by Faith Hunter
The dead plants seemed significant somehow, and the feel of emptiness settled on me, featherlight and ominous. The sound of rain intensified and icy drops ran down my face and neck and into my collar. I shivered once, bracing my shoulders against the cold.
Eli stepped onto the front porch, the boards creaking under his weight, and secured his flash to his weapon, so it moved where the gun pointed. With his free hand, he tried the door. It was open. The little hairs lifted on my neck. He glanced at me and I nodded once. He opened the door and moved inside to the left, graceful as a wraith. I followed, moving to the right and setting my back against the interior wall.
The front room was empty except for a bare mattress and drug paraphernalia—needles, syringes, metal spoons, burned matches, stubby candles, a broken glass bong and several that were made out of cola cans, the old scent of marijuana, and the fainter smell of chemical-laced drugs, probably crack and cocaine. The drugs could be cut with so many different products with diverse chemical makeups that they never smelled the same to me. I’d need to be a dog or even in Beast form to detect them well. The dank house smelled of black mold and dead mice and human urine, but it hadn’t been used as a drug house recently. And there was no fresh scent of anything, no old-school vamps, no new spidey vamps, no nothing.
We checked the back rooms anyway. Still nothing but broken furniture and food wrappers and used condoms, the stuff of romance for street people.
Eli was silent throughout the search, his face impassive the few times that reflected light bounced onto him. I was just glad to be out of the rain. I wasn’t sure that Eli had noticed any discomfort.
When we had determined there was nothing of interest here, I followed him to the SUV, wondering how he got to be point man but not really caring. Macho man protecting the little lady, no matter that I was as tall as he and could kick butt just as well. Better, even.
With rain alternating between sputters and downpours, we inspected six other places, addresses that the Kid had sent us. We found more of the same: empty lots, houses with families sleeping inside, empty houses with FOR SALE signs out front. There were no people on the street, human or otherwise; the city had been deserted, less because of the hour than because of fear of being kidnapped and eaten.
All in all, it was disappointing, and we headed home before dawn with only the kills from the morgue to show for our trouble. But hunting vamps was like that. A lot of records work followed by useless footwork, and then by either blood and gore or disappointment. Tonight we had both, and as we rode home, I e-mailed the kills to the MOC with instructions for electronic deposit into my account. Despite what Sylvia had said, money was money.
• • •
When we got home to Esmee’s, I sat in the SUV after Eli went inside, feeling at loose ends and not knowing what direction to take this investigation. I hadn’t discovered who was in charge of the spidey vamps, and I hadn’t found a single insight into where Misha was. I was a failure, and understood that I was creeping up on invisible deadlines that meant I might never find and save Mish, and more humans were dying at the fangs of vamps.
Sleepy, cranky, and angry at myself, I headed inside, not wanting any human interaction. So when Bobby greeted me at the foot of the stairs, sitting on the bottom step with his arms around his knees, I had to smother my irritation. “Bobby? What are you doing up?” I asked, managing to sound unruffled.
He yawned, and that made me more crabby. I wanted my bed. “Jane, I had a dream. It was about a lion.”
I had no idea what to do next. How was I supposed to react to that? Bobby stood and took my hand, pulling me into the breakfast room, where the lights blazed and Eli sat, his weapons on the table before him, one disassembled. He was fieldstripping and cleaning the guns, a nine-millimeter semi in parts and pieces laid out on a bamboo tray and a layer of old linen napkins probably provided by Jameson. Bobby pushed me into a seat, and I sat. I mean, really. What was I supposed to do?
“It was a mountain lion. I think it was you.”
Eli snorted softly without looking up.
“Misha says my dreams are symbic. She says that what I see isn’t always what the dreams mean.”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling better now that I had an out. “Most people’s dreams are symbolic.”
“That’s the word,” he said, pleased.
“What happened in yours?” I asked.
Eli glanced up from his weapons and raised his brows. I grimaced at him and turned my attention back to Bobby.
“You got shot.”
