion.  A burst of pain filled my head, then nothing as I slumped, unconscious.

*      *      *

The space was dim with white Christmas lights edging the room, winding around white pillars.  Machines threw out swirling spots of neon blue, giving me an alien form of measles.  Mirrored disco balls spun, throwing out large spots of light across a semi-crowded dance floor.  A romantic ballad played.  The DJ supervising the sound system looked a lot like Virgil—if he’d ever deign to wear chrome sunglasses and a powder-blue suit.

The people around me were all friends.  Jill wore a black judge’s robe and swirled by without a partner, gavel in hand.  Madison and Fran from the Van Helsing School for Gifted Slayers were there, cross-dressing as cowboys, sporting handlebar mustaches and white hats trimmed with peacock feathers.  Their western-cut suits seemed to glow in the gloom, a silvery-blue light borrowed from angels.  Drew swept by, laughing, adorned in a sea-foam green chiffon gown with a silver rose necklace and matching earrings.  Her hair was a high, pink pile that left the thin column of her neck bare.

I was the only one not dancing in this dream.

I looked down at myself.  I wore a cyan blue, off-the-shoulder dress with voluminous folds made to resemble an inverted flower.  A brace of Colt revolvers with pearl grips were belted low on my hips.  I felt the weight of boots on my feet, and from the jingle, spurs were attached.  The demon brand on my arm was now carmine red, a tattooed heart cinched with barbwire, dripping real blood down my arm.

What the hell…?

I turned and spotted Tukka at a buffet table, guarding a pile of chocolate truffles.  He growled at anyone getting too close to them.  I strolled over, dodging dancers.

He inspected me as I arrived. 
Grace feeling better?

“Getting there.  Whose dream are we in?”

Tukka nodded. 
Grace’s dream, has best chocolate ever.  Tukka can eat chocolate here if not in real world.

Yeah, who knew fu dogs could get addicted to the real thing? 
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, but I’m not sure you should weaken your resolve, by indulging in any way.”

Tukka gave me a flat, cold stare. 
Grace, don’t be a buzz-kill.

“
Sorry
.”

We are having fun
.

“We?  You’re royalty now?”

Good one, but, no.  Tukka brought friends to help keep demons away
.  He tossed his head, directing my gaze off to the balcony.  It was packed with teal blue fu dogs.  One or two wore ties—and nothing else. 

“They’re friendly, right?”

They are determined.  Long have we sought One-who-opens-doors.  Grace key to going home.  Demons get hurt plenty bad they mess with us.

I guess this explained why I’d caught little more than a whiff of Wocky since our earlier
date.

“Demons aren’t the only ones with plans for me.”

His gaze snapped back to my face. 
Oh?

“Cassie says there are
outsiders
that want me—dead.  ISIS agrees.  They just want to do the killing.  Virgil has plans for me, too.  Not to mention Fenn and Onyx.  I’m very popular.”  I couldn’t manage to keep dejection out of my voice.

He growled low in his throat.  The music stopped.  The DJ vanished.  The dancers turned to thinning shadows, leaving Tukka, me, and the chocolate.  The other fu dogs approached, claws clicking on the tiles.  Tukka made a tight turn, nudging me into the middle of his pack.

He spoke to the others. 
This my cub, child of heart, clan-daughter and heir.  Let all bear witness.
His words boomed, hard and focused, the mask of the clown falling from his face. 
Grace is our hope.  Hope must not die.  Her enemies die.  We see to it.  Taste her dreams, guard her steps.  She is pack.  Tukka has spoken.

They dropped their gaze from his, offering no challenge to his words, and one by one they
wuffled
at me, taking my scent, careful not to trample me underfoot.

“Odd, haven’t I had this dream before?”

*      *      *

I groaned, clawing back to consciousness, hag-ridden by a sense of implacable threat.  I felt a load of trouble on my chest, making my reinflated lung ache, along with the other one.  A sound like a muted vacuum cleaner startled me.  I pried open my eyes.  Sea-foam green eyes stared back.  The rumble came from seventeen pounds of fluffy yellow fur.  A tabby sat on top of me, regarding me with intent interest. 

I turned my head to see who else lurked about, realizing at the same time that I lay upon silk sheets, among an overabundance of pillows, on a canopy bed with gilt, spiral bedposts that put me in mind of unicorn horns.  Purple shaded lamps rebuffed the gloom that hung heavy in the rest of the room.  I smelled cat, an old odor that was Missy, and sharp, spicy incense that tickled my nose, making me want to sneeze.

The cat and I seemed to be alone.  Of course, that didn’t mean every move wasn’t being recorded on spy cam.

I drew comfort from the fact that I hadn’t awakened in chains
against some dank dungeon wall, or tied to a chair with hot irons half-buried in burning coals near by.  Of course, that could change in a heartbeat.

