Death's Rival (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

I’m Gonna Need Some Stitches

“Vamps don’t get sick,” I said. “They may go nuts at the least provocation, but they
don’t get sick.” Air currents buffeted the small jet; I held on to the phone and the
seat arm with white-knuckled grips. Inside me, Beast was purring, enjoying the ride
entirely too much for a creature who used to be afraid of flying.

Static fuzzed the connection, but I made out the words “—two of these did. And maybe
the third one, don’t know.” If Reach didn’t know something, it was better hidden than
the identity of Kennedy’s killer—assuming that there really
was
a coven of blood-witches on the grassy knoll. Conspiracy theorists have a consensus
on that, but there never was any evidence to back it up. “I’m still searching,” Reach
said, “but it looks like the masters of the city of Sedona and Seattle are still showing
signs of malaise. Boston’s MOC has vanished, and rumor has it the suckhead’s dead.”

Malaise
, I thought, unamused, reading the description of their symptoms. It was a heck of
a lot more than malaise. In spite of what I’d said, the vampires
were
sick—maybe dying. “Give me details.”

“According to my latest timeline, this vamp came out of nowhere two months ago and
vamps started getting sick, which should be impossible, I know,” he agreed. “Once
they were sick, they each got an ultimatum from an unknown vampire to swear him loyalty
in a blood-ceremony, or face that master in a Blood Challenge, not something they
could survive while sick. As soon as they swore allegiance to the new guy, the vamps
got somewhat better. He didn’t kill them once he deposed them, but left them to run
the cities as his loyal deputies. Each went from masters of independent strongholds
to completely loyal subjects overnight. He’s successfully created a new power base
and no one knows how he did it or who he is. Yet.”

“No vamp is
loyal
,” I said. “They’re all egocentric blood-sucking fiends.”

“True. But
rich
egocentric blood-sucking fiends, which is why we work for them.”

I grunted. I hated to think of myself that way, but he had a point. I’m Jane Yellowrock,
and I used to kill vamps for a living. Until I started working for them. It wasn’t
easy money, and I’d dumped the contract with Leo Pellissier, the chief fanghead of
the Southeastern U.S., when the retainer ran out. But when Leo had requested my help
yesterday, I’d re-upped to resolve this problem, because it was the right thing to
do. Leo and his people had been attacked under my watch. Humans had been injured.
Blood-servants had died. I’d killed some of them. No one knew who this new enemy was,
and now vamps were sick, maybe dying, and a new, powerful vamp had entered the vampire
political scene.

Which was why I was in a Learjet flying at way-too-dang-high. I didn’t like flying.
Well, I didn’t like flying in planes. Wings are different.

Reach continued to update me on two months of data and to answer a lot of questions.
I’d need it. We’d touch down in Sedona in minutes, and assuming I got out alive, I’d
be off to Seattle almost immediately. Listening to Reach’s matter-of-fact tone helped
to keep my mind occupied and my heart out of my throat. Sorta.

“Okay,” I said. “And you’re—” Leo’s Learjet dropped several feet before leveling out.
My mind went blank and I swallowed my dinner—again. “And you’re
sure
the attack on Leo in Asheville was this same guy who took over Sedona, and Seattle?”

My question wasn’t argumentative. The attack on Leo had happened before any of the
others, and had been purely weapon-based, a frontal attack, no disease, no ultimatum,
no nothing. I didn’t know what to make of the discrepancy. “If it’s the same vamp,”
I said, “his attack on Leo falls completely outside his subsequent M.O. Of course,
he did try to kick sand in Leo’s face, and Leo’s people busted his chops. Maybe when
that happened he tried this new tack.” I hated guesswork.

The sound of leather squeaking reminded me to relax my grip on the seat arm. I took
a breath, blew it out, and drank half a bottle of water to settle my stomach. Computer
keys clacked in the cell’s background, sounding like a quartet of castanets as Reach—the
best research and intel guy in the business—worked.

“I stopped believing in coincidence,” he said, “about ten seconds before I stopped
believing in Santa Claus. It’s like this. Leo visits Asheville, is attacked in a hotel,
and wins a gun battle. Within weeks of the attack on Pellissier, Lincoln Shaddock
and three of his vamps in Asheville become ill with a brand-new vamp disease. Then
Sedona gets sick, then Seattle, and now Boston. They got challenged, swore loyalty,
and got better. Leo’s Asheville vamps are still sick, unlike in cities where the MOCs
got sick, challenged and defeated, and then received treatment. Shaddock’s peeps are
dying—as if it’s a punishment rather than a takeover tool.”

