Blood Trade: A Jane Yellowrock Novel (37 page)

He raised his brows. “You’ll tell me what this little jaunt was about later.” It wasn’t a request. More a command.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. Let’s go.” While he drove, I texted. A lot.

•   •   •

There wasn’t much left of the winter afternoon when we got back to Esmee’s. “I have some dirty work in the garage,” I said.

“We killing the vamp?”

“Francis? I hope not. But we may have to cut off his clothes.”

Eli’s forehead wrinkled. “Say what?”

“Francis is one of the new spidey vamps. I’ve been smelling old blood on Francis, stinky stuff.” Stinky stuff like the pocket-watch amulets, but I didn’t share that with Eli, not yet. “Francis is healing even without blood meals. I think our boy may have something on him that’s helping him heal and transform, maybe even controlling him somehow. It might be what allowed de Allyon to do what he did and control the vamps under him so well, and take over other cities, and be a Naturaleza in a world where all the other vamps were Fame Vexatum.”

Eli shook his head, but I thought it was in surprise, not negation. I pulled out the pocket-watch amulet.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why the priestesses and the European council allowed de Allyon to keep his own territory, operating as a Naturaleza in open violation of the Vampira Carta? And no one tried to stop him?”

“So far as we know,” he hedged.

“So far as we know,” I agreed, as Eli pulled the SUV to the garage. “He had to have something on the other vamps, some kind of weapon or way to protect himself until he discovered the vamp plague.”

“A witch circle,” Eli said, surprised.

“Exactly. Powering some kind of amulet or
objet d’foci
,” I said, playing on
objet d’art
, “that allowed him to do all kinds of stuff. Then he discovered the vamp plague and he decided it was the perfect weapon to expand his power base.” I flipped open the pocket watch, catching a whiff of that almost-familiar stink. Remembering where I’d first gotten the amulets—off Naturaleza vamps and humans sworn to de Allyon. “This isn’t powerful enough to be the amulet or focal object. But I think it’s tied in somehow.”

We left the vehicle, walking into the daylight. It wasn’t bright and the sun was hidden behind layers of clouds, but it was daylight. It would do. Inside the garage, the shadows enfolding us, we stood, letting our eyes adjust.

Eli said softly. “Francis is one of the revenants. He’s faster and stronger than anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah. And what I’m thinking is that some of the revenants have been killed true-dead more than once and brought back. And that every time they get brought back, there are more changes.”

Eli let that sink in a bit, staring off at the horizon. “What’s your strategy?”

“I’m gonna tell him to strip. Then when he doesn’t, I’m gonna pull his cage into the yard, out back where the kids can’t see it happening, and let him burn for a while. Then if he doesn’t give me what I’m looking for, I’ll kill him and cut his clothes until I find it.”

“You sound mighty cheerful about it.”

“I am.”

Eli shrugged with his eyebrows, which was really cool, and followed me into the dark.

•   •   •

The interrogation didn’t take long. Even with his accelerated healing powers, Francis Adrundel was no match for the sun. After two minutes outside, smoking and blistering and screaming, he emptied his pockets. I picked up the pocket watch and tucked it into my other pocket. I didn’t know what the watches did, but I had an idea that getting them together could eventually be a problem.

Once I was done, I called Clark, Big H’s primo, and asked him to send some blood meals by to feed Francis. The
thing
he was becoming had to die true-death eventually, but so far, he’d been useful. I wanted him kept undead.

•   •   •

I had timed it well. An hour before sunset, I called my escorts into the dining room. Bruiser was back, with no explanation of where he had gone, Soul was dressed in silver-colored gauzy clothing that reminded me of moonlight, and Rick was glowering, wearing earpieces with his magic-spelled music coming from them. Brute and Pea looked beautiful and cute and deadly. Part of me wanted them on my team, and the other part of me knew that would be a mistake. I’d eventually have to kill the wolf and I really didn’t want to kill anything that an angel had cursed.

“Soul, can you do another magical scan for Misha? Or maybe a scan for a full witch circle?”

“I have tried questing,” she said softly, “and found nothing because of the interference. All I could detect was the massive magical energies in Natchez and Under the Hill.”

