by Faith Hunter
“Many of their line never find sanity after they are turned. Several decades pass and they still rave. Many such must be put down by the clan master.” Her words took on the cadence of pronouncement and coercion, the vamp compulsion vibrating in her tones. “Look to the Rousseau Clan. Look to the long-chained. Look to the dark arts. Look to the island and the history of bloodshed. Look to any who survived the purge, who were forgiven their sin and survived the cleansing.”
Beast held off the force of her compulsion with claws pricking my mind; I could think and remember her words, yet not get sucked under by her. I realized that the priestess was giving me clues in her command. Not very good clues, but better than I’d had so far. But she might also be telling me to do more than I planned.
“Sin must be judged,” she continued. “Absolution, if given in error, must be rescinded. Retribution and justice must be meted out on the sinners and the guilty.”
She hadn’t said I had to bring them here. Had she? I was careful not to promise more than I could. And was equally cautious not to refuse. “The vampire council hired me to kill the rogue maker. When I find him, he’ll be destroyed along with his scions. Their heads will be taken to the council as proof.”
“ ‘The workman is worthy of his hire.’ You will be rewarded for bringing an end to this evil.”
I was smart enough to note that Sabina hadn’t exactly said I’d be paid. She said I’d be rewarded, which could mean anything, including my death to keep her secrets.
Sabina turned to me, a half smile on her face. “You will not find death at my hands or at my order.”
All righty, then. The vamp was reading my mind or my body language. Either one meant that it was time for me to move on. “I’ll say my good-bye, then.” I slid off the porch and to the ground.
“You may leave the head of the newly risen. I will see to it that bounty payment is waiting for you at the council building.” After a moment she smiled. “You may call upon me again.” And she disappeared with that weird brush of old-blood-scented air. The door to the chapel snicked closed. And I hadn’t even seen it open.
I swore softly, looking at the body and head. Sabina had pretty much told me to leave it alone. I wasn’t about to disagree. No way. I crunched across the shells to my bike and helmeted up. I knew the young-rogue makers hadn’t been at the Rousseau clan home. Yet Bettina had smelled of one of them at the vamp party.
I paused before kicking Bitsa on. Bettina knew. She had from the very beginning. She’d had to. She was their master. All I had to do was get Bettina, shackle her in silver, and make her tell me. I had the formal invitation to visit, and Leo had access to the security systems of all the clans. There was a good chance he’d know—and that meant Bruiser would know—where her lair was.
I looked at the sky. The sun was rising. First I’d see Molly. Then it was time for a chat with Bruiser. A long chat. About purges and the Rousseau Clan. And the long-chained. And security systems. I was close to finding the children and Bliss. I knew it in my bones.
Molly was sitting up in bed brushing her long red hair. She stared blindly out the window, her face slack and grieving, tears trailing down her cheeks. I stood in the door, silent, watching, and my heart clenched like a fist. Her babies were missing and it was my fault.
“I’ll get them back.”
The words were brittle in the high-ceilinged room and Molly started, the brush stopping halfway. She closed her eyes and, with a visible effort, controlled her misery and completed the brushstroke. When it reached the tips of her hair, she set it aside and wiped her face. “I know you will.” She forced a smile on her mouth and held out an arm. “Come here. I have things I need to say.”
I forced my feet to cross the room and sat stiffly beside her on the edge of the mattress. She curled an arm about my waist and, with my own eyes prickling, I held myself rigid against the comfort she offered. I didn’t deserve it, though Molly wasn’t likely to accept any of my opinions. She pulled me over to her, against her hip, and laid her head on my shoulder. And she burst into tears.
My voice froze. So did my body. Inflexible as a day-old corpse, I raised one hand and clumsily patted her shoulder. And then Beast put a paw on my mind and took over. Jane is predator only. I am mother of kits. I am alpha. The words resonated in my mind; surprise radiated through me with the echo. Beast took over my hand and stroked Molly’s hair. Took my other arm and encircled Molly, drawing her closer.
