Blood Trade: A Jane Yellowrock Novel Part 13

"I am quite certain that my master knows much about many of his sworn Mithrans."

The scent hit me. I whirled to the doorway, in the middle of swallowing, and nearly choked. I had to put down my sandwich or drop it. Bruiser.

Speak of betrayal. Speak of the devil.

The memory rammed through me. Bruiser holding me down, letting Leo drink from me. My heart thudded painfully. I forced myself to inhale slowly. His scent filled my nostrils. It was . . . not the same, not quite the same, as I remembered. And I didn't know why.

The energies and pheromones in the room stuttered and realigned yet again. Rick dropped his leg to the floor. He was professionally interested in the MOC's primo. He was personally interested in my reaction to the primo. Soul sat forward. The boys dropped their heads and shoulders and as if looking at tablet screens, studied the rest of us beneath lowered brows. Eli was watching my reactions, amused. Which ticked me off.

The teens were whispering, "Dude, isn't that MOC's top human blood meal?"

And, "Be polite, man. He's like, right here."

Soul swept her hair back. She was interested in Bruiser in both professional and very personal ways. Her nostrils fluttered. She liked the way he smelled. Beast rose in me and I felt my eyes do that glow thing, which meant she was looking out at the world through me. Mates, she thought at me, struggling for control of my mind. Will fight for mates.

c.r.a.p, c.r.a.p, c.r.a.p on toast. My breath came fast as I wrestled Beast down; she snarled at me, showing killing teeth. I'd rather fight a score of rogue vamps than face a difficult social situation-and this was going to be bad. I just knew it.

In the shadows behind him I spotted the sheriff. Of course. Why not one more? Murphy's Law was working overtime tonight. The sheriff hadn't been involved in the cleanup of vamp bodies the last time I was here, so she might be a new player to them. She pushed past and into the dining room, going straight to Eli, who sat up and sucked in his already rock-hard stomach. Wry amus.e.m.e.nt pulled my mouth to the side. I s.h.i.+fted my attention back to the doorway. Back to George Dumas.

Eyes on Bruiser, I took a breath to force some sort of equanimity, lifted my sandwich, and bit in. Bruiser looked like a million dollars, spiffy in suit pants and polished loafers with ta.s.sels. His white dress s.h.i.+rt was rolled up to his elbows, his tie loose, and his suit coat was slung over his shoulder by one finger.

Bruiser s.h.i.+fted his eyes from Rick to me and smiled. Beast's reaction started at my toes and curled up my body. Purring. He betrayed us, I thought at her. He was disloyal. Beast didn't care.

Sylvia, who had eyes only for Eli, said, "We have more preliminary data on the dead found in Esther's old lair. Nine vamps and forty-seven humans, twelve of them children." The room went still and shocked. "The chief of police and I got a call from the governor offering any and all help. And then, on my way over, I got a report on more missing witches."

The pheromones altered again, fast this time, to surprise and worry as we all turned to her. "Until today we weren't sure, as the Achee family wasn't out of the closet, but it's always been a good guess-a family of all women and few surviving males is indicative of a possible witch connection. And their neighbors claimed the women could grow vegetables year round."

"How many?" Rick asked, standing and pulling a brand new, top-of-the-line cell phone out of his pocket to take notes.

"Four," Sylvia said. "Three adults and a thirteen-year-old who hasn't reached p.u.b.erty."

p.u.b.erty was when most witches come into their gifts. "But the kidnappers might not know that," I said.

"Precisely. We have Crime Scene on the way there now. It isn't a pretty sight."

"Details," Rick said.

"Introductions," the sheriff said. If she had fangs, she would have been showing them. I chuckled softly and Rick sent me a glare that was all cat. Quickly, he returned his attention to the lady sheriff and smiled his million-dollar smile-which the sheriff totally ignored. He offered his intros, and Sheriff Turpin said, "You're part of the help the governor promised us. Law enforcement of Adams County is always happy to work with PsyLED." But her tone was dry and tight. Proper protocol would have been for Rick and Soul to report in to Sylvia before coming here, and she wanted them to know she didn't appreciate the misstep.

I watched as Rick made nice-nice with Sylvia Turpin, LEO to LEO. They seemed to be okay, and I tuned them out, watching other players in the room.

Soul and Bruiser were looking each other over, a small smile on Bruiser's face. They had met not that long ago, here in Natchez after the shootout. I had left the scene with Rick, and the glance they were exchanging suggested that the primo and Rick's Soul had spent time together. And liked it. c.r.a.p. Inside, my Beast hissed.

Yeah, I thought at her. Me too.

"NPD is handling the lair. The Achee place falls under my jurisdiction. We're getting stretched thin, trying to keep citizens safe and run the crime scenes. First glance at blood spatter," Sylvia said, bringing me back to the present, "indicates they fought back. Our local expert says it's both Naturaleza vamp blood and witch. And the witches had silver-shot ammo on hand. It didn't slow the vamps down."

