True Dead

by Faith Hunter

  In the years after Ka was transformed into an Onorio, had de Allyon gained possession of her? All the bad things that had been swirling around in my mind like a rancid stew came to the surface: I made tenuous connections between my own black magic in melding with Beast; Leo’s son being eaten, which allowed the Cherokee Skinwalker man to fool everyone into believing he was Immanuel; and Ka and Grandmother.

  I remembered Sabina’s visions. Was it possible that Sabina had smelled the foul stench of u’tlun’ta the night the Firestarter attacked her and her chapel burned? Had Grandmother been there, watching, helping? I tried to relax so I could pull up the memory, but it was indistinct and wouldn’t come to the front of my mind. It was like trying to slice fog with a knife. I couldn’t remember.

  I didn’t have enough information.

  Fear trickled through my blood like ice water as I remembered the Rule of Three needing three aligned Onorios. If my fear was right, they needed Bruiser and also maybe a B-twin, and the wedding invitations had made certain that all of the Onorios who aligned with me were in one town at the same time.

  Worse. How might a very, very old skinwalker u’tlun’ta play into all this? With Ka and Monique aligned with the u’tlun’ta, there was considerable leeway for multiple combinations for the Rule of Three.

  Grandmother was ancient. How long had she been hiding the stench of the liver-eater? And how old had Immanuel’s skinwalker been? Who was Immanuel’s skinwalker before he ate Immanuel?

  And . . . was it even possible that Grandmother was the yellow-eyed tribal woman lying at de Allyon’s feet?

  Something dark and dangerous slithered through me, the knowledge that no matter what parts of my possibilities were right, I was close to putting it all together, and it was bad.

  This was the problem in trying to think like vamps. All of the context was bound up in the past.

  I/we are best hunter, Beast thought at me. I/we do not fear predator. I/we are not prey.

  Yeah, I thought back. Okay.

  It was too late for me to call Grandmother and ask all these things. That ship sailed long before she tried to bite me. But maybe Aya could help me put the puzzle pieces together. I’d have to tell him everything, show him the evidence. Could he keep it family and not make it a PsyLED case?

  As if I had never seen one before, I studied the cell phone I had placed on the desk. And watched as my hand took the phone and pulled up Aya’s number again, though I didn’t tap it for the call to go through. Not yet. I turned my free hand over and flexed my fist, watching the knobby knuckles and too-long fingers as they opened and closed.

  I remembered the holy water trailing through my human fingers. I hadn’t befouled the water yesterday, despite being a paranormal killer. Maybe God could even use someone as violent as me to do some good.

  I had been the hand of God that took down Death’s Rival, de Allyon. I had taken his head.

  That was good. Except God said we were supposed to love our enemies. I kinda sucked at that.

  I still hated de Allyon, a flaming bright hatred that burned and ached inside me. Even dead, I hated him for the things I had read in the history book. His death would never be enough for Vengeful Cat. Never enough for me.

  I tapped Aya’s number.

  “FireWind. How may I assist the Dark Queen?” he said as he answered. I figured that meant he was at work or with other people, and he was telling them who was calling and telling me that this was a formal discussion. So much in so few words.

  “We need to speak privately.”

  “One moment.” I heard something moving quietly, a door closing, a second one opening and closing. The soft squeak of a chair. “You may speak privately, my sister.”

  “Have you seen Grandmother?”

  “No. Hayalasti Sixmankiller did not return to her home. No one has seen her.”

  “I’ll be sending you a file and photos from a history book, one that’s maybe part journal, part picture book, about a fanghead I killed in legal combat. Then we need to talk about Grandmother and a skinwalker named Ka N’vsita, and what might happen if two u’tlun’tas are working together. Grandmother and Ka. Here in NOLA.”

  I heard a soft tap. “Send it to my email. I have my personal laptop open. This is private. Not part of any record, correct?”

  That was one good thing about Aya. He was all business, and when it came to cop stuff, not argumentative. He was willing to consider unpleasant possibilities and not hold my thoughts against me. “Yeah. You will want it private. Because it’s about us. Our kind.” I took photos of the pertinent drawings and sent them to his email, then forwarded the translation of the book.

