Skinwalker jy-1 Page 35

  Bruiser breathed heavily, started to speak, and stopped. He took another breath, processing what I had said. I stayed quiet, letting him think it through. After what felt like a long wait, he said, “Where’s the body?”

  Great. Right to the heart of the matter. “I’m guessing the . . .” I couldn’t call it a skinwalker, could I? Not when no one but the dead thing and I seemed to know what we were. “. . . thing ate it. Just like it ate the bodies of the other people it caught. It wasn’t Immanuel.”

  “What was it?” No wasted words or questions.

  And now I had to find a way around the truth. “It tried to take the shape of a sabertooth cat of some kind. It tried to take Immanuel’s shape. And the shape of a black-haired human. I killed it before it could kill me. I’m guessing Immanuel has been dead for a very long time.” Which was a lot of information, but didn’t answer his question. I hoped he didn’t notice.

  “Weeks? Months?” he demanded.

  “Years,” I said softly, gently. Knowing I was dumping a lot of bad news on him all at once. “Maybe decades. It was dying, Bruiser.” I tried to find a way of explaining what it was without giving my own dual nature away. “I don’t know how it came to take Immanuel’s place, but I think the melding between vamp genetics and its own wasn’t working, hadn’t been working for a long time. That’s why it needed so much blood and protein. Only massive intakes of blood and tissue kept it looking and smelling like Immanuel.” That’s why it stank so often, I thought.

  “In the last weeks it had started needing more, stronger blood. When the blood-master of Clan Arceneau came back to the States, the thing took him prisoner. He was draining him nearly dry. Forcing Grégoire to sign financial papers, using clan monies to buy land for . . . whatever it planned to do. Take over as blood-master of the city, at a guess.” So it could use the city’s vamps for feedings as it wanted? Maybe. . . .

  When he said nothing to my observation, I went on. “It imprisoned the rest of Clan Arceneau in silver in their clan home.” I paused. “Tell Leo he needs to find Grégoire and send him to earth. And look for the blood-servants of Clan Arceneau. They’ll need rescuing, if they’re still alive.”

  “Was it some kind of were?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. Not lying. Not telling the truth.

  “It handled silver?”

  I remembered the stench of burning meat when I tracked it at dawn on Aggie’s land. It had taken on some of the vamp characteristics, just as I had taken on some of Beast’s. Black magic. I had done magic as black and foul as the liver-eater. I took a breath and went on. “It could touch silver. It could drink blood. But, though it had a vamp’s reaction to sunlight, it wasn’t a vamp. It was only masquerading as a vamp.”

  “I don’t . . . I can’t believe this,” Bruiser said.

  “I think if you go into his room, you’ll find some . . . let’s call them fetishes. Leg bones, skulls, big stuff like that, as well as teeth and smaller mementoes, like trinkets from his kills, using the bones to take different forms.” I heard footsteps, sloshing, as if through the blood and goop in the hallway at Leo’s. The tone of the background noise changed, as he entered a smaller room. Then the sounds of things being moved, dropped, shoved. Bruiser was searching a room, with no regard to neatness or care.

  “There’s a skull in his room. On the top shelf of the closet.”

  “Human?” I asked.

  “Yeah. And some . . . looks like femur bones. And other stuff. Not human.”

  “The skull is probably Immanuel’s,” I said, even more gently. “Something for Leo to lay to rest.”

  George swore, his voice breaking. In the background I heard Leo shout, his voice ringing, full of command and power. “I’ll get back to you if I live through the night,” Bruiser said, echoing my own worries.

  “Call the vamp council,” I said. “I can report to them before dawn, before this gets around as something it isn’t. I have to call the cops in too. Tell them what happened.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” The phone clicked, the display showing CALL DISCONNECTED.

  The next call, to Jodi, went about the same, with a few variations, all of them along the lines of “Why didn’t you call me?” When she interrupted the third time, with the same question, I said, “Jodi, I don’t work for you. I didn’t call you. Get over it.”

  She made a little choking sound. “I’m going out to his house,” she said stiffly when she could speak again.

