Black Arts

by Faith Hunter

  Leo shook his head slowly, but I could tell he wasn’t happy with the conclusions he was drawing. “Adrianna is declared outlaw. None may assist her, none may shelter her. Her blood-master has agreed that she is to stand trial when she is located, and will be given to the sun should she be found guilty.”

  I let that settle into me, not feeling anything. I probably should have felt something. Sorrow for her loss of undead life. Satisfaction that an enemy would be gone. Something. But I didn’t feel anything, and that bothered me. I’d have to think about that later, along with all the other things I was stuffing into the dark inside me. I went back to the problem at hand. “So, if Jackie Boy’s a Mexican MOC, why is he here, in your territory?”

  Leo leaned back in his chair, his elbows on the padded leather arms, his fingers again steepled in front of his mouth. I could smell the leather as he moved, rich and earthy with tannins; I bet he paid a thousand bucks for the chair. “Shoffru is to be presented at the gather. Tomorrow night.” I sat forward. It was nice to get some specifics. “Among others, he has applied for sanctuary in New Orleans. He claims that the drug cartels have placed his clans in danger and he wishes to relocate. What would you think if a Mithran requested such a thing?”

  “I’d wonder if he was relocating here so he could have a base of operations to expand a drug cartel of his own,” Eli said. “And maybe wanting access to a nearby U.S. military base. If he has delusions of grandeur.”

  Leo gave an approving flutter of his fingers. “That possibility has been under consideration. Upon the basis of that argument I have requested an investigation by the human authorities—undercover, of course—into his finances, plans, and his current situation in Mexico.” Leo looked at me. “I believe that he intends to make my lands a permanent base of operations.”

  Oh, crap. “You think he might challenge you,” I said.

  “Of a certainty. Eventually. First, he will apply for sanctuary and offer me fealty. Should the Drug Enforcement Agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation and other law enforcement agencies not discover reasons to the contrary, I will accept. Once he is ensconced here, he will apply for blood-master of the Shoffru clan. I can hold that off for a time, but eventually I must accept. At some point thereafter he will challenge me.” Leo shrugged. “Or I can kill him now and avoid all the wretchedness.”

  “Ah,” I said. I sat back too, keeping my frustration off my face by an act of will, but knowing Leo would smell it on my skin next time he took a breath.

  Eli looked back and forth between us. “What?” he demanded.

  Better to meet it head-on, rather than let Leo think I didn’t know. “Shoffru,” I said to Leo, “is the reason I got to beat the crap out of you tonight. Which, by the way, was immensely satisfying.”

  “As well as somewhat unexpected, mon petit chaton.”

  I wanted to ask what the pet names meant, but that was a game I couldn’t win. If I asked once, he might just talk French more often to get a rise out of me. I grunted instead. “Shoffru was in the audience, wasn’t he?” I accused. Leo smiled, and I said, “I figured. You coulda beaten me to a bloody pulp if you’d drawn on all the clan members, but you didn’t want him to see you doing that.”

  Adelaide nearly dropped her tablet, staring at Leo. And Leo looked totally nonplussed. “What? What’d I say?”

  “You can draw on the clan members who swear to you?” Adelaide asked. Leo looked away, thinking. “All of them?” she persisted.

  “What?” I asked. “Can’t all MOCs?”

  “Some can draw on their own clan members,” Del said. “Some can draw on the clan blood-masters sworn to them. Not too many can draw power from all the members of all the clans in a territory.” Adelaide stared a hole through Leo. “Good Lord. That’s why George became an Onorio instead of dying or turning—because he’d been sipping your blood for a century. No wonder the European Council is so interested in you. Is there a distance limit on how far you can draw? How many you can draw from at once?”

  Leo pursed his lips and shot me a narrow-eyed glance. Obviously I’d spilled some beans, and he looked irritated. Flying by the seat of my pants had, just like always, put my feet into it when I landed. And this time it was vamp politics and Leo’s secret that I didn’t know was a secret. I remembered the night he’d drawn on all the gathered. Power had prickled in the air like lightning, harsh and painful, rippling across my flesh like sharp teeth. And he’d not drawn all he could. And maybe not everyone there had understood what was happening. Maybe Leo’s power was—had been—partially unknown. “Oops?” I said, by way of apology. Eli breathed out hard, a huff that sounded amused, but said nothing. “So, that night you saved my life, and punished Adrianna for attacking me, you drew only what you needed to control them,” I said. “You could have drained them into true-death.”

