by Faith Hunter
“Ain’t no hawk gonna eat the cats,” Mud yelled, brandishing a mallet. “I’m too big and too mean and I scare them off.” She stomped over and fell into the other chair. Sipped her coffee.
“When did you start drinking coffee?”
“While you were disabled. Mama says if you drink hot coffee on a hot day it’ll cool you off. I think Mama’s delusional, but let’s keep that one between us.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling into my cup. “I think that would be wise.”
“I got news about the church. It’s dividing along the lines of multiple wives and pretty much all the Jackson side is ready to kill you and burn out the Nicholson side. There’s been talk of the church splitting for nigh on a year now, and the lawyers is ready to fight it out in court.”
“Oh. Lawyers, huh?”
“According to Sam, polygamy was designed by menfolk to get more sex,” Mud said. “Is that what you think?”
I looked up at the sky and said, “Save me.” God didn’t. I had no idea how my sister and I ended up having part of the conversation that most church mamas had on the wedding day of their far-too-young daughters.
My cell rang and I thought, Saved by the bell, and answered without looking at the screen, because I needed to be saved, even if it was by a robocall. “Ingram.”
“Yellowrock,” the voice snarled. The connection was staticky, parts of words dropping out. “Why are you calling my people?”
I looked at the screen then and a jolt of a different sort went through me. “Jane? You sound . . . strange.” I had almost said she sounded awful, like a sick, wet cat, but that wasn’t smart.
I could hear her breath blow across the phone and she replied in a tone that was more diplomatic, if not serene. “Sorry. I’ve been . . . Never mind. What’s up?” She sounded better, but the connection was still awful. I decided not to ask her to call me back over a different cell or landline. She might not bother or she might be on the progression—whatever that was—mentioned by Ming, and I’d lose this chance. And since I didn’t know what Jane did or didn’t know, I had to cover a lot of bases fast.
“A vampire named Godfrey of Bouillon, or Godefroi de Bouillon, attacked Ming of Glass, the MOC of Knoxville. Ming and her people won, but it was a narrow margin and there were a lot of injuries and deaths. The Shaddock Clan Home in Asheville was also attacked, and because Shaddock was in Knoxville helping Ming fight, he lost his lands and his people. Witches are attacking Ming too, possibly the same one who is attacking”—I almost said Rick but changed it—“our people, though that hasn’t been verified.”
I heard a voice in the background and realized I was on speakerphone. Alex said, “Lincoln Shaddock and Ming have some of the best fighters in the States. Your boss is Ayatas FireWind. Why do they need our help?”
Jane said, “There’s nothing I can do that they can’t.”
“That’s garbage.” I scowled at the world and Mud’s eyes went big. I flapped my hand at her and mouthed, Not you. To Jane I said, “You’re the Dark Queen. You have resources.”
Jane chuckled and the sound was different from her previous laughter, disheartened, maybe even depressed. “Yeah. The all-powerful Oz, that’s me.” She continued before I could respond. “This much I can do. Alex, will you chat with Unit Eighteen’s Jones? See if you can send them some information on Godfrey.”
“Sure,” Alex said. “I like a woman with a rep. File will be prelim data and I’ll send more later. Watch for a file named ‘Godfrey of Bouillon One.’”
Alex was a former hacker and he knew about our Diamond Drill.
Jane went on, “If things get dire, I’ll call the governor. I know you think I’m some kind of genie in a bottle, but I’m not. I can’t fix Ming’s problems, short of depriving her of her city and clan and taking over. And frankly, Ming would challenge me to a blood duel if I tried.”
“I’m not—”
“I’m tired of killing, little yinehi,” she said. “Take what you can get. And if you want a job with Clan Yellowrock, ask for it. I could always use a . . . a gardener.” Her tone suggested that she knew I was far more lethal than an ordinary gardener. The call ended.
“Was that the vampire hunter?” Mud asked, her eyes still wide. “The demon one what killed a demon from hell and that old vampire? On the TV?”
“Yes. And no. That was Jane Yellowrock, but she isn’t a demon. Demons don’t fight demons. Remember your scripture.”
