Blood in Her Veins (Nineteen Stories From the World of Jane Yellowrock) (60 page)

Before he stood, Holly removed something from his pocket and handed it to me. “Final thanks,” he said, backing away, “but not a boon.”

I looked down at my hand and saw what looked like a diamond. Payment for an old dog was a diamond? A
diamond
? When I looked up, the vamps had gone, disappeared into the shadows. I closed the door and reset the wards. And went to check on my enlarged family.

Big Evan would have a cow.

Cat Fight

Author's note: This short story takes place (in the JY timeline) after
Dark Heir
.

“The Master of the City of New Orleans sends you greetings and a missive.” The words had that old-fashioned ring, a sure sign of a powerful vamp's official notice—and the fact that the courier was a vamp himself, and not a human blood-servant—which indicated that this situation could only be trouble. I'd heard similar words once when the chief fanghead had told me to get out of his city or he'd eat me. And not in a good way.

I cocked a hip onto the doorjamb, crossed my arms, and stared at the envelope in the vamp's hand. “He sends his favorite slave as messenger boy? Can't be good news,” I said. “Give me one good reason why I should accept the note.”

Edmund Hartley smiled, an act that turned his nondescript face into something almost human, and certainly charming. “Because I have healed you and those you love several times, without asking for recompense, or requesting you in my bed or your blood in my fangs in return. Because I am fascinating and intriguing and you are curious about my history and my life.” His smile twisted slightly on one side, indicating a mischievous side I hadn't seen before. “Because you like me and we have become friends of a sort?”

All of those things were true, but I wasn't going to give in so easily, not to a fancy note from Leo. I scowled at him. “Friends with a
vamp
?”

Like Edmund,
Beast thought at me.
Would make good vampire mate.

Down, Beast. We have a mate.

Beast chuffed with amusement.

“It is true that if we were locked in a dungeon together,” he said, an
innocent, practically winsome look on his face, “I would certainly drink you down. But other than situations resulting in starvation, you are safe from me, I assure you.” He was teasing me. It was a novel conversation to have with a vamp.

I looked at the note. The previous note, delivered by Bruiser a long time ago, had been a scroll, tied with a ribbon. This one was inside a handmade envelope constructed from heavy cloth paper, and had my name written on it in Leo's own handwriting, with a real fountain pen, all the scrolls and twirls and dips and stuff, like they used to write way back when. And like the last one, it was closed with a bloodred drop of wax and Leo's seal.

I had been avoiding Leo and his messages and texts, which may be the reason he had sent a messenger. It was harder to ignore a human-shaped face than a beep or two or three dozen on my cell. I stared hard at the envelope, hoping it would disappear. It didn't.

I was pretty sure that the note was a request—make that a demand—that I take up my responsibilities as Leo's Enforcer, which I hadn't done since I tracked and captured the Son of Darkness. I'd been hurt in that job and so had my team. We deserved some time off. But Leo probably thought a week was long enough, hence the increased number of unanswered texts and voice mails and phone calls. And now the note. Which was surely some form of orders, and I had never been partial to getting ordered around.

Leo Pellissier was a . . . I couldn't think of a word bad enough to call him, even silently, except for corrupt CEO or debauched king. He was a high-handed, demanding, megalomaniacal, exacting, meticulous, fussy, taxing, body-part-of-your-choice fanghead. According to the contract we had signed, he was also my boss, or had been until the SoD incident less than a month ago.

“My master wishes you back in his employ.”

“Uh-huh.” I jutted out my jaw, thinking. I hadn't even closed the door on the messenger or opened the dang note, and I was already mad. I snapped out my hand and Edmund snapped the envelope into my palm, practically choreographed. I broke the seal and pulled out the note, which was written on equally fancy, heavy paper. The note said:

My Dearest Jane,

As per our agreement, there are duties awaiting your return. If you wish a longer holiday, that can be arranged, however, the Clan Blood-Master of Bayou Oiseau, Clermont Doucette, has requested your presence. If you are not available to assist him I will send another.

I am placing the Mercy Blade and Edmund Hartley at your disposal.

Leonard Pellissier,

Blood-Master of the City of New Orleans

I grunted. Not too long ago, I had stopped over in Bayou Oiseau, a pretty little Cajun town on the banks of the bayou of the same name, and solved a problem that had been brewing between the witches and the vamps for a long time. After my visit, Leo and the chief suckhead of the town, Clermont Doucette, which was pronounced in the patois of the region as
Cler-mon Doo-see
, had been supposed to parley together and settle the long-standing difficulties between them, but I hadn't seen Clermont in New Orleans, and Leo hadn't gone south to Bayou Oiseau, so maybe any peace I had created between the two had evaporated after I left. That had been known to happen.

