Black Arts jy-7 Page 20

  I laid my night’s work clothes out on the bed, going for the side-zippered pants I had picked up at HQ the night before, with a slim, tailored white shirt, black vest, and black jacket. I needed to replace my black boots, and my dancing shoes were showing their age, but I ran a damp rag over my old black dancing shoes, the ones with the sturdy heel and the strap over the instep, and set them at the foot of the bed. There was nothing fancy about my ensemble, more useful and serviceable than swank, though the fabrics were top-of-the-line.

  After doing some online banking, I traced the names of the ships Leo had given me, the Ring Leader and the Lady’s Virtue. Shoffru and a cohort had captained both pirate vessels, and also had owned property on the island of Saint Domingue. I sat back, staring at the screen of my laptop, feeling a frisson of knowing, of being absolutely certain that I had found something important, but having no clue what it was. I cross-referenced notes from other cases, and when I found it, I was elated and horrified in equal measure.

  The island had been home of the Damours, vamps I had killed during the black magic ceremony that had as the centerpiece the sacrificial deaths of witch children. The Damours who were part and parcel of Adrianna and why she wanted to kill me.

  Bruiser had given me a history on the Damours’ blood-family, which I had transcribed into truncated notes. I opened that file and read Island of Saint Domingue: vamps’ haven. Clans in strict social/political society based on race/wealth. White vamps on top, vampyres du couleur libre—free vampires of color (also landowners and slave owners)—in middle, slaves at bottom: workers, sex toys, blood meals. Slaves treated barbarously.

  The history lesson all came back. The slaves had wanted freedom. Duh. The vampyres du couleur clans had little political power because of their race, and they wanted equality with the white vampires. The whites wanted status quo. Some, both white and mixed race, had the witch gene and practiced blood magic, dark rites. Some with the witch gene never quite regained sanity, even after they passed the devoveo state and were unchained. I had read accounts of the atrocities the island’s fangheads practiced. Their cruelty was legendary.

  There had been a vamp of color, François-Dominique Toussaint Louverture. He had turned some of the discontented and helped plot one of the major uprisings. It had taken years, and it was brutal, on both sides. Three of the surviving vampire clans, including some who practiced blood magic, came to Louisiana in 1791, upsetting the local political scene.

  They had traveled on Shoffru’s boats, the Ring Leader and the Lady’s Virtue. Had the Damours turned Jack? Was he a vamp when he worked with Lafitte? So what did an old vamp want with working girls? Was it possible that he had been friends with the Damours and wanted revenge for their deaths? If so, how had he figured out that I had helped kill them? Nothing made sense. Nothing connected. Nothing.

  I checked my e-mail, and I saw notes from Eli and the Kid. Eli had talked to some of the waitstaff at Guilbeau’s and discovered who had given the party, the one from which Bliss and Rachael had left and then vanished. The host’s name was unknown, definitely not a local vamp, and not a familiar local blood-servant either. I set him and the Kid to working on IDing him. Or her. It was hard to know gender with a name like Bancym M’lareil, and there was nothing in a quick Internet search.

  The Kid had info on the local vamps and humans that Troll had ID’d, on the security footage leaving the party. Troll had also sent the Kid a text that the other humans who had gotten sick had all attended the vamp party in Guilbeau’s. Something had happened at the party that had made humans sick, but it wasn’t like the vamp plague that had attacked both vamps and the humans they fed from. And I still didn’t know how that related to the girls disappearing. Unless they were sick somewhere and not able to call for help? We had also discovered that the ashed-to-death vamps had attended the party. Something had happened at the party, and I needed to know what.

  None of the people on the security footage had anything against Katie, Leo, or me, so far as Alex had been able to detect, so I created a note asking about info on the night in question—a formal one for the vamps and a much more casual note for the humans. But I signed both kinds of notes “The Enforcer, Jane Yellowrock.” I cross-referenced my files for the vamps and humans who had e-mail addys and sent these notes out right away, then created printed notes for the Luddites and addressed them for snail mail. I really wanted to make an in-person visit while wearing enough weapons to start a small war, but there were too many names on the list to risk that. And even if I managed to find the right lair and locate the girls, a frontal assault would likely get them killed. When I left my room, I discovered a gift-wrapped box outside my door—gold foil paper with a bloodred ribbon. I picked it up and carried it to the front room, holding it up in question. Without looking up from his tablets, the Kid said, “Delivery. Special messenger. Card on the side.”