“A house divided against itself will not stand, meaning demons don’t fight demons. But Sam said—”
“Sam’s wrong,” I interrupted. “Jane is a shape-shifter. And that old vampire she killed on TV was the emperor of the European vampires, and he was gonna kill a lot of innocent humans just for spite. Killing him made Jane queen of all the vamps, one of the most powerful people among the vampires everywhere.”
“She don’t seem to think so.”
“Something’s wrong. I don’t know what. But, you know how the church is dividing into factions? Well, the vampires are even worse. She’s also Mr. LaFleur’s ex-girlfriend. Things are complicated.”
“I’m’a be a townie girl. Townies like complicated.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep.”
My cell dinged again and Mud arched her neck to read the screen. I read the text, holding the cell so my nosy true sib couldn’t see it. The text was from T. Laine. I might be able to break the black-magic calling Rick, but I can’t do it alone. Rick tried again to get the local coven to help. Copied is their reply: NO!.
The cell dinged again with a text from JoJo: Heard from Alex Younger of Yellowrock Securities. He sent info and offered to provide assistance tracking the fangheads who attacked Ming. TY.
“That was fast,” I said. I texted back with an acknowledgment to both agents and laid the cell facedown.
“You got to go into work tonight, don’tcha?” Mud asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll stay with Mama and Daddy tonight, okay? I got greenhouse stuff to do.”
At which point I realized I hadn’t discussed child care with Mama and Daddy while I was at the church. The threat of violence had driven it out of my mind. “Okay. I’ll take you on the way in to work.”
“I’ll be working on my tablet. I think I’m gonna need me some tutoring in math. Okay if I look for one online?”
I grinned at her. “Female, with her own transportation and excellent references.”
Mud grinned back.
I tugged my laptop to me and began to run a search for Isleen and Loriann, vampire and witch, last names unknown.
* * *
• • •
I was driving along Main Street in Oliver Springs at about five thirty, merging onto East Tri County Boulevard—officially Tennessee Highway 61—on my way into HQ when the cell dinged with a text. By feel, I found the cell and hit a button to have the phone read it to me. “Text from Jo Jones,” the androgynous voice said. “Call to FBI tip line. Witness saw teenaged girl snatched out of her front yard. Caller said attack was inhumanly fast. Racer took call for FBI and PsyLED. Sending GPS and address. Get there ASAP.”
I turned onto Strutt Street and into the parking lot of an empty building just as the cell dinged again with the information. I input the address, slapped the lights on top of the truck, engaged the siren, and pulled back into rush hour traffic, guided by the cell.
* * *
• • •
The address took me to an older, updated house on Panama Drive, in a well-established middle-class neighborhood. I whipped the wheel, turned off the lights and siren, put them away, reseated my weapon, and clipped my ID and badge in place as I looked the land over. It had likely been farmland once upon a time. Now it was detached housing with big lots, houses built in the seventies, older trees, outbuildings, trucks, manicured lawns, a news van, five police cars, a
nd neighbors everywhere, milling around, some crying.
I studied the land, which looked tired, overfertilized, and underloved, showing a distinct lack of organic matter, companion plants, or complementary plantings. It was drab and not as green as it should have been this time of year. I shook my head at the sad state of the landscaping, and secured my hair in an elastic.
I drove back onto the street and up to the armed uniformed officer, showed him my ID, and parked where he pointed. It was after six and still hot as blue blazes when I exited the Chevy C10. The heat radiating off the blacktopped road, the stink of old tar, and the muggy temp still in the nineties slapped me in the face. The officer pointed at a two-story house. I lifted a hand in thanks and trudged beside the concrete drive, my field boots on the springy, too-long grass. It needed cutting and had browned slightly in the heat. The storm had missed this area and it needed rain. But it was okay. It was grass. It would survive. The oak trees in the yard were twenty-five or so years old and needed rain too, but there was nothing I could do about that.
Crime scene tape marked off the entire front yard and there was an additional square of tape about fifteen by fifteen near the mailbox. The place where the girl had been taken, I presumed. A crime scene tech was placing markers in the brittle grass.
