Jane Yellowrock 14 - True Dead

by Faith Hunter

  Getting up, I clinked my mug into the kitchen sink hard enough to crack it, stuffed my bare feet into my mudders, and yanked on a thin green slicker. I walked toward the door and yelled, “I’m hungry, and the quiches smell like heaven. So not fair!”

  I may have stomped, and stomped some more as I headed into the rain. It was possible. I’d miss that mug.

  I strode away from the house, letting the cold rain patter onto me, trickle down my collar, letting the slow fall of water cool me off. “Idiots,” I said.

  I heard a doggy chuff and spotted Brute watching me from the overhang of one of the cottages, still and silent. “Men are stupid,” I said.

  Brute sat up tall and raised his eyebrows as if considering my statement. He lifted a paw, touching his head. Then he looked at the cottage near him. There were footprints in the soft, rain-wet ground leading to it. They had been there long enough to be full of water. They didn’t belong to Eli or Alex. Worry whispered through me.

  Bruiser?

  Stepping slowly, as silently as I could in the mucky grass, I approached the cottage window. I heard his voice and a woman’s voice. I didn’t like her cajoling, suggestive tones.

  I backed away, raced back inside, toed off the mudders, and sprinted up the stairs to the closet where I kept my own toys. I slid out a plastic container and rummaged around for the Glob, but it wasn’t there. I found it in the pocket of the armor I had worn to the vamp battle and raced back down. Downstairs, I slapped my crown on, felt it adhere to my head, too tight, as always, and patted my pocket where the Glob rested.

  Eli was standing at the back door, a nine-mil in one hand, a machete-looking blade in his other, a water resistant pouch cinched at his waist. “What?” he said.

  “Don’t know. Brute’s out in the rain, staring at the second cottage.” I pulled on the mudders.

  “That’s where we put Monique Giovanni after Shaddock finished healing her gunshot wounds and relieved her pain from the broken wrist,” Eli said.

  From the office, Alex called out, “I have footage of Bruiser entering the cottage. Forty-two minutes ago.”

  “Too long,” I muttered. “Looks like I may have to slap the back of my Consort’s head too. I’m surrounded by idiot men.”

  “This idiot man has your back.”

  I looked at Eli, his dark eyes calm and steady. “We okay?” I asked.

  “Babe . . .” His tone called me stupid. And loved. And family.

  I laughed once, but it was a sad tone, not real laughter. “I shot Monique. And broke her wrist. She heals up nicely with vamp blood, but if she’s messing with his brain, I’ll end her.”

  “Roger that.”

  Together we stepped from the back door. I spotted Brute, who was standing, four-pawed, beneath the window of the cottage. I bent slightly forward and crab-raced to the cottage, Eli behind. He sped to my left and disappeared around the cottage, making sure this wasn’t an ambush.

  I leaned close to the building but couldn’t hear a thing. Eli joined me from the right and mouthed, Clear.

  “Wish I had cat ears,” I whispered. I glanced at him and grinned. “Never thought I’d say that.”

  From his dry bag, Eli pulled out a tiny black rubber suction cup and pressed it to the lower corner of the window. We waited a moment to make sure no one inside had seen the tiny cup appear, but there was no reaction from within, the voices talking on without change. Eli snapped in a small plug and unwound three black wires, two earpieces, and one micro video port, which he plugged into his cell. He handed me an earpiece and took one for himself.

  Just that fast, we had ears and eyes inside. I loved tech. “Mr. Prepared.”

  “Always.”

  I worked the earbud in and could hear just fine, Bruiser’s voice and Giovanni’s, hers all seductive. I wasn’t jealous of her tone, so like a vamp in mesmerism. She had no idea what Leo had put my sweet-cheeks through. No way she could roll the former primo, especially not with the silver cuffs on her wrists and head. I took in what I could see of the room. It was the back bedroom of a two-bedroom cottage, decorated in leaf green with charcoal gray walls and white trim. Giovanni, wearing dark purple pants and a sweater, was sitting in a captain’s chair in front of a gas fireplace, which was not lit.