  “Leo’s?” I squeaked. “Are you out of your mind? You ever see a vamp lose it? A real honest-to-God vamp rage? As far as he can feel and tell, his son just died. He’s grieving, the way vamps grieve, the way vamps do everything. Think about it. If he’s out of control, and you show up, he’ll rip off your head and drink you dry. George is the only one who might be able to survive the experience. You show up and the balance changes. Stay. Away.”

  After a moment, she grunted with agreement. “I don’t like you, Yellowrock.”

  “It’s mutual,” I said with a smile in my voice. “I may have to address the vamp council before dawn. Want to come along?”

  “Yeah?” She sounded marginally happier. I wondered how many cops had ever seen the members of the vamp council all in one place, let alone ever seen a council in action. “Let me know the details. I’ll be there.”

  I closed the cell. I had me a new best pal cop. Oh, goody.

  I braked my bike as I turned into the circular drive, moving slowly through the gathered limos, all black and sleek, some sitting heavily, an indication of armor. Each driver looked me over as I rode past, eyes following me the way professional muscle would, a look that was half assessment, half threat. If I hadn’t been so tired, I’d have reacted, but I just didn’t have the energy to care. Let ’em look.

  At the front door, I pulled to the curb and cut the engine, lowered the kickstand, and unhelmeted, letting my hair fall in a single long black wave. I was wearing jeans and boots, a T-shirt, and the gold nugget necklace, my weapons at home on the kitchen table; I was carrying nothing to pose a threat to the council. To carry a weapon into the council chambers was tantamount to taking a weapon into a foreign embassy or a federal courtroom. A good way to get jumped on and locked away, if not killed. Of course that left me in danger if I did need to protect myself, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it except not show.

  Bruiser had called me at two a.m. with info, orders for me to talk to the council, directions and details. He sounded weak, but in control and alive, if not exactly healthy. He’d informed me that going before the council meant formal wear, but my only little black dress was more suited to cocktail parties than ambassadorial and embassy functions, and my other clothes were all wet. Boots and jeans were the best I could do on short notice.

  Inside, they patted me down, very thoroughly, and sent me to a small waiting room with wood-paneled walls, two couches, a small refrigerator stocked with bottled water, a TV set high on the wall, and one table. No windows. A human blood-servant stood guard at the door.

  Jodi, when she joined me in the small waiting room, was in cop dress blues. She looked pretty spiffy and she raised an eyebrow at my casual attire when they showed her in. I shrugged. There wasn’t much I could do about my wardrobe at four in the morning.

  “The chief wanted to come in my place,” she said by way of greeting. Her eyes were sparkling, and there was an air of repressed excitement about her, maybe nervousness. “But George Dumas specified me when he called HQ with the invitation. Thanks.”

  “Your boss ever been before a council?”

  “Nope.” She smiled slightly. “I think he’s ticked off with me.”

  “It’s good for a cop’s career to get an invitation?”

  “Don’t know.” She smoothed down her skirt with anxious hands. “This is a first. The boss just gets a phone call with instructions.”

  “Ah.” I hid my smile. Jodi would soon be moving up in the world. “Where’s Herbert?”

  “Beats
me.” She glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “You like Jim? Want me to set you up on a date?”

  It took a second to realize she was razzing me. “Cute. No way, no thanks.” I stretched out on the couch, feeling the hours, the constant shifts, and the burn in every muscle, nerve, and skin cell. I wanted to close my burning eyes but I was afraid I’d fall asleep, so instead I spent a half hour in small talk with Jodi, which wasn’t as painful as it might seem. She was okay when she was nervous, even invited me to go shooting with her, which made me wonder about the twins, if they were alive or dead. If they had survived the liver-eater, maybe they’d like to . . . not double date, exactly.

  The thought was somehow unsettling, but before I could figure out why, Bruiser walked in, wearing a formal-looking black suit, black tie, and a white shirt—average business attire, if the average businessman spent four thousand bucks on a suit. His clothes had obviously been tailored specifically for him. The man himself was pale as paper and wore a bandage around his neck. When he sat down beside me, it was with a sigh that sounded like a cessation of pain. “Long night,” he said, looking at me. His flesh was unnaturally warm, feverish; I could feel it across the two inches that separated us. The heat made me want to move over, but I held my place. “Nice outfit,” he added.