“Ingram!”
The sound of my name shook me from my contemplation of the grass and trees and I spotted Margot on the porch. “What do we have?” I asked.
“FBI has lead on this one. A missing girl and a witness who gives me the creeps, the five minutes I spent with him in the victim’s house. I want you to check him out, see if your church-dar sets you off.”
“What?” I asked, confused.
“Church-dar. Like radar but for creepy old men.” She pointed at the house across the street. “His name is Jim Paton, fifty-six, white, single. Talk. Then find me.”
I was still confused, but maybe Margot wanted me that way. I had learned that probies were often sent into situations where they could see things with a fresh eye, or learn things the hard way. I went back across the too-hot asphalt and walked around the witness’s one-story house. The front plantings—aged boxwoods and thirsty azaleas—were dry and sere, if neatly trimmed. The back was enclosed with a six-foot brick wall and secured with a sturdy padlocked wood gate. I leaned into the gate and put an eye to a crack to see a wonderland of raised beds and lush plantings, masculine garden furniture, a small garden house, a lovely fountain of a naked nymph pouring water from a jar on her shoulder, and a water feature that mimicked a mountain stream. It looked like upscale commercial work, far too pretty for this neighborhood.
Back around front, a uniformed officer let me in and I chatted him up, taking in the front room. The house had been built in the seventies and not painted or updated since. The living room walls were a brownish gold, the trampled-down shag carpet a deeper version of the same shade. Matching couch and chairs were upholstered in floral fabric with big gold roses on each cushion. Matching vases of faded yellow roses rested beside matching lamps on matching end tables. A big-screen TV and a newish recliner sat front and center. A heavy layer of dust covered everything except the recliner. The place smelled of mold. There were cobwebs in the corners. Dry-rotted draperies covered the front windows, a paler gold than the walls, and were ruffled along all the seams and the hem. The room looked as if it had been decorated by two very different people, a woman who liked roses and, much later, a man who liked TV. I texted JoJo to see if Jim Paton was the original owner or if he was a newcomer, and if he’d been married or had a significant other in the past.
I followed voices to the kitchen, standing in the doorway, taking everything in before I was spotted. The kitchen was neat as a pin, gold-painted walls, gold-painted cabinets. No dust. No dirty dishes. Everything in its place, though way too much gold. Gold flooring, the kind that came in long rolls and was designed to remind people of tile but was really plasticized stuff. Gold stove and fridge. Gold tablecloth. At the small table was a uniformed officer and a man who did not fit the house. He was neither a decorator who liked roses nor a man who belonged in the comfortable recliner. Jim Paton was middle-aged, fit, with khakis and a dress shirt that had started out the day starched and pressed and still looked fresh. His hair was combed and neat, his shoes polished to a shine. Despite his athletic physique, he had plump cheeks, blue eyes, and what I mentally described as a benevolent face. When he smiled, his cheeks formed little cherubic balls of joy, his eyes twinkled, and the uniformed officer smiled with him. “Anything I can do,” Paton said. “Raynay is such a sweet child. This breaks my heart. The world is so full of horrible people and our young are no longer cherished and protected.”
I put a sweet look on my face and let my voice rise a little, more high-pitched than my normal tone, as I stepped in, interrupting the chitchat. “Mr. Paton, I’m probationary special agent Nell Ingram with PsyLED. I understand you saw the girl abducted?”
Paton turned to me, and I understood Margot’s church-dar comment. Paton surveyed me in one swift glance, evaluating and categorizing me, my voice, body type, hair, shoes, and gun. It was fast, so fast I’d have missed it had I not been focused so tightly on him.
“Probationary? Such a sweet young woman for such a dangerous job.” He shook his head. “I was just about to fix Officer Cobb a cup of coffee. Would you like one? Or maybe tea?”
“No, thank you,” I said, my voice going a little more girlish. “I know you’ve already told your story several times, but can you tell me what you saw?”