  The MOC held up his hand like a traffic cop, stopping me. To Adelaide he said, “Decide. Now.”

  “I accept.”

  I had no idea what had just happened, but Leo inclined his head and pressed a button on his desk. A tinny voice said over an intercom, “Yes, Mr. Pellissier?”

  “Four glasses, and a bottle of the Chapoutier Cote Rotie La Mordoree 1990, please. And see that Quesnel allows it to breathe.” From the way Adelaide’s face went soft, I gathered it was an expensive wine, but I still didn’t understand what was happening. Leo smiled at her expression. “Are you familiar with wines, my primo?”

  I nearly choked. Primo?

  Adelaide said, “The 1990 has a saturated dark ruby-purple color, an amazing nose with copious quantities of sweet black fruits, warm new oak, flowers, and smoky bacon fat. To the mouth it has a superb concentration of flavors, a sweet, expansive texture, like butter on the tongue, and a . . . mind-boggling”—she paused, and licked her lips as if tasting it already—“long”—she smiled, her lips lifting slowly—“finish. I tasted it when it was young. I am honored that you open a bottle now.”

  “What about Bruiser?” I asked, feeling the floor shift beneath me. I had known things were changing, but, this was . . . official. Too much, too soon.

  “George is no longer suitable as the primo of the master of a city,” Leo said languidly, watching Adelaide. “He has made other choices and, as Onorio, has other duties.”

  Adelaide was watching Leo back, her attention totally ensnared. And willing. And then I heard her description of the wine, as if it echoed from the tapestried walls. Crap. She was talking about a whole lot more than wine. So she would refuse his sexual attention while she was just sworn to him, one of the hoi polloi, but if she got the perks, she would add sex into the deal? Or maybe as long as it was her choice and not part of a contract, she was willing? Human women had always been confusing to me, even back in the children’s home. Del just took that confusion to new heights.

  “You have other questions, my Enforcer?” Leo asked, not looking at me.

  “Yeah,” I said, my voice too loud. “You knew about the witches disappearing in New Orleans, didn’t you?” I had Leo’s attention again and it wasn’t the hot and sultry look Del had been receiving. For me, his eyes were bleeding black, and his sclera were taking on a faint tinge of pink. Not that I cared. Fury for Bruiser and anger at all the freaking vamp games burned hot through my veins. I stood and leaned in to his stare. “And I bet you knew about the witches in Natchez and the way the vamps were rising as revenants—a different kind of revenant.”

  I could see the truth on Leo’s face. He had known everything. He had known it all. And he had never done a single blessed thing to stop it or warn me or fix it or . . . I stepped from my chair. “And instead of warning me, you let me go to Natchez, unprepared, to deal with it.” A possible conclusion settled around my brain like a tourniquet. A headache started over my eyes and Beast hissed deep inside. Now I had the whole picture. “You were trying to find a way to keep from taking the problem to the European Council. You and your uncle before you were trying to keep the Council out of this situation and ou
t of your territory for two hundred years. And to accomplish that, you signed and kept a contract with the Damours, let witches die by the dozens for centuries, and let Naturaleza in Atlanta and later in Natchez put witches into a circle and drain them slowly dry. You let them run a slave breeding ground in Chattanooga. You knew all about it. Everything.

  “And”—I closed my eyes, letting the final picture come into focus—“you brought Adrianna back to life after I staked her because you thought she might know things you wanted to know. You kept her alive even though she was a ticking time bomb because she did know things.” I opened my eyes and met Leo’s. “And you let all that happen because you knew there were magical artifacts on these shores and you wanted them.”

  Leo sat back in his chair. His power rose in the room, a slow, coiling draft of energy, familiar and spicy, like black pepper on my tongue, this time mixed with blackberries and anise, a strange combination that signaled anger to the hind reaches of my brain. I backed two steps and my knees touched the chair, but I stayed standing.

