Broken Soul

by Faith Hunter

  • • •

  At dusk I woke to find a bowl of hot oatmeal, fixed the way I liked it, with milk and sugar, on the bedside table. A headset and clean clothes were there as well, jeans, belt, undies, and T-shirt folded neatly, a pair of sandals on the floor below them. And the gorget was still on my neck, with the sliver of the Blood Cross hooked in the rings. I touched it, feeling it blister on my skin. I touched my belly and found a knot there, hot and burning. I wasn’t completely healed.

  I never want to do that again, I thought to Beast. She panted back at me, her agreement flooding through me. Careful not to touch the sliver of ancient wood, I removed the gorget and dressed, packing the gorget into a pillowcase and tying it to my belt, thinking as I moved.

  Peregrinus was dead. The Devil and Batildis were dead, for good this time. The arcenciel was free.

  It was over. Or this part was. Now the battle would start, the battle to find and take possession of the iron spike. I didn’t trust anyone but me to have it. And after committing murder with no remorse, I probably shouldn’t trust me either.

  I wasn’t far from Leo’s office and I made my way there, seeing the signs of repair and cleanup. In Leo’s office, I closed the doors to the hidden room and the elevator, and made my way down another of Leo’s hidden escape routes, through vamp HQ, and outside the stone gate, a pathway I only half remembered, from what seemed like ages ago.

  I stepped into the early night and the outer brick wall closed behind me. The breeze was warm and muggy, a heat wave coming in off the Gulf, bringing more rain and lightning. I could feel the leading edge of the storm approaching, ozone in the air. I keyed my mic on and walked around the block. “This is Yellowrock. I’m outside. How are things inside?”

  “Full of spirit and badges, as expected, ma’am,” the Kid said, letting me know he was on-site and running security and that we had lots of company. “Vamp HQ is calm and quiet, ma’am.”

  “Cops are with you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s a roger. They are here and wish to speak with Ms. Yellowrock when you see her, ma’am.”

  “Uh-huh. We’ll talk later.” I tapped the headset to open Eli’s channel. “I’m out front, staying out of sight of the cameras. Your brother has Soul and her human law enforcement officers in the security room.”

  “Copy that,” Eli said. “Good to hear you’re alive.”

  “It’s good to be alive. I’m in the mood for Mona Lisa’s. Deep-dish pizza.”

  “What? No talking to the feds?”

  “God, no.”

  “Let’s see if I can get out of here and head that way. The Kid can join us at his leisure or when he gets away from Soul, whichever happens first. Maybe we’ll leave leftovers.”

  Over my earbud I heard the Kid say, “You are evil, just evil, man.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am,” Eli said.

  EPILOGUE

  Bound by Oaths of Loyalty

  It was one week from the day Bruiser had taken me to Arnaud’s. It had been a week of battles, death, and funerals, and I was sleep deprived and sad and . . . close to depressed. I hated being depressed. I’d been depressed once and it sucked.

  Yet here I was, sitting in the Clover Grill, staring at the sign reading, DANCING ONLY IN THE AISLES, NOT ON THE TABLES, courting depression.

  I had gotten to the diner early to scope out the place and had taken the table farthest in. There were only four so it hadn’t been a hard choice, my back to a wall, facing the door. Waiting. For an hour now. Checking my cell for messages every few minutes. Bruiser was late. Or worse. He wasn’t coming. The place was filling up with lunch customers. I held up a finger to the short-order cook and he nodded, throwing my burger on the grill. Even if I had to eat alone, I was eating. But my heart hurt.

  I twirled my beer on the table, making smeared rings. Trying not to think. In the days since the death of Peregrinus and his pals, Bruiser and I had talked a lot, but only on the phone, not in person. We’d both been busy, long hours and long days, me and Wise Ass getting security totally stripped and rebuilt at fanghead central and in Leo’s new house. Getting the new system up and running, and tracking down leads to make sure the city’s vamps were safe. Fixing the electricity problem by disconnecting the wires in sub-five from the rest of the system. Finding Peregrinus’ stuff and taking it. Trying to figure out what some of it was. Bruiser had been doing Onorio things.

