Broken Soul: A Jane Yellowrock Novel Page 15

  His breathy laugh sounded like something broken. “Yeah. What’s left of me. They found me. And they took me out.”

  Eli stepped to the side where he could watch the screens and me too. One hand had already found his weapon.

  “Who took you out?” I asked.

  “A human. Might have been a woman. Tall. Spoke English like a foreigner, talking with whispery, sliding sounds. Accompanied by two vamps, male and female. The male never spoke. The female vamp had a Middle Eastern accent. The human and the vamps were tattooed with wristbands of falcons. Or hawks. Raptors, anyway. Don’t know.”

  Vamps did not tattoo themselves very often, which made these vamps unusual, and therefore interesting. The Reach I knew would have found out any unknown info before his attacker got out the door good. Now, not only did he not know the gender of an attacker (which seemed impossible), he also didn’t know what kind of bird was in a tattoo. This was not the Reach I knew. The sense of dread deepened, making my palms ache. “How bad are you hurt?” I asked, my throat tight.

  He gave that broken, breathy laugh again. “Well, I won’t type two-handed ever again.”

  “Reach,” I whispered.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Save it for yourself. They were here for information about Leo, but they also were looking for you. Not just where you lived. They had that.” I turned and looked at the video screens. Reach’s torturers knew where I lived? “They wanted everything,” he said. “And I gave them everything I had. Not that it did me any good. They left me in pieces anyway. This was a week ago. I couldn’t call until now. The lead vamp made sure of that. He’s coming for you, for the icons you have. The something Leo has, or might have. But more important, he wants someone he called . . . I don’t know. It sounded something like E-sen-do Lucy. I don’t know who it is, but they want her—or him—bad. Be careful, Jane. Make sure your family is safe.” The call disconnected.

  The Kid said, “Got him. He’s moving west. Right here.” The Kid showed us a map, and Reach was at the bottom of one of the Great Lakes, the one that looks like Florida, or a body part—and not a mitten. “GPS puts him coming into Chicago, could be a train.”

  A moment later, Alex said, “There are train tracks at his location . . .” His voice trailed away, his fingers flying over the tablet.

  Moments passed, and I studied the tablet screens with the robot on them. Nothing was happening. A lot of hurry up and wait as the night shadows lengthened.

  “Yeah. He’s on a train,” the Kid said, “or his cell is. Train route originated in Boston, but made multiple stops on the way. No Amtrak ticket in the name of Reach, first or last. Chicago is the biggest passenger train hub in the country, and if he stays on an Amtrak route, he can go in one of nine general directions. If he gets a car, he can go anywhere.” Moments later Alex said, “GPS stopped. Cell has been turned off.”

  “Assume he dumped the phone,” Eli said.

  “He can’t type two-handed,” I said, my voice numb. “And they left him in pieces.” It sounded selfish to speak of myself in the midst of someone else’s pain, but I added, “And someone’s had my info for a week. Bomb. Tail cars. Someone’s after me.”

  Eli set a hand on my shoulder, took the cell phone away, and guided me back to my stool. Deon put a mug of hot tea in front of me. I took it up, holding the cup in icy fingers. Reach had been with me for years. Never in person, but always there with info when I needed it. Yeah, he’d turned on me a time or two, but Reach had never been reticent about admitting that he sold his services to the highest bidder. This time the price had come from him.

  “Drink up, Tartlet,” Deon said gently. “I put a little tequila in yo’ cup.” He placed a blanket around my shoulders, and when I didn’t drink, he cupped his hands around mine and lifted the mug to my mouth. I drank—it was that or drown in tea.

  It burned all the way down and I coughed, pushing him away. “Holy moly. A little tequila?” I spluttered and the burning continued all the way down to my toes.

  “Drink or I be making sure you regret it.”

  I sipped and withstood the pain as the alcohol scorched through my gut.

  “I’m changing all the passwords into the security system here, at home, and at vamp HQ, and looking for any sign they’ve been compromised,” Alex said. “But you’d better call Molly and Evan and tell them about the threat. And anyone else you know.” He looked up under his too-long, spiraled-kinky hair. “Maybe that Christian school you grew up in. The security firm you interned in. And”—his mouth twisted in distaste at what he was about to say—“Rick needs to know too.”

