by Faith Hunter
Yeah, I thought, surprised, especially in light of what I’d planned when I discovered I had cancer and had run away to die. Me too. Even with still being the Dark Queen, it hasn’t been bad. Not bad at all.
Other than the Dark Queen, I’d abdicated my titles in favor of Ed, my primo, who was now Master of the City of New Orleans and most of the southeast U.S., with loyal but independent masters of various cities owing him allegiance. He was also the titular emperor of Europe if he could take it and hold on to power. Or he had been before he was kidnapped. “Out with it,” I said, as my body settled into some semblance of comfort.
Alex said, “You abdicated the emperorship of the EuroVamps. We know that. But apparently no one in Europe knows that. If Ed ever got the papers, he never said anything.”
I had sent my abdication letter to Edmund and Sabina, the outclan priestess of the Mithrans. I hadn’t heard back from either of them. But . . . Sabina was old enough to take a decade to reply to correspondence. Ed was sneaky. Ed played the long game. What had Ed done? Maybe more important, what had he not done? “That little sneak,” I said, trying to sound calm and not mad enough to chew nails. Lying by tone. Before they could reply I added, “And what is Grégoire doing? Is he safe or is he in as much danger as Ed?”
“Grégoire is fighting duels and battles in France, challenging the Mithrans who are killing humans, and trying to hold his own lands,” Bruiser said. “He is scheduled to fight Titus’s former heir this week.” He turned his head and gave me a cheeky grin. “At each duel, he declares that he is fighting as the proxy of the emperor—Edmund—and for the Dark Queen, holding her up as some sort of King Arthur, and her reign as some sort of Camelot.”
“Oh . . . crap,” I said, incredulity and laughter lacing my words.
“He is gathering an army that he doesn’t intend to use, planning to gift it to you.” Bruiser’s smile faded and he touched my ankle through the blanket as if to reassure himself I was still here. “Brandon and Brian keep me in the loop.”
Brandon and Brian were Onorios, like Bruiser. They would talk. And no one was talking to me because what good was I? “Why not keep the land himself? Become the next emperor. I’d let him have it if Edmund . . .” If Ed dies, but I didn’t say that. “. . . doesn’t want it.”
“Grégoire once told Leo that ruling is tedious,” Bruiser said.
I breathed out a soft laugh. Yeah. That sounded like Blondie. The gorgeous diminutive fanghead would rather seduce his way through France and fight battles than rule in a might-makes-right bloodsucking world. And he was still grieving for Leo, so that meant he was geared for violence, not politics.
I sipped the green tea, thinking. The tea was very sweet, with strong notes of ginger, lemon, and mint, soothing my stomach; the mug warmed my cold hands. The chair heated beneath me and micromuscle cramps I hadn’t consciously noticed eased. I fought to keep the relief off my face. My brothers hated it when they saw my pain. “I need to make some calls. May I have my cell?” I asked. I didn’t have the energy to get it off the desk only feet away.
Eli crossed the room and placed it in my hand. “Charged.”
“I’ll be making calls too,” Bruiser said, “to the Master of the City of Asheville and checking on things in New Orleans.” He kissed my forehead and I suddenly wished he wasn’t so . . . solicitous. That was the word. I needed to hit something, not be coddled. “You’d break bones,” Bruiser said, his grin returning. When I scowled at him he chuckled and said, “It was in your eyes. You can spar with all of us when you’re well.”
I grunted. He had a point. And at least he no longer sounded so despondent. We had allies to warn and favors to call in, possibly a trip to New Orleans to plan, and a battle to strategize. Bruiser should be in his element. “Hey,” I said, trying to offer up a positive, “Europe may be going to hell in a handbasket, but we have our allies and our land.”
“Our?” Bruiser asked, a strange sort of triumphant delight on his face. As if he’d jump at the chance to do important primo things again, and hearing me slip in such an obvious way was a happy-happy-joy-joy moment for him.
Glaring at him, I said, “Ed’s. Ed’s allies and Ed’s land.” But it was too late. Everyone had heard my claim and the three guys were grinning, even tightly wired Eli. Fine. Maybe I wasn’t as uninvolved as I had thought. I scrunched up my nose at them and tapped in my cell’s security code. It was old-fashioned security, but facial recognition or other biometric reader methods wouldn’t work on a multiform being.