  “I am not the Firestarter who attacked the Winter Court of the Dark Queen,” she said. “Look at my hands. At my face. You saw that one. The Firestarter . . .” Her voice trailed off and she bowed her head. The woman was facing away from the window; Bruiser was sitting in a second chair, facing slightly away from her, at an angle from me.

  I had to wonder why they were talking about Aurelia Flamma Scintilla, the Firestarter sorta-Onorio who started out a witch-in-the-closet nun and made burning vamps to death her reason to live. Who picked her as a topic? And why? Aurelia was dark haired, dark eyed, and was neither vampire nor blood-servant, but a rarer creature, similar to Bruiser and the B-twins, but a dark type of Onorio called a senza onore. We saw an illusion of the former nun last March as we fought a losing battle.

  “I am not Aurelia,” Monique whispered, so softly I nearly missed it. “I did not burn the mausoleum in New Orleans.”

  And then I understood. They were talking about Leo’s death. It all came back to Leo. To his death. His burial. The burning of his mausoleum. I had assumed that all those blasted layered political threads he had woven together over the years had come apart when he died. But clearly there were threads I didn’t know about. It seemed Leo had woven me and my entire family into his final tapestry.

  “The Firestarter,” she said, “is in New Orleans once again. It is said that Aurelia burned the outclan priestess to a crisp, that the priestess was true dead. But the Firestarter doesn’t believe this. She is hunting for Sabina.”

  That figured. Aurelia tried to burn Sabina to true death, hoping to find and steal the relics guarded by the outclan priestess. Monique shook her head as if she was sad, her dark blond hair moving on her shoulders. She raised her bound wrists close to her face, as if scratching her nose. Eli said that Linc had healed her, but clearly only partially. Someone had splinted and wrapped the broken wrist and let her clean herself up. I wouldn’t have bothered. But then I’m not a nice person. Niceness was saved for friends, and we didn’t really know what Monique wanted or the extent of her power.

  She was right about the Firestarter and Sabina, useless as the reports were. Gossip in vamp circles touted both versions, a dead Sabina, and sightings of the blackened husk of a woman, hunting humans, leaving them happy and alive but much lighter on blood. It was possible for badly burned, very old vamps to survive, and if she did, Sabina had the last piece of the Blood Cross in the United States. And probably other stuff too. Possibly even the last ingots of the iron Spike of Golgotha. Along with the wood of the crosses, the nine spikes of the crucifixion had been found all in a pile, collected, and re-shaped into a single spike, a dark magic amulet called the Spike of Golgotha. Then ingots had been cut off of it: they were used in time-magic, dark magic, and the creation of amulets of power.

  Mate is in danger, Beast said.

  Yeah? I thought to my furry half. I don’t see it.

  Beast sees. She showed me her vision, as thin smokelike tendrils of purple and green magic swirled lazily in the air over Bruiser’s head. Magic, even though the senza onore was wearing null cuffs. That shouldn’t be possible.

  But Bruiser wasn’t blind to her antics. Woven through the strands of her magic was Bruiser’s own power: red, blue, green, and a soft golden yellow knotting off the purple and green strands. This convo was a verbal and magical duel of sorts, as if Bruiser was using the cuffs to figure out how strong Monique was. He was fighting back, but with defensive magic only. I had asked Bruiser not to challenge Monique today, so . . . right. He was defending only, not attacking, because I had asked him not to. I scowled.

  And then I saw the silver null cuff on Monique’s head slide through her hair and dangle in the fingers of her broken wrist as she lowered th
em to her lap. She had gotten the head cuff off. Bruiser stared at it in her hands, even as the one on her wrists clicked and fell to her lap.

  My Consort smiled. He had known it was coming free. He had let it happen. And he was wearing gloves. I hadn’t even noticed. They were nearly the color of his skin, and in Beast’s sight, they glowed with power, different from the cold energies of the null cuffs. Hedge of thorns energies.

  I tightened, not sure if I should intervene. Eli shot a look at me. I shook my head, mouthing, Not yet. Bruiser had known what she would do, what she was doing. He needed this mental combat. Needed to overcome this woman and her power. He needed to win.