I’m more than a predator—
No. Jane is predator only. Not mother of kits. Not mate. Jane is nothing except part of Beast. Killer only.
The words stilled my thoughts. Pain spiraled through me, cold and crystalline, like frozen, shattered quartz.
My mouth opened, and it was Beast’s words on my tongue, falling from my lips. Her tone was lower than mine, raspy as a coarse sponge on stone. “We will take back kits. We will kill predator who took them. Jane and Beast, together, will rend them. Bone from flesh, blood from veins. We will kill. Will retake kits. This I swear on my own kits.”
Molly stopped breathing. Her heart beat hard twice and then smoothed to a fast cadence. Carefully, as if fearful of springing a trap, Mol pulled back and stared into my eyes. Her pupils widened. Her lips parted. I heard her heart rate speed, her breath hitch. “Son of a witch on a switch. Beast?”
I purred softly. Stroked her hair once. Then I stood and walked from the room.
It was dawn, and heavy heat was already starting. I’d never been in a place where the air had weight and pressure, like a pressure cooker forcing the air to bear down against my body. It had a sensation of urgency to it, the way that holding my breath underwater created the necessity to rise and breathe, as if each breath was possibly my last.
We were on the road out of town, wending through the traffic and the heat, before Beast let me go. My mind was still in shock mode, trying to see why Beast said I was only a predator. Only a killer. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t. But it was going to take a killer—and a pretty dedicated one—to bring Angelina and Little Evan back to Molly alive. And Bliss. Had to remember Bliss.
I bent over the bike and sped past a semi belching diesel fumes. The cars in front of me blurred together as I rode and thought. I took the streets by instinct and muscle memory, thoughts banging around inside my head like a heavy-metal drummer on meth.
I pulled up in front of the Rousseau clan home; its front door was hanging open in the early dawn. I pulled the Benelli even before I killed the motor. Drew my biggest vamp-killer. Moved up the walk and into the silent foyer, ready for anything. But it was a waste of effort. The clan home was empty and quiet. I prowled through deserted rooms, kicking open closets, checking under beds, in bathrooms, and in pantries. From the lingering smells, the place had been vacated during the night. And it hadn’t been voluntary. Blood stained the walls and floors in several places. The air was still tainted with the heated smell of burned magic and the stench of the rogue maker and his two cronies. I was familiar enough with them now to parse the three different scent signatures, so similar that they had to be all of the same bloodline. The three siblings had attacked a vamp clan home. And won.
I returned to Bitsa and headed back out of the city. At the first gas station I came to, I pulled in and up to a pump. Ignoring the stares of the other patrons, I strapped my shotgun to the bike. Removed my leather jacket against the rising heat and stowed it in one of the sidesaddles. The mesh collar went beside it, the stakes and vamp-killers as well, leaving me still well-armed enough to fight a small war. Feeling more comfortable, though smelling of night-terror sweat, I filled Bitsa’s small tank up with gas. While it gurgled into the nearly empty tank I pulled my cell and hit REDIAL, calling Bruiser. It rang through to voice mail. Fortunately, I knew where he lived. Remounting, I roared against the current of the rush-hour traffic out of the city. The farther I rode, the denser the traffic got, the madder I got. Leo and Bruiser were keeping things from me, things I needed to know to get the kids back. And Blis
s. Couldn’t forget her. By the time I reached the drive to the Pellissier clan home just before seven thirty a.m., I was royally ticked off.
The house was at the end of a well-paved but little-used road, no other houses within sight, plowed fields all around, horses walking from barns into the day, heads bobbing, mares with foals gamboling along. Curling-limbed live oaks arched over the long, slightly uphill drive, the house built on high ground, some twenty feet above sea level, higher than anything around it. The Pellissier clan home stood on a bend of the Mississippi River, which I could smell through the trees, the river air wet and sour and powerful even at a distance. The oaks to either side passed at speed as I roared up the drive.
It might not be smart to come here, even though this wasn’t Leo’s daytime lair, and likely none of the Pellissier scions used it as a lair except in emergency. But in the daylight, I didn’t have to worry about vamps; I needed answers and this was the best place to get them.