  The dread spread through me like a virus, eating away at my viscera. “We need to know who we’re fighting and why and what resources he has. Find out who that person is, the Lucy person, or what the words mean if it isn’t a name.” To Eli, I said, “I’ll be calling Adelaide to initiate the next security protocol upgrade.” Eli reacted with a slight tightening of his eyelids as he remembered the one I was talking about. “Work with her to tighten HQ security. I want it so tight no one can take a breath without being on camera somewhere. Privacy issues are currently of no importance whatsoever,” I said. Eli nodded.

  I dialed Evan Trueblood, Molly’s husband, and got him on the first try. I explained about Reach and the danger. Evan was silent through the whole thing, then said, “I’ve got a place. Don’t call us; we’ll call you.” The call ended. I dialed Aggie One Feather, the Cherokee elder who was guiding me into healing and recovery of my lost past. When I told her about the situation, her reply was short and stiff, as if my problems were nothing to worry over. I hoped she was right. Rather than call the children’s home where I was raised, I dialed the number on the card of the ATF OIC—the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms officer in charge—outside.

  “Special Agent Stanley.” He sounded calm, that remote and reserved calm of people who had high-stress jobs but kept all the reactions internalized. They either found a way to breathe through the stress—meditation or yoga or prayer or drug of choice—or they died early of heart attack, stroke, or eating their weapons.

  “Stanley, we may have info about who put the bomb on the porch, or who hired it done. A friend of mine just called and told me he had been tor-”—I stopped, took a slow breath, and went on—“tortured for information about Leo Pellissier and about me. We don’t have a name yet.” I gave him the descriptions of the three who had hurt Reach. “My friend is a researcher so he had everything on Leo. And everything on me back to the first time I appeared in the world. Leo can take care of himself, but my people can’t. If I give you a list of names, places, and addresses, can you send local law enforcement to each and check for problems?”

  “Does your friend need protective custody?”

  “Too late for that,” I said, my chest hurting. I pressed a fist to my sternum, rubbing hard. “He’s gone underground.” I hope.

  “Text the names and contact info to me.”

  “Yes. I will. And thank you.”

  “Part of my job, Miz Yellowrock.” He disconnected.

  I told Alex to text the OIC all pertinent contact info on my address book. We discussed who was to be included and then I dialed Del. She sounded cool and collected when she answered, but I was getting ready to ruin that. “Jane here. Get Derek and Wrassler. Tell them Protocol Aardvark. They’ll know what to do. Eli will be joining you.”

  “Aardvark?”

  “Yeah. It used to be Groundhog, but it got activated on Groundhog Day one year and— Never mind. Just tell them. I put the updated security protocol handbook in the primo’s office in the file cabinet under S for security. Hard copy only. Initiate Aardvark immediately. Under Aardvark, everyone on security goes armed at all times.”

  Del made a soft harrumphing sound. “If this is a practical joke, I will not be amused.”

  “I know. It’s not. There’s a bomb at my house.” Which sounded so weird just saying it. “It’s probably on the local news.”

  “A bomb?” There was
a moment of silence before Del said, “I’ll make sure that all necessary protocols are instituted.”

  “Thanks. Meanwhile, are any vamps and followers known to wear bird tattoos?”

  I could hear her tapping on a tablet or keyboard. “Blood-servants and followers of a vampire called Peregrinus,” she said after only a moment. “Why?”

  “A human wearing bird wristband tattoos and a female vamp tortured Reach to get my info. A male vamp watched.”

  “Dear God.” The words came out as a gasp. “The Devil and Batildis are here.” And then she added on the fragments of a breath, “Peregrinus.” The last word was whispered, as if to speak the name aloud was to summon the vamp.

  “Does this mean the EuroVamps are here early?”

  “No. The Three have never followed the lead of the European Council. They are outlaws. And they are utterly and totally vile.” The call ended. Del had sounded horrified. Or maybe terrified, if that was worse.

