Blood Cross jy-2

by Faith Hunter

  I blinked against the bright sun, and suddenly realized that I hadn’t slept—really slept, like more than a nap—in days. Something else I could deal with after I got the kits back, like my being a killer and nothing else. The smile that lit my face with the thoughts must have been pretty ugly, because one guy’s hands disappeared beneath the table, going for a weapon.

  I climbed the steps, my boots the only sound, loud in the morning air, my eyes holding Bruiser’s. An answering smile curved his lips up on one side and his eyes slit in consideration, though he lounged back in his chair in casual unconcern. The anxiety of the three with Bruiser had a smell and it gave me a perverse pleasure to worry the little group. “I see you survived Leo’s temper tantrum last night.”

  Bruiser nodded. “As did you.”

  “Barely. Can’t say the same for the Rousseau clan home.”

  His expression hooded over. “Tyler, Louisa, Dale, we’re finished for now. Give me an hour with Miss Yellowrock.” Like well-trained dogs, they got up and left us alone. As if to break the tension, Bruiser leaned in and rang a little silver bell on the table. Seriously. He rang a bell. And a woman in a white and gray maid’s uniform appeared from the side door.

  “Tea for the lady,” Bruiser said, without taking his eyes from me. “A nice, black, single estate.” To me he said, “Have you breakfasted?”

  I propped my hands on my hips, knowing my stance was hostile and aggressive. “Not today.”

  “Eggs, bacon, fruit, cereal?” he asked, the genial host, offering an informal list.

  I was about to refuse, but my stomach rumbled in answer. And why not? I had to eat. I was drawing on Beast’s power and that used a lot of energy. “Half dozen eggs over easy, a rasher of bacon cut thick and cooked crisp. Lots of toast, no butter,” I said to her, playing as though I didn’t see the general shock at the amount of food I’d requested. “And thank you.” When I smiled at her, there was no halfway about it and the Latino girl smiled back, ducked her head, and returned though the side door. See? I can be nice.

  Bruiser indicated a chair at his left. I didn’t see any reason to be obstinate or difficult—any more than I already was—so I took it and sat, the legs of the chair scraping hollowly on the porch flooring. I smelled gun oil. Bruiser was armed on his own home turf. That seemed relevant, but I wasn’t sure how or why.

  The food must have been cooked and sitting on a warmer, because the little maid reappeared immediately, carrying a large tray. She served me. Bruiser poured my tea. So far, so good. I hadn’t had to kill anyone. Yet.

  CHAPTER 18

  Three hundred years, give or take a few decades

  The food was good, the yellow of the eggs sloppy, and the toast perfect for sopping it up, protein and fat in every bite. It was a meal that could be eaten fast, even with the quantity I’d ordered. I didn’t waste time on conversation; I just ate.

  When the food was gone, I waved my fork at my plate, set it down with a soft clink, and met Bruiser’s eyes. “Okeydoke. Thanks for the breakfast. So, tell me a couple things. Tell me what happened at the Rousseau clan home. I know you got security camera feed from it. Tell me why the human cops hadn’t been on scene. Tell me about the purge.” Bruiser started in shock. I slouched back in my seat, my teacup in hand. “And tell me about the Rousseau clan’s insanity. And while you’re spilling your guts, tell me about the long-chained.” He snapped his mouth shut, eyes hot with anger. I laughed. “Don’t worry. I didn’t torture it out of anyone. Sabina told me. And it’s need-to-know info because she thinks it’s all tied in with the maker of the young rogue.”

  “Sabina talked to you . . .” he breathed. When I didn’t comment he said, “You have a way about you, Jane Yellowrock.” He reached for the coffeepot. I slammed his hand down, pinning it to the tabletop with mine, and said, almost in a growl, “Tell me. Now. I don’t have time to play nice.”

  He was silent, staring at our hands, though he didn’t try to pull his free. “Giving you any information without Leo’s approval could be costly to me.”

  “Not giving it would be costlier,” I said.