I went still, shock sizzling through me. Eli pushed a tray to me that held a universal gun-cleaning kit, and, with nothing else to do after that announcement, I began to disarm, setting my weapons on the table, mags out, chambers open, barrels pointing at an exterior wall and away from people. Like Eli, I kept one close at hand and ready to fire. More than one gunman had been caught with his pants down and all his weapons broken down, and had ended up dead because of it.
“I got shot?” I said. The M4 required no tools to break it down, and I started fieldstripping the weapon by muscle memory and habit.
“With a dart,” Bobby said. “It made you trip over your own feet and fall asleep. And some men came and got you and carried you away.”
“Hmmm,” I said. Deep inside, Beast crouched and hissed, showing her canines, which was strange. I remembered a few things from the big-cat’s memories and I said casually, “Did they put her in a cage? The lion in your dream?”
Eli looked up at that and focused on me, but I was watching my hands while studying Bobby with my peripheral vision. He was upset.
“Yes. And they took your blood,” he said. “And then it got nighttime, and you turned into Jane and you opened the cage and ran away. But you were . . . you were naked.” Bobby was red-faced and watching my hands on the weapons.
“It’s okay, Bobby,” I said gently. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
He looked up and then back down. “We aren’t supposed to look at porn. It’s bad.”
“It wasn’t porn, Bobby. It was just a dream. We can’t control our dreams.”
Bobby shrugged, lifting one shoulder, his eyes still on my hands on the weapon. I pulled back the bolt and unscrewed the nut at the top of the barrel on the Benelli, letting my old friend get over the embarrassment. My hands were sure, and the stink of lube formula was strong in the room that usually smelled of bread and bacon and roast. I began to relax at the familiar activity of weapon care and yawned hugely, which made Bobby smile and relax too. “You used to yawn like that at school,” he said, “and then you’d growl, low in your throat. Mostly to make people stop picking on me.” He looked at Eli. “Jane was my protector. There was this big group of bullies and they were mean all the time when the housemothers and counselors weren’t looking. But then Jane saw them being mean one day and she beat them up.”
Eli’s brows went up. “All of them?”
Bobby nodded, his face lit with some emotion I couldn’t name, but might have been perilously close to hero worship. “All of them at once. And after that, whenever she saw them, she’d yawn and show her teeth and growl and it was so cool. They didn’t bother me anymore after that.”
I pursed my lips and concentrated on my shotgun. The M4 was good for twenty-five thousand rounds of continuous firing, so it didn’t usually need much in the way of maintenance. This time, there was some blood and brain blowback from the spidey vamp who had died while trying to suck the weapon. From the kitchen came the smell of strong coffee—espresso, the way Eli liked it.
I remembered the gang Bobby was talking about, the loosely organized pack that roamed the grounds of Bethel Nondenominational Christian Children’s Home and . . . My hands stilled. Loosely organized.
Vamps were never loosely organized. They were kept in line by blood sharing and bindings and physical and emotional trauma, and that organization always included the heir and spare. I thought back to the meeting of the clans at the warehouse in Und
er the Hill. “Eli? Did we ever meet Lotus? The MOC’s heir?”
The Ranger was watching me. “Not that I recall. Why?”
“We should have met Lotus.” I tried to remember all the faces I’d seen. According to her original dossier, provided by Reach, Lotus was Asian and slight, with long black hair. She should have been introduced to me by now. “She wasn’t at the reception when we first got here. I vaguely remember Big H’s sons, the Daffodil and the Life.”
“Narkis and Zoltar, respectively,” Eli said, amusement lurking in his eyes as he reassembled a second handgun, the sounds ringing through the silent house. “Though I’ll pay money if you’ll call them that to their faces.” He reached into the kit and removed a small screwdriver, replacing it with another at the same time. He was neatness personified.
I was betting money that Sylvia was a slob, which would have made me grin had my brain not been otherwise occupied. “Lotus wasn’t in Big H’s lair when we gave out the doses of antibody, either,” I said. “So we haven’t met her.” I pulled out my phone and scrolled down to Big H’s primo blood-servant and hit CALL. When he answered, I said, “Where’s Lotus?”
