Blood Trade: A Jane Yellowrock Novel Read online

  On the nice soft bed, I blew out a breath, hearing the air whisper raggedly out. Why hadn’t I noticed her wounds back then?

  The other girls had ignored her as they had ignored me, as long as the housemother, Belinda Smith, had been in the room. I had liked Belinda. She had been the best of what an alpha woman should be; strong enough to keep us all in line, and gentle enough to teach us what we needed to survive when we left Bethel Nondenominational Christian Children’s Home. I had even liked Misha a little, as well as I could like anyone back then, as I learned how to speak English and tried to catch up in school. I did catch up—eight years of learning in two years. And Misha had been there, on the sidelines, watching, silent, back-to-the-wall prey.

  And then there was Bobby. My strongest memory of him was the day I left the children’s home at age eighteen, a couple days after the birthday they had assigned to me when I was found wandering the mountain woods. Bobby Bates had come to tell me good-bye—and to try to talk me into staying. He had been prey too, his red hair bright in the afternoon sun, his freckles a cinnamon spatter. He was standing with his shoulders hunched, arms crossed, hands under his armpits, eyes staring at the asphalt. Afraid. He had always been afraid.

  Prey, the insistent, soft voice had whispered in my mind. I hadn’t known then that the voice was Beast, looking out at the white man’s world through my eyes. I’d thought the voice meant that I was insane or maybe a psycho in training. With long practice, I had shoved the voice down deep, ignoring it. It had hacked with amusement but subsided, watching. Waiting.

  Like me, Bobby wasn’t like the other kids at Bethel. But while I was just different, he was a little slower than most, both physically and mentally. Bobby was seventeen going on ten. And, like me, he was lonely. Looking back, maybe we had all been lonely and I’d simply not been able to see it.

  Bobby had been picked on mercilessly by the other kids, except when a group-home parent was nearby, of course, or a counselor was watching. When no one was looking, his life had been a constant torment until I’d taken him under my wing. It had been the middle of winter when I was . . . fifteen?

  I already had a rep as a fighter at the school, but despite how tough I was, from the first day he came to Bethel, something about Bobby called to me. He was like a day-old kitten mewling in fear. I fought for Bobby, protected him, made sure the other kids left him alone. My threats and fists had meant that no one picked on him even when I wasn’t around. Once Bobby left Bethel, I’d never returned to the children’s home.

  And now the two prey were here, back-to-back in vamp territory. Crazy.

  • • •

  I must have napped, because I woke with a start when my doorknob squeaked. I moved Beast-fast, and when the door opened I had risen in bed, back curled like a half sit-up, with a Walther, round chambered, held in a two-hand grip, aimed at the door. The Kid backed up fast into the hallway, hands up in the universal peace gesture. Except on him it was more like the universal “I’m stupid” gesture. In one fast sequence, I pointed the weapon at the ceiling, released the magazine, unchambered the round and tucked it into a pocket, and set the weapon on the bed.

  “You have lived with a soldier and with me for months now. You want to explain how you can still be such an idiot?” I demanded.

  “Sorry. I was trying to see if you were awake and I didn’t want to wake you if you were sleeping.”

  “And if I’d been standing here naked and screamed, what then?”

  The Kid laughed. Seriously, he laughed. Idiot.

  I rolled to my feet and stretched. The catnap had done me good physically, but had done nothing for my crabbiness. “I’d have shot you, and you’d have deserved it.” That shut him up. “What time is it?”

  “You have half an hour to get to your talk with the reporter. Eli said he needs to pick up a few things in town and he’ll drive you.” The Kid shut the door without waiting for a reply.

  I wanted to yell, What if I want to ride Bitsa? But I kept it in. Irritable, I freshened up in the small bath and pulled a casual jacket out of the single piece of luggage I’d brought. It was wrinkled, but I slid into it anyway. With my new muscles, it was snug across the shoulders, but the fabric was stretchy.

  When I turned off the lights, I peeked into the adjoining room just in case one of the guys had claimed it. The room looked untouched, but I locked the bathroom door on that side anyway. Despite the years in the children’s home, where nothing was ever really private, I’m not good at sharing.

