by Faith Hunter
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1 - I like the fire. Can I come play?
CHAPTER 2 - Have stakes, will travel
CHAPTER 3 - Golden eyes, my daughter
CHAPTER 4 - We invade her territory
CHAPTER 5 - I was living in a former whorehouse
CHAPTER 6 - I’d rather be shot, stabbed, or chewed on
CHAPTER 7 - Scent-marking me
CHAPTER 8 - I am not prey!
CHAPTER 9 - Fast cars and money lead back to dames
CHAPTER 10 - Feeding frenzy
CHAPTER 11 - Biting things, too small to eat
CHAPTER 12 - Would Little Evan go crunch?
CHAPTER 13 - Nap time, Aunt Jane
CHAPTER 14 - They should all be staked
CHAPTER 15 - Hedge of thorns
CHAPTER 16 - They killed me already
CHAPTER 17 - Our sin has multiplied
CHAPTER 18 - Three hundred years, give or take a few decades
CHAPTER 19 - No good deed goes unpunished
CHAPTER 20 - Thief-of-kits. Die.
CHAPTER 21 - Will not be caught in predator’s stare
CHAPTER 22 - Pardon me if we don’t bleed for you, babe
CHAPTER 23 - I had the marines. Ooh rah
CHAPTER 24 - Hot to trot?
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Praise for the Novels of Faith Hunter
Skinwalker
“A strong heroine with unusual talents kicks off the entertaining new Jane Yellowrock series. It’s a blend of genres, mixing alternate reality, fantasy, and romance against the backdrop of New Orleans. The first-person narration puts you in the middle of the conflict, and well-written action scenes get your blood pumping.”
—Romantic Times
“Skinwalker is a fantastic start to the Jane Yellowrock series.
Mixing fantasy with a strong mystery story line and a
touch of romance, it ticks all the right urban fantasy boxes.
Fast-paced plotting and . . . imaginative use of Native American
and vampire mythology are just the icing on the cake.
More, please!”
—LoveVampires
“Faith Hunter’s Skinwalker is the beginning of a promising new series with a strong heroine and a very detailed and believable world. Jane is smart, quick, [and] witty, and I look forward to reading more about her as she discovers more about herself.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Hunter skillfully weaves together characters and plot in this highly satisfying urban fantasy. Steeped in a heady combination of action, philosophical reflection, Indian lore, and mysticism, Skinwalker delivers on each level.”
—Bitten by Books
“Ms. Hunter pens a fabulous tale with a heroine who clearly has the strength to stand on her own. Skinwalker is a wonderfully detailed and fast-moving adventure that fills the pages with murder, mystery, and fascinating characters.”
—Darque Reviews
Bloodring
“A bold interpretation of the what-might-be. . . . With a delicate weaving of magic and scripture, Faith Hunter left me wondering: What’s a woman to do when she falls in love with a seraph’s child?”
—Kim Harrison
“Entertaining . . . outstanding supporting characters. . . . The strong cliff-hanger of an ending bodes well for future adventures.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The cast is incredible. . . . Fans of postapocalypse fantasies will appreciate this superb interpretation of the endless end of days.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Hunter’s distinctive future vision offers a fresh though dark glimpse into a newly made postapocalyptic world. Bold and imaginative in approach, with appealing characters and a suspense-filled story, this belongs in most fantasy collections.”
—Library Journal
“It’s a pleasure to read this engaging tale about characters connected by strong bonds of friendship and family. Mixes romance, high fantasy, apocalyptic and postapocalyptic adventure to good effect.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Hunter’s very professionally executed, tasty blend of dark fantasy, mystery, and romance should please fans of all three genres.”
—Booklist
“Entertaining . . . a promising new series. . . . Steady pacing, dashes of humor, and a strong story line coupled with a great ending neatly setting up the next adventure make this take on the apocalypse worth checking out.”
—Monsters and Critics
“Enjoyable . . . a tale of magic and secrets in a world gone mad.”
—Romantic Times
Seraphs
“The world [Hunter] has created is unique and bleak . . . an exciting science fiction thriller.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Continuing the story begun in Bloodring, Hunter expands on her darkly alluring vision of a future in which the armies of good and evil wage their eternal struggle in the world of flesh and blood. Strong characters and a compelling story.”