  I couldn’t think of an appropriate reply or welcome, so I said, “Looks like you lived.” What an inane comment. I wanted to slap myself, but he just smiled.

  “Yeah. It was a near thing. Leo . . . Leo’s not doing so well.”

  “Oh?” Jodi said, a cop tone in her voice.

  “His son died tonight, Detective.” Bruiser touched his bandage with uncertain fingers. “He’s in mourning.”

  “His son died a long time ago,” I said.

  “Yeah. Well.” He studied me a moment. “You’re an interesting woman, Jane Yellowrock.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded like a compliment, sorta, so I smiled.

  A woman stuck her head in the door. “Miss Yellowrock, Detective, they’re ready for you now.” We stood and I raised a hand in a casual wave at Bruiser, who watched us go, his face expressionless. Jodi followed me down the corridor, our footsteps silent. The human blood-servant opened a door at the end of the hallway and stepped inside. “New Orleans Police Department Detective Jodi Richoux and Jane Yellowrock.”

  Sudden nerves grabbed me and I wanted to giggle. Wanted to say, “What? No title for me? Like, famed vamp killer?” But I didn’t. And I stifled the titter in the back of my throat. Me? Nervous about speaking to one of the most powerful vamp councils in the United States? Oh yeah.

  The door closed behind us with a swish of air, a soundproofed thump, and a final click. Two muscle-bound bouncers took their places in front of the door, motions choreographed, eyes on us. Armed to the teeth and not trying to hide it. Unhappy at being locked in with vamps, sane or not, Beast rose and studied the scene, muscles bunched and breath hot in my mind.

  The vamps were seated in carved black chairs on a dais, at a narrow, curved, half-round table that was probably ebony, a black rug under their feet. They were dressed in black, the men in tuxedoes, the women in floor-length gowns. It was a lot of black. Playing to the stereotype? There were little brass plaques on the table’s front edge, engraved with clan names. This wasn’t a full council, apparently, but an executive session, with only clan heads present. I identified the blood-masters or heirs of Clans Mearkanis, Rousseau, Desmarais, Laurent, St. Martin, and Bouvier. The chairs for Clan Pellissier and Clan Arceneau were vacant, but I figured they had a quorum. If vamp councils needed a quorum. The titter tried to rise again, but I wrestled it down, and studied the woman at the center of the table, Sabina Delgado y Aguilera, the priestess—a vamp I was not supposed to know, I reminded myself.

  Jodi and I stood two steps down from the dais, shoulder to shoulder. I felt like a kid standing in the principal’s office. My near-hysterical titter made a third bid for freedom. The vamps turned to us, nostrils flaring, scenting.

  Rafael Torrez, scion and heir of Clan Mearkanis, leaned forward, his black eyes on my face. He got in the first sally. “You were hired to kill the rogue vampire, yet we understand that the creature you killed tonight was not one of us. Why should we pay you?”

  Anger zinged through me. These creeps were going to try to cheat me. The world slowed down into distinct images of survival and death. Beast rose into my eyes. Growled low in my throat. A threat.

  Instantly, the whites of Rafael’s eyes and his face blazed with blood flush. His pupils widened to black. It was a young-vamp loss of control.

  The other council members drew back in shock at his gaffe. But Rafael didn’t back down. His fangs snapped down with a soft click. Pheromones of violence filled the room. Vamp menace has a smell, sharp and spiky. Intense in a room full of them. Beside me, Jodi froze. Two other vamps fought their own reactions to Rafael’s scents. Jodi stepped away, her hand going for her gun, which she no longer had. Her fear spiked. Human prey smell. As one, the vamps turned to her. Predator eyes. For a moment, danger churned in the air like poison.

  The vamp priestess, sitting beside Rafael, placed a hand on his arm. “Be still,” she said, her voice infused with power. It was almost witchy in its strength. But her eyes were on me. Hawk eyes, seeing too much.