“Okay. Bobby and I are going for a ride,” I told them.

“You think he can dowse for you while he’s awake?” Eli asked.

“Only one way to find out.”

“I’ll come along.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Soul, will you look after Charly?”

“Certainly.”

“The rest of you eat, hydrate, and gear up like you’re going to war.”

Rick and Bruiser looked each other over and didn’t move. Rick’s glower heated up, his eyes starting to glow that weird shade they did when his cat was scratching on his spirit. He was looking at Bruiser when he growled, “Why?”

I wanted to say,
Because I said so,
but that might not be effective on my crew. “Because things might get hairy.”

“Are you going to tell us your plans?” Soul asked.

“Sure. Right now, I’m trying to narrow down the locations where Misha might be prisoner. As soon as we get back, we’re going to rattle some cages until a pretty flower falls out.”

“Lotus,” Soul said, sounding pleased.

“Bingo. And I’m not picky how we get our info, begging PsyLED’s pardon,” I added. I stood and checked my pocket watches. Each was in a separate pocket, so they couldn’t touch. Just in case.

•   •   •

The sun was setting, a red blaze on the western horizon, amazing from where Bobby and I stood dead center of Under the Hill. The Mississippi was a mighty, roiling monster, currents twisting and diving, carrying debris beneath the surface to reappear farther on. The river air was heavy with moisture and chilled with winter.

Two barges moved upstream and one down, all heavily laden. The long call of the barges sounded and were answered, like the mating calls of water birds. A riverboat casino docked near shore advertised in neon, a startling purple scene of palm trees and three round circles above them that looked like something on a slot-machine screen or gambling chips, or maybe three full moons.

As we watched, the river changed color, tinted bloody by the falling sun. Behind us, to the east, clouds still massed on the horizon, as thick and roiling as the river, blackened by the coming night. The first stars of night were out, brilliant in the icy air. A police car rolled by, its engine noise muted by the wet night.

High on the hill behind us, the night lights of the city of Natchez burned bright. On the streets around us, a few tourists were wandering, taking in the sights—not nearly as many as usual, thanks to the deaths that were making the news. Eli was patrolling the streets and yards, unseen somewhere nearby.

It was the first night of January’s full moon—the full moon known by many American Indian tribes as the Full Wolf Moon. The silvered orb was still below the horizon, but soon it would rise slowly behind a final thin layer of clouds, like a virgin bride dressed in lace veils.

Which was pure poetic crap. It was an icy ball of rock trapped by the gravity of the Earth. I knew that. But every ancient culture on Earth had revered the moon, had planted by its cycle, married and buried by its cycle, traveled by it, harvested by it, sailed by it. Animals mated by it, especially cats of all kinds. And Beast thought it was beautiful. For that matter, so did I. Just not poetic. No way.

It was . . . useful. Yeah. To ancient peoples. And to Beast when she hunted antlered bucks in harvest time, and skinny, cold deer of any gender in snow time. Useful. That was the moon.

Beside me, Bobby laughed, the sound familiar and comforting somehow. He put his cold hand into mine and I clasped it. Without looking away from the sunset, I said, “You should have brought gloves.”

“But I need to feel the watch. Bare skin is best for that,” he said, sounding like the grown man he was, sounding sure and certain and in control. This was a new Bobby, not the child of my youth, despite the remembered, childlike laughter.

“Are you sure of this?” I asked for the umpteenth time.

“No. But trying is the only way. And Misha is dying.”

I blinked back tears at the misery in his voice. Misha was his family. Misha had taken him in when his own family failed him or died out. Would I have done the same? I wanted to think that I would have taken Bobby in, but I had to doubt it.

“You always doubt yourself,” Bobby said.

I started. “You a mind reader now too?” I asked harshly.

Bobby shook his head, and I saw it in my peripheral vision. “No. But your magics change color when you don’t believe in yourself. They go all green and muddy, like the river down there.”

I held in my sigh. I had forgotten how much Bobby saw of the physical world when he was a child. It had translated into the metaphysical world as an adult. He’d grown into his magic in a totally natural, perfectly fitting way.

I managed a smile. “So I’m muddy?”

“Kinda muddy,” he agreed, nodding, not hiding his smile.