  Most of our convos had been about Bethany and Leo and Bruiser’s life, which was way more complicated than mine was. He might not be Leo’s primo anymore, but he was bound by oaths of loyalty to the vamps in New Orleans. He wasn’t free to move around the country, not for years. My contracts would be up in a few months or a year—assuming I survived the EuroVamps’ visit and the coming war. I didn’t have plans yet, but staying around New Orleans without work wasn’t in the cards. Bruiser and I had talked around the big question of us, but hadn’t really talked yet. Had settled nothing. Talking didn’t really ever settle anything. It was doing that mattered.

  My food was deposited in front of me: wonderfully greasy burger and greasy fries, pickle. I tossed a scalding-hot potato into my mouth and picked up my burger. Another meal was placed in front of me, across the small table. “Starting without me, my Jane?”

  Mouth open for the bite, I looked up and watched as Bruiser lifted a jeans-clad leg over the back of the chair across from me and settled into place. He dropped flowers on the table, a bouquet of nonaromatic lilies and fresh tea leaves, which were almost impossible to find. A smile crossed my face, as I remembered him telling me that men should always give me flowers.

  He picked up his burger and said, “‘I eat at diners and fast-food joints and drink beer. My dates and I talk about guns and the newest horror or action flick. I wear jeans and boots and no makeup.’ I believe that was the exact quote. And yet, you are wearing lipstick in that amazing shade of red that makes me want to take you right here, on this beat-up old table.” He bit into his burger.

  Heated chills raced through me as I watched his hands cradling the burger. And . . . Bruiser in jeans and Western boots. And a button-up shirt, crisply starched. Sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned arms. Oh . . . my . . .

  Talking around the ground meat, he said, “Eat up, Jane. We have guns to talk about and then the entire Kill Bill series, which I watched last night in preparation for our date, just so I would be ready for today.”

  I bit my burger, hardly tasting it. I chewed and swallowed and said, “You’re going to spend the day with me. Talking about Kill Bill.”

  “And eating.” He swallowed and reached out, tracing my jaw with one long, heated finger. “And making love. Hurry up, Jane. Today is going to be quite . . . busy.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Faith Hunter was born in Louisiana and raised all over the South. She writes full-time, tries to keep house, and is a workaholic with a passion for travel, jewelry making, orchids, skulls, Class II and III white-water kayaking, and writing.

  Many of the orchid pics on her Facebook fan page show skulls juxtaposed with orchid blooms; the bones are from roadkill prepared by taxidermists or a pal named Mud. In her collection are a fox skull, a cat skull, a dog skull, a goat skull (that is, unfortunately, falling apart), a cow skull, the jawbone of an ass, and a wild boar skull, complete with tusks. She recently purchased a mountain lion skull, and would love to have the thigh bone and skull of an African lion (one that died of old age, of course).

  She and her husband own thirteen kayaks at last count, and love to RV, as they travel with their dogs to white-water rivers all over the Southeast.

  CONNECT ONLINE

  faithhunter.net

  facebook.com/official.faith.hunter

  Love Jane Yellowrock? Then meet Thorn St. Croix.

  Read on for the opening chapter of Bloodring,

  the first novel in Faith Hunter’s Rogue Mage ser
ies.

  Available from Roc.

  I stared into the hills as my mount clomped below me, his massive hooves digging into snow and ice. Above us a fighter jet streaked across the sky, leaving a trail that glowed bright against the fiery sunset. A faint sense of alarm raced across my skin, and I gathered up the reins, tightening my knees against Homer’s sides, pressing my walking stick against the huge horse.

  A sonic boom exploded across the peaks, shaking through snow-laden trees. Ice and snow pitched down in heavy sheets and lumps. A dog yelped. The Friesian set his hooves, dropped his head, and kicked. “Stones and blood,” I hissed as I rammed into the saddle horn. The boom echoed like rifle shot. Homer’s back arched. If he bucked, I was a goner.

  I concentrated on the bloodstone handle of my walking stick and pulled the horse to me, reins firm as I whispered soothing, seemingly nonsense words no one would interpret as a chant. The bloodstone pulsed as it projected a sense of calm into him, a use of stored power that didn’t affect my own drained resources. The sonic boom came back from the nearby mountains, a ricochet of man-made thunder.

