by Faith Hunter
I checked to be sure there was no werewolf spit on her abrasions, and mentally congratulated Brute for saliva placement. She wouldn’t get were-taint and he wouldn’t get sliced and diced to death by a grindylow for turning her. Good werewolf, I thought. And then I wondered if Onorios could actually get were-taint. Vamps couldn’t. An interesting thought for another time.
I rummaged around in my brain for what little I knew about them. They couldn’t be bound. They could drain a vamp’s power unto true death. They could take over control of a vamp from a stronger master, creating a scion who was little better than a slave. They could drain vamps of magical power, leaving them defenseless. They had improved healing and much longer lifespans than humans, though less long than vamps. On the negative side, in a battle with another Onorio, they could be drained of their own magical power, which could lead to death. There was probably more, but that was all I really needed.
“You know who I am?” I asked.
“You’re Jane Yellowrock. The bounty hunter.”
She meant it as an insult to the Dark Queen, and I wanted to laugh. You have to know someone well for an insult to take, and bounty-hunting rogue vamps was a way better job than this queen crap. I kept my reaction off my face and went for crude. “You need to pee?” I asked.
Monique’s eyes went wide. Clearly, my unladylike question was vulgar.
“You been here a while, all tied up, so I wondered.”
She studied me back now, blue eyes not giving much away. “I do need to use the facilities.”
“Hope you don’t have a shy bladder. I can’t let you have privacy.” I removed the duct tape from the chair and her ankles but left it attached to her wrists, holding the null cuffs in place, her hands together in front of her to give her some use of them. Hauling her to her feet, I gave her a little push toward the bathroom, looking her over. There were no zippers in her clothing. It would be difficult for her to get it all back in place, but she’d manage.
I followed her in and watched her do her business, clumsy but workable, her wrist clearly in a lot of pain again. Her clothes were half tucked, rucked up on one side when she was done, but she was covered. She washed her fingers and face at the sink, patted herself dry with a guest towel, and tried to smooth down her hair, which clearly the wolf had licked. A lot. She shuddered as she worked, and I had a feeling she didn’t like doggie kisses. Good to know.
I followed her as she retook her place in the captain’s chair and knelt in front of her with the roll of tape. “You try to hit me, roll me, or make a run for it, and I’ll make sure you don’t live to regret it. Capisce?”
She gave a stiff nod, and I strapped her feet to the chair legs. I left her arms free, though still attached together at the wrists.
“Coffee or tea?” I asked, taking my seat.
“I’d rather have a ginger ale.”
“Going dry then.” I moved the coffee tray away and strapped her bound arms to a chair arm.
“On second thought, I’d like tea.”
“Too late. You had your chance. I don’t negotiate. I just bust skulls, break arms, and collect vamp heads.” That was Jane Yellowrock’s rep, so I’d use it. I poured myself a cuppa with a splash of creamer and one sugar. Stirred my tea, making little tinks. Sipped it. Settled back in my chair with the mug in one hand. “Just out of curiosity, can you feel magic? Yours, mine, Bruiser’s, a vamp’s?”
She seemed uncertain where this was going, but she finally said, “Yes.”
“With the cuffs on?”
“It’s more distant, like listening with earmuffs on, but yes.”
I lifted the crown of my reign. “Can you feel anything from this? Don’t grab. It might kill you. Just extend a finger.”
She uncurled an index finger, and I let the crown touch her fingertip. She shook her head. “No. Why?” She was staring at my nice mug of tea.
I set le breloque aside and raised the mug to my lips; her eyes followed it. I made uncouth slurping sounds, watching her face. She wasn’t disturbed by my lack of manners, unlike the ancient vamps, but she was thirsty. “How about now?” I slapped the crown onto my head, and it adjusted to fit, snugging down tight. I felt tingles all down my body, like green ice that warmed and was gone. It was a new effect, and I wanted to see if she—
Monique’s face did this weird thing. It seemed to shout, Rattlesnake! Or Quicksand! Or Acid! Her eyes landed on mine, and she clamped her mouth shut. She saw me as dangerous. She saw the crown as dangerous. Coolio. I could use her fear.
