Mercy Blade (13 page)

I dialed my transport while I dressed, pulled on the cheap, thin-soled shoes and tramped out of the forest. I knew where I was, more or less, and which roads were closest. I’d called for a ride before from Beast’s hunting ground.

The sun was just above the horizon when Rinaldo found me, the Blue Bird logo on the yellow cab advertising his part-time job. He pulled over and I got in the front seat. He took in the wrinkled clothes. “There no parties
no
where round
here
,” he said, his Cajun accent strong, heavy on the verbs—those he used—missing a lot of final consonants. It was his by heritage, but was something he could turn off and on for effect or friendship. For me, it was friendship. Had to be. I wasn’t a tourist, so he got paid the same either way. “No houses, for sure,” he said. “You
want
to tell me why you keep
show
up out here in middle of God-forsaken nowhere?”

“Nope.” Rinaldo thought I was a big-time party girl, an impression I did nothing to oppose.

He sighed and did a three-point turn, driving out the way he’d come. “That it? Nope?”

I hid a smile and looked out the window. “Yep.”

“It one a those limousine parties, right? Where a limo take you everywhere and you
drink
and do some dope and—” He stopped right at the edge of saying we indulged in kinky sex, but I could see the thought in his eyes, appraising, looking over my clothes. “Nope. That don’t do it.” I shook my head, smiling, my gaze on the world outside. “But I
figure
it out
some
day. Meanwhile, you want food.”

It wasn’t a question. Shifting required the use of energy, which I replaced with calories, and there was no way to carry enough food with me. I had a surprise for him this time though. “I have a breakfast date. Just drive me by the house for a quick change of clothes and then drop me off at the Royal Street Café. I’ll eat there.” I could walk to the restaurant—nothing in the French Quarter was far from anything else—but I was hungry and I could start with hot tea and a loaf of French bread about ten minutes quicker if I paid for the ride. Plus, it was mid-tourist season, and parking can be problematic, even for a motorbike. Rinaldo shook his head and merged from the secondary road into traffic heading to the city.

I had never seen Rinaldo outside his taxi, but I figured he was about five-seven, one eighty; he had a paunch and smelled of tobacco and spicy food, and he had a bald spot he was trying to hide under the first swatch of a comb-over.

At the house, Evangelina was in the shower, singing some Irish-y sounding dirge, a pot of tea steeping, coffee gurgling, and something mouthwatering in the oven. I peeked. There was only enough for one, more’s the pity, and I had no time for tea. I removed the tea leaves and jotted a note on the magnet-backed fridge pad Evangelina had provided. “No time for tea. Thanks for the thought. I’ll be home for supper. Text if you need anything from the market.”

In my bedroom, I pulled on freshly ironed, beige cotton slacks and a teal silk tank over a tight body-smoother camisole. I slid my feet into sandals and draped on an amethyst necklace with a chatkalite focal stone that hung just above the gold nugget, and a shorter copper chain with a green aventurine arrowhead that Rick had given me. I figured a girl should wear the guy’s gifts on a breakfast date, right? I French braided my hair halfway down and pushed stakes in. Yeah, it was daytime. But I carried the stakes anyway.

Five minutes later I was back in the taxi and Rinaldo looked me over approvingly. As he pulled away from the curb, he said, “You should
pierce
your ear, wear some nice gold rings in ’em. I got a sister who
pierce
’em for you. Won’t hurt at all. She good.”

I just shook my head and didn’t offer clarification. The one time I tried holes in my ears, my lobes came back healed after I shifted. No way to explain that, especially to a guy who wouldn’t know a skinwalker from Shinola.

He dropped me at Royal Street Café, refusing the additional money I offered through the window. “Nah. You a regular customer, and good for a laugh or two. Complimentary.”

I patted the hood and walked into the restaurant. Alan Adcock greeted me, “Jane, it’s good to see you. Your regular table? You alone?”

“Rick will be here shortly,” I said, climbing the stairs to the second story, and sitting at our usual table, on the balcony where we could people watch.

Alan followed me, silent, and finally said, “I don’t think so.” His voice faltered and he looked away, a minor veer of his eyes, as if undecided and suddenly anxious. It was a look I recognized and didn’t particularly want to see on my favorite waiter’s face, not in conjunction with Rick as subject matter. Uncertainly, Alan said, “He ate this morning already.”

