“He’s free,” Daryl whispered, her smooth features bunching in distress.
A crack of noise made them all jump. It was the snap of breaking stone, and the sharp sound echoed off the town homes across the street. As they watched, a huge slab of broken rock slid from Sylvan’s statue, falling to crush the flowers.
“I didn’t do it, Papa!” Jumoke exclaimed, eyes wide as he darted close. “It wasn’t me!”
“It was me,” a new voice said, sly and wispy.
Startled, Jenks turned in the air even as Daryl caught her breath only to start coughing. Ivy held her back from attacking him, but her lips were pressed in anger. A thin figure was standing in the moonlight, his feet on the moss beside the dogwood tree. It looked like Sylvan’s statue. Moving as if it might be hurt, the shadowy figure edged out into the moonlight, drawing back as one bare foot touched the concrete. It was Sylvan. It had to be.
“You lied to me,” Jenks said, loosening his sword.
“I’m free!” the dryad exclaimed, and he leaped lightly onto the concrete, exuberant as his robes furled.
The glow of Vincet’s dust was a sickly yellow as he hovered beside Jenks, his broken sword in hand. The dryad probably didn’t know it, but it was a real threat.
“Is Vi okay?” Jenks asked, and Vincet nodded.
“But I fear we have let loose a demon.”
“You are trash, Sylvan!” Daryl shouted, sagging in Ivy’s arms as she wheezed. “I will not rest until you are dead!”
Sylvan stopped his twirling. Looking at Jenks as if seeing him for the first time, the dryad smiled, his gaze alighting briefly on Vincet, Jumoke, and finally Bis, all fronting him. “Daryl is a crazy bitch,” he said softly, pulling himself to a dignified stance. “I didn’t lie.” Glancing at the people coming across the park from the town homes, he added, almost as an afterthought, “Not much, anyway.”
“Now!” Ivy shouted, springing into action. Jenks darted forward, sword in hand.
“No, wait!” Bis exclaimed, but Ivy was already pinwheeling to a stop. The spot of air where Sylvan had been, was gone.
“Where did he go!” Ivy asked, turning back to them.
Bis shook himself, resettling his wings as he looked at the people coming closer. “Into the line,” he said, clearly unnerved. His ears were pinned and his tail was lashed about his feet. “He shouldn’t be able to do that,” he added, meeting Jenks’s gaze.
Daryl slumped on the bench to look totally undignified and out of character. “It’s why he was imprisoned in stone,” she said, pushing a chip of his statue off to clatter on the cement. “Now I’ll never find him.”
Jenks stifled a shiver as he met Ivy’s eyes. Tink’s contractual hell, he’d made a big mistake. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “We can worry about Sylvan later.”
“Right behind you.” Bis flew to their satchel, ducking behind Daryl’s robes and coming out with it and the grimy, dented bowl. A bobbing flashlight across the grass caught his eyes, and they glowed red. Seeing it, someone called out. More lights angled their way.
“Jenks, I’m taking Daryl to the hospital,” Ivy said. “Can you get home from here okay?”
Jenks looked at Daryl, struggling to breathe, and he nodded. “See you there.”
Daryl was complaining she wasn’t going to go to the butchers and leechers when Vincet dropped down to him. “Thank you, Jenks,” he said, his expression solemn in the dim light. “You saved my family.”
Wincing, Jenks looked to Vincet’s front door where his wife and sons were silhouetted in the warm glow of a fire. “You’re welcome. I don’t think Sylvan will be back.”
“Tomorrow,” Vincet said, shaking his hand. “I’ll come tomorrow. Thank you. I can’t ever do enough.”
Jenks managed a smile as he thought of Vi. She’d be fine, now. “Just be nice to some pixy buck who needs it,” he said. “And build me an office.”
Vincet’s head was bobbing as he drifted back, but it was clear he wanted to return to his home. “Yes. Anything. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Jenks agreed, then darted up when a flashlight found him, bathing him in a bright white light. “Sorry about the mess!” he shouted.