Which thought made me sit up in my chair. Vamps were big on sneak attacks and vengeance.
This scenario made all kinds of sense. Shaddock was bound to Leo and an attack on
Shaddock was, by extension, an attack on Leo.

Reach went on, “Yeah, it’s outside the attacking vamp’s modus operandi, but the symptoms
of Lincoln’s peeps are exactly the same as those of the other masters of the city
who fell through the looking glass.”

“Peeps,” I muttered. I knew those vamps. Among the sick ones was Dacy Mooney, Lincoln’s
heir. The two were vicious killing machines. The fact that I sorta liked them may
have said something not quite sane about me. “We only
think
the other vamps were treated. We don’t have empirical evidence,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But the disease is circumstantial evidence I’m willing to bet on.
I think our BBV”—
Big Bad Vamp,
I thought with a smile—“started in Asheville with a frontal attack, and had to abandon
his plans there when Leo’s people kicked his butt, and he left the disease as a punishment,
a calling card, a warning, and a threat. The evidence you obtain in Sedona and Seattle
will either confirm or deny that theory.”

“Ahhh,” I said. “That makes sense, which is why I pay you the big bucks.” The jet
bumped up as if slapped high by a giant hand; then the bottom fell out. The small
craft dropped what had to be a thousand feet before catching itself. On air.
“Crap,”
I whispered.

My things in an overhead compartment thumped around as gravity was again defeated.
I wrenched my seat belt so tight it nearly cut me in two.

Inside me, my Beast huffed with amusement.

Beast is the soul of a mountain lion that I absorbed when I was a child and fighting
for my life. It had been accidental, as much as black magic can ever be an accident.
When I shifted, Beast’s was the form I most often took, and her thoughts and opinions
counted nearly as much as my own.
Fun,
she thought
. Like chasing rabbits in hills.

I slapped my brain back on, swallowed my dinner yet again, and focused. “Agreed,”
I said, wishing I’d turned down this job. “But that theory still leaves questions.
Why did the attacking master choose vamp strongholds so far apart on the map? Running
three cities at a distance has to be a pain. Why not announce to the world who he
is and what he’s doing? Every vamp I know is a megalomaniac and would publicize his
conquest. This guy hasn’t.” And the newly subdued master vamps weren’t talking about
what had happened on their turf or who their new master was—at all—which was another
reason for this flight.

“The attacker is cheating, not challenging, according to the Vampira Carta,” Reach
said.

I grunted again. The Vampira Carta and its codicils were the rule of law for the vamps—or
Mithrans, as they liked to be called—and it contained laws and rules for proper behavior
between vampires, their scions, blood-servants, blood-slaves, and cattle—meaning the
humans they hunted. It provided proper protocols for everything, including challenging
and killing each other in a duel called the Blood Challenge. The new vamp had challenged
his conquests, but there had been no fights. None at all. And Boston, attacked a week
ago, had gone off the grid. There had been no communication from that MOC in days.
He was presumed to be true-dead.

Reach said, “If an unknown vamp is making a major power play, one that involves vamps
getting sick, and Leonard Pellissier, Master of the City of New Orleans, is attacked,
and then Leo’s scions get sick, it’s the same dude.”

“That isn’t quite ipso facto. It’s still more than half speculation.”

“Ipso facto? Janie knows her Latin. I’m sending you a folder on the vamp you’re visiting—the
ex-master of Sedona. It’s put together from the files you loaned me to collate and
organize.”

Back when I had a working relationship with the head of NOPD’s
weird cases
(not that the New Orleans Police Department used those words to describe the official
department. Local cops called it lots of things, none of them very flattering), I’d
had access to NOPD’s supernatural crime’s hard-copy files. It was kept in the woo-woo
room, and I copied copious amounts of info directly into my own electronic files.
I was paying Reach an arm and a leg to organize the info.

Reach said, “The ex-MOC’s name is Rosanne Romanello. Check your e-mail.”