“Ah. Good. Then you’ll understand why I’m doing this.” Not that I understood why I was doing it. Since there was no one to teach me how to use the crown, flying by the seat of my pants was my only option. But vamps and blood went together like hands and gloves, and le breloque was at least partially vamp crown, so . . .
I set down my mug, leaned over her, and tore the duct tape off her neck where Bruiser had taped the cuff in place over her scratch. It had scabbed over beneath the tape, but it opened up fresh with the adhesive pull. I swiped my fingers through her blood, shoved the tape back in place, and sat back. I didn’t pull out the Glob. No point in giving away all my secrets, and it wasn’t working exactly the way it used to anyway, so it had to be kept in reserve.
Meticulously, I wiped some of the blood on a paper towel for possible later use, stuffed it into the pocket holding the Glob, and while in the pocket, wiped the blood onto the magical thingamabob. The Glob went red hot, fast, and then cooled to an icy temp that probably had frost on it. I also probably had a blister the size of my fist on my hip and several on my fingers. Note to self: find a padded bag to hold the Glob and wear oven mitts when I test stuff. Testing things taught me a lot, but some of the things I learned were painful.
Being more obvious about it, I withdrew my hand, touched my bloody fingers to le breloque, leaned back in my chair, and half closed my eyes, bloody fingers pressing on the gold. The power of the Dark Queen had to be worth something, and if I lived long enough, I might learn what. The crown warmed slowly beneath my fingers, and unexpected sensations and reactions swam through me.
To the crown, the blood felt nasty, slimy, dark, a close cousin to treacherous and evil combined. But inside me, something was happening, something different from my skinwalker magics, Beast’s own power, or the crown magics. This power was also mine, but it was prism-bright, the colors of the rainbow and the sound of brass gongs, like light through stained glass and cathedral bells ringing. This new magic was warm as sun on a summer beach; it smelled of night-blooming jasmine; it had texture, like thrusting my hand into a basket filled with skeins of brightly colored silk yarn. This was something I had brought back from the rift and from contact with the Angel Hayyel. It wrapped around my skinwalker magic, and if power had emotions, I’d have said that it blazed with delight at the melding. I focused all that magic, all my own power, and all that power of the Dark Queen onto the blood drying between my fingers and the crown. Through her blood, I focused that power on Monique’s magic. I looked at it with Beast’s eyes.
Monique had shields, layers of them, Onorio defenses, light and shadow, sound and texture, taste and scent. Protective magical armor. The kind of thing that would absorb and dissipate the energies of a binding working, whether it originated with witch or vamp powers.
Beyond the layers was what felt like a membrane, rubbery and slick and rough all at once. And below that was a great open space. I pushed through the membrane and slid free on the other side to hover in a long, dark room with a curved floor, like the hull of a boat.
It was dank and rank and foul. It rocked, like a boat on the sea, back and forth, side to side. In the bottom of the hull, old blood sloshed gently on the wood and partway up the rounded walls. A slow, clotted sloshing.
There was a semifamiliar feeling here, and I realized that my mind was looking down on some version of Monique’s soul home, th
ough her home was wood and rot and blood, and not the clean stone of my own. I was in the center of her being, and I almost retreated, but I steeled myself and stared down.
In the sloshing blood were the bodies of beings she had bound. They were tied and gagged, rolling back and forth, eyes closed. Four of them. At least two were vamps, and the others were definitely not vampy, but I couldn’t tell what kind of paras. As I watched, a thin purple tendril of power rose from the pool of blood. Without knowing how I knew, I knew it was intended to harm me.
CHAPTER 4
This Ain’t My First Rodeo
Without opening my eyes, I said, “Stop or die.”
