Blood in Her Veins (Nineteen Stories From the World of Jane Yellowrock) (26 page)

Soul raised her eyes to his and started to speak, but stopped and took the box instead. She opened it. Inside was a golden apple on a thin gold chain. “A golden delicious apple for the . . . creature.” He laughed as sparks flew from her eyes when he brought up the fact that she wasn't human. “Tell me about the operation.”

Cajun with Fangs

Author's note: This story takes place after
Raven Cursed
, but before the start of
Death's Rival
.

Bitsa's atypical roar and black smoke from her exhaust flowed down the bayou in a noxious, rough-sounding echo as I crossed the rickety, picturesque bridge into town. The bike's shudder had me worried. The Harley had undergone an engine and full system rehab as well as a touch-up paint job recently in Charlotte, North Carolina, and she should be running like a top. But the misfire was getting worse, and I knew I'd never make it over the Atchafalaya River Basin and into New Orleans before nightfall without a mishap. The idea of a breakdown after dark on the stretch of I-10 in southwestern Louisiana's mostly bayou/swamp/wetland or acres of farmland was not appealing. I hadn't seen a nice hotel in miles, and the mom-and-pop joints I
had
seen in the last five miles looked like bedbug-infested roach motels.

The little town I'd pulled into was called Bayou Oiseau, on the banks of the bayou of the same name. The weatherworn sign back on 10 had advertised
TASSIN BROS AUTO FIX, OPE
N SIX DAYS A WEEK, EX
CEPT IN GATOR-HUNTIN
G AND FISHING SEASON
, which sounded better than nothing. There was no telling if the Tassin brothers could work on a Harley or not, and I had no idea if it was gator-hunting or fishing season; but I had a few tools with me, and the shade of a nice live oak, an ice-cold Coke, and a chocolate bar would hit the spot, either way. I could always call someone from New Orleans for a lift, but I was miles out, and owing a favor of that magnitude was not something I really wanted. I had a few hundred in cash on me, enough to grease the oil-stained palms of most motor mechanics—under the table, of course—for a bit of advice, supplies, and maybe some actual help. Though that last part was unlikely.

The town itself was quaint in an unlikely way. Bayou Oiseau, which I
thought meant “bird bayou,” looked like the love child spawned by the producer of a spaghetti Western and a mad Frenchwoman. At the crossroads of Broad Street and Oiseau Avenue (neither name appropriate for the narrow main street and its ugly, single-lane cousin), the architectural focal points were a mishmash of styles. As I thought that, Bitsa died. I spent a moment trying to kick-start her to no avail and finally sat, as the single traffic signal turned from red to green, balancing the bike and taking in the town in greater detail.

At my left, to the south, there was a huge brick Catholic church, the bell tower revealing a tarnished, patinated bell mostly hidden with decades of spiderwebs and home to dozens of pigeons. The large churchyard was enclosed by a brick wall with ornate bronze crosses set into the brick every two feet. On top of the wall were iron spikes, also shaped like sharp, pointed crosses. To the east of the church, across the road, was a bank made of beige brick and concrete, with the date 1824 on the lintel and green verdigris bars shaped like crosses on the windows and door. To my right was a strip mall that had seen better days, made of brick and glass, featuring a nail salon, hair salon, tanning salon, consignment shop, secondhand bookstore, bakery, Chinese fast-food joint, Mexican fast-food joint, and a Cajun butcher advertising andouille sausage, boudin, pork, chicken, locally caught fish, and a lunch special for $4.99. It smelled heavenly. Every single window and door in the strip mall was adorned with a decal cross. The Chinese place also had a picture of nunchuks and a pair of bloody stakes crossed beneath.

“Well,” I muttered. “Wouldja look at this.”

Inside, my Beast purred with delight and peered out at the world through my eyes. My Beast was the soul of a mountain lion, one I'd pulled inside me in a case of accidental black magic when I was about five years old. She had an opinion about most everything, and ever since she came into contact with a fighting angel and demon, she's been . . . different. More quiet. Less snarky. And though I'd never admit it to her, I missed her.

Directly ahead of me, catercornered from the church, was a saloon like something out of the French Quarter—two stories, white-painted wood with fancy black wrought iron on the balconies, narrow windows with working shutters, aged wood, double front doors carved to look like massive, weather-stained orchids. From it, I could smell beer and liquor and sex and blood—
common enough in any bar, but even more common in vamp bars. The name of the place was LeCompte Spirits and Pleasure, the words spelled out in bloodred letters on a white sign hanging from the second-floor balcony. Whoever had painted it had deliberately let the red paint drip so it looked like blood, a not-so-subtle promise of vampire ownership and clientele.