  Bruiser looked from our hands to my face and said, “I’d like coffee.” I removed my hand and he filled his cup. Set the pot aside. “The Rousseau clan home’s security system went offline a little after two this morning. By the time Leo’s people arrived, it was deserted. We don’t know what happened.” When I said nothing to that, he added cream and sugar, stirred, sipped, and went on.

  “The purge took place after the events of the slave uprising on the island of Saint Domingue—called Haiti today. You know of the revolt?”

  Before I could catch myself, I blinked, and was instantly sorry that I’d given my reaction away. Sabina had said something about an island. I shook my head no. He smiled ruefully, clearly not believing me. “A history lesson, then.

  “Many don’t know that the island was a haven for Mithrans. The clans there lived in a strict social and political society based on race and wealth, with the white vampires at the top, the vampyres du couleur libre—the free vampires of color who were landowners and slave owners in their own rights—in the middle, and the slaves at the bottom as workers, sexual toys, and blood meals. Most of the slaves were treated barbarously.”

  Bruiser’s voice hardened. “The slaves wanted freedom. The vampyres du couleur clans had little political power due to their race, and they wanted equality with the white vampires. The whites wanted status quo. Some, both white and mixed race, had the witch gene and practiced blood magic, dark rites. Some with the witch gene never quite regained sanity, even after they passed the devoveo state and were unchained. I’ve read accounts of the atrocities they practiced. Their cruelty was legendary.

  “Escaped slaves called maroons fled to the mountains, where they organized, collected weapons, and carried out raids against their former captors in a series of rebellions over half a century.” His hand made a little flapping motion to show a give or take on the length of the revolt. “The vampyres du couleur libre eventually joined with the revolt to kill or oust the white Mithrans, led by a variety of men, both human and vampires.

  “A vampire, François-Dominique Toussaint Louverture, turned some of the discontent maroons and helped plot one of the major uprisings. He and his allies led a revolt under the Spanish flag that toppled the French colony. It was violent and brutal, with carnage on both sides. Some of the white landowners escaped to the U.S.; many more died, along with over ten thousand slaves. Three of the surviving vampire clans, including some who practiced blood magic, came to Louisiana in 1791, upsetting the political scene here.”

  “The Rousseau insanity? They were nuts because a lot of them had the witch gene?”

  Bruiser’s mouth turned down, forming deep channels on either side of his mouth. He topped off his coffee, warming it as he thought through what he wanted to tell me. “The clan has always been known for a weakness in the first sire’s blood. All of his first scions took more than a decade to find sanity after they were turned. It was worse in the second generation, with nearly half still chained after two decades. On Saint Domingue, that first sire experimented on his slaves in the search for a cure, instituting a breeding program to create offspring with the witch gene, using them in ceremonies that were intended to cure his chained scions. When he was killed, his children took up his studies—”

  “Studies?” I didn’t try to keep the irony out of my tone.

  “It was barbaric.” His words were a hatchet of sound, short and cutting. “The island was liberated in the revolt and the clan came here, bringing his records and taking up the experiments. They found a partial treatment, though I couldn’t say what it was, and some scions who had been chained for decades became sane.”

  “The long-chained ones,” I said, intrigued despite myself.

  “Yes. But there was war among the New Orleans clans, followed by the purge, which decimated two of the Domingue clans and put an end to the experimentation. The first Rousseau master and
his records were destroyed in a fire with most of his long-chained scions. His heir built a special lair on their family grounds and even today keeps their devoveo chained for up to fifty years before destroying them. One account suggests that about forty percent find sanity, though what memories may be lost is still questioned.”

  “All of them are destroyed after fifty years?”

  Bruiser hesitated. He looked intensely self-contained, as if he picked and chose what he wanted to tell me out of a basket of history, gossip, and myth. I’d have felt better if he had rocked back on the chair’s back legs, tapped his fingers on the table. Anything. But he was as motionless as Leo, except that he still breathed and his heart still beat. “There are rumors that some scions, specially loved ones, might be kept longer. But no evidence of it has ever been uncovered.”

