Jane Yellowrock 14 - True Dead

by Faith Hunter

“I shall see that this is offered to others in the wardrobe room and a more suitable color is made for you, my love.”

  He tucked it under his arm, and we were still smiling when we left the room. In the hallway outside, stood Raisin. She was glaring at us. Beast was still close to the surface, and I could smell Raisin and her feelings—a mixture of animosity and fear and blood. Raisin was one of the oldest blood-servants at HQ, wrinkled like a Shar-Pei puppy but still sharp as a tack and as prickly as a blackberry vine.

  “I will have a word with you Primo,” she said in her British (maybe Welsh?) accent, sounding prissy and ticked off, her mouth making dozens of vertical lines on her upper and lower lips.

  “I am Consort, no longer primo, ma’am, but I am your servant.” Bruiser’s tone was clipped and reprimanding. He turned to me and said, pointedly, “My Queen.”

  I knew that the “I am your servant” part was an old-fashioned way of being polite, but I didn’t like it. I could tell that Bruiser didn’t like the fact that Raisin hadn’t called me queen. And that she said she “will have a word” versus “may I please have a word?” In the vamp world, she had been unforgivably and deliberately rude.

  “My Queen,” she said grudgingly.

  I had wanted to talk to Raisin about old things she might remember, but I had the feeling trying to draw info out of her would be a waste of time. I also know when I’ve been insulted, so I ignored her. In true vamp style, and true Beast style, I turned my back on her. “I’m hungry,” I said to Bruiser. “I’m heading home to see the loc . . . trinket and eat some food.”

  “I shall be along shortly, my most beloved queen. And I shall notify your brothers that you will be arriving shortly.” He too turned his back and made Raisin wait as he used his phone.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the old blood-servant look down and lace her hands. Pretty sure she got the message.

  * * *

  * * *

  I had no idea what time it was, but it was still daylight when I got home. I was beyond hungry, and luckily Eli knew I was on the way and starving. He had a sandwich plate prepared for me, stacked tall with thin-sliced smoked ham and cheese, with lettuce and tomato, goopy with mayo, with a side of greasy scalding fries right out of the oil. He had made plates for Alex and him as well, and we all sat down to eat together. It was a marvelous meal with dark beer, lots of salt on the fries, and neither one of the guys watched me eat, so I could stuff huge mouthfuls of food in.

  When we were finished, I said, “How about the dishwashing waits, and we look at the locket now?”

  Eli and Alex shared a glance that meant they had been talking about me. I gave both of them the stink-eye, but they pretended not to see me. Eli rose from the table, put his headset on, and began a reconnoiter, checking all the windows and doors. He was armed, and not just with a double-thigh rig, but with a double-shoulder holster. Four nine-mils. Extra mags were tucked here and there. And he was wearing body armor between his T-shirts. Eli was expecting trouble. Lots of trouble. I had been so hungry that I hadn’t noticed.

  Alex silently cleared the dishes off the table and put them in the sink. Eli and Alex were tense. Worried. I didn’t know what had happened, but it wasn’t good. I looked out the kitchen window to see a sentry patrol in front of the house.

  Satisfied with his recce, Eli ended a sotto voce discussion with the security team, turned off his mic, and returned to the table holding a tiny box.

  He and Alex sat on either side of me, protective, worried, or . . . maybe wanting the opportunity to speak very quietly. Eli confirmed that theory when he said softly, “The locket was concealed in a box. The box is carved from soapstone.”

  He seemed to be wanting some kind of response, so I said, “Okay.”

  “I’m human, and I don’t want to touch it. It felt funky, so I put the soapstone box inside a wood box.”

  If a fully human man could feel the magics inside, that was very bad. Or maybe very good? “Okay.” I held out my hands, cupped as if to drink water.

  Eli pulled a weapon and pointed it at the kitchen window, a cross-body aim that only a really good shooter could hope to make. Eli was better than good. With his left hand, he placed a wooden box in mine.

  The sense of magic hit me instantly. I dropped the wood box on the table. It was heavier than I had expected, and it rattled and bounced on the tabletop before coming to a stop in the center of the table. As if it knew where it was. Yeah. Right.