I scrolled to Soul’s number. Soul was the assistant director of the Psychometric Law Enforcement Division of Homeland Security. Also an arcenciel, a rainbow dragon. Also a friend of sorts. For a chick who once had only one friend, I’d managed to make a lot of them. And then seen some die. That had sucked. A lot.
The call went to voice mail. I left a message to call me about the fanghead mess in Europe and heading this way. Then I called my . . . my brother. Ayatas FireWind, senior SAIC, PsyLED, working directly under Soul. I wasn’t calling my brother for help, but to warn him and his PsyLED teams. I left the same message on his cell. Then I called Rick. Ditto on the message. “No one answers calls anymore,” I grouched.
I got through to Sloan Rosen and Jodi Richoux, who were both in the WooWoo room at New Orleans Police Department. I filled them in and told them they were welcome at Chez Jane anytime. They didn’t laugh, which told me things were less than stellar in New Orleans. I didn’t want to go back, even if I managed to get healed. But if my people were in danger . . . And there it was again. A possessive word I shouldn’t be entitled to. Disgusted with myself, I signed off.
I was still holding my cell when it buzzed. With Edmund’s number. I sat up fast, the footrest flapping down with a bang and my stomach twinging with pain. “Alex. Trace the call!” I said, too loudly. The words echoed through the inn.
Alex didn’t bother with questions; he just leaned in to his equipment and went to work. He had an energy drink at his elbow. I had thought he was off those things, but I’d been wrong. That explained the chemical taste in his skin from earlier. Gack. Eli glanced at the screen of my cell phone and moved to check the perimeter through the windows, while staying close enough to hear everything. Bruiser came back into the doorway, ending his call, waiting, watching.
I accepted the call, put it on speaker, and went on the attack. “Edmund,” I said. “I assume you’re in the presence of a kidnapper fanghead.”
“Mistress,” he said. He sounded like crap, but I was so relieved he was still alive—undead—I hardly heard the pain in his voice.
“Jane Yellowrock. Tribal woman of the Americas.” It was still Ed’s voice, but the inflection was odd, the words sounding different. And the tone dripping with distaste.
Fear snaked up my spine like a dozen baby rattlers. “This is the Dark Queen,” I said, all vamp-formal, the blanket sliding to the floor at my feet as I stood. “You will address me by my proper title.”
Ed’s voice said, “You speak with the Flayer of Mithrans, woman. The Son of Shadows, Soul of Darkness. Shall you address me by my titles? They are many and varied.”
“What do you want, bloodsucker?”
The laugh was low, mesmerizing, and demanding, even over the cell connection. Ed’s voice, but not Ed. “I require your presence. We shall meet and parley in New Orleans.”
“No.”
Edmund screamed. My hand clenched on the phone. Bruiser, suddenly at my side, took the phone before I accidently disconnected or dropped it. He held it away, but not far enough away. Edmund screamed again. The sound was full of agony, and the empty place in my soul, where the bond with him had once been, thrummed with his pain. I thought I might throw up at the sound. It was . . . It was my friend being tortured. The Flayer of Mithrans had Edmund. Boneless, I dropped back to the chair.
I gestured for the cell. Started to beg for Ed.
Brute raced into the room, skidded, whirled, and stopped beside me, his head almost in my lap, his nose almost touching the cell. Brute was a huge werewolf, and his face wore a snarl I had never seen before, full of menace and hatred. I shut my mouth. If I begged, Ed was dead. I knew it, somehow, deep inside at a cellular level. It was there in Brute’s eyes. In the emptiness of my soul. I forced myself to breathe. Gripped the arm of the recliner. Steadied my thoughts. Pulled a hard-learned formality around me like an insulated cloak.
Ed’s suffering trailed away, to leave only the sound of my vampire gasping for breath. I knew what kind of punishment it took for a powerful vamp to need to gasp like that. Ed. My Ed. The enemy was hurting my Ed. He would die for that.