I pushed Bitsa to the side of the road against the sidewalk and paid the parking meter two quarters. There were cars parked here and there up and down the main intersection, and movement inside the strip mall's windows. Two hours before sunset, the town's pace was lazy and relaxed, and the place smelled great. Mostly the Cajun place smelled great; the blood, liquor, and herbal vamp smell, not so much.

I checked to make sure my weapons were hidden but easy to hand. I was licensed to carry concealed in Louisiana, and there was nothing illegal in my having three handguns and three vamp-killers on my person and under my riding leathers. But advertising it, walking around as if I was ready for a small war, sometimes actually caused trouble. Go figure. I placed my open hand directly over the center of the cross on the front door of Boudreaux's Meats and pushed.

The man inside moved like I'd thrown a knife at him, ducking fast and sprinting to the left, and when he stood straight, he was holding a shotgun. I stopped dead, elbows bending, hands raising slowly toward my chest in what looked like a gesture of peace but was really just bringing my hands closer to my weapons. “Easy there. I'm not here to rob, kill, or steal.”

“Stranger, you is,” he said in a strong Cajun accent.

“Yeah. My bike died out front. I was looking for the Tassin Bros Auto Fix.”

“Bike?” His face showed honest confusion, clearing thinking bicycle.

“Motorbike. Harley. I just wanted directions and maybe some of that delicious food I'm smelling.” His eyes lost some of the wariness, so I kept talking. “And maybe directions to a place to spend the night if I have to. Someplace clean and quiet. I have a card. Okay if I reach two fingers into the zippered pocket?” I pointed at my chest. The zipper was narrow, maybe two inches, way too small for most guns. He nodded, and I slowly lifted my left hand, zipping open the pocket. I dropped two fingers inside and pulled out a business card. When he gestured with the shotgun, I tossed the card to the glass-topped meat cabinet. He caught it one-handed,
and the shotgun never wavered. He held it like he'd been born with one in his hand. Probably had.

He glanced at the card and back to me, and back to the card and back to me. “I hear a' you before. Dat rogue-vampire killer woman what took to work with Leo Pellissier. You her for real?”

“Yeah. I'm her. How about you put down the shotgun? A girl gets nervous with one pointed at her.”

“How 'bout you open you jacket, reeeeal slow-like. You dat Jane Yellowrock for real, you have lotsa guns and tings, you do.” He gestured again with the gun, firmed it into his shoulder, and waited.

I lifted my hand slowly and pulled the zipper, the ratchets loud in the silent room, and me not knowing if he wanted me to be Jane so he could kill me for a bounty—there had been a few put on my head by unhappy vamps in the last weeks—or wanted me to be Jane so he could befriend me. And there was nowhere to go in the narrow shop, with walls to either side and glass at my back. I was fast, but not faster than shotgun pellets.

The zipper open, I eased aside the left jacket lapel to reveal the special-made holster and the grip of a nine-mil H&K under my left arm. Still moving slowly, I pushed aside the other lapel to display the matching H&K at my waist on the right. The butcher grinned widely, revealing white teeth that would have looked good sitting in a glass, perfect in every way, though I was betting his were real, not dentures. “You is her, you is,” he said. He broke open the shotgun and set it out of sight, moving around the meat counters with an outstretched hand. “I'm Lucky Landry. I a big fan of you.”

I took his hand and we shook, and I felt all kinds of weird about it all and didn't know what to say. Me? With fans? I opened my mouth, closed it, and figured I had to say something. I settled on “Lucky
Landry
. What about Boudreaux?” I asked, indicating the sign reading
BOUDREAUX'S MEATS
on the back wall.

“My father-in-law.” Lucky crossed his arms over his chest and I saw the full-sleeve tat down his left arm. It was of weird creatures—combos of snake and human, with fangs and scales, mouths open in what looked like agony—as red and yellow flames climbed up from his wrist to burn them. It was like some bizarre version of hell. He was maybe late forties, early fifties, Caucasian, with black hair and dark eyes—what the locals call
Frenchy
. “I married the daughter, and when her daddy done died dead, I
took over dey business, I did. It a right fine pleasure t' meet you, it is, Miz Yellowrock.”

“Ummm. Yeah. Pleasure and all. Call me Jane.”