I waited a beat, took a breath, and said with a steady voice, “He wasn’t alone, was he?”

Alan’s dark eyes glanced at the walls as if seeking an answer there. “Ah, no. His sister, maybe? A business associate?”

Something weird happened inside me, a sort of shift to the left followed by a quick drop, like an amusement park ride, leaving me feeling a little nauseous. Anger that wasn’t all my own flared up behind it, Beast glaring out through my eyes.
Mine
, she hissed at me.

Alan took a quick step back at the sight, and I closed my eyes, put a hand on the metal curlicue railing and gripped it, until Beast settled. I pasted a reassuring smile on my face, opened my eyes, and described all four of Rick’s sisters at once, which was exactly like Rick himself, black hair, black eyes, Frenchy-look, and beautiful. Alan shook his head no. I described Rick’s boss at the main branch of NOPD, Jodi Richoux, blond and slightly plump.

Alan turned away and busied himself straightening the utensils and condiments on a nearby table. “No. Uh. Redhead. Sorry.”

Beast hissed, but I clamped down on her reaction. It didn’t make sense. If Rick was cheating on me why bring a girl
here
? He could have texted me a Dear Jane letter and broken it off if he’d wanted to take the easy way out. Or just not show up for breakfast. But he brought a
girl
to
this
restaurant
this
morning ...

“Soooo. You want breakfast?”

Alan sounded just a bit jittery, and I smiled to settle his alarm, but wasn’t sure my show of teeth had the desired effect. “Sure. Bring me a rasher of pepper bacon cut thick, a half dozen scrambled eggs, and a stack of pancakes with blueberry compote, extra butter, and that blueberry syrup I like. And a whole pot of tea.”

Alan covered his surprise at the quantity of food better than he’d covered his dismay. “You bet,” he said, backing away from the table.

I stared around the balcony, not seeing anything, ignoring the couple seated two tables down, thinking, trying to let the anger of possible betrayal dissipate until I knew more. Ricky Bo might be sending me a message by breakfasting here, though what significance there was to bringing a date to our favorite breakfast spot, and breaking a breakfast date with me to do it, I didn’t know. He wasn’t stupid, so it had to be deliberate, which meant that it had to do with his work, something he was trying to say without saying it. But so many things were out of place in my life all at once, it was hard to see only one piece of the bigger picture. I had to wonder how many of the little oddities taking place were really part of a larger, about to be screwed-up whole.

A Lot of Hooey

Hands in pockets, I walked back to my rental house, taking the long way through the Quarter. The smells of New Orleans changed with the time of day, the tides, and the seasons. Early on a summer day, the prevalent scent mélange was composed of the omnipresent exhaust, the smell of the Mississippi flowing on the other side of the levee, flowering plants and vines in the flower boxes and minigardens beside and behind every building, chicory coffee, beignets, cigarettes, the smell of sex, the smell of bars open twenty-four/seven, and last night’s beer, wine, and liquor, along with urine and vomit left by revelers, though the business owners and the city did a good job of washing away the worst of that.

Though Beast’s sense of smell was far superior to mine, I had a better nose than most humans, probably left over from the years I’d spent solely in Beast-form, and the stench was intense and full flavored. It was something I loved about the city. The incredible heat and humidity were a lot less appreciated, and I started to sweat within a block of the restaurant, perspiration gathering on my arms, torso, legs, trickling down my spine, and oddly enough, beading on my upper lip, which was something new. I’d noticed locals sweating that way. Maybe I was starting to fit in.

As I walked, I thought about all the weird things that had happened, arranging them in a sensible order that might show me the whole picture, something that combined the appearance of weres across the world, werewolves in New Orleans, Leo sending me to deal with a nonhuman who then saved me from weres. That same nonhuman pulling a bait and switch on Leo with the wolves—which nearly got me killed—and then set a find-me charm on me. Last, wolves and a big-cat on Beast’s hunting ground. It was obvious that weres were the key to everything, but did not explain Gee, or why Rick might bring a date to the Royal Street Café. I resisted the urge to call him, but checked my phone. No voice or text messages. Nothing.

