Blood Cross: A Jane Yellowrock Novel

by Faith Hunter

  The scent of it pulled me north, along an overgrown trail just wide enough for my feet. A rabbit trail, according to Beast. She sent me an image of a rabbit and flooded my senses with the remembered hot taste of blood. “Thanks for that,” I murmured to her, “but I prefer my protein skinned, gutted, boned, cooked, and seasoned.” Beast hacked in amusement.

  Not far into the woods I found a patch of saplings in a circle of older trees. It looked as if it might have been a ten-foot-round space once, maybe five years ago. Kneeling, I ran my hands over the bare ground, between the roots of the young trees. I found a broken white shell. Traversing the outskirts of the circle, I scuffed the ground, finding more shells. This had been a blood rite circle involving both witches and vamps, and I bet that it was used as the first resting place of one or more new rogues. Whatever was going on now had been happening for a lot longer than I’d been told. Maybe a lot longer than the vamp council knew.

  I found two other old circles in the forested land around the vamp graveyard, one younger than the first, one older, which I had missed on my first pass and caught on my second. Back at my bike, I marked their locations on my map, with the approximate length of time they had been abandoned, my guesstimate based on the age of the trees. A city girl might not have been able to tell that part, but I had been raised in the country, and the children’s home had used the earth for more than just a playground and parking. We had grown a lot of our own vegetables, and had once reclaimed a patch of land to increase the size of the garden. I remembered the backbreaking work of tree-clearing. I knew how long it took forest to steal back land left fallow too long.

  I stood in the edge of the woods, wondering if there were more such sites in the trees. It wasn’t impossible. But Bruiser was waiting. Patiently. Which made me feel guilty.

  He was still beside his car when I walked back, his butt against the high gloss, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses against the light. Unlike me, he wasn’t sweating in the heat and humidity. I wondered if his ability to withstand temperature changes was a result of the blood sips he got in return for being a blood meal to Leo, or if it was natural to him. No way to ask and be polite, of course, though if I hadn’t needed something from him, I might have asked anyway. I grinned at the thought and he cocked his head. I waved it away and said, “I don’t guess you’d consider giving me access to the security around this place so I can come back anytime I want.”

  His lips twitched in what might have been a smile and he shook his head once, an abbreviated but unequivocal no.

  “Okay. I ran across some things in my research into vamp attacks that you can help me with instead.” Bruiser’s brow lifted a bit, as if he was amused that I’d put him into the role of assistant. “How about out-clan and devoveo?” I was pretty sure I knew the answers, but in my business, “pretty sure” was worth roughly zero. I needed to know for dead certain.

  The heavy-lidded look slid away. “Where did you come across this information?”

  Bruiser was my best source of all things fangy and I knew I had to give to get, but not this time. I hated negotiation. “My source”—if the NOPD woo-woo files could be described that way—“is confidential. I want to know what they mean.”

  Thoughts flickered deep in his eyes. After a moment he cocked his head and seemed to come to a decision. “Devoveo is the state of the young rogue. The ten years of insanity when they have to be kept confined. The curse of the Mithrans is the fact that they must enter the ten years of the devoveo and may not come out of it.”

  “Have you ever heard of people drinking witch blood to stave it off?”

  He looked confused. “No. The reason witches are seldom turned is that they suffer from devoveo far beyond the usual decade, and often must be destroyed by their sires. But I have no idea what the effects of drinking their blood would be.”

  “Oh.” Though I’d expected no new revelations, I was still disappointed.

  “The out-clan are part of their history. Before the vampires were divided into clans or families, they were all one family. When their society became too large and unwieldy to manage on their own, and when humans began hunting them, there was a diaspora and many of the oldest sired clans in new lands, others later joined existing clans, banding together for safety and defense, and some few chose to be considered out-clan. From the out-clan group came the keepers of the past. They act as historians, ambassadors, deal brokers. Peacemakers when necessary.”

  “So Sabina and Bethany really are among the oldest. Like, nearly two thousand years old.” When he inclined his head, I added, “And the ground they inhabit is holy to the vamps.”