The rise of magic stopped. I had a feeling that without the cuffs binding Monique, I’d have seen that power rise like smoke from a green-wood fire mixed with steam from a boiling kettle and scald me dead.
I slid my hand back into my pocket and touched the Glob with a single finger. Images, sounds, visions came clearer.
I had known that Monique was not just Onorio. She was more. A mixture of twisted things I couldn’t identify, except that her bound captives were still alive somewhere, and she was using them. It was as if her rotting slave ship was full of a dark magic of destruction that sucked the life from the bound beings trapped there. Blood magic was one way that demons worked, yet Monique wasn’t a demon.
Demons had a unique feel, a distinctive stench. And they were aware and discerning of watching eyes far more than Monique was.
But she was something different.
And she was very, very powerful.
I wondered . . . if I could stop her magic? A spiral of curiosity curled through me. What was blood magic without blood?
Le breloque warmed again, and in the vision—or potential ultra-dimensional reality?—of Monique’s soul home, I lashed out with my prism of light. Fast as a lightning strike, the blood boiled and scorched dry. In moments there was nothing left but the rotten wood of the hull and the bound bodies of her captives.
The light of my magic spread out and began to thread through the grain of the wood, braiding, knotting, whirling as my crown and my office sought to bind the binder. It wasn’t actually happening, but it was clearly something I had the power to do.
The Glob offered images of various other possibilities. My weapon just wanted to drain her and set the ship on fire. It sent me visions of the captives screaming. The Glob was more than just a tool. It was half sentient. And the crown was a tool I wasn’t sure how to use just yet. So I held both amulets back, reining in their power. Needing to learn more.
On the floor of the hull, one of the bodies rolled over, straining against Monique’s bindings and the floor itself. Smeared in blackened, scorched blood, she stared at me. Seeing me through my own magic, inside my own vision. The woman staring at me was the Firestarter, Aurelia Flamma Scintilla.
Monique wasn’t alone in her soul home, and the Firestarter could see me here. Which meant that in some way, all of the beings lying on the hull were actually here. And so was I.
I had killed another spiritual presence in my own soul home once, and the body, in real life, had died too. It was possible that I could die in Monique’s slave ship soul home if I wasn’t very careful. I flattened myself against the flat ceiling above and behind me.
Once before, I saw Aurelia up close and personal, or at least her illusion. Dark haired, dark eyed, skin like milk but with a faint, pale olive tint. She had been wearing black nun’s robes, and might be now as well, though here they were stained in old dark blood. Beside the Firestarter was a bloody vampire female, her dark hair clotted with filth. She turned her face away, as did the others bound in the hull.
But the Firestarter. That one didn’t turn away. She stared at me.
Monique murmured, “Join us, place your power with the Firestarter. Together we will drain and rule all the vampires in the world. With you and the primo-Onorio, we have the Rule of Three needed to govern and control.”
The woman couldn’t count, unless the Rule of Three meant something besides the total, which was way higher.
“Why would I volunteer to be shackled?” I asked, watching the trussed bodies.
“We are not master and slave,” Monique said. “We are friends. We have willingly wrapped ourselves in chains, all working together.”
The others kept their faces turned away, hiding their identities, but they pushed up to sitting positions in slow concert. The actions were either choreographed, or it was the same kind of control used by the Flayer of Mithrans. A chill started in my fingertips and raced up my body. Monique Giovanni had worked for the Flayer. He had the unusual ability to bind and control and use the bodies of the people around him. Either he had taught her how to do that, or she had figured out how his power worked and made it her own.
An Onorio who could use uber vamp mesmerism was a new thing. And that was scary enough to make me mouthy. “Yeah? I don’t see you in the blood and the rot. That’s convenient.” I didn’t try to hide the sarcasm.
