Black Arts

by Faith Hunter

  “Lewis Aycock’s company. He’s a Vietnam War vet. The owner likes to give vets jobs anytime he can. A boost back up, you know, and all Lewis’ personnel are vets.” He looked up under his eyebrows and back to his screen. “The client knew of him and was agreeable.”

  I didn’t know him, and so let it pass. “And the client?” I asked.

  “Not saying that without a court order,” Scott said. “Bring me a piece of paper signed by a judge and I’ll tell you everything—names, dates, alcohol consumed, hors d’ oeuvres served, numbers of guests, cost totals, tips, and credit cards used. Not until then. And the waiters don’t know who the host was, so don’t bother asking.”

  “The governor prefers to keep this under wraps for now,” Eli lied smoothly. “If it becomes a criminal matter, you’ll get a warrant.” I just shook my head.

  “And it’s up,” Scott said. He flipped the flat-screen around and we watched for ten minutes as humans, blood-servants, and vamps left the restaurant, getting into cabs and limos, and a few walking. No one entered the restaurant during the ten minutes, not after two in the morning.

  I leaned in when a pale-skinned, black-haired female appeared on the screen, showing only the top of her head and her hands holding the wrap she wore. Bliss. The woman beside her had scarlet hair and was wearing rings on every finger. She tilted her head and I recognized Rachael by the shape of her nose and the multiple rings through her earlobes. And the tattoo on her left wrist. It was a dragon, the body and tail wrapped around the wrist, the fire-breathing head on the top of her hand. It was new, and I’d seen it only a week past, when she complained about the pain and itching. Once upon a time, Katie had not allowed her working girls to get tattoos, but now things were different. Katie was different. She didn’t seem to care about body adornment or other things that she used to. She was, on the other hand, way more territorial than she used to be. With them was a man who stood to one side, only the top of his head and shoulders visible in the camera—slender and muscular with spiked hair and dark clothes.

  “That’s them,” I said.

  Eli covered for me. “And the people with her?” he asked.

  I hesitated only a moment, feeling my way, before saying, “The boss will be ticked off about the whole thing.”

  “So we shouldn’t tell the governor everything. In fact, we shouldn’t tell him anything,” Eli suggested.

  “And we’ve agreed to differ,” I said, as if we had a long-standing argument about how to protect the interests of our employer—who was the freaking governor. Eli was insane.

  On the screen, the man, possibly a waiter, handed the girls into a black cab limo and it drove off as he stepped back again.

  Some humans left, one female wearing a hat and trailing a long scarf. The arm of a man was around her as if to support her, her gait that of someone ill or unsteady after too much liquor, their faces never in view. Three other men left just behind them, the small group moving like vamps, breaking up at the door. One wore a tuxedo and seemed to move off fast, maybe in pursuit of the woman with the scarf and the other man, though all we could see from the angle of his head was dark hair and jacket and a satin stripe on the outside of his pants leg as he strode off. The other two, both in dark slacks and suit coats, stood for a moment, body movements suggestive of discussion, and then they too left, heading in different directions.

  A scant two minutes later, a similar black car pulled up and waited, the driver a fuzzy form making a cell call. It was Troll. He waited. And waited. He made three more cell calls before eventually giving the valet the keys and entering the restaurant. And leaving moments later, tension showing in the set of his shoulders. He was on the cell, talking as he drove away.

  To Scott, Eli said, “That’s all we need, those twenty minutes of footage. And you have the governor’s thanks.”

  “Yeah, well, tell him he has my sympathy. He has his hands full if his daughter’s fallen in with that redheaded chick. She works for a vamp who runs a whorehouse. Seriously, he needs to consider chaining her up in the attic or something. If I’d known she was underage, I’d never have let her in, but everyone had an invitation.” He opened a desk drawer and handed Eli a heavy, engraved invitation, the kind old vamps used, the paper made of mostly cloth, the words printed in gilt.

  Eli handed the invite to me and I nodded my thanks, studying the card. The message was innocuous and uninformative. “The pleasure of your presence is requested at ten o’clock tonight at Guilbeau’s for a coming-out soiree. Black tie.” The party started late, like any vamp party. No names, and no RSVP. Not much help here.