  “So if one of the long-chained ones, say, one kept around a lot longer than the usual fifty years, found sanity, he might have memories of the first sire’s old methods. And he might have started the experiments again. That might be why Sabina didn’t smell anyone she knew, except that it was an old Rousseau.” At Bruiser’s confused look, I explained about the burial sites and the crosses, about LeShawn and the kidnapped witch children. And the priestess’s claim that a witch child had died at the burial site.

  When I was done, Bruiser said, “Rumor claims that Renee Damours of Rousseau Clan found sanity before the purge, and her brother Tristan not long after. Their children weren’t so lucky.” Bruiser must have seen my reaction. “Yeah, Tristan was her brother and her husband. The breeding program wasn’t just practiced on their master’s slaves. Rumor persists that two of their children and another brother are still among the long-chained, alive, somewhere.”

  “These children. They’d be how old?”

  Bruiser showed his teeth at me and saluted with his coffee cup. “Three hundred years, give or take a few decades.”

  Back in the city, I stopped at the house and called Jodi Richoux. “What, Yellowrock?” she said as she picked up. “I’m up to my ass in blood at the moment.”

  Which sounded like one of my worst days, but I didn’t sympathize. I filled her in on the situation. She didn’t deny when I suggested that she’d been investigating the witch children’s disappearance herself after her aunt had died. “I need back into the woo-woo room, and I have pertinent info to trade for it,” I said. “The Rousseau clan home is empty, open, and looks as if there’s been a fight inside. George Dumas says the security was breached at two a.m. It has something to do with a vamp war brewing.”

  Jodi cursed. “I could have gone all year without hearing any of that. I’m working a gang murder in the Warehouse District. Crips took down a handful of MS 13 leaders and two vamps, a massacre that might be tied into your vamp war. Woo-woo room is open for you anytime, but be there at five to decompress and reorganize.” She hung up.

  I blew out a breath. Southerners were supposed to be polite. So far, I wasn’t seeing it here. Rick returned my call and I asked to see the vamp files again. I needed to go back and find everything they had on the Rousseau clan. When he asked why, I gave him the same spiel I’d given Jodi and he said to come on in. I had free access. Lucky me. Without taking time for a shower or a nap, I grabbed a few things I might need, hopped back on Bitsa, and gunned the motor for NOPD. Sleep pulled at me as I rode. I needed rest, but I couldn’t stop. Not until the kits were safe.

  “How about you leave me the keys this time? Or prop the door open with a chair?” I shoved one of the little plastic chairs across the dull floor tiles with a screech.

  Rick smiled and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, effectively blocking the only exit, crossed his arms, and gave me his best bad boy grin. If I hadn’t been worried over the kits—the children, for pity’s sake—I might have been appreciative. I blew hair out of my face and fisted my hands on my hips. “What?”

  “How long since you slept? You look like sh—really tired.”

  “Gee, thanks. You sure do know how to make a girl feel pretty.”

  “Pretty you’re not. Interesting, yes. Intriguing, yes. Pretty is too . . .” He scrunched up his face, thinking, looking at the faded ceiling tiles. “Too soft for you.”

  All of a sudden the anger that had fueled my body in place of sleep escaped in one huge irate sigh. And because there was nothing else underneath the rage, supporting it, giving me strength, I burst into tears.

  When I came up for air, I was sitting on the table leaning into Rick, my face buried in his chest, my tears soaked through to his skin. Which smelled really wonderfully good. Faint shirt starch, aftershave, Ivory soap, gun oil, and man. I tightened my fingers on his jacket, not wanting to let go. It was stupid and girly and . . . But I felt safe for the first time in . . . well, a long time. His hands made wide circles on my back and shoulders, massaging me through my shirt. I settled my face on his shoulder, not wanting to look up. Not wanting him to see me. I was an ugly crier. Red nose, snot, puffy eyes, ick.

  “Sorry.” My voice was rough with tears. I cleared it and tried again. “Sorry I got your shirt wet.” Rick eased me back. When he could see me, I realized that the bad boy image was temporarily gone and something deeper, richer, was in its place. A strange feeling, prickling like fur, danced down my spine, expectant, waiting.