Both vamps had overly high opinions of themselves, and I could easily see where problems might arise. Leo was an even bigger predator than I am—and I'm half–mountain lion—and he could be a mite off-putting when he got into a snit. Clermont could too.

I held the note over my shoulder and it skated from my fingers, tugged away by one of my partners, Alex Younger, the younger Younger. The smart one of the team. The stinkiest too, when he hadn't showered in a while, and he had been playing
World of Warcraft
for the last couple of days. Edmund's nose wrinkled and he took a half step back before he caught himself. It was that nearly human reaction to the stench that made me chuckle and relax. I said, “I know, right?”

“How does he stand himself?” Edmund whispered.

“Beats me.” I jerked my head to the interior of the house and pushed the door wide. “Come on in. You know what the note said?”

“I do. I am supposed to escort you to Bayou Oiseau as your personal protection and as Leo's personal delegate.”

“Personal protection? I'm my own personal protection.” I stared at Edmund as he entered, his hands clasped behind his back. He was shorter than my six feet, nondescript, with brown eyes and brown hair, and looked scholarly and bookish, like a schoolteacher, a librarian, or a slightly cynical professor. “Or my partners are,” I added. “I don't need more personal protection.”

“I hope you might think of me as your primo.”

I closed the front door behind us and led the way through the dimly lit house and into the kitchen, thinking about what he was saying and what he might really be meaning. With vamps there is no simple truth, just layered, multipurposed, dual- or triple-intentioned half lies. “Only vampires have primos. And primos are human.”

“Exactly. Having a primo would be a way to provide cachet, to raise your value, to suggest that you are something more than simply an Enforcer, a bully boy. And Leo having two Enforcers adds to that effect. All these changes will make the Mithran world, even the
European
Mithran world, sit up and take notice. It will give you power in our world. You would be one of the very few human Enforcers ever to have a
Mithran
primo. And I do believe that I would serve you best in that capacity.” Edmund looked too pleased with this idea, as if maybe he had come up with it himself. Actually, knowing Edmund, he probably had.

“Hmmm.” I topped off my mug and added the secret ingredient. “I'm having tea. Want a cup?”

Edmund looked at my mug and stuck his nose in the air. “Not if it has . . . Is that
Cool Whip
on top?”

I hid a grin. “That sounded like a tea snob's outrage.”

“Good God, woman. It's a sacrilege.”

I couldn't help it. I laughed. And then I said, “One of my favorite housemothers when I was growing up was a woman named Brenda. She always put Cool Whip on her tea.”

While Edmund prepared a
proper cuppa
, expounding on the virtues
of real cream and real sugar, I added more tea to my cup and another dollop of Cool Whip. Yanking vamps' chains always made my day brighter.

•   •   •

I got the essentials from Edmund, which were pretty simple but not terribly informative, not the kind of thing to require a Mithran mailman. “The witches and non-Mithrans in Bayou Oiseau are once again at war and the Blood-Master of New Orleans directs you to broker a peace agreement.”

“Again.”

“Yes.” I could have sworn that Edmund was hiding laughter.

“In an area where vamps ran unchecked and unrestrained by the Vampira Carta”—which was the written law for all Mithran vampires—“for centuries. To a place where the witches who survived learned a lot of tricks to keep the bloodsuckers at bay. A place where blood ran in the streets and witches and vamps were burned at dawn. Back there.”

“Yes. That is his request.”

“Uh-huh. I got the broad picture,” I said to my erstwhile primo. “Now I want the deets, the stuff you know, but that Leo told you not to tell me unless I asked. Consider this asking.”

“Gladly, my mistress. According to Clermont Doucette, a valuable item was stolen by a witch from the Clan Home. It has made its way to the witch coven. It has not been returned.”

So far as I knew, there was only one witch living at the Clan Home, and she was the witch daughter of Lucky Landry, a witch leader in the town. Shauna Landry Doucette had married the vamp heir, Gabriel, and this marriage was the sole reason for the peace agreement I had brokered in Bayou O. A kind of successful
Romeo and Juliet
story. At the time.

I grunted, which must have sounded like encouragement, because he went on.