I gave the cat a gentle shove to move her along.  “Go tell the sisterhood of
ISIS I’m up.”  Her rumble vanished as she trotted off, making breathing a lot easier for me.

As if summoned by my words, a door opened, revealing a bright spill of light.  A group of women marched in, just silhouettes at first.  As they drew closer to the bed, I saw they had similar looks: midnight blue uniforms, matte black Kevlar armor, truncheons and tasers.  All were young and pretty as if they ought to be in swimsuit and cosmetic ads.  None of them were Evelyn; thank God for small favors.

They encircled the monstrous bed I occupied, staring down at me with looks of cold calculation that might have been borrowed from the cat.

“Wuz-up?”  I weakly flopped a hand at them.  Underplaying my strength might not get me anywhere, but any strategy seemed better than none at all.

A Goth-looking chick—with too much eyeliner and blue streaking in her ink-black hair—blew a large pink bubble from a wad of gum, sucked it in, popped it, then shifted the fruit-scented mass into a cheek to talk.  “Missy wants you.  Can you walk or do you need to be dragged?”  She smiled as if the latter was clearly her choice.

A sugary voice snapped out of hidden speakers.  It was Missy.  “Vanessa, a little courtesy please.  Ms.
Kenyon is our guest.  We can provide her with a wheelchair if she needs one.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

They wheeled in a chair.  The gals helped me off the bed.  One of them muttered, “
This
is the terror that took out our elite hit team?”

I smiled sweetly at them as they got me to the chair in one piece.  They were giving me credit for all of those who’d died in the dojo attack, more Shaun’s work than mine.  I didn’t
bother correcting them.  As they wheeled me from the room, one of the girls made a point of bringing along the burning incense.  I thought it odd, but said nothing.

Tan, speckled tiles passed under my wheels as I rolled through several halls that were painted egg-shell white, lit by recessed lights in the high ceiling.  There were no windows to tempt me to escape or tell me where I’d been taken.  It was too bad my aura was so low.  I could have whisked myself out of danger.

Just going to have to manage the old fashioned way.  Sweat, blood, guts, and a whole lotta luck.

My entourage escorted me into a sprawling hangar-sized space that could have held an airliner or two.  We passed an island of mats where about forty women were doing synchronized punching and kicking.  For the most part, they looked like they knew what they were doing.  They wore midnight blue sweats and shouted with the delivery of every attack.  Evelyn led them, sparing me a toothy grin as I passed that clearly meant,
See you later, Buttercup
.

The next group was similarly attired, but gave each other much more space since swords were being wielded.

“What’s with the swords?” I asked Vanessa.  “Great as a hobby, but I’d think terrorists would favor guns and bombs and stuff.”

Vanessa blew a humongous bubble and chomped it before answering.  “We’re revolutionaries, not terrorists.  And the sword is an extension of the soul, a mystical antenna to draw the blessings of our Goddess Mother.”

“And she would be…”

“Isis, avatar of the moon and goddess of magic.  See, she goes way back to ancient
Egypt—”

Another woman interrupted.  “Should you really be answering all the questions of
the prisoner?”

Vanessa popped a bubble sharply in response and fell silent.

We reached several motorhome-sized metal shipping containers.  As I rolled by, a glance inside open doors revealed hermetically sealing plastic strips and beyond that, racks with weapons, and electronic planning areas.  These boxes were like Virgil’s eighteen-wheeler command center, just not mobile, and not yet deployed to strategic locations. 

Mental note: see about stealing some of those weapons if I get the chance.

We passed a small fleet of parked vehicles: Jeeps, vans, an SUV, even a few motorcycles—Visions, blue and gray, a sleek blending of engine and body with an almost sci-fi look.  Beyond, I saw a garage door—
the way out
!  But the entrance was guarded.  Nothing’s ever easy.

I waved incense from my face.  “Why the hell are we hauling that stink around, anyway?”

Vanessa grinned, “Drugged smoke keeps you from ghosting out on us.”

As if I could after the MRI chewed me up and spit me out.

We reached the far side of the area and paused outside of heavy fire doors.  Vanessa pushed on a bar, opened the way, and went in.  Someone shoved my chair along in her wake.  I glanced over a sprawling chamber dominated by a female statue on a pedestal, behind an altar.  She looked down—white marble
face inscrutable, eyes hidden in the shadow of a carved cloak.  One hand held a crescent moon.  The other palmed a full moon.  Standing between altar and statue, Missy had her back to us.  She wore a midnight blue robe with silver, eight-pointed stars sewn on.  Her hood was thrown back so her brassy locks fell unrestrained down her back.  She seemed oblivious, in deep communion with her goddess.  The blood-stained rosewood altar behind her was dark and old.  Iron manacles were bolted on to hold hands and feet.