As he spoke, the last red sliver of the sun vanished below the horizon. The far shoreline was lit by Vidalia, Louisiana. Here on the Natchez side of Under the Hill, the lights were fewer and glowed less brightly, the moon witches in Under the Hill having made certain to leave off porch lights, to work by candlelight while inside, hurrying to gather supplies until the moon was ready to rise. Then the witches would be outside, in gardens and yards, in copses between trees in the woods, in well-marked circles, absorbing the moon’s power, working their craft.

“The moon will be up in ten minutes or so,” I said. I took his elbow and pulled Bobby off the sidewalk onto a patch of grass at the curb.

Bobby breathed out and let go of my hand. He closed his eyes and dropped back his head, as if he were falling asleep on his feet. But his hands rose, fingers splayed, as if searching in the darkness, waiting for a gift to be placed in them. “Magic is everywhere here,” he said, his tone a thing of wonder and delight. “So much magic.”

He threw out his arm in a slow, broad sweep, to include all of Under the Hill. “There’s small circles everywhere tonight. I never felt so many witches before.” He pointed upstream. “There’s a small coven there, all from the same family. Misha would say it was nicely balanced.”

I tilted my head, studying him. That was an odd thing to say. For a human.

But . . . not for a witch.

Misha?
I sucked in a breath, grabbing a puzzle piece that might not fit anywhere. It might not belong in the image I had been constructing at all. Or it might be the one missing piece.
Misha was a witch?
The evidence said no. I remembered the smell of the three in the closed hotel room the day I got to town. Human—all of them smelled human—and I had a sense of smell Beast-acute. Even Bobby smelled human. Bobby, who had magic and shouldn’t smell human.

This was crazy. Misha had
never
smelled witchy, not ever. But witches don’t come into their power until they hit puberty. I had no idea how old Misha had been when she became a woman grown, as the old saying went.

But . . . Charly’s illness—witch children were prone to childhood illnesses and cancers.

Charly was wearing an adult-styled pearl ring that was too big for her finger. Misha had worn a pearl necklace that first meeting. Had the scent of magic been spelled away? Was their jewelry spelled to shield them from discovery?

Softly, I asked, “What kind of witch is Misha?”

Bobby laughed, the sort of laugh he might have had had he been born differently. “Mish thought you would figure it out. Charly wanted to tell you right away, but Misha said to wait. She never let us tell anyone, to protect Charly. She said her being a witch didn’t matter because she had the spell to hide what she was.”

“The spells are in the pearls?”

“Anti-witch-detection spells,” he said with a quiet laugh.

So much for my sense of smell.
“But then she came here to write the book,” I said.

“But it still didn’t matter,” he said, “because she wasn’t going to see witches. She was going to see vampires.” He dropped his hands and lifted his head, surprise on his face when he looked up at me. “Are you mad, Jane?”

I had never been good at hiding things from Bobby Bates, and he could read my reaction on my face. As honestly as I could, I said, “No. I’m not mad.” But Misha had been wrong about her being a witch not mattering, because any vampire would have known Misha was witchy the instant the vamp bit her, and no Naturaleza would have turned down a free meal. Misha had gone for a story and research and to find a vamp willing to donate some blood to her daughter. And now she was most likely part of the witch circle I was looking for, being used for God knew what.

But Bobby had no way of knowing that, and I wasn’t going to tell him. The poor decision and the possible catastrophic results weren’t his fault. It was Misha’s for making the decision, and maybe a little bit my fault for not figuring it out already. I was too dependent on my nose, and maybe always had been.

“Moon’s up,” Bobby said, holding out his hand. An instant later, I felt it too, and the magic in Under the Hill increased dramatically as witches everywhere settled into circles, bathed in moon power.

I pulled the pocket watch from my pocket, and Bobby stepped back fast. “That is ugly and it stinks, Jane.”

I turned it over. It was just a cheap pocket watch, base metal with a flying duck in bas-relief on its cover. As far as I knew, no human had noticed the spell smell. “Ugly how?”

“Bloody magics, like rotten meat. Like dead things dug out of the ground.”

Which was an apt description for a vamp, in many ways. “Do you still want to do this?”