Blood in Her Veins (Nineteen Stories From the World of Jane Yellowrock) (25 page)

•   •   •

Rick woke slowly, the dark night full of scents. He knew where he was and who was with him by the scent patterns alone—the Quonset hut. Brute, Pea, and Soul were there. Soul was sitting on the edge of his bed, he was lying on the floor. His music was playing, the musical notes of the flute driving back the pain.

Even with the music, his skin burned as if he'd been flayed with stone blades, drenched in gasoline, and set on fire. All he wanted was to go back to sleep, find that dark and pain-free place he'd left upon waking, and stay there until the misery ended. Instead he said, “That was really stupid.” The words were mumbled, but he knew he'd been understood when Soul laughed softly and Brute snorted.

“I do hope that is the last time you forget to carry your music when you go out under the full moon,” she said. “I brought my old MP3 player and downloaded your music. Here.” She leaned down and draped the cord over his head to rest on his neck, the speaker close by his ear. “Are you up to trying again, or shall the werewolf and I do this alone?”

Rick pushed up with his palms, groaning. His abdominals felt like he'd been stomped on by a herd of rampaging elephants. The rest of his muscles had a fine quiver through them, like his body was carrying an electric current. “Sure.” Kneeling, he caught the desk as the room spun. “I feel just peachy. Just let me puke my guts out for an hour and I'll be ready to go.”

Soul rested her hands on his shoulders. “See if this helps.” The skin
below her palms stopped aching. Instantly. From there it spread down his body, soothing and cool. Somehow the sensation made him think of the color green, green water, green grass in a green meadow. In two minutes he was mostly pain free.

Raising his head, he looked up at Soul. “You're not a witch. Not a were. You measure on the psy-meter as a human, but you're not. What kind of creature are you?”

“Creature.” Soul
tsk
ed. “Such rude, personal questions. Surely your mother taught you better. Let's find the person who stole your music and wanted to drug you.”

Rick cursed but managed to roll to his feet. All he wanted to do was curl up and sleep, but making the grade at Spook School would be an effort of perseverance, and the three days of the month when he was moon-called were the days the PTBs would watch him most closely. The world lurched and he nearly fell, but Brute came and sat at his side.

After a moment, Rick rested his hand on Brute's head. He had never touched the wolf before, and the long hair was coarse, but the shorter hair near the wolf's skin was softer, and warm. Far warmer than human skin. The heat felt good on Rick's chilled skin. Brute didn't react, didn't look up at him, or snap, or move away. Pea raced up the wolf's back then up Rick's arm to his shoulder. She nuzzled his cheek and crooned softly. Rick chuckled, his voice hoarse, and adjusted the player's strap.

“Brute. Follow . . .” He stopped. Soul had said something about his mama and manners. “Brute, would you please follow the scent you discovered outside?”

The werewolf huffed softly and went to the door, taking his warmth with him, leaving Rick's hand cold. He followed the wolf slowly, feeling the moon call's ache in his bones. But if he wanted to be a PsyLED agent, he had to make it through this full moon sane and functioning. And the next moon. And the next after that.

He paused at the threshold and took a slow breath, fear skittering up his spine on chitinous legs, sweat trickling in its wake. Stepping into the moonlight took an effort of will. But he followed the wolf back to the scent-marked grass in the moonlight. This time, Brute took a single sniff and started walking, nose to the ground, glancing back only once to make certain Rick was there. Soul close behind them, they moved across the
compound, past the farmhouse kitchen. Toward the business offices, the library, and the communication building.

One of the security guards stepped from the shadows and looked them over. It was Ernest, and Soul paused, asking the guard to follow them. They wound through the compound, Brute's nose to the earth, and they reached the administration building. At the foot of the stairs, the werewolf paused, burying his nose in the grass again, breathing in and out with no rhythm, fast, short, long. Soul and Ernest stood silently behind them. Rick could hear the crackling of the guard's radio.