  The mule in front of us hee-hawed and kicked out, white rimming his eyes, lips wide, and teeth showing as the boom reverberated through the farther peaks. Down the length of the mule train, other animals reacted as the fear spread, some bucking in a frenzy, throwing packs into drifts, squealing as lead ropes tangled, trumpeting fear.

  Homer relaxed his back, sidestepped, and danced like a young colt before planting his hooves again. He blew out a rib-racking sigh and shook himself, ears twitching as he settled. Deftly, I repositioned the supplies and packs he’d dislodged, rubbing a bruised thigh that had taken a wallop from a twenty-pound pack of stone.

  Hoop Marks and his assistant guides swung down from their own mounts and steadied the more fractious stock. All along the short train, the startled horses and mules settled as riders worked to control them. Homer looked on, ears twitching.

  Behind me, a big Clydesdale relaxed, shuddering with a ripple of muscle and thick winter coat, his rider following the wave of motion with practiced ease. Audric was a salvage miner, and he knew his horses. I nodded to my old friend, and he tipped his hat to me before repositioning his stock on Clyde’s back.

  A final echo rumbled from the mountains. Almost as one, we turned to the peaks above us, listening fearfully for the telltale roar of an avalanche.

  Sonic booms were rare in the Appalachians these days, and I wondered what had caused the military overflight. I slid the walking stick into its leather loop. It was useful for balance while taking a stroll in snow, but its real purpose was as a weapon. Its concealed blade was deadly, as was its talisman hilt, hiding in plain sight. However, the bloodstone handle-hilt was now almost drained of power, and when we stopped for the night, I’d have to find a safe, secluded place to draw power for it and for the amulets I carried, or my neomage attributes would begin to display themselves.

  I’m a neomage, a witchy-woman. Though contrary rumors persist, claiming mages still roam the world free, I’m the only one of my kind not a prisoner, the only one in the entire world of humans who is unregulated, unlicensed. The only one uncontrolled.

  All the others of my race are restricted to Enclaves, protected in enforced captivity. Enclaves are gilded cages, prisons of privilege and power, but cages nonetheless. Neomages are allowed out only with seraph permission, and then we have to wear a sigil of office and bracelets with satellite GPS locator chips in them. We’re followed by the humans, watched, and sent back fast when our services are no longer needed or when our visas expire. As if we’re contagious. Or dangerous.

  Enclave was both prison and haven for mages, keeping us safe from the politically powerful, conservative, religious orthodox humans who hated us, and giving us a place to live as our natures and gifts demanded. It was a great place for a mage-child to grow up, but when my gift blossomed at age fourteen, my mind opened in a unique way. The thoughts of all twelve hundred mages captive in the New Orleans Enclave opened to me at once. I nearly went mad. If I went back, I’d go quietly—or loudly screaming—insane.

  In the woods around us, shadows lengthened and darkened. Mule handlers looked around, jittery. I sent out a quick mind-skim. There were no supernats present, no demons, no mages, no seraphs, no others. Well, except for me. But I couldn’t exactly tell them that. I chuckled under my breath as Homer snorted and slapped me with his tail. That would be dandy. Survive for a decade in the human world only to be exposed by something so simple as a sonic boom and a case of trail exhaustion. I’d be tortured, slowly, over a period of days, tarred and feathered, chopped into pieces, and dumped in the snow to rot.

  If the seraphs located me first, I’d be sent back to Enclave and I’d still die. I’m allergic to others of my kind—really allergic—fatally so. The Enclave death would be a little slower, a little less bloody than the human version. Humans kill with steel, a public beheading, but only after I was disemboweled, eviscerated, and flayed alive. And all that after I entertained the guards for a few days. As ways to go, the execution of an unlicensed witchy-woman rates up there with the top ten gruesome methods of capital punishment. With my energies nearly gone, a conjure to calm the horses could give me away.

  “Light’s goin,’ ” Hoop called out. “We’ll stop here for the night. Everyone takes care of his own mount before anything else. Then circle and gather deadwood. Last, we cook. Anyone who don’t work, don’t eat.”