  “The witches are my affair. You are not my adviser, nor my priestess; you are my Enforcer. It is a position of power and honor, which you claimed, and which I allowed even though, like George, you are not one to be bound. Within the confines of that position, you will not work against my policies, my strategy, or my needs. And I will have respect from you, Jane.”

  I flinched and sank into the chair. He didn’t know that Beast was bound. From Leo’s viewpoint, everything I’d done, everything that had been done to me, had been a decision on my part or had led from a decision or choice I made. A court of vamp law might suggest that even the involuntary feeding and binding had resulted directly from the moment I had claimed to be Leo’s Enforcer. By claiming the position, I had tacitly agreed to be fed upon and bound. The Mithran version of a forced Vulcan mind meld had been the result. It had been an intimate violation. Not my fault. Not my fault, some small logical part of me stated.

  It wasn’t my fault. It also wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t legal in a human court of law. But to a fanghead it was all that and more.

  A memory flared through me, my body, flat on my back, held in place by the vampire priestess and Bruiser as Leo bowed over me, fangs extended. The pain as he ripped into me.

  Not my fault. Not my fault. But that knowledge was not much help at the moment.

  I had been such an idiot, and Leo had used my idiocy to his benefit. Though it might not be my fault, I hadn’t looked before I jumped, flying by the seat of my pants.

  Adelaide reached over and took my hand. The contact was a shock, my hands like ice. “She doesn’t know, Leo. She doesn’t understand about the council and the witches.”

  Which wasn’t what I was reacting to, but I wasn’t going to share my thoughts. Leo considered me, his eyes narrowed, his face still a thunderstorm. He took a breath he didn’t need and blew it out hard. “That is not a topic to be discussed tonight,” he said to Adelaide. “We have more immediate issues to resolve.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Do We Call the Police?

  Leo went on. “The gather tomorrow night will be for two purposes,” he said, pulling my mind back to the present. “To welcome the applicants from Mexico, and to formally announce to my people the intent of the European Council to visit. The latter is known, of course, but the announcement must be accomplished pro forma. I have also been informed by Raymond Micheika that we are also to receive visitors arriving from Africa. They will be accorded the same respect as the last visitors.”

  Though I’d never met the man, I remembered the name. Micheika was a rare African werelion, and was the leader of the International Association of Weres, and the leader of the Party of African Weres—PAW. Surprised, I asked, “Is Kemnebi coming?”

  “I was not informed of the identity of the arrivals,” Leo said sourly, “only that three cats were to arrive, along with a grindylow and several servants.”

  “So you’ll be housing Mexican vamps and African weres and parading your newest applicants for admission to the NOLA vamps all in one evening.”

  Eli chuckled. “That’s a FUBAR waiting to happen.”

  “What is a fubar?” Leo asked.

  Quesnel, the sommelier, entered through the door before I could reply and started pouring the wine. He held the bottle up high and let it gurgle into the glasses, which I thought was highly entertaining. As Quesnel passed the glasses around, Leo stood, the genial host. “A toast,” he said, lifting a glass. “In honor of my new primo.” He lifted his glass.

  And the best part? The MOC was still moving stiffly. I had put a whammy on him. And that part of my night felt really, really good.

  • • •

  Eli, Wrassler, and I spent the rest of the night going over all the security protocols and implementing the changes to the parking area out back. The Kid called in the middle of the meeting and told us he had nothing new to share. It wasn’t a necessary call from an informational standpoint, but it made me feel better to know that someone, somewhere, was still working on finding Molly, Bliss, and Rachael. We were going in circles trying to find them, and I was getting itchy under my skin just thinking about the passing time. The call kept me from screaming. Or lashing out and beating up someone. Neither would be productive.

  We were nearly done when Wrassler got a text on his cell. He held up a hand to stop the discussion and dialed a number. “Tell me everything.”

  I didn’t need my enhanced hearing to make out that the person on the other end was hysterical, crying, gasping for breath when she wasn’t screaming. “Sonya’s gone! She’s gone! She went to her rooms to change and she never came back!”