Vincet went one way, Ivy and Daryl another, and in an instant, even their dust was gone. He waited until he heard the soft sound of Ivy’s muffled engine before he turned his back on the demolished grove and rose higher. Like a switch, the sounds of chaos went faint and the air turned chill. An uncomfortable mix of success and failure took him. And as Jenks quickly caught up to Jumoke and the slower-flying gargoyle winging his way back across the Ohio River, he had a bad feeling that this was far from over.
6
Hands on his hips, Jenks hovered a good five inches above the damp moss, newly transplanted from somewhere half across the Hollows. He gazed in satisfaction at the freshly scrubbed, upside-down flowerpot buried halfway into the soft soil. The sun was high, but here, under the shelter of an overgrown lilac, it was cool. It had taken almost a week working the four hours before the sun rose, but Vincet had finally called his office done.
While Jenks’s children watched, Vincet had chipped out a door in the upside-down flowerpot, built a hearth, and laid a circle of stone that said “welcome” in pixy culture. Seeds had been planted from Vincet’s own stash, and Jenks wasn’t sure how he felt about another man putting plants into his own soil. How was he to know what was going to come up?
Watching Vincet had been a good lesson to his own kids, who up to now had only seen their parents work, and when Jenks rubbed his wings together to signal the all-clear, his children swarmed down in a wave of silk and noise. The babble grew high, and he fled, darting to where Matalina was on the wall with Jrixibell, again refusing to eat her pollen, having stuffed herself with nectar. He hadn’t a clue where she was getting it. The little girl probably had a stash of flowers somewhere that even her mother didn’t know about.
“Go!” the woman relented as the little girl whined, her wings down in a pitiful display. “But you’re going to eat twice as much tonight!”
“Thank you, Mama!” she chimed out, and Jenks watched for birds until she reached her brothers and sisters, already buzzing in and out of his new office.
Happy, Jenks settled himself beside Matalina, thinking she was beautiful out here in the dappled sun. She handed him a sweetball, and he took it, pulling her close to make her giggle. “I’d rather have you,” he said, stealing a kiss.
“Jenks,” she fussed, clearly liking the attention. “I’m pleased it ended well.”
A flash of guilt darkened his wings. “Yeah, as long as Sylvan doesn’t come back and Rachel doesn’t find out,” he said, gaze going to his kids as they doused Jumoke in pollen from an early dandelion, temporally turning him blond until he shook himself.
“You’re such the worrier,” Matalina teased. “Let the future take care of itself. Vincet’s family is safe, and Jumoke is considering a career outside the garden. I’m proud of you.”
He turned to her, his guilt easing. “You think it will be okay?” he said, and she leaned in, putting her arms around his neck and her forehead against his.
“I’m sure of it. That dryad is long gone. No need to worry.”
Jenks sighed, feeling a knot untying, but still…“How do you like the office?” he asked, trying to change the subject. “I’ll get a little bell and they can ring it. I don’t think anyone will come, anyway.”
Matalina smiled as a shaft of light found her face. “They’ll come, Jenks. Just you wait.”
The sound of one of their children wailing drifted to them, and together they sighed.
“Not today, though,” Jenks said, giving her a kiss before he took to the air, his hands leaving hers reluctantly. “Today, I belong entirely to you.”
And, happy, he rose up, scanning his garden, assessing in an instant what had happened and darting down to make things right.
It was what he did. It was what he always did. And it was what he would al
ways do.
RECKONING
JEANIENE FROST
PROLOGUE
February 16, 2004
New Orleans
Eric swallowed the last of his beer and then set the empty bottle on the sidewalk. Not my fault there isn’t a trash can nearby, he thought, ignoring the glare the tour guide gave him. The brunette off to his right didn’t seem to mind. She smiled at him in a way that made him glad he’d blown off his buddies to take this stupid haunted tour.