"Local expert?" Bruiser asked, his eyes still on Soul.

"Local vamp. Helps us out sometimes. And no. I won't tell you the name."

As the law enforcement and vamp-dinner types chatted and metaphorically scented one another's b.u.t.ts, I slipped upstairs for gear, and then out the back door and into the night. I needed to get out of there. There were too many relations.h.i.+ps in the house and none of them going where my cat wanted. The Achee house gave me an excuse, and though I knew it was running away and totally cowardly, I headed straight to Bitsa.

The air was cold and sharp and a dispirited rain drizzled down, some sleet mixed in. It fell in irregular patterns, as if unsure whether to quit and go dry or give in and have a thunder temper tantrum and mini flood.

"Let's take my vehicle."

I started at the sound of Rick's voice in the dark, from several cars parked in a neat row. His scent reached me, man and cat and sultry jungle nights. "What? Where?"

I heard keys jingle and amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice. "The Achee family place. To take in the scents. That is where you were going. Right?"

I shouldn't go with Rick. I really shouldn't. Things are too messed up between us. I spun on a booted heel and said, "Sure. Let's go." So much for taking a stand.

Rick led the way through the small gate in the eight-foot-tall fence and around front. Silent, we got into his SUV, and I was buckling up when I realized Rick was standing outside with the back door open. The vehicle rocked when the wolf, Brute, leaped onto the bench seat and lay down, panting, his head turned away, the neon-green Pea clinging to his back. "Great," I muttered.

Rick, if he heard me, chose to ignore me. He got in, closed out the night, and drove into the dark, his electronic tablet glowing on the console between us with our path all plotted out. I noticed that the house we were going to was in the opposite part of town from the red triangle Eli had prepared for us to search for Misha, and wondered if that meant anything at all.

We wove through the city and out into the country, trees crowding against the sides of the road and the smell of water on the night breeze. We crossed over a mostly dried-up, winding bayou three times before pulling on to a drive and winding our way in the deeper dark. The live oaks branched over the narrow driveway, interlacing like fingers to keep out the moonlight. The Achee house was a traditional tidewater, up on pilings with a front porch that ran the length of the house, a tin roof, and chimneys at both ends. When we got out, the smell of the city was gone and the smell of water and living plants was strong. To the side of the house was a circular open area marked with stones, a perfect witch circle disguised as a sitting area with a gazebo in the center.

I meandered over while Rick went to talk to the LEO guarding the crime scene until the techs could get there. In the open s.p.a.ce, no trees were in the way to spoil the moon's glow, which suggested that a moon witch lived or practiced here. At the gazebo, I bent and spotted the cleverly disguised wheels used to push the structure out of the way when the family's womenfolk needed some moon time. The stones around the edges were all white quartz, and winter herbs were planted around the outside edge. The scent of rosemary and sage permeated the air here, contained by the chill. I walked around the gazebo, staring up at the moon. The silvery orb was nearly full, and Beast pulled at me to s.h.i.+ft and hunt, not demanding, not yet, but making her needs known.

Have not hunted in many moon times, she thought. Jane is selfish.

Yeah, and you're chained to Leo.

Leo is not here. Leo is far away.

But his primo is here. That gonna make you get all hot and bothered?

Bruiser is good for mate. Will take Bruiser.

"Not gonna happen," I murmured.

Beast huffed and disappeared, and Rick said, "What's not gonna happen?"

"No witch circle this full moon unless we get the family back," I lied. Not so very long ago, I couldn't lie worth a dang. Now it came easily.

"We have entree," Rick said. "Shall we?"

I wanted to say, "When and where?" but managed to keep it inside. I nodded mutely and tucked my hands into my pockets to keep from shaping them over his b.u.t.t as I followed him up the wooden steps to the doorway. The scent of blood was like a barbed fist to the jaw as Rick opened the door.

The blood was vamp by the smell, and I stood transfixed in the opening, lips parted, sucking in air over the roof of my mouth. Over the biological scent of drying blood I smelled gun propellant, the stench of burned nitrocellulose. And then I smelled the scent of child, witch child, her blood spilled. My fingers curled and my Beast claws tried to press through my fingertips, a piercing pain. I hissed softly.

"Jane?"

I growled and whirled to see Rick holding out a pair of cloth booties and gloves and something white in a plastic baggie.

"Jane?" Rick looked away, turning his head but keeping me in his peripheral vision. A strange dullness tugged at his mouth, catlike, uninterested, while at the same time actively involved in an exchange. It was big-cat body language for Not stepping on your toes. Your territory, your meat. Big-cat manners, intended to defuse an angry mate.

I huffed and felt Beast slide out of my eyes. "Sorry."