I slowed as I neared the white-painted, two-story brick house. Bruiser and three others were sitting at a large, round, cloth-covered table on the front porch, eyes on me, Bruiser quickly hiding the relief he felt at seeing me. He had wondered if Sabina had killed me. Not enough to help me, of course.
I was clearly interrupting an important conversation, business talk over china and a meal. As if I cared. I came to a stop at the front steps and cut the engine, my booted feet on either side of Bitsa. I set the kickstand and dismounted, throwing a leather-clad leg high for impact.
I blinked against the bright sun, and suddenly realized that I hadn’t slept—really slept, like more than a nap—in days. Something else I could deal with after I got the kits back, like my being a killer and nothing else. The smile that lit my face with the thoughts must have been pretty ugly, because one guy’s hands disappeared beneath the table, going for a weapon.
I climbed the steps, my boots the only sound, loud in the morning air, my eyes holding Bruiser’s. An answering smile curved his lips up on one side and his eyes slit in consideration, though he lounged back in his chair in casual unconcern. The anxiety of the three with Bruiser had a smell and it gave me a perverse pleasure to worry the little group. “I see you survived Leo’s temper tantrum last night.”
Bruiser nodded. “As did you.”
“Barely. Can’t say the same for the Rousseau clan home.”
His expression hooded over. “Tyler, Louisa, Dale, we’re finished for now. Give me an hour with Miss Yellowrock.” Like well-trained dogs, they got up and left us alone. As if to break the tension, Bruiser leaned in and rang a little silver bell on the table. Seriously. He rang a bell. And a woman in a white and gray maid’s uniform appeared from the side door.
“Tea for the lady,” Bruiser said, without taking his eyes from me. “A nice, black, single estate.” To me he said, “Have you breakfasted?”
I propped my hands on my hips, knowing my stance was hostile and aggressive. “Not today.”
“Eggs, bacon, fruit, cereal?” he asked, the genial host, offering an informal list.
I was about to refuse, but my stomach rumbled in answer. And why not? I had to eat. I was drawing on Beast’s power and that used a lot of energy. “Half dozen eggs over easy, a rasher of bacon cut thick and cooked crisp. Lots of toast, no butter,” I said to her, playing as though I didn’t see the general shock at the amount of food I’d requested. “And thank you.” When I smiled at her, there was no halfway about it and the Latino girl smiled back, ducked her head, and returned though the side door. See? I can be nice.
Bruiser indicated a chair at his left. I didn’t see any reason to be obstinate or difficult—any more than I already was—so I took it and sat, the legs of the chair scraping hollowly on the porch flooring. I smelled gun oil. Bruiser was armed on his own home turf. That seemed relevant, but I wasn’t sure how or why.
The food must have been cooked and sitting on a warmer, because the little maid reappeared immediately, carrying a large tray. She served me. Bruiser poured my tea. So far, so good. I hadn’t had to kill anyone. Yet.
CHAPTER 18
Three hundred years, give or take a few decades
The food was good, the yellow of the eggs sloppy, and the toast perfect for sopping it up, protein and fat in every bite. It was a meal that could be eaten fast, even with the quantity I’d ordered. I didn’t waste time on conversation; I just ate.
When the food was gone, I waved my fork at my plate, set it down with a soft clink, and met Bruiser’s eyes. “Okeydoke. Thanks for the breakfast. So, tell me a couple things. Tell me what happened at the Rousseau clan home. I know you got security camera feed from it. Tell me why the human cops hadn’t been on scene. Tell me about the purge.” Bruiser started in shock. I slouched back in my seat, my teacup in hand. “And tell me about the Rousseau clan’s insanity. And while you’re spilling your guts, tell me about the long-chained.” He snapped his mouth shut, eyes hot with anger. I laughed. “Don’t worry. I didn’t torture it out of anyone. Sabina told me. And it’s need-to-know info because she thinks it’s all tied in with the maker of the young rogue.”