The man didn’t answer. I racked my brain and came up with the primo’s name. “Clark? Where. Is. Lotus?”
“She has been . . . excommunicated,” he said slowly. “That is all I may say.”
“When was the last time Big H drank from his sons?”
“Four days,” he said. “Why—” He stopped quickly. “Narkis and Zoltar have not betrayed their father.”
And if he drank from them, he would know. Drinking from a scion or a blood-bonded servant involved a sort of mind reading. I knew that from personal experience. Francis had said the ones closest to Big H had turned on him. Zoltar and Narkis were not the ones closest to Big H. I had assumed, and Francis had let me. I hung up, spun out of my chair, and pounded up the stairs, feeling Bobby’s eyes on me as I ran. Behind me, I heard him say, “She can run fast, huh?”
Eli grunted. Mr. Conversationalist.
I brought down the papers and the electronic tablet the Kid had given me, both filled with research into the vampire family trees in Natchez, sat at the table, and ran through the list of authorized kills in Natchez. Lotus wasn’t there. I wasn’t supposed to kill her. So where was she?
I scrolled through the tablet to Lotus’ personal info and history, as compiled by Reach, the Kid, and Bodat. Under Lotus’ known acquaintances I found Esther McTavish. And Silandre. I sat back with a satisfied smile. Lotus’ name wasn’t on Hieronymus’ kill list, yet she was involved with all this craziness. Either Big H was in love with her or he didn’t know how far she had gone to the dark side. So unless she attacked me or a human or I could prove she had drained and killed a human, I couldn’t kill her, though she was, maybe, now in charge of the Naturaleza in Natchez.
Like usual, vamp problems and troubles went back decades, sometimes centuries, and untangling the skein of old injury, torment, and conflict was impossible. After a time, old pain became like a living being, with breath and self-determination.
“First we finish the guns,” I said. “Then we nap. Then we go back to Silandre’s Saloon. Tell your brother to concentrate on relationships between all the vamp females.”
Eli shrugged. Bobby smiled happily, his joy like a beacon of contentment in the room, satisfied because I was satisfied. I had forgotten how his inner happiness could radiate and fill up an empty space. Or an empty, lonely heart.
CHAPTER 19
I Look Like a Well-Dressed Street Person
I woke when Charly climbed on the bed with me. “Not now, Charly,” I mumbled.
“It’s Sunday. We have to go to church.”
“Not today, Charly,” I mumbled again. I touched my lips. They felt numb.
“Yes. Today.”
The covers were yanked off my shoulders and down to my waist. Chilled winter air followed it, covering me, and I was glad I had put on a T-shirt and leggings to sleep in. “No.” Blindly, I shoved to push her away, hitting only air while simultaneously grabbing for the covers. And hitting only air again. Cold air. “We’ll go to church another day.”
“Yes,” Bobby said. He grabbed my flailing hand and pulled it. Colder, smaller fingers took my other hand and yanked. Insistent.
“Noooo.” I was head and shoulders off the bed when I finally opened my eyes. “I don’t want to go to church.” It sounded whiny even to my own ears. “I want to sleep.”
“And Charly needs to pray.” Bobby said.
“I have to pray for my mama and I have to pray to God to make me well. Mama made me promise.”
Which went straight through to my heart like a silver-tipped stake and woke me up. “Crap,” I mumbled. I wrenched my hands free and braced myself on the mattress, shoving my hair out of the way. “I didn’t bring a dress. All I have are my fighting clothes.”
“Miss Esmee has a skirt you can use,” Bobby said. “She said it’s purple. And you can wear a T-shirt. Like you did in Bethel.”
Bethel. The children’s home. He’d used the Bethel card. I blew out a breath. I knew when I was beaten. “Okay. Get dressed. I’ll find a church.” The kids left, and I groaned out of bed and to my feet. I braided my hair in the bathroom and smeared on a bit of red lipstick.