“Clermont's daughter-in-law stole the item.” Seems Juliet hadn't remained loyal for long.

“The Master of the City also desires me to bring back any magical item that you might discover.”

That was an ongoing order, an order I never followed through on. “Ducky,” I said.

“And I am to go with you.”

“No.” I refused Edmund's assistance and that of the Mercy Blade, and sent my messenger skipping into the night scenting of amusement and irritation in equal measure. Well, strolling languidly, though the mental image of the ultracool, elegant vamp skipping down the street left me with a smile. He had been gone exactly forty-seven seconds when my cell rang, displaying a studio pic of Captain America on the screen, which was my current image for Eli Younger. I accepted the call and stared at the Kid, who pretended to ignore me. “Eli. Yes, yes, yes.” I paused and thought and added, “Yes, and what do you think?”

My partner, the former Army Ranger, chuckled. “Think you got me pegged, babe?”

“Yup. Yes, your brother is nosy, and yes, he is correct. Edmund Hartley did come visit with a letter from Leo. Yes, it offers us a gig as part of my Enforcer position southwest of New Orleans, in Bayou Oiseau. But I don't think Clermont would have told Leo everything. He's canny and sneaky and probably wants help on
his
terms. He probably kept back mucho info from Leo, hoping to salvage the situation in his favor. So we might be walking into a mess.

“And yes, there has been a suggestion, made by Edmund, that Edmund should be my primo. It sounds like something he'd come up with, all Machiavellian, and probably with an evil intention and outcome all planned out. You know. The usual vamp crap. And what do you think about it all?”

Eli chuckled, and I heard his sweetie pie in the background.

“Put her on speaker.” Eli thumbed a button and I said, “Hey, Syl. It shouldn't be dangerous. But it
is
dealing with Cajun vamps and witches, so all redneck possibilities will apply.”

Sylvia chuckled and said, “You have my blessing and an order for you to keep Eli's blood in his veins.”

“I'll take all precautions.”

“And, Eli, you keep her blood in her veins too.”

“That's the plan, boss.” He clicked the speaker off, and, a moment later, ended the call.

“Boss?” I asked.

“Syl and I don't do PDAs.”

PDAs. Public displays of affection. Even verbal ones, it seemed. “So, you're in?”

“Syl's got a murder scene to take care of. Some big muckety-muck in Natchez took a three-tap, and had a kilo of cocaine in the trunk of his Mercedes. I'm heading home, because while I love the woman, watching her and her crime scene techs crawl around in some guy's guts and brains isn't what I call a romantic evening. We'll talk when I get there, about Edmund wanting to be your primo. That should be my job.”

“No, you're my partner. If I accepted, Edmund would be our vampire servant.”

“Come to think of it, that sounds all kinds-a classy. He could clean our toilets. See you soon, babe.”

The call ended and I stood there, still staring at Alex, who hadn't yet looked up, ignoring me the way only a gamer in the middle of a
World of Warcraft
game could. I said, “Take a shower within one hour or I'll pull the plug.”

He snorted, the sound remarkably like my own. “No, you won't.”

I lifted my brows at the challenge and started toward the cord.

“I have battery backup,” Alex said, his voice sly, his eyes still down.

“Shower. Or I'll stop all credit on all computer and all related purchases. And I'll tell Eli how bad you stink.”

Alex lifted his arm and took a sniff. “Holy sh . . .” He did look up then. “I'll be in the shower before he gets to town. And I'll strip the bedsheets and put new ones on both the beds upstairs. And I'll put out fresh towels. And I'll wash a load of clothes.”

Yeah. He stank that bad. “You could also call the cleaning service and they could clean the whole house while we're gone. Not the shower part. You're on your own for that.”

“Spoilsport.”

“True dat,” I said, in the patois of Louisiana. I left the room to pack. I no longer had fighting leathers of any kind, thanks to the battle with the Son of Darkness, and I still didn't have Bitsa, so I wouldn't need bike riding clothes, which meant that it didn't take long to pack. Packing done—jeans and T-shirts, boots and undies, toiletries and one pair of summer jammies—I took the time to call my own . . . whatever he was, and schedule a few hours at his place for when I got back. We were seriously overdue
for some “us time,” but Bruiser was still out of town doing something Onorio-ish. We made plans for when I got back, which was likely two days away at best. Lately our trips were overlapping. Sometimes working for suckheads . . . well . . . sucked.