  That was me, spreading good cheer everywhere I go. The Devil, Batildis, and Peregrinus, I thought. I’d heard the name Batildis recently. Leo had mentioned the name when talking to Grégoire. “Your brother and your sister Batildis have begun to rally their supporters to this end. And yes, that might eventually mean the interest of Le Bâtard, though he is not scheduled to travel to these shores . . .” I could guess that Le Bâtard was Grégoire’s sire, his brother was Peregrinus, his sister was Batildis, and the Devil was their human blood-servant. How evil and twisted did you have to be to have the nickname of the Devil among vamps and blood-servants?

  “Alex, followers of a vamp named Peregrinus wear bird jewelry. He and people named the Devil and Batildis are likely in town.” I told him what I knew and guessed about the vamps, which wasn’t much.

  “On it. The Devil, Batildis, and Peregrinus. Gotta love vamp names and their flair for the dramatic,” he grumbled. “Why can’t they just be John Smith or Sally Jones?”

  I dialed Bruiser and he answered, “I am delighted to hear you’re in one piece, Jane.”

  Instantly I flushed and walked away from the group. “You know about the bomb?”

  “I do. I was assured you’re safe.”

  His tone was odd, like maybe I should have called him first. I wasn’t sure. “Yeah. So far,” I said. And decided to pretend that I hadn’t maybe done something wrong by not calling him immediately, and concentrate on the important stuff taking place. “People who sound like the Devil, Batildis, and Peregrinus tortured Reach a week ago. Seven days.” I was proud that my voice sounded calm and sane, though the words themselves were enough to send me screaming into the night. “He just called and told me. He gave me up. He gave up Leo and probably you and Katie and Grégoire. Everything in his database has to be considered compromised. I’m instituting Protocol Aardvark. Del, Wrassler, and Derek will bring in all the outlying vamps and servants, and get them settled at HQ. They’re good at their jobs, but they aren’t you.”

  “No, they aren’t. I’m on the council house premises. I’ll get with them. You should consider bringing your people to the council house until this is resolved. Satan’s Three are dangerous, Jane, more so than any other ménage à trois in all of Mithrandom.”

  Satan’s Three. Wow, the people after me even had a title. Moving to HQ sounded like a pretty good idea on the surface. Nothing short of a rocket launcher was getting inside the place now. Of course, anything that went in might have trouble getting out. Like me, if Leo actually got his talons on me in his lair. And there was that saying about putting all one’s eggs in one basket. If we were all in one spot, then we’d be easy to find. “I’ll think about it.”

  I could hear the smile in Bruiser’s voice when he said, “We’re short on space at the moment, and things will only get tighter with Aardvark in place. You might have to bunk in with someone.”

  Heat exploded through me, tightening things low in my belly. And suddenly I didn’t feel so worried or dark. “Yeah?” Oh. Pithy comeback, Jane.

  “Yes. Too few beds, too many warm bodies.”

  “That sounds . . . like a good idea. And fun,” I said. Bruiser’s breath hitched. “Tell Del we might be roomies. We can have a slumber party, make s’mores, do each other’s nails.” Yeah. That was better.

  “You wound me.” But I could hear the laughter in his voice, and thanked all that was holy that Eli had spent so much time teaching me to flirt when we first met. It was coming in handy.

  “Later.” Smiling what I knew was a silly smile, and keeping my back to the room, I disconnected and pulled Rick’s number up on my cell. I had to warn him that someone was gunning for everyone who’d ever meant something to me. My smile died. Rick, who was no longer on speed dial. My onetime boyfriend.

  I dialed the number. When he answered, it was with a simple, “Jane.” Not Jane, darlin’. Not babe. Just Jane. Paka was standing right next to him. Or lying next to him. I knew it. I recited the problem, talking steadily, not fast enough that would suggest I was hurting, not slow enough for him to be able to interrupt.

  When I was finished, he said, “Thank you. I’ll be heading in-country. You won’t be able to contact me. I’ll check back with you in a few days for updates.”

  I said, “Good,” and ended the call. And stared at the blue screen. “Really good.” It was totally inadequate. And it was all I’d ever get. And I was fine. A slow smile softened my face. I really was okay.

  “We got action,” Eli said.