  We waited in silence until he said, “They have arrived.”

  Tsalagi didn’t curse, not the way white people did. But when Aya opened the files, he cursed in English, a soft whispered word. As he read and looked through the drawings, I closed de Allyon’s book, placed it back in the small box, and put the box top back on. I started talking and I told him everything. All my New Orleans years. Death and murder and betrayals and mistakes. Then I brought all the strands together: “Shaun MacLaughlinn was a midrange powerful vamp. Now he’s something more because he survived the loss of his anamchara. He might be working with Ka, the Firestarter, and Monique. And I can’t rule out Grandmother.”

  When I finished, he was silent. I didn’t even hear papers shifting or keys clacking. I looked up from my cold empty tea mug to see Alex sitting at the table with me. Silent. No tablets, no electronics. Not even wearing earbuds to keep up with his world. He was utterly still, his eyes on me.

  Aya finally said, “It will take me some time to digest this, my sister.”

  “I’ve been living it, and I’m still digesting it. What if Ka and Grandmother are both u’tlun’ta and are working together? Do they need the Rule of Three too?”

  Aya murmured, “They may. And if so, they will want a third skinwalker. They will want you or me for an u’tlun’ta working. Or one of the skinwalker cousins.” He stopped. “I haven’t told you about them. Did you know that I . . . we have three distant cousins in Oklahoma?”

  “No,” I said sourly. “You haven’t gotten around to that.” Of course I hadn’t told him about the two brother-big-cats I had scented so long ago out west. They had most likely been skinwalkers. “I have things to tell you too. When this is all over, we’ll have an honest, frank talk about skinwalkers.” Before he could reply, I added, “And yes, that includes the half-form, though I’m not sure how much I can tell you about how that happens.”

  Aya made a noncommittal sound. “If your conjectures are true, then the Rule of Three might require George Dumas for his Onorio power. Is the body of this Monique in a safe place? And are you certain you don’t wish the dead to become true dead? The Onorio you hold prisoner is a potential threat and rallying point.”

  “Yes to the first. No to the second. I have a traitor at HQ. That traitor will want to free her. We’re watching her body, with a full team ready at any moment to respond.”

  “Your call, of course. I’m in Knoxville. I’ll arrange official leave and take the first flight out. I’m on my way. Keep yourselves safe.”

  The call ended, and I thought, Little brother to the rescue. I wondered if his presence would make things better or worse.

  I heard a sound at the front door and felt my body tense for fight or flight. The scent hit me, that wonderful mixture of meat and spices that always heralded food from Cochon Butcher. Eli strode into the room, his dark skin sheened with rainwater; Bruiser, also rain-damp, was behind him. The sky had been spattering down off and on for hours.

  Eli gestured at the table, and I gathered up my stuff and carried it to the bedroom, out of the way. When I got back, the table was full of meat and goodness. There was duck pastrami, country sausage, broiled boudin, smothered greens, mac and cheese, deviled eggs, potato salad, and two l
oaves of bread from a local bakery. Bruiser, Eli, and Alex were already loading up plates for an early lunch, and I joined in, putting a little of everything onto mine. Grabbing a knife and fork, I started to dig in.

  I stopped. Frowned. Alex had said I didn’t offer thanks anymore. I wasn’t sure how a tribal chick who had been Christian-dunked in a river and then self-dunked many times as part of Cherokee rituals was supposed to pray.

  “Jane?” Bruiser asked. There was worry in his tone.

  “I need to say thanks,” I said, staring at the food in front of me. Eli and Alex exchanged glances, as if they had been talking about just this. All three guys put down their cutlery and folded their hands on the table. I could feel their eyes on me, and with my part-cat nose, I could smell their relief. To them, this meant that I was acting more like myself. Or my old self. “I’m—” I stopped. “I’m not sure how anymore,” I said more softly.

  “I’ll say it,” Eli said, his gaze heavy. A silence stretched, and I realized he was waiting for me to man up, as he might put it. I gave a slight nod. Without looking down or closing his eyes, he said, “We are grateful for safety. We are grateful for bounty. We are grateful for life. We are grateful for laughter. We are grateful for each other and for family and for clan. Amen.”