—Library Journal
“This thrilling dark fantasy has elements of danger, adventure, and religious fanaticism, plus sexual overtones. Hunter’s impressive narrative skills vividly describe a changed world, and she artfully weaves in social commentary . . . a well-written, exciting novel.”
—Romantic Times
Host
“Hunter’s world continues to expand in this highly original fantasy with lively characters where nothing can ever be taken for granted.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Hunter has created a remarkable interpretation of the aftermath of Armageddon in which angels and devils once again walk the earth and humans struggle to find a place. Stylish storytelling and gripping drama make this a good addition to most fantasy collections.”
—Library Journal
“Readers will admire [Thorn’s] sacrifice [in] placing others before herself. . . . Fans will enjoy reading about the continuing end of days.”
—Midwest Book Review
“With fast-paced action and the possibility of more romance, this is an enjoyable read with an alluring magical touch.”
—Darque Reviews
ALSO BY FAITH HUNTER
The Jane Yellowrock Novels Skinwalker
The Rogue Mage Novels Bloodring Seraphs Host
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, January
Copyright © Faith Hunter, 2010
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eISBN : 978-1-101-17122-6
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To my Renaissance Man,
who takes the Class IIIs, lets me cry on his
shoulder, and brings me chocolate
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My Deepest Thanks to
(in no order whatsoever):
Mike Pruette, Web guru at [http://www.faithhunter.net] www.faithhunter.net and fan.
Rod Hunter, for the right word when my tired brain was stymied.
The Guy in the Leather Jacket, for promo work and for telling me Jane needed a softer side.
Sarah Spieth, for help with New Orleans settings.
Holly McClure, for Cherokee info and for allowing me to study her novel Lightning Creek.
Joyce Wright, for reading everything I write, no matter how “weird.”
Misty Massey, David B. Coe, C. E. Murphy, Kim Harrison, Tamar Myers, Greg Paxton, Raven Blackwell, Christina Stiles, Sarah Spieth, Melanie Otto, and all my other writer friends, for taking the journey with me.
My Yahoo fan group at [http://www.groups.yahoo.com/group/the-enclave/] www.groups.yahoo.com/group/the-enclave/.
My cowriters at [http://www.magicalwords.net] www.magicalwords.net.
Lucienne Diver, for doing what an agent does best, with grace and kindness.
Last but never least—
My editor at Roc, Jessica Wade, who:
saw the multisouled Beast in Jane;
has guided this series into darker, more intense plotlines;
who had to spend waaaay too much time on this novel,
pointing out all the problems;
and who helped me fix them. You are the best!
Y’all ROCK!
CHAPTER 1
I like the fire. Can I come play?
Molly and the kids and I were eating a big lunch when the lightning hit. The bolt slammed into the ground only feet from the house, throwing brilliant light through the windows, shaking the floor beneath us. I grabbed the table and looked up to see Molly questing with her senses to discern if the lightning had harmed her wards. She had deactivated them because lightning and wards don’t play well with each other, but even a quiescent ward can be structurally damaged. She gave me an “it’s fine” look, but I could tell she was uneasy. Without the wards, the house where I lived while I fulfilled my current contract with the New Orleans vamp council was unprotected.
Molly—a powerful earth witch and my best friend—and I are used to the summer storms in the Appalachian Mountains. Though they can be violent and intense, they had nothing on this monster. Outside, Hurricane Ada was pounding New Orleans, the category-two storm bringing with it wind and torrential rain, though none of the might and tidal surge of Katrina and Rita, and much less of the damage. Human memory is short; most of the natives had elected to ride out the storm, depend on the new levies to hold, and trust in the improvements to the city’s infrastructure, courtesy of Uncle Sam. The only unanticipated aspect of the storm was the intense lightning and two tornados that had set down in the middle of the city’s electric grid, resulting in the loss of power. The wind died for a moment and then slammed the house like a giant fist, the walls quaking. A fresh burst of rain drummed against the windows.
Without power for the air-conditioning units, it was growing muggy inside, but fortunately, I had gas-heated water and a gas stove, and the city’s water supply hadn’t been impacted. So the kids had sandwiches and hot canned soup and Mol and I had prime rib, mine huge and rare enough to still have a moo or two in it, Mol’s daintier and cooked medium. I had even made spinach salads to placate health-conscious Molly.