  Seduction and wile in her tone, Monique said, “Sabina, if she lives, knows where another relic is. I will leave Jane alone if you help me find it. There is rebellion brewing, Onorio and senza onore, and also against some of the ancient Mithran overlords. You could stand beside me. Work with me. We could lead this together.”

  Bruiser’s magic lashed at Monique’s, stabbing and twisting, pulling the strands apart. He murmured, “Ancient Mithran overlords?” He chuckled. “I am loyal to the Dark Queen. I am not interested in joining an Onorio rebellion. Your service to the Flayer of Mithrans—an ancient overlord himself—changed you in some fundamental way, Monique. Your magic feels unclean, tastes vile against mine, lacking in life and joy. No human exposed to that noxious combination of ancient evil and irrationality could stay sane.”

  Monique said, “I am more than I once was. As you could be too.”

  “Again, not interested.”

  “And what of Leo Pellissier?”

  “My master is dead.”

  “Death does not end love. You still love Leo. What would you give me to get him back alive? What would you give if his master could give him back to you?”

  “Holy crap,” I murmured.

  Bruiser said nothing, a pause that lasted heartbeats too long. “Nothing. I would give nothing to revive the dead. And his master is dead at the hands of my own Lady Mother.”

  My Lady Mother was what Bruiser called his titled mother, who died killing the vampires who were using her body and taking her blood. I knew the story. She killed Amaury Pellissier and numerous other vamps by drinking silver-laced alcohol before they attacked her.

  Monique breathed and raised her hands, putting them on Bruiser’s face, cupping his cheeks and stroking his lips with her thumbs. The fingers of the broken wrist were still bruised and swollen, but she seemed not to notice. “Not his maker. His master.”

  “Who—” Bruiser jerked back, breaking the touch. He was holding the null cuffs. She hadn’t noticed he had taken them off her lap. The hedge of thorns–imprinted gloves glowed in my vision.

  Monique’s purple strands attacked. Bruiser stood, his hands laced together in a single fist holding the cuffs. Using their magic. His arms thrust up. Knocked Monique’s to the side. Stepped back. Kicked her in the chest. Pivoted into a rooted stance. All in one smooth motion, a basic martial arts move, breaking a hold, kicking, twisting away.

  Her chair tilted back on two legs. Her hands threw magic like dark purple lances. The chair tipped farther. Her attack magic was absorbed by the gloves and the null cuffs except for a single strand that hit Bruiser in the chest. He threw his entire body at her and rolled her out of the chair. Across the floor. Latching the null cuffs around her neck so tight they cut her flesh.

  Her blood landed on the metal, and her magical attack slowed to a trickle, choked off. Her mouth opened in gasping silent rage.

  Bruiser inhaled, catching his breath. Latched the wrist cuffs back on her, accidently bending her broken wrist through the splint and tape as she sucked in a pained breath. He almost apologized for her pain, but stopped himself, his mouth tight.

  Monique was still reeling as he righted her chair, picked her up, and sat her in it. He stretched behind her to the mantle and grabbed a roll of duct tape I hadn’t noticed. Moving primo-fast, he stripped off a length and wrapped it around her wrists on top of the cuffs and then around one chair arm. He secured her ankles together and then to a chair leg. It was a well-made solid oak captain’s chair, and though it was possible to break the chair apart and get away, it couldn’t be done silently.

  Bruiser stepped away from her. Touched his chest the way people did on TV when they’ve been shot, and looked at his fingers. There was no blood from the place where Monique’s magic had hit him. He turned and left the room. A moment later, Eli and I heard the outer door close and the lock turn. Bruiser’s footsteps moved toward the barnlike fermentation room, sounding somehow dejected.

  Even wounded, Monique had bested him again, using guile and mesmerism, and my Consort had been forced to resort to physical means to defeat her. When he was gone, Monique started crying silently. Besides reinjuring her broken wrist, it was clear that Bruiser had hurt her magically too. Good for my sweet-cheeks.

  “What did she mean, ‘Not his maker. His master’?” Eli whispered.

  “I got no idea. Follow him?” I asked. “Make sure he’s okay. She hit him with a spear of purple magic. Right in his chest.”