  Carefully, I opened the wood box. Inside was a small round box with a nub on top, like a small stem, the whole thing carved from dark green soapstone. I rubbed my fingertips against my thumbs, knowing that I didn’t really want to touch it either. But I was the Dark Queen. I had a job to do.

  “Crap. Hang on,” I said. I went to my room and came back, putting the Glob on the table near the small stone box. The sensation of dangerous magic decreased. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  I reached over and pinched the stem. Lifted it. Power rammed out of the box. I dropped the stem, stepped back, shaking my fingers. The stone lid rolled around on the table like a slow-spinning top. Carefully, I leaned over and peered inside. Nestled in the bottom was a locket.

  “Holy crap with toe jam,” I muttered.

  “What?” Eli demanded.

  “It looks like the winged lizard I got from Sabina, but it’s way more powerful.” It was made of the same kind of metal and was inset with powerful, clear things, a liquid droplet beneath each. I held a hand over the stone container, and I could actually feel the Glob soaking up the familiar-feeling magics. “It has arcenciel magic in it. It’s made from the scales and blood of a rainbow dragon.”

  I reached in and lifted out the locket, dropping it on the table. With the Glob in one hand, I opened the locket. On one side was an ink drawing of Adan Bouvier; on the other was an ink drawing of Ka, just as Bruiser had said. I closed it with a soft metallic snap and placed it back in the soapstone container. I rubbed my fingers and thumb together. They felt slightly numb. Tingly.

  “Okay. There are three magical thingies with arcenciel magic in them in NOLA, the dragon-lizard, the snake amulet worn by Shaun, and this locket. All have to be connected to whatever is happening between Sabina, Leo, Adan, Ka, Shaun, and this unknown master.”

  “We need to keep the amulets separate,” Eli said. “The lizard is in the gun safe. What do you want to do with this?”

  I frowned. There had been a generation of witch children that had disappeared in bursts of light. It had crossed my mind that they been stolen by arcenciels, but that wasn’t a can of worms I wanted to open. Avoiding bringing up that topic, I asked, “Would an Everhart know anything about arcenciel magic?”

  “I’ll mention it to Liz when we talk later, but I doubt it.”

  “Let me know if you find out anything. I’ll stick the box in my closet under Molly’s hedge of thorns and obfuscation workings.” Molly Everhart Trueblood was my BFF and the older sister of Eli’s girlfriend, Liz. All the Everhart bloodline witches were powerful, and I knew for a fact that they had access to grimoires full of ancient magic and history. Moll provided me workings for a good price, and I took care of big bad uglies who came after her family.

  I put the top back on the soapstone container and closed it all up in the wood box. The wood had to have some kind of power-dampening working in it because I could handle it now without the numbing reaction. The Glob, however, was red hot, so I left it on the table as I carried the locket to the closet, placed it on the top shelf, and set up the hedge amulet for the protective working. This particular hedge of thorns was a blood-activated, third-gen version, created to hide and protect magical thingies from thieves. I pricked my finger, initiated the hedge with a smear of my own blood, and the energies powered up with a faint red shimmer. It covered the box, my crown (which I didn’t remember bringing home), and other, less dangerous stuff. The hedge might not be as powerful as a portable null working, but it was effective enough, and without me, it would be dang diffi
cult to get to the locket.

  I closed the doors, thinking about all the magical doohickeys I had collected. Wondering if anything new had been discovered in the foundation of the chapel.

  In the kitchen, I saw that Eli had rolled the Glob onto oven mitts but that the tabletop was heat-damaged.

  “Sorry,” I said, looking at the damage.

  Eli and Alex laughed as if I had said something funny. And maybe I had. Of all the horrible things that happened to and around me, a small scorch mark was one of the least important. The Glob had cooled quickly, so I carried it back to its spot in the closet, in the plastic bin with all the other crazy stuff. My life was weird.

  As I was standing up from the floor of the closet, I heard a knock at the door. Eli didn’t race to it, weapons drawn, but he did move fast into firing position.