"It's okay. But we need to preserve the crime scene. We need to dress out."

I took the pile of paper and nitrile and dressed in the white-white booties, white nitrile gloves, white hair cap that shaped itself like a soft mound of bread-dough when I put it on, and white paper robe that tied in back. It was hot and stuffy and I hated it, but I understood the necessity. I didn't want to leave my own stray hairs in the blood or ruin my clothes. It took me longer than it did Rick, and I followed him inside, placing my feet between blood splotches.

The wolf and his rider waited at the door, and I could feel more than hear the wolf's low growl deep in his throat. His lips rose to reveal the points of his fangs, and I kept my gaze to the side. Too many species in one spot; the language of body movements was not precise, but a direct gaze was a challenge among all animals, except sometimes humans. Brute didn't like the smells any more than I did, which made me feel better toward the wolf than I wanted to.

I concentrated on the room, walking around the perimeter first and then through the middle. Amid the visual positioning of the blood and the easily differentiated scent signatures, I put the story together quickly. I went to an opening and along the hall. Here the scents diminished, but they got stronger again when I backtracked and entered the kitchen.

There was blood spatter here. A lot of it. I studied the cheery room with its granite countertops and antique cabinets, tile, and vintage table and chairs. The family spent a lot of time here, cooking together, eating at the casual table.

Carefully, I drew on Beast's vision to see the magics that swirled. There had been wards in this room, wards of deep green and blue, woven out of love and cooking and family, but something had broken through them and attacked. I centered myself and sought out the patterns. Three adult witches lived here now. Generations before this, maybe as many as eight witches had practiced here, weaving wards of protection. And in the middle of them all, a hole had been torn, the edges waving in the air, blackened and burned. Now that I knew they were here, I could smell them, scorched energies like the stink of lightning and grave earth.

I turned and saw the same thing at the front door: a bigger hole, a hole that had taken the ward off the entire front of the house. It had taken some ma.s.sive energies to do that. Rick stood at the door, a psy-meter in one hand, held above his head, alternately measuring the magical energies and taking notes on his tablet.

He was also talking to the wolf, giving him instructions. I shook my head in disbelief at the thought of Rick partnering with one of the werewolves who had tortured him for days. The huge wolf took the orders, though admittedly orders posed as suggestions and conversation. I shut them out and returned my attention to the kitchen, following the lines of attack.

Much later, I heard Rick enter behind me. "What do you think?" he asked.

"The vamps came in the front door, four of them, and attacked one witch in the front room. She was armed and fired off several rounds. I counted"-I tilted my head, bringing back the images of the living room-"five casings, so at least that many. Nine mil, silver shot, hand packed most likely. Look for a hand loader set in the husband's shop."

"Why do you think that?" Rick asked.

I shrugged. "Can't say. Something about the round casings on the floor." I tilted my head the other way, eyes still closed. "Look for tiny pressure points like a vise might make."

"Okay." Rick's tone was halfway between impressed and doubtful.

I went on with my a.n.a.lysis. "She stopped firing. Maybe the gun jammed? And pulled a silver knife. Cut a vamp. But it rode her down, fangs at her throat. Draining her. Another took down the child standing in the hallway. Not so much blood from her, but she drank-" I stopped and sniffed again, turning my head back to the hallway to make sure. "Yeah. Female vamp. And her pals entered the kitchen. Two witches here. The vamps had a charm or something. They went right through the wards on the front of the house and in here and attacked. They were messy, but they were careful too. They didn't kill anyone, not here. Everyone was alive when they were hauled off. Alive and unconscious, still stinking of fear."

I opened my eyes and met Rick's. He was standing close, watching me, our gazes on a level. I smiled at him and knew it was mostly teeth and threat. "Hope you don't plan on taking any vamps in alive-or undead-on this one. 'Cause I'm gonna take their heads and you better not try to stop me."

Rick's lips softened, his stare dropping to my mouth. "How much are you getting per head?"

"Forty K."

Rick chuckled and shook his head. "And here I am working for Uncle Sam for the price of two heads a year."

"When you get tired of being cheap labor whose hands are tied by stupid rules, let me know."

Rick's Frenchy eyes followed the curve of my jaw like a tender hand. I s.h.i.+vered under the not-touch and felt something hard and cold start to melt deep inside. I had wounded him, but he had forgiven me, I realized, and the coldness melted even faster, running out of me.

"You'll take me in?" he asked, his voice a purr of sound. "Like a lost kitten?"

"We'd make a good team," I managed, my voice matching his, purr for purr.

"Yeah. We would. And George? You take him in too?"

All the happy-happy-joy-joy feelings froze solid. "That was low."

His eyes hardened. "You saying you aren't interested in the MOC's s.e.x-and-blood meal?"

