Mercy Blade (46 page)

“String two,” I said, “is all about the grindy. Kemnebi said grindylows ‘are pets. Most of the time. Guardians, occasionally. Less often, the enforcers of were-law.’ But what if they are the enforcers of were-law first, and pets second? And if Safia had bitten someone . . .”
Like Rick
. I stared hard at the carpet beneath my booted feet. “Say that . . . Safia tried to turn Rick. The grindy followed her to Leo’s office, where she was bringing him in the night of the party. Grindy interrupted a struggle between Tyler, Safia, and Rick. Tyler shoots Safia and runs, Safia tries to change after being shot. And the grindy kills her for breaking were-law. Grindy grabs Rick, who’s bleeding, maybe bitten. Or maybe he has to hurt Rick to subdue him. The grindy takes him through the secret passageway, into the elevator. Stashes him until . . . What? He gets away? The werewolves find him?”

“Still has holes, but if the female weres knew each another, that might cinch up loose ends.”

I must have looked confused because Wrassler said, “If the girls were gossiping behind Kemnebi’s back or something, if they were sharing Rick, in the carnal sense, then there’s the link between the girls that includes Rick.”

I remembered the site at Beast’s hunting grounds, the limb where the black cat had watched the wolves feeding.

“They knew each other,” he said. “And, okay, maybe they were conspiring to bring the wolves into the worldwide were-fold. But maybe they were having sleepovers and eating s’mores. And the wolf-bitch stole Rick from her best cat-gal-pal.”

The thought hurt, but I pushed it away. I could hurt later, after I saved Rick.

Our theory was more a leap of faith than logic, but it made sense. “Let’s go over the security tapes, starting when the were-cats entered the compound. Maybe we’ll spot something.”

Wrassler picked up the house phone, dialed a number, gave instructions and hung up. “Come on, Legs. We got us a movie date.”

 

Near dawn, Wrassler and I were so stoked on caffeine and stuffed with an early breakfast, we were shaky with the overload. But we had our proof—video of the two were-females meeting in the street outside the hidden door to Leo’s office and going inside together. It was clearly a planned meeting, between two people who were acquainted. “Roll footage number two again.” I watched as the were-bitch let the wolves in, and later footage as Rick was carried out the hidden door, bleeding, over Fire Truck’s shoulder, well after dawn on day two, the were-bitch urging him to speed, her hands on his back, her pack behind her. “If Leo had told us about the passageways we would have found Rick days ago,” I said, hearing my misery. “The wolves had known the talks were taking place, just like the cops had. Seems like I was the only person in the city who didn’t,” I said.

“I didn’t know,” Wrassler said. But somehow that didn’t help. He went on. “The female weres met, maybe at the hotel, liked one another, planned on some serious girl time, maybe, like I said, Safia thought the wolves deserved to be part of the negotiations. We might never know.”

“The wolf-bitch gets in, lets her guys in later—not over the wall like we thought—using the secret passageways to get set up. And it all went to hell in a handbasket,” I said, the words like ashes in my mouth. “Safia died. Rick ended up with the wolf-bitch.” Hurt. Likely bitten by two different were species.

“It’s complicated, but it works, especially if the cop knew the wolves were in town too, and was chatting up both females. If we hadn’t concentrated on the party footage and had expanded the search criteria by twelve hours both ways, we’d a put it together days ago,” he said, sounding disgruntled.

I pulled my phone and dialed Sloan Rosen. When he answered, I said, “One question. Was Rick introduced to the wolf-bitch by Safia? Before he
disappeared
?” I put emphasis on the last word, to tell him that I was working a hunch.

After a long moment Sloan said, “Yes.” And ended the connection.

I figured that was all I was going to get out of my pals at NOPD. I cursed, short and sweet and swallowed down tears.

“Stacked deck, Legs. No blame to you—Wait. Stop,” he said. “Who’s that? That guy there?” Wrassler froze the feed on the shadowed form of a short man. Familiar, lean, ordinary-looking in every way.

Except I recognized him. Excitement shot through me like lightning. “Well, well, well. It’s Booger, from Booger’s Scoot. I wonder what ol’ Booger knows about the wolves’ den. You watch more footage. See if you can update our timeline of who was where and when. Make sure we’re right in our thinking. Make sure we don’t trip up anywhere. Then make a montage and send a linear timeline and the footage to Jodi Richoux. Tell her it’s with Leo’s compliments.”