  The manager hit a button and his PC whirred. Behind him, a printer chattered. He handed Eli the printed paper first and again Eli passed it to me. It was a list of the waitstaff. Six names, with addresses and phone numbers. While I was studying it, he handed Eli a CD and stood, offering his hand.

  “Thank you for your time,” Eli said, standing and taking the proffered hand. I followed a moment later, out of sync with the bonhomie of the good old boys.

  “I thank you for keeping the restaurant’s name out of the press. Letting the governor’s underage daughter into a vampire party would not be good for our reputation or good standing,” Scott said.

  I just shook my head and headed down the stairs. Back outside, the wet night had become a downpour, which totally matched my mood. The valet brought our SUV around and we drove away. I lasted a whole block before I busted out with “The governor’s daughter? Are you nuts?”

  Eli gave that twitchy smile and said, “We got what we needed, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, we did. And if he takes it any further, our faces are on the security footage now. You are insane. Totally insane.”

  “We just have to make sure we don’t do anything that makes him take it any further.”

  I gusted a breath and looked out into the night. The windshield wipers squeaked slightly as they swept the rain away. I shook my head. “Okay.”

  “Just okay? No atta boy? No ‘Heeey, duuude, that took balls’?”

  I laughed softly and shook my head again. Eli Younger was entirely too pleased with himself. But he did do good. We had footage and names, neither of which we would have been given had we gone in with an honest request. But still. “I think you were thinking with your little brains, dude.”

  • • •

  When we reached home, my first action—after getting Evan to remove the security spell from the house for a while—was asking for news of Molly, to which the Kid said, “No. Nothing. Nada. Not yet. The cops are searching the mountain roads for any car that might have driven off the road. She isn’t in any hospital and I’ve checked them all. She hasn’t used her cards or an ATM. I’ll tell you if I get anything. Don’t ask me again. Gimme the CD.” All the words ran together, accompanied by a jittery hand-waving motion for me to hurry up and give him the data from Guilbeau’s. He sounded grumpy, but I sorta understood that. His work space had been invaded by Big Evan, who had been pacing while we were gone. Pacing a lot. Passing by Alex’s work space every few minutes and asking the same questions I was asking. It had to be nerve-racking.

  I speed-dialed Troll from the living room, while watching the CD with Eli and Alex. He answered on the third ring. Instead of replying to his “Janie girl,” I said, “What, exactly, did the girls say to you when you dropped them off, and what, exactly, did they say when they called you for a pickup last night? This morning. Whatever.”

  “Deon drove them out, and according to him, they were whispering and not sharing, which he considered way more than rude, and he sulked for hours. But when they called for a ride home, Rachael said, ‘Hey, Sugar Lips. Can you pick us up at Guilbeau’s?’ I said yes. When I got there, they weren’t out front, so I went inside. They weren’t there either. I called Rachael’s cell and was sent to voice mail. I asked to see the security footage and was told to get lost. End of story.”

  “She calls you Sugar Lips?” I tried to put the vision of Troll with the en
dearment of Sugar Lips and couldn’t make my brain fit around the two concepts.

  “Yeah, when she’s feeling friendly. Whaddaya got?”

  “We got the security footage from the restaurant.”

  “What’d you do, pretend to be cops?”

  “No comment,” I grumbled. “It shows several people, including the girls, leaving Guilbeau’s, and I’d like you to take a look. Can you come over?”

  “Yeah, but unlike you, I don’t fly over brick walls, so I’ll be walking around. Tell your shooter I’m on the way.”

  I closed the cell. Eli said, “Sugar Lips?”

  “Yeah. Ick.”

  The Kid said, “Before he gets here, two things. One, Reach sent me his search on Rachael and Bliss. There have been no financial transactions or cell phone usage since they disappeared. He’s set up an automatic ding if they use their credit cards, ATM, cells, anything, everything, anywhere, and will notify us if they pop up used. I can take over on the other parts of the search from here. Okay?” I nodded. “Two, I found security footage of Molly turning in her car in Knoxville. Evan and I already studied it and got nothing. You wanna see?”