Monique was Onorio and also more than Onorio. She had bound the others, and I was pretty sure she had convinced them they were there willingly. This vision had meaning, each element both a spiritual reality and a symbol of the physical world. These bound paras and Monique were sowing violence among the vamps, building discord and fear and war between masters of the cities. That violence was the rot and the blood. They were working together, willingly at first, but now bound; that was the meaning of the vision of the captives in the soul home of Giovanni. They didn’t have enough willing helpers. Or perhaps willing sacrifices. They needed more. They wanted Bruiser to come to them willingly. They wanted me. There were other Onorios in the Dark Queen’s retinue and territory, and if they got me, they probably got them—Bruiser, the B-twins, all the vamps sworn to me, the outclan priestess, just to think of a very few. Taking me would leave very few slots to fill in any combination of the Rule of Three. And there was a senza onore in the NOLA witch null prison, a woman named Tau. A very dangerous woman.
And . . . Thema and Kojo were creating strife in Lincoln’s clan. I needed to keep a careful eye on them. Crap.
When I entered the vamp world, I was a wild card. I had somehow managed to rearrange everything. Monique was perhaps another wild card. She was a warrior Onorio with access to magic and mind tricks. She could take over the world.
The boat-hull vision began to fill with smoke: purple, charcoal, deepest black. I flattened myself even more and reached for my body. I had learned a lot, but it wouldn’t be worth it if I got stuck here. The ceiling, however, felt solid even in my amorphous form.
Pain lanced along my forehead. I jerked, trying to get out.
“Give me the relics,” Monique said.
The pain along my forehead grew, something digging into my scalp. “Give them to me,” she said, spittle hitting my face. Monique was attacking me. My hands shot up and caught hers. I stood. Wrenched my body hard left. Shifting her over my bent knee, rotating my frame from toes to scalp. Using the bound wrists of the woman, her own weight, and the chair her feet were still taped to. Throwing her to the floor. My motion was so fast, so hard, her chair broke into chunks and sharp splinters that went flying. I landed atop her chest, a knee in her solar plexus.
Breath whooshed out of her. She grunted with pain.
I flipped her facedown, the chair slamming into the floor again. I pulled her arms up and her body back into a bow. Her bones cracked. She grunted.
I hadn’t even opened my eyes. I stretched her harder, one knee now in her spine, her head bent back over her butt. I leaned toward her ear and whispered, “Try that again, and I’ll burn your slave ship.”
She stiffened under me. Or she started fighting for breath.
I was suddenly back in her soul home.
Purple clouds rose from the bloody floor. Magic like a fine mist and smoke lifted toward me.
My m
ind filled with images of death. Me dying by exsanguination, my blood being collected in a big blue bucket.
A vision of Grégoire dancing with a sword against three opponents. Beheaded. Blond hair flying.
A vision of Tex bound in silver as someone killed Martha and Jangles. As his dogs howled and called and he raged.
Edmund trapped in a deep pit, mostly filled with water. Silver chains weighing him down. Silver needles stuck into the flesh of his neck, which was purple-black. Poisoned. Dying.
Is not real, Beast thought at me.
Monique was using these images to keep me out of her mind while trying to bind me.
I said, “This ain’t my first rodeo, you little bitch.” Beast’s claws ripped through the images of the people I loved being tortured. Beneath them was the bloody floor and the four bound helpers. I couldn’t see what they planned. I needed to know—
Monique slashed at me, her power like hot knives.
In the clouds of purple energies, I caught a glimpse of vampires. I saw Monique with le breloque resting loosely on her head. A vision of Bruiser being killed, stabbed with blades.
“We will kill all Onorios who refuse to align with us,” one of her prisoners said.
Ah . . . I pulled back on her body and leaned away at the same time, my body weight doing the work.
From her rotting soul home, from the faces in the clouds of her magic, I heard French chatter, too fast to follow. Commanding tones.
Monique and the others were working with European vamps, ones not bound, not present in the soul home. With magical assistance, the bound ones were watching the vamps. Monique planned to betray them. Especially one of them. Male. Old and powerful. Faces swept by in the rotten hull of her soul home as I searched the vamp faces. Which one was her ultimate target?