“I came in from work, got a cola from the fridge”—he pointed at the gold antique—“and sat in my recliner. I looked out the front window and saw Raynay walking to the mailbox. A black panel van rolled up, braked, and I saw several pairs of feet moving faster than a human possibly can. The van sped off. Raynay was gone. I raced across the street, banged on the door, and told Lonie what I had seen. Lonie Blalock. That’s Raynay’s mother. We called the police together. They got here fast and said it sounded like a vampire kidnapping. Do you know anything new?”
“Did you see a license plate? Get a look at the driver?”
“The van was between Raynay and me.” He put a hand over his heart, a gesture of commiseration, but . . . it looked off. Affected. Fake. My newly described church-dar for creepy old men was clanging loudly. “The windows were tinted,” he continued. “It happened so fast. I didn’t see anything else.”
“I see,” I said. “You were in the recliner? In the living room?”
Paton’s face altered just a hint. Barest tightening of the creases around his smiling blue eyes. “That’s what I said.”
“The recliner in the living room?”
Paton said nothing.
“The recliner in the living room?” I repeated.
“Yes,” Paton said, and he pasted a happy, innocent smile on his face.
“Thank you.” I left the kitchen for the living room and stood near the recliner. The drapes were closed, but I couldn’t rule out that Paton had closed them. I opened the drapes. A puff of dust filtered out. I retook my position at the recliner, looking out the front windows. I bent to where Paton’s head would have been when he used the chair. Shifting back and forth, I considered his line of sight along the recline position. The draperies obscured most of the yard across the street. The area where the crime scene tech worked was hidden behind the trees. I opened the front door and studied Paton’s house. There was one window that gave a clear line of sight to the place where the girl supposedly had been abducted. I texted Margot and JoJo on the same thread. Witness lying. Margot, get over here. Jo, check databases for past domestic abuse or sexual assault allegations on Paton.
Margot strode across the street to me. Jo texted back, In process. Margot called out, “What do we have?”
I shut the door to give us privacy. “Witness says he was in his recliner when he saw the girl abducted. He saw severa
l pairs of feet beneath a van. You can’t see the house from his chair. But there’s a bedroom window that might work.” I pointed. “And it’s low enough that he might see feet.”
Margot changed direction and walked to the window. She leaned in and made a circle of her hands against the screen, pressing her face close. “Gotcha, you lying son of a bitch.” She raced to the porch, past me, and inside, one hand on her weapon. She looked heated and cold all at once, focused and scary. I followed her more slowly. “Mr. Paton,” she said. “You’ve told us several times about seeing Raynay abducted. Tell me again. Starting with where you were when you saw the event. And this time? I want the truth.”
“I’ll be calling my lawyer,” Paton said calmly.
“In that case I’ll be taking you in for questioning.” There was something gleeful in Margot’s voice. “Read Mr. Paton his rights, Officer. Cuff him, and put him in my unit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the cop said.
“Don’t touch anything,” she added. “I want a warrant for this one.” Margot came back in the main room.
“Be sure to include the backyard in the warrant,” I said softly for her ears only. “And his business office. And any properties he might own or rent. And whatever he watches on the TV in the main room.”
“Why’s that?” Margot asked.
“Church-dar. For creepy old men.” For things that seem wrong.
* * *
• • •
Back in the Blalock yard, I asked the crime scene tech to step back and used the psy-meter 2.0, reading the spot where Raynay disappeared. I caught a hint of vampire. Which was strange because vampires in the daylight were impossible. But Paton’s description of the abduction sounded like the way well-fed blood-servants moved—faster than normal. And paneled vans with tinted windows were a common method of transportation for vampires.
I looked back at the window of Paton’s house that faced this spot. Compared it to the front of the house where Raynay lived. On a hunch I packed up the psy-meter, thanked the tech, and made my way to the Blalock house. Quietly, I made my way down the hall to the bedroom where two cops and a crime scene tech were standing. Green walls and carpet. Unmade bed. Clothes on the floor. High school banners hung on one wall. The room of the abducted girl faced the front of the house, overlooking Paton’s house, with a clear view of the window where Margot had said, Gotcha, you lying son of a bitch. What had she seen?