  And so there was—in a matching gold envelope. I pulled the card free and read the fancy old-fashioned script, For my Enforcer. To replace that which you lost in my service. Leo.

  I thought about refusing—I always thought about refusing Leo’s prezzies. But he considered it an obligation to replace things lost in his service, and who was I to keep him from giving me what he thought was just compensation? Besides, he always gave totally superlative top-of-the-line gifts. I curled on the couch between the children—who were watching a movie, natch—and unwrapped the box. On the other side of the paper was a Lucchese boot box. From the size and weight it was boots, not mules or ankle boots or shoes. Delayed gratification was best, but I didn’t have the constitution for that crap.

  I opened the box and peeled back the paper to reveal boots. Black leather with green leaves and gold mountain lions embossed on the shafts. These were hand-constructed, hand-tooled, hand-stitched, hand-everything Lucchese Classics, and they went for around three thousand bucks a pair. Cooing like some kind of girly girl, I lifted them out, the goat leather supple and softer than any piece of leather had any right to be. I removed the stuffing paper from the shafts and slid the boots on. “Holy Pan-hide, Batman,” I whispered. They fit perfectly. I was sure I’d never take them off again.

  Still wearing the boots, I curled on the couch, half dozing, Angie Baby on my lap, and EJ now on the floor making “Bhupppp” noises with his lips as he pushed a toy truck around the floor. The Disney movie was playing softly. The Truebloods had a huge collection of kiddie movies.

  I must have slept because when I nodded awake again, the Kid was no longer alone working at his table in the corner, running electronic searches. He now had a student. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes to make sure I was seeing what my eyes said I was seeing. Tia was a working girl from Katie’s and she was currently bent over Alex’s shoulder, listening to him talk computer. She was also making the Kid crazy, but that was another story.

  Alex looked up and said, “Tia volunteered to babysit.”

  “For the honor of computer lessons,” Tia finished, smiling coyly. Yeah, she knew what she was doing to the Kid. But he was nineteen and able to send her away if he wanted to. And they both knew his brother’s rules. No visits with any of Katie’s Ladies until Alex was twenty-one.

  “Big Evan is driving around the city, listening for Molly,” the Kid said.

  Weird things happened when I took naps, even unexpected naps.

  The side door opened, rousing me, fully, and Big Evan came in. He looked worn and wan and dejected. Pretty much how I felt. “Anything?” I asked, realizing that I had been dozing with my mouth open. I checked my lips for drool and thankfully found none. I just hoped the Kid hadn’t taken a photo.

  “No. I drove all over the city, but I couldn’t pick up anything. You?”

  “Leo said a lot of nothing last night, but claims he doesn’t know where Mol is. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have her.”

  Evan shook his head and slumped up the stairs, even his footsteps sounding dejected.

  Angie turned in my lap and craned her face up at
me. “Daddy’s worried about Mama.”

  My heart flipped over. How did I answer this? “I know, honey.”

  “Mama’s coming back. Right?”

  I forced the horror and fear and worry down deep inside. I had made promises to my godchild before and been able to keep them, but this time . . . This time felt different. “I’m—” I stopped, the words strangling. “I’m searching for her,” I managed. “I’m trying to find her.”

  “Good.” Angelina pulled Ka Navista from the crack in the couch and tucked the doll into the crook of her arm. The doll looked frazzled and tattered and much loved, the long black hair tangled. To the doll she said, “My aunt Jane can do anything.” My heart turned over and went flat, as if the life had been sucked out of me. I looked away and batted my eyes to keep the tears away.

  “I’ll do my very, very, very best,” I whispered.

  Beast butted my soul with her head. Will find Molly kit-mother. Will kill ones who took her. She flexed her claws into me; the pain shocked the fear and worry away.

  Okay. Yeah. We’ll find Molly, I thought back, feeling inexplicably better.

  “We’re gonna have company.” Angie crawled from my lap and sat in the corner of the couch, watching the doll with determined, hopeful eyes.