  “Not holy ground. The eldest Mithrans are respected, venerated, perhaps, not worshipped. The priestess is the oldest Mithran in this hemisphere. And Bethany was her acolyte.”

  “Was?”

  “There have been disagreements between them several times over the past centuries; the last time was over the issue of slavery during the Civil War. The rift has never been healed.”

  Bethany had been a slave. I could see where discord might be possible. I had a feeling there was more to everything he’d said, but Bruiser stood straight and opened his car door, leaning inside to pick up an envelope and a box, handing them to me. “The check is for the heads you delivered to the vampire council. And Leo wants you to have the other as a gift, but he didn’t want it wrapped. And no, I have no idea why it should go to you.”

  I tucked the envelope into a saddlebag. Taking the box, I flipped back the lid. Wedged between layers of packing material were bones and teeth. The small bones looked like paw bones, the larger long ones like foreleg bones. The teeth were encased in a lower jawbone, the canines several inches long, one with its tip broken off. I was pretty sure they all came from a sabertooth cat. A cold chill shot through me. Leo had given me his “son’s” fetishes, the things Immanuel had used to become a sabertooth lion and kill. The things that might have driven him insane. My instinct was to refuse them.

  I heard shells crunch beneath footsteps and looked up, but Bruiser was sliding his long, lean form under the wheel. Without another word, he closed the door and started the car, backing into a three-point turn. I took it as my cue and strapped the box to the back of my bike and powered up Bitsa. I still needed info about witch blood bringing the young rogue to sanity; I’d have to ask that one later. I followed the blood-servant of the master of the city out of the vamp cemetery, hardly noticing the passage of the road beneath my tires.

  Why had Leo given me the bones? What was the purpose of the sites in the woods when vamps could be put to earth almost anywhere except a place with crosses on it? A couple dozen other questions piled on to the original one of who was raising young-rogue vamps. I had lots more questions, but I had proved one thing to myself. Vamps and witches, likely a small, renegade group of them, were definitely working together to raise new rogues. And if the new growth in the woods was an indication, it had been going on for decades.

  CHAPTER 13

  Nap time, Aunt Jane

  When I got back to the house after depositing the check into Derek Lee’s account, I found a note from Molly saying they were at Katie’s Ladies visiting and doing laundry. She and the little witch Bliss had been visiting back and forth for days in the beginnings of a friendship that I hoped might help Bliss to accept her own power. I didn’t think many mothers would let their daughters near a house of ill repute, but Molly wasn’t most mothers. Open-minded, tolerant, and unprejudiced, that was Molly. She even let Angie hang around a skinwalker.

  Alone on the property, I tucked the box of sabertooth bones and teeth into the back garden under a rock. It was stupid, but I didn’t want them in the house. It was just too creepy. I couldn’t use them; the genetic structure was male and I couldn’t shift into a male animal. But what did you do with a gift from the master of the city? I couldn’t toss them in the garbage.

  Back inside, I discovered the dress I had damaged at the vamp party hanging, dripping, in my bathroom. I
had thought it ruined, but Molly had gotten all the blood out. It maybe needed a needle and thread in a spot or two, but it looked pretty good for a blood-soaked rag.

  On the bed, I found a packing box and sighed. More surprises? I slit the packing tape with a knife. No one was home to hear me whoop.

  I’d lost my favorite leather jacket to the liver-eater masquerading as Immanuel, and the replacement I’d treated myself to was finally here. I’d been measured and fitted at a leather shop in town, getting to be part of the design process from the leather up. From the box I pulled out a buttery soft, armored, padded leather motorcycle jacket and the loose-fitting armored leather pants I’d thrown in for good measure, perfect for fighting vamps and for riding Bitsa. And something I’d never have thought of until living in the Deep South—they had zippered, mesh pockets that could be left open for air to move through. It wouldn’t help much on foot, but on a bike, I’d be more comfortable.

  Not wanting to get my sweat on them, I showered off, which I was doing a lot more than I ever had in the cool air of the mountains, and dressed in my one pair of long silk underclothes before pulling on the new leathers. The jacket had rings along the side seams threaded through with leather straps so I could adjust the fit for bulky winter layers or tighter for summer riding.