  • • •

  On the way into town, I studied the intel sent to me by Reach, mostly Natchez’s Clan home, blood-masters, heirs, and primos—the basic building blocks of vamp society. Eli was content to let me read. I liked a man who didn’t chatter and who didn’t expect me to chatter. His eyes were taking in the scenery, charting roads, locations of businesses, alleys, and empty storefronts. Recon. Part of his training, and part of my nature. We made a good team. He slowed down as we passed by the three-story building where we’d had a firefight not that long ago. We’d killed a lot of vamps, like, fourteen vamps, which was a lot of vamps. The place looked deserted. Eli said nothing as he motored on past, and I stuck my nose back into the research.

  Natchez, which is perched high upon a bluff above the Mississippi River, is the first major port north of New Orleans and had once been a key hub of trade and steamboat travel. Unlike most of the rest of the South, Union troops had decided not to burn it to the ground in the Civil War, using the port instead to move troops and gear and to secure the waterway. After the war, Natchez had been left with most of its charm: lots of fancy, prewar buildings, antebellum homes, churches, graveyards, and old live-oak trees swathed in moss—as well as its notorious past. Its location had allowed it to maintain its infrastructure and rebuild faster when most other towns around the South had suffered harder and longer.

  During the Reconstruction, carpetbaggers brought in trade opportunities, work opportunities, and an influx of cash for the newly impoverished whites and the newly freed slaves, many of whom were trained as dockworkers or mule handlers or seamstresses or hat makers, as well as the freemen of color who had been educated doctors and poets and lawyers, many of them land owners who had owned slaves of their own. The town survived and thrived.

  Eli dropped me off in front of the Natchez Grand Hotel, not coincidentally one of the hotels Reach had suggested I stay in. The place was redbrick and—arguably—had the best location of any hotel in town, boasting views of the historic old downtown on one side and the Mississippi River and the river walk on the other. I took the elevator up to the top floor, where Misha had a two-bedroom suite, and knocked. I sensed a person on the other side of the door, and felt myself studied for a moment through the peephole, Beast’s instincts alerting me to surveillance. The door opened to Bobby’s smile-wreathed face.

  “Jane!” he shouted, and grabbed me in a bear hug that cracked my back.

  I was prepared for this one; Bobby had always been a hugger. A silly smile on my face, I hugged him back, squeezing him hard. Bobby believed that the harder the hug, the more love was in it.

  “I missed you, Jane.” Bobby rocked me in his arms—discomfortingly similar to the way Miss Esmee had—and his red hair tickled my chin and cheek. He had changed, his body filling out, and he was taller than I remembered. But his scent was familiar: baby shampoo, foot powder, and Bobby. For some stupid reason, tears gathered in my eyes as I held him.

  In the room, I scented cleansers, fabric fresheners, Misha, perfume, and herbal bath products; I also smelled another human, a child. But there was something else beneath the familiar scent of Bobby and the smell of a hotel room, something not quite right. I felt Beast stir and stare out at the world through my eyes. I drew in the air, uncertain of the strangeness in the weak scent. Something chemically astringent and harsh, and something else—something sickly. “I missed you too, Bobby boy.”

  Gently I pushed him back and blinked away the tears to study him with my e
yes, rather than just my nose and hands, seeing the teenager he had been and the man he was now. Bobby would never grow up like other people did; he’d always have the mental capacity of a ten-year-old, always filled with the wonder, the joy, and the hopefulness of a child. But he had grown older. He had fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his freckles had grown closer together than when he was a teenager. The extra pounds I had felt in the hug were well distributed on his frame, and the weight looked good on him.

  “You’re different,” he said, squeezing my shoulders. “All muscley.”

  “And you grew at least ten inches,” I hyperbolized. “You grew up on me.”

  “Come on in and meet little Charly.” Bobby took me by the hand and led me into the living room area of the suite. A little girl was curled up on the sofa, watching TV. “Charly, this is Jane.” The little girl waved to me shyly. “Jane, this is Charly. She’s Misha’s little girl and my best friend.” The child was maybe seven or eight, skinny and pale, with thin brown hair cut in a pageboy to her ears. She was bundled up in pink velour sweats that were sized to grow into, and a blanket covered her legs. She wore a pearl ring on her left hand, something that looked too adult for her but seemed to fit. I lifted my hand in greeting, and she pulled the blanket up to her chest as if uncomfortable with my gaze, so I looked away and took in the suite.