  I heard screaming in the background. Running feet. Eli looked at me and placed a hand on the blade at his side. I could almost read his thoughts as the other hand touched his chest. No flak jackets. No Kevlar. But all his toys were close at hand. He made a pointing gesture, I nodded, and he trotted off, to get our weapons and bring the vehicle around.

  Over the phone, the woman was back, screaming, “We went to check on her. Her clothes are in a pile on the floor, like she just dropped them. Which she never would! She’s so picky about her things. It’s so anal it drives me— Never mind. That doesn’t matter.” I could almost see the girl waving the unimportant away with a frantic hand. “She’s gone. Vanished.”

  “Jocelyn, take a deep breath,” Wrassler said. He sounded calming and soothing. “That’s right. Slow down. Take another breath. Good.” I had no idea who Jocelyn or Sonya was, but Wrassler knew, and from his expression he was deeply concerned. “Now, tell me. Was there a pile of ash or grit, like granules of sand, in or near her clothes?”

  Jocelyn was shocked silent, and then we heard her take a shaky breath. “How did you know that?”

  Wrassler didn’t answer her question. “Mr. Pellissier’s Enforcer and I will be there in a few minutes. Touch nothing. Do nothing. Understand?”

  “Yes.” She sobbed and gulped. “Like on those crime shows. Evidence and all.” Jocelyn sobbed again. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “We don’t know. But you are Sonya’s primo.” Which told me who they were, and left me feeling gut-socked. I had never heard of the two. As the Enforcer and head of security, I should know every vamp and primo in the city. And clearly I didn’t. “Take all the others,” Wrassler said, “and leave the suite. Go to the bar. We’ll be there in five minutes.” He closed the cell. “Come with me,” he said, starting back down the hallway, looking around.

  “Eli’s getting his gear,” I said, mind-reading.

  Wrassler pulled a mic out of his shirt collar and tapped it active. “Bring my SUV around, one driver, one shooter.” He tapped the mic off and began removing the coms apparatus as he led the way. Without me having to ask, he said, “Sonya is a new scion, released into the world only two weeks ago. If there’s ash or grit, then that makes two killed in just days.”

  “Any history on vamps turning to ash?” I asked, remembering
that Reach was supposed to be researching that.

  “Nothing that Reach has bothered to tell us,” Wrassler rumbled, anger in his tone. He pushed the way out of the back of the building and rushed into the waiting car—a typical vamp-mobile, armored body, heavily tinted windows, and armament in the side panels of the doors. The lead vehicle rumbled off as I hopped into Eli’s SUV and belted in, gearing up as best I could as he tore out the gates after Wrassler.

  In minutes, we pulled up in front of a narrow three-story building just off Bourbon Street. There was no sign, no neon, no nothing to identify the place, just three shuttered windows, long and narrow, and a tall wood door bound with rusted metal, a large ornate lock, and a door handle. On the second story above was a wrought-iron balcony with columns shaped like leaves and flowers, and some kind of supporting iron filigree along the roof. Four long, narrow doors and windows, closed and shuttered, lined up with the ones on the ground floor. The third floor was similarly arranged, but the windows and doors were out of sight from the angle on the street as we pulled up, which I knew Eli didn’t like.

  “I’ll scout around,” he said, parking and taking off into the shadows.

  Much more slowly, Eli’s extra go-bag slung over my shoulder, I followed Wrassler and his shooter, a security guy I knew served Clan Pellissier but couldn’t name. For now he was P. Shooter, which made me smile. P. Shooter wore jeans and a sweater, and had enough guns on him to take out a street gang. I tucked my braid into my T-shirts to dangle down my back, out of the way. Unholstered a nine-mil and readied it for firing.

  Wrassler knocked and a tiny access panel in the door opened and shut instantly. Stupid. They needed cameras. All an invader would need to do was stick a gun in the panel when it was opened and fire. The door opened and a well-rounded, buxom woman fell into Wrassler’s arms, breathing as if she’d run a marathon. I could smell her fear-stink sweat.