  From his desk, Alex said, “Front cameras show an HQ messenger. No other movement except a prostitute negotiating with a john in a Porsche down the street. Back and side cameras all negative. Katie’s Ladies cameras all negative.”

  My cell rang softly, with HQ’s main number on it. “Hang on,” I said to the guys as I took the call. “Yellowrock.”

  “My Queen,” Raisin said, sounding just a tad sarcastic.

  I put it on speaker and walked to the bedroom doorway so my brothers could hear the call. “Ernestine?” I asked, pretty sure she would hate my nickname for her.

  “Yes, My Queen,” she said briskly. “The Primo—forgive me—Your Consort requested me to look over and translate a journal that the Pri—your Consort—gave to me. I have messengered over the journal and my translation.”

  Eli had ambled closer and said, “Your willingness and joy to bow to your queen and follow the orders of her Consort have been noted.”

  There was a faint hesitation before Raisin continued. “Yes,” she said. “Things change. Often. And sometimes in dangerous ways not expected by those who rule.”

  Which sounded like a threat. Or a promise. But her words made Eli smile that cold battle smile that said he had an enemy in his sights. “Continue, Ernestine. And tread carefully around your queen and her faithful and loyal servants.”

  Raisin said, “The journal is not old, only from the 1920s. However, I found mention of a Cherokee woman and thought you might be interested. I recall this Cherokee woman,” she said, her tone making it a racial slur against native people.

  I narrowed my eyes and glanced at Eli. His eyes were watching out the window, but his body was relaxed, too calm. Battle ready.

  “She was well known as a blood-servant, though few were allowed to sip of her.” Raisin’s tone said that was unusual and wrong. “She had eyes like yours.” More insulting tone.

  Raisin had never liked me, but she had never been so totally without manners or respect. It was almost as if she felt there would be no reprisals for her attitude. We had traitors in HQ. Was Raisin aligned with them? From Eli’s reaction, he had the same questions.

  Raisin continued, “While I do not recall the events in the text, I thought that My Queen might be interested.”

  The messenger at the door. Right. Old vamps and old blood-servants seldom used text. The phone in Raisin’s office still had a wire into the wall . . . I nodded to Eli and said, “Ernestine. Your many years of service to the Mithrans of the city, and your current manner, have been noted.”

  “My Queen.” She ended the call without being dismissed.

  I thought about the scents I had caught from Raisin when she appeared outside Leo’s bedroom door. The mixture had been more than animosity and fear. It also had been strong with fresh blood, and Raisin had never smelled so strongly of blood in the past. Raisin had fed and been fed on. A lot.

  Eli, weapon in hand, held down and at his side, opened the door, accepted the package from the messenger, and carried it to the kitchen table. Carefully, he inspected the envelope for mundane traps, like miniature explosives and poisons.

  From his desk, Alex said, “I had Derek drill through the floor above and install hidden cameras in Raisin’s office while we were in Asheville. It’s not downloaded to the main security system, but to a separate system. Just in case someone talked. I’ve scanned it once a week for the last three months, but I’m overdue for a look-see. I’ll access it and go back over the footage.”

  “What about her quarters?” Eli asked, shining a Wood’s light over the package and the palm of his hand where he had touched the legal-sized envelope.

  “No cameras there. There’s some things I do not need to see. Might scar me for life.”

  Eli’s mouth softened in his version of a smile. “Tia hasn’t already done that?”

  Alex didn’t look away from his systems. “She’s working on it, but we’ve only been back to NOLA for a few days. So far, I’m holding my own.”

  “Too much information, guys,” I said.

  Tia was a former member of Katie’s Ladies, and she was also learning about computers from Alex, which was odd because Tia had always appeared to be . . . not stupid, but . . . slow, intellectually. Alex and Tia had been on and off again in virtual reality for months. I really didn’t need to know what they had been up to in person, though if Tia and Alex were involved, that might be a good thing. She had been broken as a young woman, and Alex would be an innocent and gentle partner.

  Alex ducked his head farther to hide his grin.

  Oh yeah. Something-something between them. Good.