Out of curiosity, I peeked into Bruiser’s room; it was empty and—by the lack of fresh scent—had been for some time. The chores for his master were time consuming, even though the relationship had undergone a fundamental change. I closed the door and looked over my meager clothing. “Black, black, and more black,” I said, putting on a bra and black tee and green Lucchese boots over the leggings. I’d look stupid. But Charly needed to pray. And maybe I did too.
Still, I packed a nine mil in its box, loaded, safety on and no round in the chamber. Locked the box. Carrying it, I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Black hair, amber eyes, copper skin, black circles under my eyes to match the black tee, the black leggings. The only colors were in my irises and the green snakeskin boots. Which clashed. And I didn’t have a Bible. I hadn’t brought it. I couldn’t remember the last time I hadn’t brought a Bible out of town. I was going to church, and I packed a gun. How sick was that? I was so going to hell, and not for my sex life or the vamps I killed. But for the slow wandering away from God, from prayer, from any kind of spirituality. I hadn’t even remembered it was Sunday. Yeah. Hell.
I went online and found a nondenominational church in town. It was way bigger than any I’d ever attended, and from its Web site, it looked like a male-dominated church, probably one where the little ladies sat with their hands primly clasped and wore little tatted head coverings. But it was the only one close by that looked like something Misha would want her daughter to attend. I saved the directions on my cell phone and left the room, making my way down the stairs.
Esmee met me at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in paisley silk pajamas of a particularly hideous green color and a sunflower-yellow silk robe and matching ballerina bedroom slippers, holding a decidedly plain—for her—purple skirt. It had two layers; the underlayer a heavy, dark purple cotton, and the upper layer a lighter shade of purple, full and gauzy. The waist was elastic, and when I pulled it on, the hem fell to the tops of my boots. On Esmee, it must have dragged the floor.
“It looks lovely on you, dear,” she said, patting my hand. “But you’ll need some color. This amethyst necklace and the matching bracelet will bring out the darker colors of the underskirt.”
I tried to say no, but she drew my head down and snapped the amethyst choker to my throat, and opened the cuff bracelet and slid it onto my wrist. Both were ridiculously heavy and probably cost a fortune. “They go beautifully with your coloring,” she said. “You are such a striking girl.”
She patted my cheek, her eyes glowing with pleasure at my wearing her baubles. I felt my heart go all mushy.
“And this black shawl will keep you warm in the church.” She
wrapped me up in the knitted shawl as if I were a little girl, and I let her, feeling all teary-eyed. I am such a dweeb.
I smiled down at her, bent, and kissed her forehead. “Thank you, Miz Esmee. I’ll take good care of them.
“I know you will, dear. Here’s a Bible.” She placed a worn Bible in my hands, her name in gold gilt lettering on the embossed leather cover. I was deeply touched that she would share her own Bible with me. “You are full of woe and darkness and anger,” she said, her tone sad. I snapped my eyes to hers. “So go to church and give all that to God. He’s big enough to take care of it all.”
I shoved down my reaction. I got my best advice from the tribal elders I’d met in my life, and while Esmee appeared to be a dotty old woman, tottering around in a big empty house, hoping for interaction from the outside world, she had seen the darkness inside me as clearly as Aggie One Feather, my Cherokee elder. Esmee wasn’t tribal, but she was a woman rich in years and likely rich in wisdom as well, and had insights I hadn’t considered. “Ummm,” I said.
“It’s very simple,” she said, reading my thoughts on my face. “It isn’t hard or painful or violent or learned or scary. It’s just you and the Almighty talking.”
Something bright and icy shivered through me. “Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“The children are waiting in the car, which that nice young man has turned on and gotten warm for you. Go pray, my dear.”
I leaned down and kissed her forehead again before leaving the house, a gun in one hand, a Bible in the other. Charly and Bobby were in the backseat; Eli was sitting behind the wheel in the SUV, drinking from an insulated cup and reading a newspaper—another paper one. It was odd seeing real newspapers twice, like a glimpse back in time. Another cup was in the cup holder in the dash, and when I opened the door, it smelled of tea and spices and milk. I was tired, and more tears pooled in my eyes at his kindness.
Eli took one look at me and his lips quirked up ever so slightly.