  Stiff, shaped armor pads—not ballistic armor, but plasticized, high-density foam armor, wrapped in silver mesh—could be inserted into zippered pockets across my shoulders, down my back, along my forearms, legs, and thighs. At the joints of knees and elbows, more flexible armor could be fitted in. Straps had been sewn along the outer thighs for sheathed vamp-killers, and there was room in the wrists for forearm sheaths. Small leather pockets with Velcro fasteners were perfect for stakes and crosses, and one pocket was plastic lined for a vial of holy water. There were straps with snaps for securing my shotgun harness in place at my back. And all over the jacket sleeves, the high collar, at the inside of the elbow, and on the pants at my groin—the pulse points where vamps usually fed—tiny rings had been sewn. Silver. To poison any vamp who did manage to bite me. It was so cool I was drooling.

  When I had it all on and cinched tight and weapons in place, I stamped my feet into my new, never-worn, black cherry Lucchese boots, let my braids fall around me with tiny clicks, smeared on my favorite bloodred lipstick, took a deep breath to prepare myself, and turned to the one full-length mirror at the closet. I didn’t recognize the broad-shouldered valkyrie who stared back at me. “Holy crap,” I whispered. I looked so . . . freaking fine. Ball dresses were for girly girls. This . . . this was for a warrior. For a vampire hunter. “Holy freaking crap.”

  I was still preening when Molly came through the side door, a huge basket of folded clothes in her arms, Little Evan strapped to her back papoose-style, and Angie leading the way. When they saw me, the two females stopped dead. Molly’s jaw dropped. Silently she mouthed something and I was pretty sure it was a lot stronger than my own “holy crap.”

  Angie launched herself at me, squealing, and I caught her up in my arms. “Aunt Jane. You look beautiful.”

  “Deadly,” Molly said. “Wicked. And gorgeous in a deadly, wicked, vampire killer way.”

  I couldn’t help my cocky smile. “I do look pretty good, don’t I?”

  Molly set the basket on the table and I set Angie on the floor to help Mol off with the papoose tote.

  “I want to play dress-up too. Miss Bliss and Miss Christie gived me some stuff. Mama, show Aunt Jane.”

  “You let Christie give her stuff?” Christie’s personal and professional style went more to spiked collars, whips, chains, and multiple piercings.

  “Just some silver rhinestone jewelry. Tame stuff.”

  Angie took the play-pretties from her mother and modeled a sparkly rhinestone necklace. Molly pulled an old, peach silk nightgown over her daughter’s head. On a grown-up the gown would have come to midthigh; it reached Angie’s ankles, and with the purple T-shirt beneath, it looked precious. My heart went all mushy and my throat went tight at the sight. I snapped a few pics of Angie in her finery, and Molly took more of the both of us to e-mail to Big Evan in Brazil. I printed out the best pics and hung them on the fridge. They looked really . . . nice hanging there.

  I was left with an odd feeling inside, one I couldn’t name, but that felt similar to the serenity that had started out my day, though this was a lot more intense than that. A lot.

  Once the pictures had been sent off to Evan, we all helped me out of the leathers and boots, which was harder than getting into them. Angie kept on her finery, but I opted for a pair of shorts and a T because, despite the AC, it was still muggy and warm and the leathers had been hot. We ate a late meal of peanut butter and jelly and iced tea. The lump that had formed in my throat at the sight of Angie in her dress-up clothes expanded as we munched, as Angie smeared jelly on her face, and Little Evan spat gobs of green baby food goo and laughed. It was so . . . homey.

  Afterward, still in her peach silk finery, blue eyes sleepy, Angie curled up on my bed with her Cherokee doll, patted the mattress, and said, “Nap time, Aunt Jane.”

  “Molly?” My voice sounded strangled. “She wants me to take a nap. With her.”