"You bringing your Soul in?" I countered. "How about your crazy wolf and the grindy who'd kill us in a heartbeat if we tried to have s.e.x?"

Something flashed between us, something icy and flaming, velvety and th.o.r.n.y, like fear and need, anger and joy, all commingled together. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to break that cold/hot wall between us, but before I could lift my hand, Rick turned to the front of the house, his paper clothing crinkling. The door was still hanging open to the night. "We have company," he said, his voice displaying none of the emotion I smelled on the air. Vehicle lights sliced through the dark, a van and a car. Crime Scene techs were here, and they'd be ticked that we had entered.

"Good," I said, on the knot of anger rising in my throat. "Things were getting sticky in here."

"I like them hot and sweaty better," Rick said. But he'd turned and was at the door, stripping off his paper and nitrile. Not quite sure what had happened, I followed, picking up a few things I thought we might need on the way. I left my crime scene clothing in a pile with his, remembering a time when I'd had to separate our clothes, which had been tossed onto the floor, so we could dress. I'd lost so much by my own stupidity. My life sucked.

I waited in the SUV for him and when he got in, Brute again rocking the SUV's suspension, Rick slammed the door and looked at the stuff in my lap. "You took evidence from a crime scene?"

"Yeah. Arrest me."

"While the idea of you shackled and bound is appealing, no." I gave him a hesitant smile and he said, "What do you have?"

"Amulets. At least one witch was a moon witch." I showed him a moonstone paperweight. "One an earth witch, if you go by the garden. And one was an air witch." I held up the dried leaves I'd stolen from a bowl on a lamp stand. "There are bowls of dried leaves and twigs and pine needles everywhere, but nothing is scented, like for potpourri. And I can feel the magic on them." I crunched the leaves slightly and smelled only oak and pine rising from them. "The bowls of windblown leaves are probably set equidistant on the points of a pentacle."

"Not bad." Rick started the engine, pulling slowly into the night along the narrow drive, the oak trees sheltering us from the moon until we pulled onto the secondary road. Rick tensed.

"Full-moon problems?" I asked, keeping my tone calm.

"Yeah. Mind if I play my music?" Without waiting for my reply, he hit PLAY on the SUV's sound system and flute music skirled out. It was a spell, created by my once friend Big Evan to control Rick's need to turn furry for the three days of the full moon. His tattoos, magic woven into his skin, prevented his turning, and he had nearly gone insane with the pain until Evan had found this treatment.

I looked out the window, knowing I had been cut off. Yet knowing that Rick was as aware of me as I was of him. Knowing that Bruiser and Soul and our past together stood between us, as real as if they fought, swords drawn and blades clas.h.i.+ng.

Under my T-s.h.i.+rt was another theft, an old photo of an American Indian woman wearing a homespun dress, soft-looking boots, and a feather woven into her braided hair. Not Cherokee. Maybe Choctaw. She had been staring at me as if begging me to steal her photo. And for reasons I didn't understand, I had.

CHAPTER 13.

Make Ceremony with Me Sitting on the edge of the bed in Esmee's house, I took out the old black-and-white photo and studied it. The woman was young, midtwenties, standing with shoulders back, wearing a Western cowboy hat, a gun belt around her hips, Annie Oakley style. Her dress was short for the era, stopping midcalf, revealing the boots that looked like deer hide, embroidered with porcupine quills and beads. The picture frame was wood, carved with tiny grooves that looked exactly like bird footprints, down to the talons at the end of the toes, the wood stained with some greenish-bluish tint that had penetrated the pattern carved into the wood, making the bird feet stand out sharply. The term came to me from high school art history cla.s.s: counter-relief, or intaglio. Weird to remember that. I had sucked at art.

Misha had been in that cla.s.s. She had taken to art like a bird to the air, freed by all the media, all the things she could shape and change and bring to beauty. All the things she could control. Unlike the rest of her life, which was out of her control. Like me, Misha had gone to regular counseling. I had gone for the experts to keep tabs on me and try to poke holes in the curtain of memory loss. I wondered why Misha had gone. I had no idea. I also had no idea why I had taken the photo. It had nothing to do with beauty or art. It had everything to do with the woman in the print calling out to me.

I sighed and set the picture facedown on the bed, reaching for the phone. It hadn't rung, and I held it, waiting. Leo wanted to chat and my bound Beast knew it. It was childish, but I let it chime twice before I punched SEND. "Hi, Leo." Beast started to purr and rolled over on her side. I could feel the power of her breath rumbling through me.

"What have you done to my heir's house?" he spat.

I could tell his three-inch fangs had dropped down and he was talking through and around them. "Good to speak with you too," I said, not because it was true, but to yank his chain. "Hope you are well and chipper and all that. How's business?" Leo was raised in a more proper time, and when he forgot or ignored the niceties it gave me an opening for insult and snark. He didn't give me many.