“…in front of us is the LaLaurie house,” the guide went on, gesturing to the big gray structure on the corner of Royal Street. “This is reputedly one of the most haunted places in the French Quarter. Here, in the mid–eighteen hundreds, an untold number of slaves were tortured and murdered by Dr. Louis LaLaurie and his wife, Delphine…”
Eric sidled closer to the hot brunette, who didn’t seem to be paying any more attention to the guide than he was. She was thin, the way he liked ’em, and though her tits weren’t big, she had great legs and a nice ass. Her face was pretty, too, now that he noticed.
“Hey. I’m Eric. ’S your name?” he asked, fighting back his slur. Smile. Look interested.
“Where are your friends?” she asked. She had an accent that sounded French, and it was a weird question. But she smiled when she said it, her eyes raking over him in a way that woke his cock up.
“They’re at Pat O’Brien’s,” Eric said, with a vague wave. The guide was glaring at him more pointedly now, going on about the LaLauries’ medical experiments on their slaves and other weird, gross shit he didn’t want to listen to. “You wanna grab a drink?”
The brunette came closer, until she was right next to him and her nipples practically brushed his chest. “I’m in the mood for more than a drink. Aren’t you?”
Oh yeah. He had definite liftoff in his pants. “Baby, like you wouldn’t believe.”
Eric glanced around to find a few people staring at him. Okay, he’d said that a little loud.
“I’ve got a room at the Dauphine,” he tried again, softer. “We could go there—”
“My place is closer,” she interrupted him, taking his hand. Firm grip, too. “Come with me.”
She led him down the street, weaving past people and throwing those fuck-me smiles over her shoulder at him every so often. Eric was excited. He’d been here three days and hadn’t gotten laid yet. It was about time he got some strange on this trip.
The girl took him down an alley, walking just as quickly as before, even though he had a hard time seeing where they were going. He tripped on something—a bottle, probably—but she just tugged on his arm at the same moment, keeping him upright.
“Hey.” He grinned. “Nice reflexes.”
She muttered something he didn’t understand, and not just because he was drunk.
“Is that French?” Eric asked.
Her dark hair swung as she glanced back at him. “Oui. Yes.”
“Cool.”
She led him up a fire escape at the end of the alley, opened an unlocked door at the landing, and propelled him inside. The lights were off, wherever they were, but this must be her place. She locked it behind him and then her smile grew wider.
“I am going to eat you,” she said in a sexy, accented purr that made him even harder.
Eric grabbed her, squeezing that beautiful ass while he kissed her. She opened her mouth, letting his tongue explore inside while he ground himself against her. Rubber’s in my back pocket, Eric reminded himself. A chick this easy might have something.
She put her arms around his neck, holding on to him like she was desperate for it. Eric fumbled with the front of his pants. Right here, right now worked for him, too.
He’d gotten his pants unzipped and his hands up her short skirt, when she clamped down on his tongue with her teeth. And yanked her head back.
Eric screamed, staring in horror at the blood around her mouth when she smiled at him again. His tongue throbbed like it was on fire.
“Crazy bitch,” he tried to say, but it came out sounding like “’aaazy ’itch.” Blood was still pouring from his tongue, and when he felt the tip of it…there wasn’t one anymore.
“You fucking whore!” Eric spat, not caring if she understood the garbled words or not. His fist came up—and then he was falling end over end, until he reached the bottom with a thud that made his head feel like it had split.
For a stunned second, Eric lay there. Stairs, it occurred to him. Bitch pushed me down a flight of stairs. He felt the first stirrings of fear mixing with his anger.
A light flicked on in the room and Eric jerked, blinking for a minute at the brightness before the images focused.
There was a tall, thin man standing over a mannequin. He looked like he was assembling it, since its leg was on the ground next to the man and its arm was in two pieces farther away. Then the mannequin’s head turned. Its eyes blinked, mouth opened…
Eric screamed, trying to scramble to his feet, but a scalding pain in his leg prevented him. The tall man ignored Eric’s screams and frantic attempts to back away as he gave an inquiring glance up the stairs.
“Mon amour, I was getting worried.”
The girl appeared at the top of the stairs. “Why? No one knows we’re here.”
Eric managed to stand. Agony shot up his leg even though he had most of his weight on the other one.