“Not yours?”

I shrugged. Jodi had kept me out of the loop, and now Rick might be dead. I hoped she choked on the evidence. I left the building into the gray dawn and powered up Bitsa for a trip back across the river to Booger’s Scoot, hoping Booger could be
persuaded
to give me some info about Rick.

 

I motored past the biker bar in the dim light. Reconnoitering. And I discovered the weres. It was too dang easy.

They had come back here to lick their wounds. The were-bitch was up, standing in the fenced area, buck naked, under an outdoor shower, her face to the spray, her body, which I had thought deeply tanned, glistening in the pearly light, proving she was mixed race, that wonderful café au lait shade of so many mixed-race people. Her hair was black, falling below her shoulders, hugging her body like a wet veil. The smell of fresh sweat and recent sex floated to me on the wind, sickness and the reek of old blood and . . . My hands tightened on the handlebars. And I caught the scent of
Rick.

He was alive. Fierce joy and fury slammed into me. Caught me up in killing claws. I broke into a hot sweat as adrenaline flooded my system. I could smell him on the woman’s body as she washed away the sweat of the night.
Mine
, Beast hissed.

The woman turned, water sluicing down her form. And I finally got an unobstructed view of her face. “Magnolia Sweets,” I whispered inside my helmet’s faceplate. Terrance’s mother. Leo’s former prime blood-servant, whose son was sent to the Rochefort clan in the south of France when she disappeared. France, where Tyler Sullivan had come from, as part of the security detail for Amitee Marchand, who had been a blood-servant to the Rochefort clan. Old blood-servant loyalties ran deep. Deep enough to plot long and hard against Leo, and to use whatever people and resources she could find. Like Tyler, who lost his mother, position, power, and clan all in one day.

The last piece fell into place with an almost audible click in my mind. The familiar-looking child captured in the photograph was known to me. Tyler Sullivan was Terrance Sweets. Tyler had been trying to avenge himself and his mother—whom he thought was dead—on Leo and Bruiser for decades. Tyler was behind half of everything; Magnolia, insane from were-taint, and Safia were responsible for the other half. No wonder nothing had made sense. It was a two-pronged attack—or two threads weaving one tapestry, just as I had said.

A man stepped from a tent, out into the early light and looked up at the dawn sky. He wore loose cotton pants, and had a gun holster strapped to his bare chest. “Speak the devil’s name and he appears,” I murmured to myself. “Looks like Tyler and mommy dearest got reunited.”

I wanted to roar in on Bitsa, guns blazing. I wanted to attack and set Rick free, but there were too many of them and not enough of me. They had beaten me here once before, and the sting of failure was still strong. If I wanted to get Rick out, I had to be smarter. A lot smarter.

I puttered on out of sight. Miles later, I came to a stop at a small graveyard, old, full of weathered, bird-stained monuments. Parked Bitsa, setting her kickstand. Forced my mind to feel nothing, think nothing. I drank a liter of water from Bitsa’s saddlebags. Talked myself down from the killing rage. I needed to be cool. Smart.
Mine
, Beast hissed, digging into my psyche with her retractable claws.

I dialed three numbers: the first was a demand for reimbursement from Leo’s prime blood-servant, enough to pay for backup and for Reach’s services. Demanded, because all this was Leo’s mess, after all. Payment was granted. The second was a call for backup from Derek Lee and his soldiers. It too was granted, now that money was no problem. The third was to Gee.

To his voice mail I said, as formally as I knew how, “Girrard DiMercy, Mercy Blade to Leo Pellissier, the Master of the City of New Orleans. I owe you this for saving my life the day we met. I know who the were-bitch is. I know why you saved her so many years ago. She was bitten by the wolves in the last vamp war, but unlike so many other females, she survived. And the Anzu feel, what? Responsible for the Cursed of Artemis? Some kind of misplaced guilt?

“Whatever it is, Magnolia Sweets, her grown son, and her werewolves have a human police officer held hostage. She’s tried to turn him, with the help of her pack, against were-law, and according to their own law, there can be no mercy shown. I’m going into the compound, at the place where we first fought them, with paramilitary backup.” I closed my eyes and breathed in. The air stung and tore and my eyes ached. “And if I find Rick dead, I’ll kill them all myself.”