  I thought about that statement of gratitude. It wasn’t like any prayer I had ever heard. There was no Lord this or Lord that. But there was also no naming of the corn mother or the sun and moon. It was a statement of fact, of gratitude. I had a feeling it would not be enough for me at some point in the future, that I would need to go talk to God in my soul home and get my spiritual life back on some kind of track, but for now, it was a beginning.

  “Amen,” I said quietly. And then I grinned and added, “And we are grateful for the pig who died to give us this meat.”

  “Amen to that,” Alex said. Irritable, he asked, “Now can we please eat?”

  We ate. Silent and comfortable.

  After the meal, while they all sipped coffee and I drank a chai with peri-peri peppers in it, I told the guys my theory about the Onorio Ka maybe being u’tlun’ta, about maybe eating the Firestarter and being the same person, about Monique not being totally dead and my plan to draw out our traitor at HQ, about Shaun aligned with the Firestarter, and about Sabina involved with Grandmother. All my paranoid conspiracy theories. Except the paranoid were sometimes right. I finished with the information that Ayatas FireWind was heading here. The guys were silent for so long after I finished speaking that I got up and made a new pot of tea for me and coffee for them.

  “Is this an official PsyLED trip?” Eli asked.

  Aya had said he would arrange leave. “No. It’s . . . I guess it’s family,” I said, uncomfortable at that word referring to Aya.

  “I’ll reserve him a hotel room,” Alex said, heading back to his desk.

  “I’ll go back to the Council Chambers,” Bruiser said, rising and kissing the top of my head as if I were a child, “and begin the negotiations into the rules for the Sangre Duello that Koun will fight with Shaun or his champion.”

  Oh. I had forgotten that part. A finger of shame wriggled around inside my brain, as he knew it would, hence the head kiss. But I knew Koun was by far the better fighter. If he died, I would lose a lot, and my friend would die. Even if Koun lost, I could negotiate safe passage for my people. If I died, things would suck. If I died, the whole city could lose.

  Exhausted, the taste of roasted meat still on my lips and caught in my clothes and pelt, I left the table and the cleanup to others, crawled into bed, and fell asleep.

  My last thought was the wedding. Dang. I hadn’t checked in on the repairs to the ballroom. Then I was gone.

  * * *

  * * *

  Beast woke. It was night. Bruiser was not in Jane bed. Had not been in Jane bed. Beast smelled burned things and felt hot air through house. This meant humans with no pelt needed warmth. Beast rolled over and pulled Jane half-form-clothes off Beast body. Sniffed for scents. Listened for sounds with ears and sniffed with nose stolen from ugly-dog-good-nose, which Jane called bloodhound. Heard protectors outside house, walking. Smelled vampires in house. Alex in house.

  Eli rose from bed upstairs and walked downstairs, feet silent to humans but heard by Beast. Something had waked Eli. Then heard very soft tap-tap-tap. Was what waked Beast. Was what waked Eli. Eli would have white man gun, but Eli would not shoot Beast.

  Beast stretched on good bed, front legs out. Then back legs out. Pulled on spine and neck and shoulders and hips. Shook pelt.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  Beast dropped from bed. Padded to front window. Raised up and shoved aside curtain with paw. On other side of window was . . . Leo.

  Beast heart jumped into throat. Beast whirled and raced to door of Jane den. Could smell Eli on other side. With both front paws, scratched onto door. Eli opened door. “Be quiet; someone is—”

  Beast rammed body at Eli legs. Eli cursed. Nearly fell. Beast raced through house, feet and paws slipping on wood floor and rugs. Sped to sidewall with many doors where cat door had been created. Heard Eli give warning that Beast was free and running. Said to shoot nothing. Knew Eli had not seen Leo. But Eli would not know Leo. Leo was body-changed. But was Leo!

  Beast dove through cat door and into wet night, damp and chill. Night smells of New Orleans were strong. Urine, vomit, rats, stinky humans with no baths, much food, hot fat, smelly spices, much alcohol. And stink of burned vampire.