“Don’t either of you fuckin’ touch me,” he gasped, looking around for something, anything, to use to fight them off.
The girl smiled as she came down the stairs. With his blood still around her mouth, it looked more like a hideous leer.
“Touch you? Mon cher, I already told you—I am going to eat you.”
1
Bones didn’t spare a glance around as he strode rapidly up the streets of the French Quarter. Scents assailed him; countless perfumes, body odor from all manners of hygiene, food cooking—or rotting in the trash. Centuries of decadence had given the Quarter a unique, permanent stench no vampire could completely ignore.
A close second to the cacophony of scents was sound. Music, laughter, shouts, and conversations compounded into a constant white noise.
As he rounded a corner, Bones wondered again why Marie had summoned him. He didn’t have to come; he wasn’t under her line, so he owed her no loyalty. But when the queen of New Orleans called, Bones answered. For starters, he respected Marie. And he reckoned his head wouldn’t enjoy sitting atop his shoulders much longer if he snubbed her.
Though chances were, what Marie wanted would involve Bones killing someone.
He had just rounded another corner when instinct told him he was being watched. He jerked to the side—and felt searing pain slam into his back in the next instant. Bones whirled, knocking people over to dart into the nearest door. With his back safely to a wall and the only entrance in clear view, Bones looked down at his chest.
An arrow protruded, its broad head hooked on three sides where it had punched through his chest. The shaft was still sticking out of his back. He touched the bloodied tip and swore.
Silver. Two inches lower and it would have gone through his heart, ending his life the permanent way.
“Hey, buddy,” someone called out. “You okay?”
“Capital,” Bones bit off. He looked around and realized he’d stumbled into a bar. The patrons were goggling at his chest.
He paused long enough to pull the arrow out of his chest before ducking out the door, moving at a speed that would have been only a blur to the onlookers at the bar. He wasn’t concerned with them, however. His attention was focused on finding whoever had fired that custom-made arrow. From the angle it skewered him, it had been fired from above.
One vertical jump had him on the bar’s roof, crouching again while his gaze scanned the nearby structures. Nothing. Bones ran along the tops of the buildings for two blocks, until he felt certain that he was standing where the shooter had been. There was a faint, residual energy in the air that confirmed what Bones already s
uspected: whoever fired that arrow wasn’t human.
He took another moment to survey the rooftops, but there was no one to be seen. He or she was fast; it had been less than a minute from shot fired to Bones standing where the would-be killer had crouched. No amateur, this. And whoever this was had been alerted quickly to Bones’s presence in the Quarter. He’d arrived only last night.
Bones gave a mental shrug as he jumped down to the street, warier now to stay within clusters of people, but not forgoing his appointment. He’d already died once. It tended to take the edge off fearing it afterward.
Bones waited outside the wrought-iron gate of St. Louis Cemetery #1. His back was to a post, and he’d been eyeing the rooftops, ready to spring at the slightest hint of movement.
Ghosts bathed the cemetery and its surrounding streets like spectral cobwebs. Bones ignored them, though they could to be as noisy and bothersome as the tourists. New Orleans Quarter was the last place for anyone to rest in peace, be it the living, or the dead.
It wasn’t five minutes before a gigantic man walked toward him. His aura announced him as a ghoul, though he looked nothing like Hollywood’s interpretation of one. No, he had smooth brown skin, a bald head, and a barrel-like chest, the very picture of health and vitality. Except his walk, which had a noticeable awkwardness that was at odds with the normal, graceful gait of the undead.
“Bones,” the man greeted him.
It had been decades, but Bones remembered his name. “Jelani.” He nodded. “I am here to see Majestic, at her request.”
Jelani swept out a hand. “Follow me.”
Moonlight glowed off Jelani’s black gloves, their shape too perfect and too stiff. Prosthetics. Both his legs below the knees were missing, too. Bones didn’t know how Jelani had lost his arms and legs, but he knew it had happened before Jelani became a ghoul. The only thing that didn’t grow back after being cut off from a vampire or a ghoul was his head.
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