  “And what are you gonna do, Janie?”

  “There’s blood at her neck. I can use that blood.”

  “Don’t get yourself killed.”

  “Copy that,” I said, as Eli gathered up his equipment and followed Bruiser.

  He glanced back. “Don’t forget your appointment. Noon in the sweathouse.”

  “Yuck,” I said. He gave me that not-really-there smile and loped after my honeybunch.

  I was alone except for the white werewolf. “Hey,” I said to Brute. “You’re standing in the rain.”

  He chuffed at me.

  “Wanna go inside and roll all over a mean woman who tried to hurt my boyfriend?”

  Brute’s mouth opened and his tongue lolled out. He panted into my face and wagged his tail. His breath was a dreadful combo of salmon from his last meal and mint from the chewy he gnawed to keep his teeth clean.

  I faked a gag. “Yuck. And I’m taking that as a yes.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I made my way around the cottage and inside, opened the door to the bedroom, and let the werewolf in. I closed the door after him without Monique seeing me. I pulled off le breloque. It wasn’t always agreeable to being removed, but it didn’t clamp down this time. I set it aside, puttering around the kitchen, which was kitted out with all the necessities a visiting vamp might need. I started a pot of coffee and turned on the kettle. Placed a few Irish Breakfast silk tea bags in the pot. Banged around a bit. Found some commercial bakery lemon cookies in an unopened brown paper sack. They were still fresh enough, and I poured some into a small bowl. I set up a tray, sorta the way Bruiser might, coffee carafe on one side with a mug, teapot on the other with a mug. I added stirring spoons, creamer, sugar, and some stevia stuff. The mugs were all white and bland, with no catchy sayings on the bottom. I needed a mug about Onorios. Something pithy. I tore off and folded paper towels instead of napkins. Classy.

  As I worked, I heard squeals and shouts and various phrases repeated: “Get away from me, you stupid dog! Stop! Horrors! Someone get this dog off of me! Ahhh!”

  I placed le breloque to the side of my teapot, opened the door to the bedroom, and snapped my fingers. Brute bounded out, happy as a puppy. I let him outside and closed the door. Lifting a small serving table, I carried it into the bedroom, placed it near Monique’s chair, then brought in the serving tray. It looked nice.

  When I had it all set up, I pulled a chair over and sat, crossed one ankle over the other knee like a guy, and leaned forward, cupping my chin in my palm and that elbow on the bent knee. I stared at Monique Giovanni for a while, taking her in and not hiding it. She had dark honey-colored hair with professionally dyed blond and brown streaks. Bluish eyes. Good bone structure. Small weak chin. Right now it was covered with dog spit, and her clothes were wet and well crusted with dog hair. Other than the spit and dried blood on her clothes
from when I shot her, she was attractive in the way humans got when they drink a lot of vamp blood over the years—excellent skin, all glowy. Onorios don’t have to drink much blood to keep the effects up, and unlike regular humans, they didn’t become blood-bound.

  I checked to be sure there was no werewolf spit on her abrasions, and mentally congratulated Brute for saliva placement. She wouldn’t get were-taint and he wouldn’t get sliced and diced to death by a grindylow for turning her. Good werewolf, I thought. And then I wondered if Onorios could actually get were-taint. Vamps couldn’t. An interesting thought for another time.

  I rummaged around in my brain for what little I knew about them. They couldn’t be bound. They could drain a vamp’s power unto true death. They could take over control of a vamp from a stronger master, creating a scion who was little better than a slave. They could drain vamps of magical power, leaving them defenseless. They had improved healing and much longer lifespans than humans, though less long than vamps. On the negative side, in a battle with another Onorio, they could be drained of their own magical power, which could lead to death. There was probably more, but that was all I really needed.

  “You know who I am?” I asked.

  “You’re Jane Yellowrock. The bounty hunter.”

  She meant it as an insult to the Dark Queen, and I wanted to laugh. You have to know someone well for an insult to take, and bounty-hunting rogue vamps was a way better job than this queen crap. I kept my reaction off my face and went for crude. “You need to pee?” I asked.