  Sped across backyard to side yard to square block fence and leaped. Good Beast leap. High. Caught balance at top of wall. Fast pawpawpaw along fence. What Jane called cat balance. What Beast called best hunter. Dropped body down to ground in tiny space filled with big-leaf plants. Landed. Stopped beneath wide leaves. Hidden. Rain made loud noises, plopping on to leaves and ground. Was not hard rain. Was wet. Beast did not like rain and wet. But . . . Leo scent was on air. Was different Leo scent. Many dead burned flowers and burned paper smell. But deep inside scent was still Leo.

  Wanted to scent deep but did not make flehmen response, did not make noise to smell. Belly-crawled to front of side yard. Could tell Leo was not at Jane den now but was still close. Followed stink of burned Leo on night air, shadow to shadow, car to car. Avoided street lights and house lights and drunk humans lying in doorways.

  Turned toward river. To hill called levee. Then downstream. Following burned Leo smell like dog, snout in wind. Shadow to shadow. Silent.

  Saw human-shape-form sitting on park bench. Sitting human form was Leo. Sleeping human lay on ground at feet. Smelled human blood. Stopped, smelled air, and watched. Leo had been dead. Head had been removed. Then time changed, and head was almost removed. Beast had seen many things and beings die. Leo should not have survived, but Leo had drunk blood from great predator in HQ sub-five. Leo had healing bottle of special blood from lab-a-tory. Had been buried in blood of enemies, much magic healing blood and magic string tying head to body.

  Beast thought hard, trying to think as Jane thinks.

  Leo had been burned in graveyard fire. Leo had been taken from Leo tomb by . . . enemies? Friends? Yet Leo was alone. Had Leo killed thieves of Leo body? Leo was good hunter.

  But. Trying to think like Jane.

  Was possible Leo would not be same Leo.

  Human at Leo feet breathed. Leo had fed but had not killed human. Beast smelled other humans nearby, humans with no den, what Jane called homeless. They slept under plastic and boxes in slow rain. Leo had fed from them all, and all lived. Blood was needed to make Leo strong. Leo needed much blood to heal. Yet Leo had not killed humans. Leo was not revenant. Was still enough of Leo to approach.

  Beast dropped to belly and crawled closer to Leo.

  “I smell you, my Jane,” Leo said. “You came to me.”

  Am not Jane, Beast thought. Stopped crawling. Wondered if Leo wanted Beast blood. Would fight Leo.
Beast is not prey.

  “I dreamed of you while I lay in the blood of my enemies. I dreamed of the cavern where I was once trapped, a cavern with a tall domed ceiling and rising and falling columns of stalactites and stalagmites. I was chained there by silver that I could not break, and yet . . .” Leo was silent. His toe pushed at the sleeping human. Rolled human over, snoring. “Yet Jane set me free. Such strange dreams.”

  Leo made laugh that sounded of much pain. Laugh was wrong, but Beast did not know why. Needed to wake Jane. Jane would know what to do about Leo. Beast pressed claws into Jane mind. Jane mind was sleeping, curled into ball like kit.

  “I dreamed of angels and demons and the Flayer of Mithrans. I dreamed of my Katherine and my Grégoire. And I dreamed of my master. But Katherine and Grégoire are gone, no longer at their lairs. Of them all, you came to me.”

  Beast did not move closer. Body tightened, paws close to body. Tail around hips and out of way. Was ready to leap far.

  “Do you love me, my Jane?”

  Beast did not answer. Jane did not love Leo. Beast loved Leo. Beast had always loved Leo. Was hard to think of love, of human thoughts for mate and kits, but Beast had always wanted Leo, biggest predator, for Jane-mate.

  Jane took Bruiser as mate, and Beast loved Bruiser too. Maybe loved Bruiser more than Beast could ever have loved Leo. But old love for Leo was still in Beast heart and body. Smaller love, weaker love. But still was love.

  Beast pressed claws harder into Jane mind. Jane must wake, Beast thought.

  Jane came awake. Holy crap, where are we?

  Beast showed Jane vision of levee. Vision of Leo. Jane peered through Beast eyes. Jane thought, like prayer of fear and amazement, Leo?

  Is Leo. Did not kill humans he drank from. Beast showed Jane what had happened.

  Is he sane?