Peeling my fingers off the armrest again, I pulled the Lear’s laptop across the table
to me and logged on, checking e-mail. The Lear had all the office and party bells
and whistles and its electronic gear was easier to use at jet speeds than my own.
“Yeah. Got it. Thanks.”

“Your business is my pleasure and profit.”

“You oughta get that trademarked.” I hung up the jet’s phone and sat back with the
laptop, reading the collated records—which was way easier than finding and reading
scraps in individual files. Not that I’d tell Reach that. No way. He’d find a way
to make a bigger profit off my now effortless search.

Rosanne Romanello had an exceptionally well-documented history. She had been born
in 1787 in a small town in Calabria, the eldest child of grape and olive growers and
olive oil exporters. A beautiful woman, she had been turned in a violent confrontation
with a young rogue. Rescued by her fiancé, Luca, she appeared to die and was placed
in the church for the death watch, which ended when she rose on the third night, killed
the acolyte who had fallen asleep in the nave, and vanished into the hills. She survived
there for four years, a rogue in hiding, until Leo Pellissier, traveling through the
countryside one night, saw and chained her so she could grow out of the posttransformation
insanity vamps called the devoveo. He had taken her west with him when he returned
to the United States, and set her free seven years later, sane and strong.

According to Reach’s notations, there were indications that the relationship between
Rosanne and Leo had been more than just passing friendly. Well, duh. Leo believed
in something he called the Dark Right, an authority that gave him the right to rule,
and that permitted him to sleep with and drink from anyone under his power or his
scions’ power. Leo was charming and charismatic, but he was an old-time sleazeball
too. I had a lot of sleazeballs in my life right now, and some important people who
were seemingly out of my life for good. Old grief welled up in me, but I shoved it
back down, hard. There was nothing I could do about the past. Not a thing. And I could
grieve the lost relationship with Rick LaFleur later. Much later. I went back to the
dossier.

Rosanne had emancipated herself from Leo and risen slowly in the ranks of the U.S.
vamps, moving west until she claimed and settled in Sedona. She had been the blood-master
of that city for nearly two hundred years, comfortable in her stronghold—literally.
Romanello had started an olive oil business much like her family’s, and built an Italian-style
fortress-home where she still lived. Over the centuries, she had made friends with
several blood-covens of witches and, with their power base, had protected her land
and her scions. Until now.

Now things had changed. She had lost in direct Blood Challenge to an unknown master—and
she was sick. The digital photos accompanying the file were hard to look at. In one,
taken only last month at the full moon ceremonies with her witch allies, she had been
stunning, pale-skinned, dark-eyed, almost ethereal in her delicate beauty. The poor-quality
photo that arrived in Leo’s headquarters e-mail yesterday showed a very different
woman. Wasted, wan, with dark circles under her eyes and a dark crust at her nostrils
that was presumed to be blood, she looked like death warmed over. Or worse—death still
chilled. On the back of her hand was a lump, which looked like a pustule. I didn’t
know who had sent the file photo, as it came through a circuitous route and an e-mail
account that went nowhere, but it was clearly a cry for help. I was betting on the
MOC herself sending it to her former lover and friend, and Reach agreed it was likely.

Leo wanted her healed and restored, his Asheville scions healed and restored, the
new master vamp identified so he could kill the bastard, and the vamp disease wiped
off the face of the earth. To achieve that end, Derek Lee, my second-in-command, was
going to Asheville to get blood samples from Shaddock, and I was supposed to obtain
a few vials of Rosanne’s blood. Just walk in and say, “Hey, Ro. Feel like making a
donation?” Right. Like that was gonna happen.

Even less likely was my obtaining blood and a cogent report from the vamp-stronghold
in Seattle, another conquered master of the city who was reputed to be sick. The should-be-impossible
vamp-disease seemed like it was everywhere.

The door to the cockpit opened and the first mate, Tory, stuck his head out. “We’re
approaching Sedona’s Mountaintop Airport and will be landing in fifteen minutes. Can
I get you anything before we land?”

I thought about my stomach and shook my head. The smoked salmon he’d served, cold,
with toast points, a salad, and a light beer, just after takeoff in New Orleans, was
still sitting uneasily in my stomach. “No offense, but I’ll just be happy to get my
feet on the ground. Locked in this tin can with the
mild turbulence
you talked about back in New Orleans has not been fun.”