  Misha had paid for a hospitality suite with adjoining rooms. Fancy digs for a reporter-turned–book writer. There were children’s books and toys in a large wicker basket, a lavender hoodie jacket on a hanger on a hat rack instead of pitched over a chair back, a pair of women’s running shoes placed precisely side by side below the jacket, a packet of folders lined up neatly at the corner of a table. From the way her shoes were lined up and her hoodie so carefully hung, I didn’t think the control freak I remembered had changed all that much. A coat sized for Bobby was on a hanger on a doorknob to a room with two double beds. Across from it was a room with a king-sized bed. The place was decorated in beige and a soft rosy red, with dark wood furniture. A soothing palette.

  Bobby said, “Misha is in the bathroom. We’re watching Disney. Charly likes The Lion King.”

  I nodded, scenting again that faint hint of sickness. I looked Bobby over and thought about his scent rising to me when we hugged; he was fine. I looked at Charly again, my nose tracking both the sickness and the scent of chemicals to her. Her paleness wasn’t natural to her skin tone, but was the pale of anemia. Her hair lacked the sheen a child’s usually had, and was dull and far too thin. On the sofa arm beside her was a small clump of hair. There was another clump on her shoulder. And a small bald patch on her crown.

  Her hair was falling out.

  Charly was getting chemo.

  Kit, Beast thought at me, staring at Charly. Sick kit.

  I stood rooted to the floor, horrified and totally out of anything that might have resembled a comfort zone. I was in a hotel room with Bobby Bates and a very sick child. Fortunately, before I had to react to my sudden new knowledge, I heard a noise from the open door.

  CHAPTER 3

  I’ll Break Every Finger . . . One by One

  A door opened in the room with the large bed and I turned in time to see a light switched off and shadows move. I had no idea what to do with my hands so I tucked them into my jeans pockets, but that felt posed so I gripped them behind my back, which felt even more posed, and I realized I was nervous.

  Beast, who had been oddly silent, chuffed with amusement. Jane is afraid of prey.

  Not afraid, I thought back. Uncertain, maybe. And she isn’t prey.

  Prey or hunter. Or plant. Or earth and rock. Or water and air, she added with a soft snort. There is nothing else.

  I stifled a sigh just as Misha walked into the room. She had changed since the children’s home. She was taller, her hair worn in a chic, tousled bob, and much blonder. The highlights made her blue eyes look bluer and accented her sharp cheekbones. She was wearing jeans and layered T-shirts in bright blues, shades of royal and indigo, fuzzy socks on her feet, and was color coordinated from top to toe. Her only jewelry was a large pearl wrapped in silver dangling on a silver chain. She moved with an unself-conscious poise. Misha had grown up. She stopped in the doorway and we stared at each other, silent. In the background, the volume went up on the TV as the kids got bored with watching us. I recognized strains from the animated Disney movie as I studied the woman in the doorway.

  Beast was good at waiting games, but my nerves didn’t let me wait it out. I lifted a shoulder in a tentative shrug. “Hi.”

  A slow grin spread across her face. She’d had her teeth fixed, and the effect was blinding white against her pale skin and all that blue. She looked gorgeous. “Hi back. Are we supposed to hug?”

  I didn’t know what my face showed, but whatever it was made her laugh softly. “Yeah. I’m not much of a hugger either. And it feels stupid to shake hands.” When I didn’t respond, she said, “You’ve met Charly?”

  I nodded.

  “I have coffee and tea on the way up.”

  “Tea, please,” I said, with my best children’s-home manners. Then, because I was getting more nervous, I added, “You look gorgeous.”

  “And you look dangerous.” She flashed me a quick smile and I knew that she meant it as a compliment. “Just like you did back in the home, except with better-quality clothes.” She tilted her head. “I never had a chance to thank you.”

  I just stared, not knowing what she was thanking me for, but obscurely pleased by the compliment.

  “For what?” I finally said.

  “Do you remember Ann Shelton?”