CHAPTER 3
Acting Enforcer to the Dark Queen
Brute’s growl was a rumbling vibration of threat. Slowly, I placed a hand on the white werewolf’s head. His fur was cold. He had been outside in the night air and had come running. Brute fell silent, but his eyes never left the phone in Bruiser’s hand, a crystal blue gaze of death. The grindylow crawled up his spine and sat on Brute’s neck, holding on, gripping tufts of white fur. The neon green creature chittered softly, watching me. I was still pretty sure it was Pea, but all the magical critters in the U.S. came from the same litter and were identical. I scratched Brute’s head and behind his ears. He whined softly and pressed against my hand.
When Ed could speak again, his voice was rough but still held the stilted tones of the one who was . . . what? Possessing him? “Your servant means so little to you?” the caller asked, sounding amused.
Bruiser said, “The Dark Queen has retired for the season. She will consider your . . . invitation”—his tone making it clear he didn’t consider it such—“and return your call.” Bruiser ended the call.
My heart hammered against my ribs, an uneven cadence. All my energy drained away in a gushing flood of defeat. Closing my eyes, I drooped back into the chair. Hugging my middle. Rocking slightly. Pain thrummed through me with my pulse.
Alex said, “The call originated in Jacksonville, Florida. Running search-and-location programs, checking cameras near his GPS coordinates.” His fingers were flying across the keys, staccato, relentless.
Someone, I assumed Bruiser, covered me with the blanket. The room was silent except for Alex’s ubiquitous tapping. When I got the guts to open my eyes, it was to see Bruiser and Eli standing at my chair, watching me. “The Flayer of Mithrans has Ed,” I said, redundant. Useless. But I needed to say the words.
“Yes,” Bruiser said.
“Do you want to go back to NOLA to deal with this, Janie?” Eli asked.
“No.” I sat up and looked around, unfocused, thinking. “In New Orleans, there’s thousands of people to be collateral damage. A city full of them.” I looked at Eli. “What about here, at the inn?”
“Strategically and tactically, against an old-world fanghead with fifty followers, traveling in stealth, unlikely to have the means to transport modern warfare on this continent, or to know how to obtain it on foreign soil, this location is as good as any.” His tone was cool, his words clipped, analyzing, offering no opinion or personal input. Battle face. Battle persona. “Unlikely doesn’t mean impossible, however. Here, we have high ground, easy exit through the tunnel, off-the-grid options for power and water, sufficient supplies, good positions for shooters and cameras, and no collateral liability. You can warn Molly away.”
“Shimon Bar-Judas is a powerful sorcerer,” Bruiser said. “We could use magical assistance and Molly could use the protection. She hasn’t hidden her light and power under a basket, and her name was quite public at the Sangre Duello. Finding her would be within the ability of almost anyone. She should have the option of staying here and fighting with us, versus her family being alone in their hilltop home.”
“Here then,” I said. “Issue the invitation to the fangheads. Then let’s get ready to whoop some undead ass.”
No one laughed at the idea of me—all hundred and twenty pounds of cancer-ridden me—kicking ass. Eli grinned at me, all teeth. Alex whispered, “Yessss.” Bruiser hit RECALL and the rings sounded in the quiet room.
“This is the telephone speaker for the Flayer of Mithrans, the Darkness of Souls,” a heavily accented voice answered Ed’s cell.
“This is Onorio, George Dumas, formerly primo to Leo Pellissier of New Orleans. I speak for the Dark Queen. She is in Asheville, in the state called North Carolina. The Dark Queen is willing to receive Shimon Bar-Judas. Here, in this town.”
“One moment.” The phone went muted. We waited. Then Ed came on. “Tell the tribal woman that I shall progress to her. We will be in the Ashe Ville in two days. Secure rooms for our coterie and servants.” The connection ended. Bruiser put the blanket back in place and settled the cell on my blanketed lap. Brute growled again and licked his muzzle as if remembering the taste of vampire flesh. He backed two steps and sat, his eyes on me. The grindy peeked over his head between his ears.
I said softly, “Two days to get a place for Shimon to lay his evil head, bring in enough people to deal with the SOD Two, and for me to get well. Easy peasy.” I dropped back my head onto the recliner. I had been putting off the more risky methods of attempting to get well. It seemed as if the slow and methodical way was out now, however. I’d be jumping off the cliff of improbable remedies, mystical mumbo jumbo, and prayer. My get-well-or-die vacay was over.