The words felt strange on my tongue, coarse and raw, as if they sucked all the life out of me. The metallic tang of vengeance. Unable to say another word, I ended the call. Emptied another liter of water into my body, drinking it down. My tissues soaked it up, as if the rage and shame that were fighting inside me left my soul desiccated. “‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,’” I whispered, the words familiar from Scripture. “But not this time, God. You had your chance.”

I raised my bottle to the rising sun and poured several drops of water onto the earth. An offering. Turned to the south, poured another few drops. To the west, and then to the north, anointing the earth. Wishing it was blood I offered to the ancient Cherokee ways.

Tears burned my eyes, stinging like nettles. I sobbed once, all that I believed in like old, ashen pain. I drew on Beast’s strength. She sank her claws into me, sharing her calm, her stalking patience. Her pelt was coarse and spiked just under my skin, raised in readiness. Her claws drew blood from my soul.

We hunt
, she snarled.
The I/we of Beast
.

I calmed, her steadiness like a narcotic inside me. “We hunt,” I agreed. I dialed vamp HQ and told Wrassler to wake Kemnebi and tell him what had happened and what we were about to do. If Rick was dead, I wanted vengeance, yeah, but maybe it could also be legal.

Half an hour later I got a call back. IAW had sanctioned a hunt and a bounty for each were-head we brought them, in human or wolf form. Jodi Richoux called to snarl at me about the were-hunt, demanding the cops be given the coordinates. I hung up on her. Which I’m sure pissed her off, as she called back four times before giving up.

And then, while prebattle adrenaline spurted into my bloodstream with every heartbeat, my hands checked the placement of every blade, inspected every firing weapon, made sure my ammo and extra magazines were secured but easy to pull. While I was examining the M4, Gee called me back. I stared at his number on the fancy cell screen. Fingers ice-cold in the morning heat, I picked up. “Gee.”

“Do you understand why I have protected her for all these years?”

“Leo loved her. Leo hated weres. She was bitten in the vamp war. You tried to protect her from the curse, but on the first full moon, she went furry. So she packed up and left. Because of Artemis’ curse, you went with her to be near her when she died. Only Leo’s Maggie didn’t die. She was one of few females who lived, if you can call being permanently in heat and insane living. And, loyalties divided, you stayed close to her.”

“You know of the curse?” His voice was a whisper.

I could almost feel his shock through the cell phone, and smothered my reaction, which was pity, understanding, compassion. There was no room for those emotions in me today. “Sabina told me the story,” I said. “You followed Magnolia back here, only to be drawn into Roul’s plans to be an official part of the weres again, and into Tyler’s revenge. Tell me, you little feathered creep. Did Tyler know about his mother still being alive?”

“No. He did not; not until he met her after the party. The digital footage you saw of him wasn’t some human mating ritual, it was Tyler recognizing his mother. But learning she lived has not helped. He sees what she is, how she lives, and he blames Leo. Her insanity has made it worse for her son, not better. Hatred dies hard.”

“You saved me from the were-taint when I was bitten. Why not Maggie?”

“I tried. By the time she confided in me, it was too late. There was too much contagion. All I could do was minimize the effect. And so she . . . lived. Though Maggie, my Sweet Magnolia, has, in truth, been dead for many years.”

“Are you coming to help kill wolves today? Or to fight against us?”

“Neither. I have returned to Leo. I will tell him the truth. I will make my peace with him, and his blood will grow sweet again, his and his Mithrans’. They will suffer no more, and the Mercy Blade will abide with them once again.

“For me, you will put Magnolia out of her misery, like an injured wolf too damaged to survive. You will be . . . the Mercy Blade for the cursed. And I will be in your debt.”

“Then, when I bring out Rick, I’ll bring him to you.”

“I will do what I can, little goddess.” The call ended. And I was left, sitting on Bitsa in the heat, eyes gritty with fatigue, waiting for backup, to see that the sentence for breaking the most important were-law was carried out, according to their people’s justice system. And to save Rick LaFleur. If I could. I thought of the photos of Rick and the redhead. It was Maggie Sweets, wigged, in a saner moment, seducing Rick. Who may have already been infected and not thinking like himself. Rick, undercover, using his charm to go after the females. I blinked away tears.