  His mouth came down slowly, hovering near mine. I could smell his breath, which carried coffee and something sweet, like pastry. He held my eyes, a question in his, as if asking permission. When my hands tightened on his shirt, he pulled me closer. To the edge of the table, my legs beside his. Eyes on mine, he drew a fraction nearer. I raised my face, just slightly. A delicate, slow dance of approach, warming. And he touched my lips with his.

  It was a gentle brush, a delicate sweep of his lips over mine. And then a hover, questing, his mouth barely touching. Lips parted slightly. Fractionally. I sighed. Closed my eyes. And the worry and fear and tension seeped away. I let his arms hold me.

  Instead of deepening the kiss, which I expected, he brushed my lips with his slowly back and forth. Murmuring, “It’s okay, Janie. It’s really okay.” His arms firmed. Lips hardened on mine. He pulled me closer. Finally I slid my arms around his shoulders and held on, feeling Beast purr steadily in my mind. His tongue touched mine and my sigh became a thrumming hum of sound. One hand cupped my head, cradling me, his thumb on my cheek. One hand stroked slowly down my hair and back.

  Long moments later, I smiled against his mouth and felt his smile follow, breaking the intensity. I eased back and met his gaze, which was warm and focused on me with tight concentration. “Thanks,” I said, my voice rough.

  He grinned and broke away, steadying me as I found my balance. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now. But”—he eased back and looked at his watch—“let’s talk.”

  We did. I filled him in on everything that had happened, everything I had learned, from my impromptu history lesson, to all my guesses. I put it all together for myself and for Rick, from the smell on Bettina’s hands at the vamp party, to the rising of a gangbanger tattooed with crosses. “I think the Damours—Renee, Tristan, and maybe their brother—were all witches, were all the long-chained, and all woke up. I think they might have perfected a spell to make progeny who don’t ever go insane, and don’t react to crosses. I think they’re working on a spell to bring sanity to any rogue.” I studied Rick. “If they succeed, there’ll be no stopping the vamps. No way at all.”

  Rick was quiet, his face in cop mode—a hard, unfeeling mask. After a long moment he said, “I’ve heard of Renee Damours. Word is, she made a play for the master of the Rousseau Clan about thirty years ago and lost to Bettina before she disappeared into the city’s underbelly. But all we got is rumor and gossip. We don’t really know anything.”

  He turned to the vamp file cabinet and opened the second drawer, withdrawing two files. I hadn’t gotten to this batch in my study. One thin file was a history of the purge. A thicker one was a history of the Rousseau Clan, which I took, a
nd, at his instruction, thumbed to a section on the Damours, all five of them. I flipped to a page detailing Renee’s history, to discover that most of the info was speculation and rumor gleaned from unnamed sources; it was only marginally better than nothing. According to the file, Renee Damours didn’t attend parties, didn’t attend gatherings—the command performances of the entire vamp assembly to deal with matters of the vampire state or the health of its members—no matter who demanded them. She didn’t travel, and didn’t troll for fresh meat. “She’s a stay-at-home kinda gal,” I said, “for decades. She’s got to have cabin fever.”

  Rick hummed a note of amused agreement.

  She seldom left her lair, which was rumored to be in the Warehouse District, the same part of the city where the most recent vamp party took place—when I saw the witch glamour and the watching witches. Not likely that the witchy happenings were an accidental concurrence; at this point, I wasn’t willing to believe in coincidence.

  Rick passed me another sheaf of papers, photocopies of letters and news accounts with a face sheet titled “History of the Purge.” Date of occurrence: the late seventeen hundreds. Page two was a summary composed by Elizabeth Caldwell, who noted that Renee Damours had brought her chained family to New Orleans from Haiti and immediately purchased several large blocks of land, including some along the Mississippi, in the Warehouse District. Again, we were back to the Warehouse District. The entire district had smelled vampy. Renee could easily have a hidden lair there.

  Rick murmured, “Want to hire me to look up the current owners of her original land?”

  Without looking up I said, “Sure. Just put it on my tab.” I couldn’t help the wry smile that pulled on my mouth. I had hired Rick when he was undercover to look into some land ownership and purchases. So far, I hadn’t paid him.