“I need more painkillers and another shake,” I said. “I need to know where we stand.” The guys went to work, leaving me to worry. I dialed Molly and she answered, road noise and the sound of wipers in the background. I told her about the presence of undesirable vamps in the U.S. and headed this way. Her response was, “Vamps hate witches and we aren’t exactly flying under the radar these days. We can be found. We’re coming. Safety in numbers and all that jazz. Besides, weather reports say the storm is heading north and away. Once the snow stops, home isn’t that far away, Big-Cat. See you soon.” She ended the call, and a tiny flame of happiness danced in my chest.
Kitsss, Beast thought.
A shake was placed into my palm and a handful of pills rattled into the other.
Painkillers didn’t help me much, not even the stuff Eli had gotten for me, but they were better than nothing and took the sharpest edge off the pain. I didn’t ask what the meds were or how he’d gotten them. Probably a vamp doctor, somewhere, had owed me allegiance and written me a script. My name was on the bottle. Eli had added the hemp and CBD oil I was using, and, taken together with high doses of OTC drugs, the strong stuff had better effect. Sadly, there was no way to maintain the meds or the oils in my bloodstream between shape-shifts, and it took time to get the medicine and natural pain relief levels up high enough to do a good job. After the shake, I took another dose of oils, this one followed by hot chocolate so sweet it made my teeth ache. Eli was trying to keep my weight up. It wasn’t working.
At some point, the elder Younger put homemade pizza in the oven, and the smell was garlic-cheese heaven, not that I could stomach more than a bite or two, even after the meds kicked in. We all gathered around the bar in the baker’s kitchen, me close by the radiant heat of the pizza oven in my comfy bar chair, and talked the nuts and bolts of the security business as they applied to the new house: infrared and low-light security cameras run through enhancement computer programs, perimeter alarms, laser trip wires, and how well or poorly they worked in heavy snowfall. We also discussed lines of sight and ammo and weapons placement and snipers’ hides and potential retreat into the woods and the hills. All the fun stuff of the vamp-fighting life. I hoped it would take Eli’s attention off how little I was eating. My lack of appetite was making him crazy.
The pizza had taken a serious hurting and my chocolate was halfway gone when the alarms went off. It might be weird, but my only thought was, Finally! No more sitting around.
Beast thought, Fun!
Alex dove for his system and lit up everything on the main TV screen. “Molly?” I asked, jerking to follow Alex. Stopping. Forcing down the pain that movement brought on.
“No,” the Kid said. All the screens showed that it was snowing hard outside, near enough to a whiteout. One screen showed something else as well. “Vehicle just turned in from the street. A brand-new Range Rover in what I think is lipstick red. Wait. Make that two of them. They pulled in to the drive and stopped.”
The drive was a half mile of unpaved one-lane road. The former owners hadn’t gotten around to paving it and the weather had been too unpredictable to put concrete down since we arrived. And it was stupid to plow when the snow was still falling, no matter how much Eli liked the new toys—including the spanking-new John Deere tractor with all the attachments.
“Conditions?” Eli asked, checking his weapons.
“Maybe four inches and falling steadily,” Alex said. “Forecast is calling for eight inches and twenty-four degrees by morning, when the storm blows over. The drive is covered and no one’s been out since the snow started.”
I said, “If Bar-Judas’s fangheads were tracking the call on Ed’s phone—”
“Too soon for tracking by the call,” Alex said. “It’s been”—he touched his mouse to check the time—“forty-five minutes. Even if they knew we were holed up here, near Asheville, and not in New Orleans, it would take them ninety minutes, maybe longer, to reach us in this weather from the city itself.”
“Unless the phone call was a ruse and they already knew where we are,” Eli said grimly to Alex and Bruiser. “Check in at NOLA HQ in case it’s a two-pronged attack. I’m on recon.”
Bruiser tapped his cell screen, saying, “Calling New Orleans HQ,” which meant Leo’s headquarters, still and always, though Leo was gone and buried. The phone was on speaker.