  I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. The vamps all turned to me, swiveling their heads in unison like a circus act. The scents changed to outrage and insult, violence of a different kind. I extended a hand in apology, as if waving away my amused eruption. The vamps simply stared. Jodi took a breath, the sound shaky.

  When I got my laughter under control, I said, “The thing that took over Immanuel had been living among you for years and you never guessed. Never knew. Not till he went nuts and started killing off and feeding on humans and his vamp friends. You trying to tell me he didn’t smell like a vamp? Feed like a vamp? As far as the world is concerned, he was a vamp who was morphing into something else. Something even worse.” I saw several eyes blaze at the insult. Well, tough. Beside me, Jodi’s fear increased, her body tensed in indecision.

  “My contract specifies that I was to ‘dispatch the rogue who is terrorizing New Orleans.’ I did that, within the ten days allotted me for the bonus. Which I want. The fact that he had eaten a vamp and assumed his identity is not my problem.” Their chins went up in a collective reaction, and I realized I had called them vamps several times. How rude of me.

  “I’ve already uploaded the photos of the dead rogue. One is a good, clear shot of his teeth, which has a caption of ‘sabertooth vamp.’ They’re on my Web site with details of the kill. You’ll pay or I’ll bombard the Internet with the fact that the New Orleans vamp council is not to be trusted in contractual matters. I’ll post the contract on my Web site right next to the shot of his teeth. Let the world decide if I fulfilled my contract.”

  The reek of enraged vamp pheromones saturated the air, sharp as pepper and vodka. Three of the clan heads were gripping the table, their eyes vamped. Jodi’s breath and heart rate were fast. Fight or flight. Prey response. Not very smart of her. The head of Clan Desmarais, calmer than most, opened a thin laptop and tapped some keys. “She speaks the truth,” he said, his eyes on the screen. Desmarais glanced at me. “The composition of the shots is quite unprofessional. And what are the shadows on the corners of the photographs?”

  “My blood,” I said, bluntly.

  He leaned toward me and drew in a breath through his nose. “You are not bleeding now. I smell no open wounds at all.”

  “Lucky me.” Let them wonder why and how.

  “I told you she would not allow us to renege based on such flimsy wording,” Bettina, blood-master of Clan Rousseau, said. I had met Bettina at Leo’s soiree. She was beautiful, and knew it. She had asked me to visit her and I hadn’t gotten the idea that it was for a platonic chat or tea. Even now, her eyes warmed when they touched me. She liked me way more than I wanted, like for dinner and bed, me providing both. “She is a creatu
re of her time,” Bettina said. Beast thought that was funny and I let her humor shine through my eyes.

  “Pay her, and be done with it,” Laurent said.

  “If she takes down the photographs,” Desmarais demanded.

  Though my knees quaked at refusing, I couldn’t negotiate away the pics. “No deal.”

  Jodi edged away, toward the door and the bouncers stationed there, her eyes going from me to the dais and back. She wet her lips with her tongue and one hand made a little twitch again, reaching for the missing gun. To keep the vamps’ attention off her, I said, “I make my living killing rogue vamps. The ownership and use of the photos weren’t covered in the contract.” I wondered how far I could push, and decided to go for broke. They could only drain me once, right? “They make good advertising. They stay on the Web site.”

  “Enough,” the priestess said. “I saw the creature when it attacked me. I inhaled its scent. It was not of our blood, and yet it was. I was unable to identify the species of the creature, but it intended to kill me. And now it is dead. The spirit of the contract has been fulfilled. Pay her.”

  The table fell silent, that total could-have-been-statues vamp stillness. Seconds ticked by. There were no other objections. Eventually Desmarais opened a thin file on the table in front of him and removed an envelope. He slid it across the table. “Your payment and bonus. Certified check, as per the contract.”

  I kept the victory off my face, took the check, folded it over, and slid it into the waistband of my jeans. The priestess said, “Jane Yellowrock, it is hoped you will remain in New Orleans for a time.” My mouth opened in surprise and I halted in mid-money-stuff.

  Rousseau took over the invitation. “Perhaps for several weeks, until Katherine is recovered and returned to us. We have an additional problem that needs your”—she paused, as if picking her words carefully—“your talents.”