  And then I heard the bike. It had the high-pitched whine of a Kawasaki. And it was heading our way. Despite my lingering worry and pain, heat bloomed from my middle, flamed up my torso, and folded itself over my shoulders while settling low in my abdomen. It was like being embraced by a big-cat, as Beast’s interest fluctuated and changed.

  The bike was familiar. It slowed in the street. And puttered close to the house.

  Angie looked at the opening to the foyer, the front door, and the stairs, where her father had gone, and whispered, “I let the wards down.”

  “You let . . .” I stopped. Angie could manipulate her father’s wards? Did he know? I had a feeling that he didn’t.

  The Kawasaki bike went silent. I stood and looked down at myself. Jeans. Navy T-shirt. Killer boots. I walked to the repaired door, hope joining the warmth that sat deep inside. A knock came. A familiar tat-a-tat-tat. I dropped my head against the jamb for a moment, fighting my smile, and when I was sure I had it under control, I opened the door.

  CHAPTER 13

  You Gonna Invite Me In?

  He stood as tall as me in his black Frye boots. Black jeans, a short-sleeved black tee, his black leather riding jacket hanging on the Kow-bike. His hair was longer than I had ever seen it, finger-combed and looking even darker than its usual black, damp from the helmet. I could smell gun oil, spicy aftershave, cigar. And his cat.

  “Let’s go for a late lunch,” Rick said, leaning in, supporting his weight on his arms, high, to either side of the door, stretching up to show his biceps and the damaged tattoos there. And pulling his T-shirt against pecs and abs. Oh my . . . “You can call Tom for an intro. Fair warning, though. He’ll tell you I’m trouble.”

  My breath hitched to a stop. They were nearly the same words he’d used to ask me on our first date. “Yeah,” I drawled, no longer holding in my reaction to him, leaning closer. “’Bout that. I know you’re trouble, Ricky Bo.”

  His teeth flashed in a smile, his crooked bottom teeth pushing on his lip. “But I’m worth it, babe. Besides, even if I didn’t make you crazy . . .” He leaned farther in, bringing his mouth near mine. “I have info you want.”

  I rested a hip against the door and considered, feeling my insides melt under his black-eyed gaze, his breath warm on my neck and jaw. “You let your hair grow,” I said, wanting to touch it, to touch him.

  Rick canted to the side, resting on the outside jamb, stretching even closer, so we were only a fraction of an inch apart. I could feel the warmth of his body, and his scent grew even stronger, jungle nights, heat, cat, and man. “My current job,” he said, “doesn’t have a dress code when I’m in the field.”

  “You on a job now?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I got a party tonight at Leo’s.” His lips grew fractionally closer. “You gonna be there?”

  I stood up and backed away. “Yeah. Lemme get this straight. You got an invite to vamp HQ for the gather?”

  Rick laughed shortly. “He didn’t tell you?”

  “No, he didn’t tell me.”

  Rick reached out a hand and pushed a stray wisp of hair behind my ear. His fingers were warm, werecat warm. I struggled not to lean in to his touch. “You gonna invite me in?” he murmured.

  “Hey, Uncle Ricky Bo. You gonna kiss Aunt Jane?”

  I tried not to laugh at the look on his face as he dropped his hand away from me. “Angelina?” he asked, his tone saying, What are you doing here?

  “Uh-huh.” Angie tugged on my jeans until I dropped my hand, which she took. “We staying with Aunt Jane while my daddy looks for my mama. You gonna kiss her? ’Cause I wanna watch. You never did kiss her last time I was here.”

  I snorted. Rick opened his mouth and closed it in a good imitation of a beached fish. “Uhhh.”

  “No, Angie Baby,” I said. “Uncle Ricky Bo is taking me to lunch.”

  A terrible thunder of running feet sounded at the top of the stairs. “Jane!” Evan shouted. “The wards!” He went silent when he saw us standing at the front door. Out of breath, he leaned over the railing, staring. “Son of a witch on a switch,” he whispered, the words explosive. “Angie?”

  “Sure as heck wasn’t me,” I said. “I can’t touch your wards.”

  “Me neither,” Rick said. “Come on, gorgeous. Let’s go eat.”

  “But I wanna see you kiss her,” Angie said.