  “Nothing I can detect on the envelope,” Eli said, after spraying the envelope with something vinegary and then something alkaline. He went to the back of the house to the old laundry room, which he had remodeled after one of the bloodbath events over the years. He came back carrying a heavy-duty shield made of clear, thick polycarbonate, a riot shield like cops use, but this one had a sky-blue band across the bottom, signaling that it was a null shield too, giving him resistance to active magical workings.

  My heart shot into my throat. Beast-fast, I grabbed Alex’s shoulder and pulled his rolling chair across the living room and along the wall that placed the weapons room between us and the kitchen. It was a testament to our violent lives that Alex didn’t resist or ask why. My last vision of Eli was him pulling a knife from a pocket. I heard the sound of paper being cut, slicing sounds, followed by the shush of leather and paper and the ripple sound of pages flipping. A plastic-clatter followed as the shield was placed on the floor.

  “All clear,” Eli said.

  Alex slid back to the desk, the chair rollers whirring over wood and the fancy new rugs. I walked into the kitchen. Eli looked fine, not even a sheen of perspiration, while I was ever so slightly clammy.

  Eli said, “Ernestine sent over a journal kept by a vamp named Malita Del Omo. She says to read pages sixty-three and sixty-four.” Eli opened the journal to the pages and the translations to the same. Comparing back and forth, he read, “I am distraught. I shall be given to another master. The life I have lived here is over. My Ka and my Adan have been sent away by the Master of the City, the terrible Leo Pellissier. He has judged that they have performed unspeakable black arts, using Mithrans and blood-servants as test subjects. But I am still here. I still live. I am to be given away as scion to another. Given away.”

  “Like a slave,” I murmured.

  Eli slid his finger along the translation, and also along the original text. “It’s some version of Spanish. Here it says, ‘Adan and Ka were separated, and Ka was sent to two outclan priestesses in Europe’.”

  “Which ones?” I asked.

  “Bethany and Edith.”

  “Well dang,” I said mildly. “Bethany is dead, and I never heard of an Edith.”

  “Checking records on an outclan named Edith,” Alex said from his desk. “And nothing. Nada.”

  Eli gave me his battlefield smile. “Puzzles, constructed from ancient mysteries and archaic riddles, bound up in antiquated enigmas.” He lifted his brows, faintly amused. “It’s better than being shot at.”

  I took photos of the
translations and the journal and sent them to the B-twin Onorios who were dealing with my messes here and back in Asheville, as well as to Koun, though the vamp was still asleep for the day.

  Brandon responded immediately, calling.

  I answered, “Yellowrock here. Call is on speaker to Eli and Alex.”

  Brandon said, “My Queen. Adan was punished many times for misuse of magic and experiments into blood magic. He finally went too far, and was supposed to have been dispatched by the Enforcer of Clan Pellissier. Ka was banished and killed in a shipwreck off the coast of Spain on the way to be trained by two Onorios. Or so it was said.” Or so it was said was vamp-talk for it was unproven gossip.

  “Where was Bethany living at the time?”

  “She spent a lot of time in Europe so she could have been there when Ka was sent.”

  “I see,” I said, walking around the sofa in the living room, a slow circle, thinking as I walked. “We know Adan lived. And Sabina saw Ka, or an illusion of Ka, the night the cemetery burned.”

  I dropped onto the sofa in the living room and leaned back, pulling a throw over my feet. Eli sat beside me. I asked Brandon, “What kind of black magic would result in a magical skinwalker being separated from her master, and both being sent into exile?”

  “There are few overlapping forms of black magic,” Brandon said. “However, in every magical creed and practice, sacrifice, blood, and eating the bodies of the dying while they are still alive has always been the most foul of blood magic and black magic.”

  He was right. It was. It was how skinwalkers became u’tlun’ta. It was how witches went to the dark side. It was the way the Sons of Darkness, both of whom might have been among the rare male witches who survived to adulthood, created the vampires. It was indeed the most foul magic.

  Quietly he added, “Many believe that is what happened between Cain and Abel. One ate the other.”

  That wasn’t canon, so I ignored it, though it was thought provoking. “Who is Malita Del Omo, the woman who wrote the journal? And what did she know about Ka N’vsita?”