  Instantly the vision of the bitter, angry girl flashed into my memory. Blond and blue-eyed, her mouth turned down in fury. She would have been cute except for the constant rage. Ann had picked fights anywhere she could, anytime she could, with any girl she could. Her forte was goading them into fighting and then ripping off the clothes of her victims, leaving them exposed, crying, and hurting. I had hated her, totally and without shame. “Yeah,” I said. “I remember. But I haven’t thought of her in years.”

  “She was taunting me one day in school, in the gym locker room after volleyball practice. Her buds were around her, laughing. I was crying. I knew what was coming. And she pushed me. I hit a wall at my back. All I remember is that suddenly she wasn’t in front of me anymore. You were. And you said, ‘The next time I see you picking on anyone—anyone—I’ll make sure it’s the last time you do. Ever.’

  “And Ann got up in your face and said something stupid like, ‘Yeah? Whatchya gonna do, bitch?’ And you got this look on your face. This look. And your voice dropped to this slow growl, and you whispered, ‘I’ll break every finger in your hands. One by one. And then I’ll break your nose so it will never heal right. And I’ll blacken both your eyes. And then I’ll break both your knees. You’ll be disfigured and have to go through multiple surgeries. And you’ll never be the same again. Ever. And if your little girlfriends try to stop me, I’ll do the same to them. One by one. Got it?’”

  As she spoke, I remembered that incident and said softly, “Ann said I’d go to juvie.”

  “And you said it would be worth it. And I never thanked you.”

  I shrugged and crossed my arms over my chest. “I didn’t remember it was you. I just wanted to make sure she stopped picking on Bobby and kids like him.” I looked over at the TV to find Bobby watching us, though I was pretty sure he couldn’t hear a word we said over the Disney music.

  “And none of us thanked you. None of the picked on kids thanked you back then. You risked a lot to make sure Ann Shelton stayed away. So. It’s a long time coming, but thank you.”

  I opened my mouth. Closed it. I shrugged again. That’s me. Just chock-full of social skills.

  “I’ve been reading about you,” Misha said. “According to Reach, ‘Jane Yellowrock,’” she quoted, “‘is arguably the best vampire hunter in the business.’ And that was before the info was updated with all
the kills in Natchez last year.”

  I had no idea what to say to that, so I said nothing, which was better than opening my mouth and inserting my foot, boot and all. Just when the silence—my silence—became uncomfortable, a knock came at the door. Misha crossed the suite and opened it. A bellman entered, pushing a cart into the room. It was laden with a small cheesecake and a plate of petit fours, a bowl of Chex mix, a plate of chocolates, two juice bottles, a carafe of coffee, a pot of hot water, mugs, clear glass teacups, and various tea bags. It was too much to hope for loose tea, even in a nice joint like this.

  Misha tipped the bellman and then concentrated on making up a tray of treats for Bobby and Charly. I watched as she worked, trying to reconcile this self-assured woman with the Misha of memory. She glanced up and said, “Help yourself,” with that new, quick, professional smile, as she carried the juice and plate into the TV area.

  I moved to the far side of the fancy tea cart, where my back went to the wall, leaving the entrance, the windows, and Misha all in my visual range. I picked through the tea bags and upgraded my opinion of the tea selection. There was a white peony, a green chai, and a spring oolong, all imported from China. There was also one called East Beauty Blooming Tea—a ball of green tea leaves sewn together by hand with jasmine and chrysanthemum flowers. When dropped in hot water, the tea ball would open, appearing to flower and bloom.

  I didn’t usually care for flower-flavored teas, but I picked the blooming tea, which said something about both Misha and me, but I wasn’t smart enough to figure out what. I opened the package and dropped the ball into a glass teacup, not sure if manners dictated that I wait until Misha served me. But the thought of her waiting on me was an uncomfortable one, so I poured the hot water into the cup, over the ball. Instantly the leaves started to open and flower as the hot water rehydrated and relaxed them. It was like watching high-speed photography of a flower blooming, and I could smell the jasmine. As the tea steeped, I unwrapped a chocolate, leaned against the wall, and popped the candy into my mouth. The taste of hazelnuts, mocha, and vanilla, perfectly balanced, melted on my tongue. I’m not normally a chocolate eater, but I nearly groaned, it was so good.