“Sabina talked to you . . .” he breathed. When I didn’t comment he said, “You have a way about you, Jane Yellowrock.” He reached for the coffeepot. I slammed his hand down, pinning it to the tabletop with mine, and said, almost in a growl, “Tell me. Now. I don’t have time to play nice.”
He was silent, staring at our hands, though he didn’t try to pull his free. “Giving you any information without Leo’s approval could be costly to me.”
“Not giving it would be costlier,” I said.
Bruiser looked from our hands to my face and said, “I’d like coffee.” I removed my hand and he filled his cup. Set the pot aside. “The Rousseau clan home’s security system went offline a little after two this morning. By the time Leo’s people arrived, it was deserted. We don’t know what happened.” When I said nothing to that, he added cream and sugar, stirred, sipped, and went on.
“The purge took place after the events of the slave uprising on the island of Saint Domingue—called Haiti today. You know of the revolt?”
Before I could catch myself, I blinked, and was instantly sorry that I’d given my reaction away. Sabina had said something about an island. I shook my head no. He smiled ruefully, clearly not believing me. “A history lesson, then.
“Many don’t know that the island was a haven for Mithrans. The clans there lived in a strict social and political society based on race and wealth, with the white vampires at the top, the vampyres du couleur libre—the free vampires of color who were landowners and slave owners in their own rights—in the middle, and the slaves at the bottom as workers, sexual toys, and blood meals. Most of the slaves were treated barbarously.”
Bruiser’s voice hardened. “The slaves wanted freedom. The vampyres du couleur clans had little political power due to their race, and they wanted equality with the white vampires. The whites wanted status quo. Some, both white and mixed race, had the witch gene and practiced blood magic, dark rites. Some with the witch gene never quite regained sanity, even after they passed the devoveo state and were unchained. I’ve read accounts of the atrocities they practiced. Their cruelty was legendary.
“Escaped slaves called maroons fled to the mountains, where they organized, collected weapons, and carried out raids against their former captors in a series of rebellions over half a century.” His hand made a little flapping motion to show a give or take on the length of the revolt. “The vampyres du couleur libre eventually joined with the revolt to kill or oust the white Mithrans, led by a variety of men, both human and vampires.
“A vampire, François-Dominique Toussaint Louverture, turned some of the discontent maroons and helped plot one of the major uprisings. He and his allies led a revolt under the Spanish flag that toppled the French colony. It was violent and brutal, with carnage on both sides. Some of the white landowners escaped to the U.S.; many more died, along with over ten thousand slaves. Three of t
he surviving vampire clans, including some who practiced blood magic, came to Louisiana in 1791, upsetting the political scene here.”
“The Rousseau insanity? They were nuts because a lot of them had the witch gene?”
Bruiser’s mouth turned down, forming deep channels on either side of his mouth. He topped off his coffee, warming it as he thought through what he wanted to tell me. “The clan has always been known for a weakness in the first sire’s blood. All of his first scions took more than a decade to find sanity after they were turned. It was worse in the second generation, with nearly half still chained after two decades. On Saint Domingue, that first sire experimented on his slaves in the search for a cure, instituting a breeding program to create offspring with the witch gene, using them in ceremonies that were intended to cure his chained scions. When he was killed, his children took up his studies—”
“Studies?” I didn’t try to keep the irony out of my tone.
“It was barbaric.” His words were a hatchet of sound, short and cutting. “The island was liberated in the revolt and the clan came here, bringing his records and taking up the experiments. They found a partial treatment, though I couldn’t say what it was, and some scions who had been chained for decades became sane.”
“The long-chained ones,” I said, intrigued despite myself.
“Yes. But there was war among the New Orleans clans, followed by the purge, which decimated two of the Domingue clans and put an end to the experimentation. The first Rousseau master and his records were destroyed in a fire with most of his long-chained scions. His heir built a special lair on their family grounds and even today keeps their devoveo chained for up to fifty years before destroying them. One account suggests that about forty percent find sanity, though what memories may be lost is still questioned.”