  Eli and I all but scampered over, to see footage of Molly entering a rental car cubicle. “McGhee Tyson Airport. High volume. High security, even on the rental agencies,” the Kid said. Molly was clear on the camera, not hidden by a glamour or some kind of spell that would mess with the digital stuff, which could mean that she expected us to find this footage. She was wearing a coat, brownish, and sturdy shoes; she handed a woman behind the counter something—keys, most likely—and turned and walked away. The screen flickered to another angle and we saw her walking down the concourse, no luggage, no bag. Which meant she had other transportation already secured.

  “That’s it for the car rental security cameras,” Alex said. “I can’t get into the airport security footage without incurring the wrath of my parole board and my brother.”

  “I told him to stop. We’ll find Molly another way,” Evan said from the kitchen, sounding gruff. “Meanwhile, you have footage of the missing hookers.”

  “Call girls,” the Kid said. “Very expensive, high-class call girls who my brother threatened with bodily harm if they gave me a freebie. Totally unfair, dude.”

  “When you’re twenty-one,” Eli said, sounding as if he’d said it a thousand times already, “and you’re off parole, and your record has been wiped clean, you can break any law you want and buy any hooker you want and get any disease they have, and go to jail for your good time. Till then, I’ll break your legs if you try.”

  “Not fair, bro. Anyway, here’s the footage you got from the restaurant,” he said. “I’ll try to sharpen it, but digital can only go so far. That stuff on movies and TV, where they telescope in and make out writing on people’s shirts and focus on tattoos and see eye color, is totally fiction. We won’t get much better than the fuzzy stuff you already saw.”

  We were still watching the footage, the Kid trying to sharpen the digital images, and taking off still shots, when the knock came. I walked through the house, opened the front door, and said, “Come on in, Sugar Lips.”

  Troll grunted and moved past me, his bald head catching the foyer lights, his eyes taking in the repairs. “Whatever it is, Katie ain’t paying for it.”

  “I know. My nickel.” I closed the door and he followed me into the living room. I introduced Big Evan and Troll, and the two huge men sized each other up. I just hoped the floor joists held.

  “Molly’s husband?” Troll asked.

  “The same,” Evan said.

  “You’re the one who made the spell for Rick—my nephew a couple generations back. I owe you one.”

  “Nothing owed. Blood-servant for Katie?”

  “Primo.” The guys bumped fists and Troll pointed to the back windows, now covered with plywood. “Your work?”

  “I thought my wife had left me and come here.”

  “Jane don’t swing that way.”

  “That’s not— Never mind. Jane is helping me find my wife.”

  “Good. I like Molly. Met her when she was visiting. She didn’t look down her nose at my girls. I like that. High-class lady, your wife. If I hear anything about her, I’ll let you know.”

  They bumped fists again and I made a little roll-’em motion at the Kid. The footage started. “We want to know the names of the vamps and humans leaving the restaurant, and the name of the driver of the car they got into.” I handed him a spare spiral pad and a pen.

  Troll started taking notes as human-shaped forms left the restaurant. Twice he asked to see a section again, and several times he pointed to heads and said, “Don’t know ’em.” But his list of names was twelve long by the time we reached the section of the girls leaving the restaurant and getting into a black cab limo. He watched that part four times before he finally said, “I don’t recognize the driver, which I should if he drives for a vamp. And that isn’t a regular licensed driver either. The car is personally owned.” He pointed to something attached to the dash and said, “Radar detector. They’re legal in the state, but no company allows them in their cars, and if a driver had one he plugged in, why have it in the city? Makes no sense. More importantly, these are heads.” He tapped the screen and I studied what I had thought were shadows. They were sitting in the seat facing back, and while they were indistinct, we could see Rachael and Bliss clearly. Bliss’ eyes were wide and her mouth was in a little O of surprise and delight. Rachael was laughing. “There were people already in the car. People they recognized and felt safe with.” He sounded long-suffering.