Finally Brute blew out and turned his head to Rick. The wolf's head was down, his shoulders high, ruff high, ears flat. Whatever he was smelling, it wasn't good. Brute started up the steps to the admin building, setting his paws carefully, slowly, his nose moving back and forth over each step. When he reached the narrow porch, that low-pitched, rumbling growl started, and Rick automatically reached for his weapon. He was unarmed and his hands closed on empty air. Brute snarled, showing fangs. Behind him, he heard the soft whisper of leather on steel as Earnest drew his sidearm and positioned to the left. Soul moved quickly to Rick's right, her feet silent on the wood.

Brute stared at Rick, his eyes almost glowing, trying to communicate . . . something.

“Are you still tracking the same scent from my quarters?” Rick asked.

Brute nodded once, then shook his head.

“Yes and no?”

Brute nodded, showing a gleam of teeth in the night.

Rick asked, “Have you smelled this scent before?”

Brute nodded, his eyes so intense that Rick felt, for a moment, like prey. He had no idea what to ask next. Brute huffed, put out a paw, and traced a jagged shape.

Rick asked, “The full moon?”

Brute shook his head.

Rick said, “It's just a circle.”

Brute huffed, his head jutting forward.

“A witch circle,” Rick said. “The witch circle at the crime scene. You found the coven leader. Here.”

Brute nodded once, slowly.

“She's been here all along?”

Brute nodded and turned back to the door, his eyes, nose, and ears focused on the wood.

“Someone I've never had contact with.”

Soul said, “Call backup, Ernest. Now.”

The guard didn't bother to reply, but murmured into his mike, “Backup to admin. Silent, armed approach.” To Soul, he said, “I'm carrying only standard ammo.”

Soul pulled up her skirt to reveal a thigh holster. She handed Rick a Smith and Wesson .22, still warm from contact with her body.

Holding a weapon, Rick instantly felt better. He released the magazine and checked the ammo. “Silver shot,” he said. He slammed the magazine back into place, pulled back on the slide, injecting a round into the chamber. Rick stepped into the shadows beside the door and slowly turned the knob. It wasn't locked.

He pointed to the wolf and held up one finger, then to himself and held up two fingers, then to Ernest with three fingers. The guard nodded, pointed left. Rick nodded and pointed right. He turned off his music and opened the door. Brute flowed in like a white cloud, hunched down, silent. Rick followed to the right, and felt, as much as heard, Ernest and Soul move left.

Inside the entry was dark, lit only by the green glow of computer battery backups. Brute didn't need more light; neither did he. They moved through the entry, around the counter, to the doorway in back. It opened to a hallway, offices on either side. Music flowed through the air, the mellow sounds of wood flutes, familiar and calming. His music, stolen from his quarters, the music that Chief Smythe had been so interested in.

The frame around one doorway was bright, and Brute padded down the hallway, nose down, to that door. Rick followed, and the music grew louder. He expected the office to be Chief Administrator Liz Smythe's. Instead, it was Mariella Russo's office, her name in gold leaf on the wood. Mariella Russo, who was on call the night he went to the crime scene.

He stood back and let Ernest take his place. The man reached out and took the knob in hand, turning it slowly. The door didn't creak as it swung open. Light flooded into the dark hall along with his music, amplified, and a stench like rotten cabbage, rotten eggs, and burned matches. Rick covered his nose. Brute padded inside two paces and halted.

The office furniture had been pushed back, exposing the wood floor,
painted with a witch's circle and pentagram. In the circle was a dark cloud and a body, human, Caucasian, female. Blond. Rick felt the shock of recognition. Polly. He didn't have to wonder if she was dead. Her abdominal cavity had been ripped open, and the cloud was feeding on her. A demon. Mariella Russo was sitting at her desk, staring into the witch circle, her cupped hands in front of her, holding something that glowed yellow green.

Soul leaped for the desk, her body leaving the floor in one smooth, sleek movement. Agile. Inhuman. Both Ernest and Rick lifted their weapons in two-hand stances. Fired. Two taps. Ernest's slammed Russo midcenter of her body mass. Rick's shot hit her forehead.

A half second later, the concussion of the shots still echoing, Soul was standing behind the desk, holding Mariella's hands in hers. She eased the thing, whatever it was, from the dead administrator's hands. “Call for a containment vessel,” she ordered. But Ernest was already doing so, his voice soft and in control.