  Molly hid a grin, but not very well. “Big tough vampire killer all scared of a six-year-old wanting a nap? I’ll be in my own bed, thank you very much.” She carried the baby upstairs. Angelina yawned hugely and patted the bed again. Gingerly, I crawled onto the mattress and lay down, stiff as a board. Angie curled into my side, yawned again, and promptly fell asleep. Happy was far too mundane a term to describe my feelings. There had to be another word better suited to this sappy, sentimental, fiercely protective sensation that thumped through my chest with my lifeblood. Had to be. And it was followed by a jolt of fear, intense and icy. I knew it couldn’t last. Nothing this good ever could, which terrified me down to my toes.

  I eased to my side, slid an arm around Angie, and closed my eyes. Tried to relax. I could get used to having Molly around. To having kids around. They made life so much more intense and . . . And naps were a good side benefit.

  Beast, quiescent all day, rolled over in my mind and sent me one word. Kits.

  I woke at dusk to find Angie gone, the place beside me cool to the touch, and my bedroom door shut. Molly must have wanted me to sleep in. As I stretched, my cell rang, and I dug it out of my new leathers to see the number for Katie’s Ladies displayed. “Jane,” I said.

  “Tom, here. Is Bliss over there? She has an early caller and her room is empty.”

  Early caller meant early customer. “Hang on.” I moved through the house, sniffing. Bliss hadn’t been here. Molly was on the side porch with the kids. “Not here. No one saw her leave? Nothing on the security system?”

  “Just some interference about an hour ago.”

  Interference? I didn’t like it. A sudden pulse of fear shot through me. Bliss was a witch, a witch who looked younger than her age, a witch who had no magical, protective wards on her home. Did that put her in danger?

  “I’ll be right over.” Not bothering to change, I pulled on flip-flops and told Molly to go inside and set the wards. Ignoring her concerned face, I vaulted the fifteen-foot brick wall between our houses. It was nearly sunset and the air had that soft, balmy, glowy heat I was coming to associate with spring evenings in New Orleans. It would be a great night for a ride, my hair loose and flowing in the wind, Bitsa growling beneath me. Maybe later.

  Despite my moment of fear, I didn’t expect to find Bliss really gone, as in missing gone, more like stepped-out-for-some-shopping gone. And I certainly didn’t expect to sense anything in the backyard, so I wasn’t fully alert until I caught a whiff of magic. Witch magic. And witch blood.

  I stopped and parsed the scents, pulling my braids into a knot, out of the way. Most magic has a distinctive smell. Some is a bit peppery, maybe with a hint of spice in it; some smells like fresh-baked cookies, or freshly turned earth, or wood smoke. Though I don’t have synesthesia, I ha
ve to say witch magic often smells herbal and blue, like cornflowers. And sometimes a little mellow-yellow. My own magic, the scent that erupts in the air when I shift, smells earthy, musky. Vamp magic, the smell that clings to them when they hunt, pulling on the gifts of stealth and mesmeric mind games, is peppery and desiccated, the way dried herbs smell after they’ve sat too long on the shelf.

  Here, I smelled witch magic, witch blood, and an overlay of vamp. A very specific vamp, his scent signature as knotted and twisted as a braided rope. My heart thumped hard. The rogue maker. A vamp in daylight? Or near enough to count, anyway. And he didn’t smell scorched either. He smelled well fed and as healthy as a dead thing can smell. My hackles rose and Beast hunched within me, claws out and probing. I didn’t have a stake or cross handy. Stupid to have left the house without them. But it was still daylight, for pity’s sake.

  I drew in a breath, mouth open, seeking a more familiar scent signature, but it was missing. Bliss hadn’t been out here recently. I didn’t need to go all the way around the house, instead ringing the bell at the back door. Troll opened it instantly, one hand rubbing across his bald head, worry on his face. “Let me see the tapes,” I said by way of greeting. “And get all the girls down here for a chat.” After a moment, I added, “Please,” to which Troll grunted while leading the way to the new security console hidden behind the doors of a seven-foot-tall, black-lacquered chest with gold-leaf dragons capering across its doors. A new thick oriental rug was in the entry, a matching one at the console, both done in dynamic shades of gold and maroon and black. Really nifty. Troll had been redecorating.