  I picked up my sunglasses and keys where I’d dropped them on the way in this morning and closed the door on Angie’s curiosity and her father’s perplexity. Rick stopped me with an arm across my path, an arm that snaked around my neck and drew close. “I’ve missed you,” he growled.

  Trying to keep the goofy grin off my face, I pushed him away enough to drape an arm around his waist. He nuzzled my neck as I pulled him down the street. “Feed me or lose me.”

  As soon as we were out of sight of the house, Rick yanked me into an alcove, danced me back until my spine touched the wall of a house, and trapped me, one arm blocking the way out, the other around my neck holding me still. Lowering his face, he touched my lips with his, tentatively at first, as if giving me a chance to pull back. I didn’t. I pulled him closer, feeling the gun at his side, the blade at his spine, and the welcome of his body that pressed against my belly.

  I sighed into his mouth as he kissed me, deep and long. I might have made a little moan as his tongue touched mine and I arched my back to raise my body harder against his. Rick lifted me, the motion effortless as his were-strength kicked in. The smell of his cat intensified. His heart rate increased, and his pheromones shifted again, subtly, into adrenaline and something metallic and bitter. I realized he was in pain.

  I shifted my head to the side, his lips trailing across my jaw and down to my neck. “Rick. Stop,” I whispered.

  His mouth opened. The scent of cat intensified. And his teeth clamped down on the muscle and tendon beside my jugular. A hold that a mating, male big-cat might use to grasp his mate. Heat spiraled through me. Beast purred, the sound coming from my mouth. Mate, she thought at me. Mine.

  I shoved her down and gasped a breath. If he broke the skin . . . “Rick. Stop.” He froze, his teeth clamped down, just to the point of pain. “Stop,” I said softer. “Your cat is trying to come through. Your teeth? The were-taint?” His teeth-grip relaxed, but stayed in place, as if he was confused. As if his cat still held sway. I let a hint of amusement into my tone. “And I am not having sex in an alleyway.”

  Rick released my neck and swore under his breath, something crude about saints and testicles. I shuddered with laughter and easing heat. Beast padded away from me, chuffing in disgust. “This sucks,” he whispered back, his voice a low growl. “But you have a point about alleys. I have a nice comfortable bed in
a hotel. Room service, whirlpool tub.”

  “You are evil,” I said, tempted, feeling my body respond to the images and memories of being with him.

  “I could be,” he said, nuzzling my neck again. He stopped, his breath hot on my skin, still damp and bruised from his bite. He sniffed, stiffened, and leaned his body back from me. “I . . . I bit you.” He sounded surprised, and maybe horrified. He hadn’t realized he had been biting me. Not good, but not totally unexpected. Rick had not been able to shift into his cat, held in human form by the magic woven into the tattoos on his shoulder, magic that might be attached to me somehow; the golden eyes, still visible among the scars, sometimes got hot when he was with me. Or maybe the magic had nothing to do with me. No one knew.

  I touched his shoulder and felt the heat from the tats. Yeah. The magic—whatever it was—in them was activated. “Cat mating behavior,” I said calmly, sliding my hand down his arm to his wrist. “You didn’t break the skin.”

  “But I could have.” He dropped his head to my shoulder, his mouth moving on my flesh as he added, “I’m sorry.”

  “No harm, no foul,” I said, keeping my tone light. “But I was serious about feeding me. I’m starving.”

  I felt his lips move into a smile and he pressed them to my neck. Heat blossomed all over again, but sweeter and more tender. I batted tears away. I had missed this. “So am I,” he whispered back, his meaning something totally different.

  I chuckled and he eased back from me. “Fried everything?” I asked.

  “And lots of it. But I’m warning you. Fried food is no substitute for sex in an alley.”

  “I don’t wanna know how you know that,” I said. “Ewww.”

  • • •

  We ended up at ACME Oyster House on Bourbon Street, sitting at a table in back of the well-lit restaurant, surrounded by both locals and tourists, where Rick ordered and we ate servings of Boo-fries (which were covered with roast beef and gravy), char-grilled oysters, fried crawfish tails, and softshell crab po’boys. The entire meal was a heart attack on platters and so good I wanted to cry when I got too full to eat more. We finished off lunch with beer, which, considering our metabolisms, meant it was all for the taste and not for a buzz. And Rick paid with a “company” credit card.