Brute woofed and growled and ended on a faint whine, his eyes on Soul.
Yeah,
Rick thought, remembering her speed, like a time jump of movement. She wasn't human. No way, no how. Not with that leap. He walked to the circle and stood beside Brute, one hand on the wolf's head, scratching gently at the base of the upright ears.

The demon raised up out of Polly's naked body and hissed at them, showing a mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth. Ernest turned up the volume of the music and the demon closed its eyes, settling back to the corpse, as mellow as Rick felt when the music protected him from the moon call. He thought back to the spell at the crime scene. They had called up a moon demon. Soul lifted her eyes to Rick. “Please go back to your quarters.”

Rick ejected the magazine of Soul's .22 and put the safety on before setting the gun on the desktop. He and his unit backed out just as four men rushed into the room, one carrying a cylindrical canister with a rounded top.

•   •   •

The next morning, Rick and his triumvirate were called to the chief administrator's office. Since he hadn't started with the other trainees, Rick hadn't met the CA, Dr. Smythe, but now, the chief was sitting at her desk, her face grave, her salt-and-pepper hair in a short bob, her face set in the no-nonsense expression of a drill instructor. Soul was standing against
the window, her arms crossed, her shoulders hunched, her stance protective and uncertain, maybe just a bit defiant.

The former cop, the wolf, and the grindylow stood inside the office, Rick's eyes drawn to the pile of things on the CA's desk. It was his nine mil and holster, his backup ankle weapon, stakes, three silvered vamp-killers, his money, ID, credit cards, and the little black velvet jewelry box he'd purchased on his last leave.

He hadn't seen his stuff since that last leave, two weeks ago.

His next leave was days away.

It was two weeks until graduation.

They were booting him out.

Rick's heart dropped. Brute looked up at him and whined. Nudged his hip with his damp nose. Rick put his hand to the wolf's ears and scratched.

“It has been brought to my attention,” the CA said, “that you were part of the reason—”

“The only reason,” Soul interrupted.

The CA nodded serenely. “The only reason why Mariella Russo's crimes were discovered. We now believe the three students who supposedly signed quit forms in the last few weeks did not terminate their schooling, but may have been fed to her demon.” The CA leaned back in her chair and templed her fingers at her chin. “We have launched a full investigation. We also understand that you witnessed”—she looked at Soul over her fingers—“something that is classified, and must remain so.”

Did she mean the sight of Soul flowing/leaping/gliding over the desk to catch the thing in Mariella's hands before she dropped it? Or the containment cylinder? Or—

“But that isn't why I called you here,” the CA said. “We have a problem in New Orleans. You are from there, yes?”

Rick straightened. This didn't sound like a “you're fired” speech. “Yes, ma'am.”

“And you are familiar with Leo Pellissier, the Master of the City.”

“I am.” He was related to Leo's heir too, but he didn't offer that, not now, not ever.

“We would like you to travel there and deal with the situation.” Rick's breath exploded out of him, and he sucked in another. He hadn't been aware that he'd been holding his breath. Smythe looked at Soul and her
lips lifted into a faint smile. “Just so you know, Soul is against this. She feels you need more time here. Which is why, if you accept, she will be going with you.”

Soul's mouth opened for a moment, then closed. “You could have told me,” she said.

The CA chuckled. “If you agree to the assignment, Soul will accompany you into the field and provide both a temporary partnership and the last weeks of your training. You may return for graduation, of course. Soul, please explain the assignment to your in-field trainee. If he accepts, collect the necessary gear from the Quonset hut, and credit cards for your expenses from financial.” Smythe stood and held out a wood box. “I am assuming you will accept. Your temporary badge.”

Rick took the box and shook Smythe's hand. He wasn't being booted. He was being given an assignment. Before graduation. “Thank you, ma'am.” The CA placed his gear in a paper bag, and had him sign for his personal belongings. Holding the bag and badge, Rick left the admin building with his unit and Soul. They stopped in the sunlight and Soul studied him, shading her eyes.

“They didn't kick my ass out.” A smile pulled at his face. He wasn't sure how long since he'd grinned that widely. Probably since he'd lost his humanity. “I have a present for you,” he said. Rick reached in the paper bag and held out the velvet box. “It was supposed to be a thank-you gift, for after graduation. But you should take it now. Sorry it isn't wrapped.”