  Behind me, a man grumbled beneath his breath about the unfairness of paying good money for a spot on the mule train and then having to work. I grinned at him and he shrugged when he realized he’d been heard. “Can’t blame a man for griping. Besides, I haven’t ridden a horse since I was a kid. I have blisters on my blisters.”

  I eased my right leg over Homer’s back and slid the long distance to the ground. My knees protested, aching after the day in the saddle. “I have a few blisters this trip myself. Good boy,” I said to the big horse, and dropped the reins, running a hand along his side. He stomped his satisfaction and I felt his deep sense of comfort at the end of the day’s travel.

  We could have stopped sooner, but Hoop had hoped to make the campsite where the trail rejoined the old Blue Ridge Parkway. Now we were forced to camp in a ring of trees instead of the easily fortified site ahead. If the denizens of Darkness came out to hunt, we’d be sitting ducks.

  Unstrapping the heavy pack containing my most valuable finds from the Salvage and Mineral Swap Meet in Boone, I dropped it to the earth and covered it with the saddle. My luggage and pack went to the side. I removed all the tools I needed to groom the horse and clean his feet, and added the bag of oats and grain. A pale dusk closed in around us before I got the horse brushed down and draped in a blanket, a pile of food and a half bale of hay at his feet.

  The professional guides were faster and had taken care of their own mounts and the pack animals and dug a firepit in the time it took the paying customers to get our mounts groomed. The equines were edgy, picking up anxiety from their humans, making the job slower for us amateurs. Hoop’s dogs trotted back and forth among us, tails tight to their bodies, ruffs raised, sniffing for danger. As we worked, both clients and handlers glanced fearfully into the night. Demons and their spawn often hid in the dark, watching humans like predators watched tasty herd animals. So far as my weakened senses could detect, there was nothing out there. But there was a lot I couldn’t say and still keep my head.

  “Gather wood!” I didn’t notice who called the command, but we all moved into the forest, me using my walking stick for balance. There was no talking. The sense of trepidation was palpable, though the night was friendly, the moon rising, no snow or ice in the forecast. Above, early stars twinkled, cold and bright at this altitude. I moved away from the others, deep into the tall trees: oak, hickory, fir, cedar. At a distance, I found a huge boulder rounded up from the snow.

  Checking to see that
I was alone, I lay flat on the boulder, my cheek against frozen granite, the walking stick between my torso and the rock. And I called up power. Not a raging roar of mage-might, but a slow, steady trickle. Without words, without a chant that might give me away, I channeled energy into the bloodstone handle between my breasts, into the amulets hidden beneath my clothes, and pulled a measure into my own flesh, needing the succor. It took long minutes, and I sighed with relief as my body soaked up strength.

  Satisfied, as refreshed as if I had taken a nap, I stood, stretched, bent, and picked up deadwood, traipsing through the trees and boulders for firewood—wood that was a lot more abundant this far away from the trail. My night vision is better than most humans’, and though I’m small for an adult and was the only female on the train, I gathered an armload in record time. Working far off the beaten path has its rewards.

  I smelled it when the wind changed. Old blood. A lot of old blood. I dropped the firewood, drew the blade from the walking-stick sheath, and opened my mage-sight to survey the surrounding territory. The world of snow and ice glimmered with a sour-lemon glow, as if it were ailing, sickly.

  Mage-sight is more than human sight in that it sees energy as well as matter. The retinas of human eyes pick up little energy, seeing light only after it’s absorbed or reflected. But mages see the world of matter with an overlay of energy, picked up by the extra lenses that surround our retinas. We see power and life, the leftover workings of creation. When we use the sight, the energies are sometimes real, sometimes representational, experience teaching us to identify and translate the visions, sort of like picking out images from a three-dimensional pattern.

  I’m a stone mage, a worker of rocks and gems, and the energy of creation; hence, only stone looks powerful and healthy to me when I’m using mage-sight. Rain, ice, sleet or snow, each of which is water that has passed through air, always looks unhealthy, as does moonlight, sunlight, the movement of the wind, or currents of surface water—anything except stone. This high in the mountains, snow lay thick and crusted everywhere, weak, pale, a part of nature that leached power from me—except for a dull gray area to the east, beyond the stone where I had recharged my energies.