He moved behind the counter, beaming at me. “You hongry, Miz Jane? What I can get you for? I got some fried-up gator, fried-up catfish, fried-up boudin balls bigger'n my fist.” He made one to show me. “I got me fried onion, fried squash, and fried mushroom. My own batter, secret recipe it is, and dat oil is fresh and hot for cooking.”

Beast perked up at the description of the food
. Gator. Human killed gator? Human man is good hunter! Hungry for gator.
And the picture she sent me was a whole gator, snout, teeth, feet, claws, tail, skin, and all, crusty with batter. I chuckled and sent her a more likely mental picture. Inside she huffed with disappointment.

“Fried gator sounds good. Boudin balls and onion rings too. Got beer?”

“I can't sell you no beer, but I give you one. All my customers, I give one to, I do.” He nudged the tip jar at me, and I understood. He had no license to sell beer, but he could give it away, and his customers could tip him to make it worth his while. I dropped a five into the tip jar, and he grinned widely. “Beer in dat cooler. He'p youself.” I heard the hiss of gas being turned up, and smelled the gas scent and hot oil followed by the smell of raw meat.

There wasn't a statewide mandate on selling alcohol, and the voters of each parish could decide the issue. Seemed the voters of this parish had decided to keep it dry. At least officially. I wondered about the saloon across the street, and figured that vamps didn't have to follow the law around here—which might account for all the crosses everywhere.

I shoved a hand into the ice, grabbed a cold bottle from the bottom, pulled a Wynona's Big Brown Ale out of the cooler, and made a soft cooing sound. I like the taste of beer, from time to time, and Voodoo Brewery made some of the best microbrews in the South. I popped the top and took an exploratory sip. Though the alcohol did nothing for one of my kind—the metabolism of skinwalkers is simply too fast and burns alcohol off in minutes—the taste exploded in my mouth and the icy beer traced a trail down my esophagus. “Oh yeah,” I murmured and took another.

By the time the beer was half-gone, I had a paper plate full of boudin balls and fried onion rings in front of me, grease spreading through the
paper with a dull brown stain. My stomach growled and I popped a ring in my mouth while breaking open a boudin ball. I made an
ohhh
of sound and sucked air over my scalded tongue before I forked in a mouthful of fried boudin. Boudin is miscellaneous pork (though you can get it specially made with special cuts of pork) and white rice and spices, most of which are unique to each butcher or cook, and Lucky's boudin was excellent. “Dish ish goo',” I said, and I groaned.

Lucky laughed and brought a second plate with the promised fried gator meat. It was flaky and fishy and just as wonderful as the boudin, so perfect I didn't need seasoning salt from the big carved stone bowl on the table. Inside Beast let out a satisfied chuff. I tossed a ten on the table and it disappeared into Lucky's pocket. Ten minutes later I put down the fork and said, “You are a genius with this stuff. Do you ship your boudin?”

“Everywhere dey a post office, for sure.”

“I'll be placing an order. Now, about the Tassin Bros?”

“Dis gator-huntin' season. Dey close dat shop for thirty day. Open back on first day nex' month.”

“Well, crap.” I had really hoped to make it back to New Orleans and my own bed tonight. “Guess I'll be making do with the tools I have on hand. Anyplace I can work in the shade?”

“You bes' be getting youself to Miz Onie's bed-and-breakfast before dark, and work on dat motorbike in da morning. We gots trouble in dis town after dark.” He frowned. “Suckhead trouble wid dey witches, we always have, but dis time dey suckheads gone done too much.”

I flashed on the crosses everywhere in the middle of town, on every window and door, crosses that had been there, in the open, for many more decades than vamps had been out of the coffin and a part of American life. I had a feeling this town had known about vamps for a lot longer than the rest of the world, and I had a moment to imagine—to remember—all the horrible things vamps could do to a town if they decided not to follow the Vampira Carta, the legal document that reined in the predatory and murderous instincts of all vamps.

Before I could ask, Lucky set another plate in front of me, opened and passed me another beer, straddled the chair across the table from me, and said, “Dis one on me.” I had a feeling he didn't give beer away, and little hairs lifted on the back of my neck, like a warning.

“We had dey suckheads here since eighteen thirty,” he said, “when de banker's son, dat Julius Chiasson, and he wife come back from Paris. Him a doctor now. Dey all change, dey was, dem and dey son. Dey be gone to Paris for twenty year and dey not aged. Look like same age as dey son, and dey not go out in de sun no more. Tings not too bad for few year, until dey son, Marcel Chiasson, go crazy. Townfolk figger he change to suckhead den and was set free.