I had the house to myself when I got back, and nuked a mug of tea while I called my backup for the night. Derek Lee answered on the first ring. “Yo, Injun Princess. Whatchu need?”

“Duuuude,” I said in an affected surfer-girl twang. He laughed. I laughed. Pleasantries were done. I launched in to the night’s needs, which were muscle-and-weapon security, and hi-tech electronic security.

Derek knew his business. He was an ex-marine with two tours in Afghanistan and one in Iraq during his time in. About five minutes after meeting him I had realized he was more than a grunt. The man had skills and panache that seemed a lot more specialized than the other guys in his unofficial little army. “Weapons?” he asked.

“Silver rounds, stakes, vamp-killers. Weres seem to have the same kind of silver allergy as vamps.”

“How many men?”

“If I was hiring cops, two dozen. With your guys, maybe half that.”

“I can get six. Guys I trust. Guys who can each do the work of two or three.”

Six guys with the level of training Derek was talking about, on such notice? Alarm stole over me on little kitten feet. Softly, I asked, “You raising an army, Derek Lee?”

“Nothing to worry your pretty little Cherokee head about.”

“I wouldn’t want to have to fight you, Derek.”

“Not to worry, Princess. And not to stick your nose into.”

I was silent a moment, then breathed my irritation out into the cell phone. “Don’t kill anyone tonight unless you have to.” Derek laughed and clicked off. I stared at the phone for a long moment before going back to work.

While the laptop booted up, I pulled out research papers. I had photocopies of one entire file cabinet from the woo-woo room in NOPD, courtesy of the last investigation I’d done. Cops didn’t let civilians have access to their files without very good reasons, and I recognized the honor and the trust that had led Jodi Richoux to send them to me. I kept the papers in boxes, padlocked in the bedroom closet with my weapons and other gear.

The files were from the vampire file and included their histories, wars, clans, and info on individuals, as well as a lot of hooey, better known as information obtained from confidential informants. Jodi had included a few folders from the witch file cabinet containing info on the local witches, but a quick search through the boxes that comprised my filing system revealed nothing about weres.

I updated the file on the vamp war of 1915, including the info from Bruiser about his mother, Lady Beatrice, e-mailed it to Jodi for her records, and Googled weres. There was a lot of stuff on the net in just the last two days. A
lot
of stuff, though at this point, I could find no other types of weres on the Internet—only cats and wolves. I surfed photographs, some of them Hollywood stills, some that might be real, of weres shifting. Found some viral video of the real thing, of a South American were-cat, a male jaguar who looked deadly in either of his forms. There were interviews with were-cats, putting to rest rumors about rabies among the species, discussing mating habits, and a frank discussion of transmission of the were-contagion, one thing that Hollywood got right—a bite. The cats all agreed that biting a human was against their laws and the one crime worthy of a death sentence. Which meant that Leo and Bruiser were probably safe from reprisals for killing Henri and the other wolves, assuming Roul was serious about pursuing Leo only in human courts of law.

Once, while I worked, I felt ... something. An odd reaction, as if I wasn’t alone. I got up and went through the house, stepping silently, a vamp-killer in hand, listening, watching, scenting quietly. But I was alone. Evangelina hadn’t come in. No one was there and no unfamiliar scents lingered on the air to mark intruders. The sensation wasn’t like my predator senses, alerting me as when something, or someone, hunted me, but it was odd. And it faded quickly.

Back at the laptop, I researched real wolves, and discovered that there were only four kinds in the U.S.—the gray wolf (
Canis lupus
), Mexican gray wolf (
Canis lupus baileyi
), the red wolf (
Canis rufus
), and the coyote (
Canis latrans
). I hadn’t even known the coyote was part of the wolf family. I’d thought they were a type of wild dog. Around the world, the species and subspecies of wolves was varied, with the gray wolf the largest, and the only one that might be big enough to shift, mass for mass, from a modern-sized human to a beast. I’d seen them change, and there hadn’t been any obvious mass transfer, so I was betting on gray wolf for the weres I’d fought, though the coat color differences seemed more doglike, with a heavy shift toward Siberian husky.