  His girls had gone off the reservation, to use a U.S. government line about my people. I let one side of my mouth rise with relief. “They weren’t taken against their will,” I said. “Good. We’ll keep looking, but I’m guessing they got an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

  “Yeah.” He breathed out the word. “Someone at the party offered them something they wanted. It didn’t have to be money either. Bliss and Rachael have been making noise about signing on for full-time service.” At my blank look, Troll said, “Becoming full-time blood-servants to one master rather than working for Katie. They got money. Katie makes sure they have excellent financial portfolios. So whatever they were offered, it had to be worth stiffing Katie. She’ll be”—he looked around the room to make sure there were no children present—“pissed. Sorry, Janie, but she will be.”

  I shrugged. Living with the Younger brothers was making me inured to mild profanities and minor vulgarities. “We’ll keep looking, but it goes to the back burner unless we learn something else.”

  “Yeah.” Troll stood and looked around, as if thinking. “One other thing. Probably not related. Two of the humans in the footage are blood-slaves looking for a permanent master. “They’re both sick today, along with four others in the city.”

  “Sick?” I asked. Blood-slaves, like blood-servants, didn’t get sick. Vamp blood kept them healthy, though it also kept them blood-drunk and passed around to be dinner and sex toys among vamps. “Sick how?”

  “Fever. Malaise. Leo sent them to his vamps for healing. But . . .”

  “But it’s weird,” I said.

  “Yeah. Weird.” Before I could ask, he added, “I’ll find out if they all went to the party.” Troll lumbered to the front door. “Later, y’all. And get this fixed.” He pointed to the covered window. “You already put Katie on the bad side of the New Orleans Vieux Carré Commission with your last construction and repairs.” He let himself out.

  I looked at Eli and explained, “Historical commission. I fixed the door last time and it didn’t match up perfectly and eventually Katie had to pay a fine, even though we matched the door to the oldest photos of the house.”

  “Last time?” he asked.

  “Long story.” I studied the list of names on the spiral paper Troll had stuffed into my hand. “He recognized four vamps and eight humans. We’ll talk to them if the girls don’t turn up soon. Any news on Molly?”<
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  “Just one thing,” the Kid said. “The mileage on Molly’s rental car. According to an online mileage calculator site, the distance from Asheville to Knoxville is eighty-two miles. She paid mileage on one hundred forty miles. Molly took a side trip before she turned in her car and disappeared.”

  “My wife doesn’t want to be found,” Evan said, sounding surprised and deeply injured.

  “Maybe the other things Molly mentioned in her note to you, the ones that needed putting to rights, are part of the extra mileage on the rental?”

  “She took care of something nearby, close to home,” Evan said. “Then she disappeared.”

  “Mileage,” Alex said. “Lemme work on that.”

  The Kid spent an hour trying to figure out where Molly might have driven to account for the extra miles, but it wasn’t happening. There were too many possibilities. Big Evan had stopped pacing and spent the time sitting on the couch, studying his hands. I didn’t know him as well as I knew Molly, but I knew he was thinking about how Molly had deceived him. I needed to keep him feeling positive, so I said, “I need to know everything about Molly. What she’s been doing, how she’s been feeling, who she’s been seeing, what spells she’s been working—”

  Big Evan’s head whipped to me. “I told you her magic’s been off. Plants dying around the house, her not being able to heal them. Her magic’s the biggest part of the problem,” he growled. “She hasn’t been working any spells. None. Not since Evangelina died.”

  CHAPTER 4

  A Touch of Tasteless Snark

  The couple had been having problems, something Evan had confessed to us after an hour of silent hand-staring. He didn’t know what had been going on with Molly.

  “She stopped talking to me,” he said, after lots of prodding. “She stopped sleeping with me. She stopped working in the garden. She stopped baking. She stopped . . . singing.” He looked at me, his face stricken. “That was the worst part. Molly always sang. Always. I never remember a time when she didn’t sing. Old songs from movies, or Broadway, or church. Children’s songs. Always singing. The house was silent for months.