Wind swirled against the front of the old house, and the noise went up a notch for a long moment, the house groaning. I had never been through a hurricane, and even a category two was pretty intense. I couldn’t imagine a cat three or four, with a storm surge. It was no wonder Katrina and Rita had devastated the Gulf Coast, despite the efforts of New Orleans’s witches to ward against landfall.
I finished off the steak, ate a spinach leaf, and took a tour to check for damage. The old house in the middle of the French Quarter wasn’t mine—only on loan, as long as I was under contract—but I intended to keep it in the same pristine condition I got it in. Not that the vamps I worked for were making that easy.
I studied the twelve-foot-tall ceilings on both stories looking for leaks, made sure the towels at the doors were sopping up any rain that had blown in, and checked to see that the windows were secure. So far, so good—no leaks, no damage. I sniffed at the damp air to confirm that the lightning strike hadn’t hit the house. No smell of smoke, just the strong odor of ozone. It had been close.
On the side porch on the first floor, my old, rebuilt, one-of-a-kind Harley, Bitsa, was safe and sound under a heavy tarp I’d bought to protect her. Out back, the granite boulders my vamp landlady, Katie Fonteneau, had brought in for the rock garden I’d needed installed were rain-slick and broken. Those were not going to survive my stay here. Already the stones were cracked and split, and one had been ground to sharp shards and piles of grit. I exchanged mass with stone when I shifted into an animal whose genetic structure and size were vastly different from my own. It was dangerous. And it always resulted in damage to the boulders. Quite a lot of damage.
The power came on for a moment and the lights flickered. The fountain in the back garden stuttered, sending water into the air, the naked vamp statue in its center glistening with wetness. The vamp sent up a last, single spurt as the power flickered and died again.
I walked from window to window, watching the wind and rain attack the subtropical vegetation and my rock garden, probably the only one in the entire French Quarter. It was beautiful, even in its current condition.
“You’re pacing.”
I looked at Molly, and then down at my feet.
“You need to shift. You’ve been in human form all week. The kids and I will not fall into the sinister hands of the evil vampires if you take the evening off.” She curled on the sofa and wrapped her arms around her knees, her red hair falling in frizzy curls from the humidity, curls she hated. Angelina raced up and threw herself on the leather cushion with a gust of trapped air. Molly rolled her daughter over, keeping an eye on Little Evan, who had found his ball under a chair and was bent over, butt in the air, trying to get to it. “I’ll set my wards. They’ll keep us safe.”
“Is Aunt Jane gonna turn into Big Cat tonight? Can I watch? Please, please, please?” Angie asked. She was only six, but already the little girl was coming into her gift—and it was strong.
“No. That’s private for Aunt Jane. And we do not talk about that, remember?”
Angie dropped her voice into a whisper and put a small finger over her lips. “It’s a secret. Shhhhh.” And then she giggled,
a sound that always brought a smile to my face.
“Leo’s not himself,” I said, “not since I killed the thing that took over his son. He’s still grieving, and my sources say grief can make vamps . . . not exactly rogue, but unstable. I don’t trust him.” Still, Mol was right. I hadn’t shifted in too long. I could feel Beast’s pelt rubbing under my skin, insistent. I needed the night.
Beast will guard kits, Beast thought at me. I am strong. And fast. And have killing claws and killing teeth. I shushed her with a calming thought.
“Leo won’t violate your contract with the vampire council to find the young-rogue maker.” Mol laughed up at me and added, “Of course, when you fulfill the contract, all bets are off.”
“Thanks. That makes me feel oh-so-much better.”
“Hunt tonight,” Molly said. “Go running. End up at the Cherokee shaman’s place and let her sweat you. You’ve been promising.” She looked down and finger-combed Angie’s curls. In sunlight, the baby-fine hair almost glowed with honey blond and strawberry highlights, but in the dimness of the storm, it lost its vibrancy. Angie smiled and closed her eyes, soothed by her mother’s hand. It was nap time, and even a storm was powerless against the sleep compulsion Mol was thrumming through her elder child. “You might learn something new about your past,” she added. “About skinwalkers.”