  I tucked the oversized cell into a pocket and moved back to the sushi and the horrible tequila tea and the tablets. I tossed back two nigiri pieces and watched as a new robot, this one matte black, short, stubby, and sturdy, running on tracked wheels, replaced the more linear orange robot. The black robot was carrying two tan bags, one in each heavy-duty pincer-like hand. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Sandbags,” Eli said.

  “Wait. They’re gonna blow it up on my porch?”

  “You want they should risk their lives carting it off to la-la land first?”

  “But I just got a new front door!”

  Eli laughed evilly. “Face it, babe, your insurance is going through the roof.”

  “Aw, man. No!” I put my hands to the top of my head, trying to think of a way to stop this. But short of running over, grabbing the bomb, and tossing it away, risking it exploding me into a pile of meat and puddles of blood, there wasn’t anything I could do. “Nooo.”

  Eli laughed again. This time the Kid and Christie joined him.

  The squat robot set both bags down carefully and went back for more. The bomb box wasn’t that big, maybe a foot long, ten inches wide, and eight inches deep. Eight bags of sand and one heavy cloth blanket of some kind later, the stout little robot rolled away, leaving the bomb box covered. The street had been evacuated; this time even the experts were gone, undercover, as we watched on remote cameras.

  Nothing happened as seconds turned into minutes. Then there was a poof. On the hijacked video screen, dust and sand flew. All I heard from my house was a muffled whomp. The bomb was detonated. On the screen, my front door shuddered. The glass in its window tinkled around the remains of the bomb. Broken. Again.

  “Well, your door survived,” Eli observed.

  “Your window didn’t,” Alex said, snarky.

  I swallowed the rest of the rocket-fueled tea and left the house, jogging back home.

  • • •

  Hours later, they hadn’t let me see anything that had been left of the bomb. They hadn’t let me see anything at all except my damaged front door and busted door window. I had made a stink about it, and still they wouldn’t let me see. Dang bureaucrats. However, they hadn’t questioned me much, my position attached to the Master of the City of New Orleans and the greater Southeast having protected me from anything in the way of legal harassment.

  Conversely, it didn’t protect me from media harassment. If anything, my position as Leo’s Enforcer only made that worse. According to NBC and their repeated phone call mes
sages, I was “newsworthy,” whatever that meant. ABC made my house continuous “breaking news,” and the local cable channel had camped outside my house for all the hours of the emergency. They were all still there now.

  While the legal scientific types ran tests, hauled off the debris for examination, removed their equipment, and had a press conference in front of my broken door, I made calls and Eli took care of the house. He ordered a replacement door and window from the big-box-home-repair store, asking for the model number from memory, which was an indication of the level of violence in my life. He hammered a piece of plywood over the window opening and hammered the damaged door shut, which made the evening news.

  Ten minutes after his toned body and stern face appeared on camera, a locally famous anchorwoman called him personally for an interview. He turned her down, but it was clear that she had called because she found him interesting, because she flirted with him the whole phone call. Not that Eli flirted back. He was madly in love with the sheriff of Natchez, Syl.

  My time was much less profitable. No one I wanted to talk to called me back.

  By the time most of the cops were gone and the news agencies had packed up their equipment, it was way after midnight. Alex hadn’t located Reach. Bruiser hadn’t called. Rick was gone. I had spent the evening at a whorehouse. The only good thing was that I had pigged out on sushi. Now I was expected to show up at vamp HQ and get cut up with a sword. My life was not normal.

  CHAPTER 11

  Testicle Stretchers

  I had tried calling Leo about Reach and the three who had tortured the research specialist, but the MOC wasn’t taking calls—or it might be more likely to say that he wasn’t taking calls from me. He had surely been notified about Protocol Aardvark, and had his freedom restricted by its stringent demands, but the chief fanghead had signed off on the policy himself, so he had no one to blame but himself and me.

  On the way in to HQ, where we had to list our weapons and go through a thorough pat-down, I remembered the “small gala” Leo had planned, the one about which he’d thrown a wine tantrum. I hoped he’d had to send out a couple dozen “change of plans” letters. It would serve the spoiled-brat-of-a-vamp right.