Blood Trade: A Jane Yellowrock Novel Page 9

  “She took guns?” I said. And then I understood, putting together all of Esmee’s earlier comments about killing things. “She’s gone to hunt vamps.”

  “Most likely with two of her less-than-civilized, less-than-refined, uneducated neighbors. She left just after you did, claiming that you had asked her to introduce you to the mayor as part of your research and that you were sending a car for her. But I would bet a month’s pay that Buddy and Bubba picked her up, and I doubt that those two even know that we have a mayor.”

  “Buddy and Bubba?” Eli said with a half-lifted brow. Everything the man did was low energy, the barest minimum of motion and muscle needed to accomplish the deed or indicate the emotion.

  “Twins. They share a defective brain between them, and they have been taking Esmee for target practice on the back forty.” He stood, and it was the first time I had ever seen Jameson without his apron. He was awfully buff for a hash slinger. Middle-aged, but in good shape.

  “You double as security for Esmee,” I stated.

  “Yes. Her sons, Beau and Gordon, hired us. My wife is a licensed practical nurse. We take care of Esmee. She said you sent a car for her, or I’d have driven her into town.”

  “Does she have a cell phone? We can trace it. Maybe use it to track her.”

  “Already did,” the Kid said from the next room. “Sending coordinates to your cells, with an overlay of nearby streets. Her position is constantly changing, and right now she’s off road.”

  “The twins have off-road vehicles. Those small four-wheel-drive things,” Jameson said.

  “ATVs,” Eli supplied.

  “We’ll bring her back,” I said, racing up the stairs. “I have to change.” I needed armor and my M4. It was a far better weapon in a firefight than Eli’s shotgun or my semiautomatics.

  Eli was tight on my heels, our feet loud on the old wooden stairs. “I have something that might make a difference with the silver-resistant vampires,” he said at my shoulder.

  “Rocket launcher?” I asked, remembering the head of the only vamp I had killed tonight.

  “Something like that.”

  Sighing, I entered my room to discover that someone had unpacked my things. My few clothes and armor were hanging in the closet, and my toiletries were on the bath cabinet. I wasn’t used to life with servants.

  • • •

  I changed into vamp-hunting clothes: combat boots, and motorcycle-style armored leather pants and jacket over fleece to keep me warm. I double-checked the placement of the removable, padded-armor pieces and made sure my weapons were in snug and the M4 was loaded with seven silver vamp-killing rounds. Way better than Eli’s two-load. I slid the weapon in and out of its harness several times. I didn’t want it hanging up when it was needed; that kind of thing was the difference between life and death. I added another handgun to the three I already carried and slid a small derringer into a boot. Lastly, I rearranged the hair-stick stakes in my bun and grimaced at the pain. I had banged my head on the roof of the SUV and stabbed myself. Dumb. I could smell my own blood, which I hadn’t noticed until now. I didn’t have time to shift into Beast and heal, and there was no way to bind the scratches. I was going to be a calling card to every vamp in town, but there was no help for it. I didn’t bother to check myself out in the mirror. I wasn’t going to a fashion show.

  Four minutes after I entered my room, I was back at the front door. Eli was waiting and his hands were empty, but he had a huge grin on his face, or as much of a grin as he ever had, meaning that the flesh around his eyes was faintly crinkled. “Where’s your toy?” I asked.

  He lifted the corner of his jacket. In a small holster at his side was a tiny folding weapon. “A Magpul FMG-9.”

  “Specifics,” I requested, holding out a hand. Almost reverently, Eli removed the small gun and passed it to me. “A buddy got it for me. It’s a 2008 prototype for a new generation of folding submachine gun.”

  It was made from a lightweight polymer material, not metal, making it very light and easy to carry. It was well balanced for a sub gun, and small enough to fit in the back pocket of most dress pants. Only a passionate gun lover would think it was pretty, but I could see the purpose and function. It was a gun made to kill people. Like the folding machine guns carried by Big H’s security goons, it was perfect for concealed carry and could be disguised in a small bag or package. I removed the magazine and looked my question at Eli.

  “It was developed for the Secret Service for personal-protection details,” Eli said, “but it’s not in mass production yet. It uses the semiautomatic firing mechanism from a nine-mil Glock 17 pistol, but mine is modified to use a Glock 18 machine-pistol mechanism. It is practically jam free, and—”

  “Meaning it’s a nine-mil, fully automatic weapon,” I said. “And totally illegal.”

  He handed me a headset with a mic. “Let’s go.”

  From the breakfast room the Kid said, “They’re on the move. Keep your com units on and I’ll update you. Right now it looks like they’re heading back into town. Ten bucks says it isn’t to meet you at the mayor’s.” He looked up from his laptop screen at his brother and took us both in as we rushed by. “I guess it’s too much to ask you to take me.”

  Eli reached out and ruffled his brother’s hair. “You guess right, kid. Later.”

  “I’m not a kid,” he muttered, sounding disgusted.

  CHAPTER 6

  And Me Holding Only Ash

  “I’ve lost them. She turned off her phone,” the Kid said, his voice crisp and clear over the headset. We were on Broadway Street, coming up on Cock of the Walk, and Eli slowed.

  “Show me her last coordinates,” I said. When they popped up on my cell, I said, “They went Under the Hill. Send us maps of the place.”

  Esmee had disappeared on the lowest street, a narrow lane unimaginatively called Water Street. It was bounded on the west by the Mississippi River and on the east by the towering bluff on which Natchez sat. Warehouses, wharves, and main shops on Water Street stood on pilings, some jutting far out over the murky, lapping Mississippi. As in earlier days, many of the Under the Hill businesses were legitimate: a saloon called the Silver Street, Ltd., the River Boat Gift Shop, the Cock of the Walk, and the Natchez Landing. But others had very different reputations—places where vamps trolled for fresh dinner when they were feeling frisky and adventurous, or where newly freed vamps looked for their first blood-servants. In some back rooms were trapdoors, presumably leading to storage, though rumors had persisted for decades that they had other, more sinister uses, such as for holding pens for kidnap victims or ways to dispose of bodies. Reports claimed that these were locales where beautiful women or boys were drugged and dumped through trapdoors until they were disappeared into the lucrative sex trade, or were turned over to less-than-savory vamp masters. Or were dumped after being drained.

  We eased our way down the hill, looking for anything that might clue us in to Esmee and her redneck hunting buddies.

  “Esmee’s cell-phone locator vanished at Silandre’s Saloon,” the Kid said over the com gear.

  “Details,” Eli said. We could hear keys tapping in the background.

  “SS has been open for nearly a hundred years, in one guise or another,” the Kid said. “And now that it’s no secret Silandre’s a vamp, it’s clear that she owned the place since its original opening, just after the earthquake.”

  “She’s not on our kill list. Is she?” I asked.

  “Nope. Uh, negative,” the Kid said, and Eli’s lips twitched at his brother’s attempt to sound military. “This totally sucks,” he added. “Silandre is known to have a hot temper and to not take kindly to strangers.” He paused as he pulled up more research. “Aaaaaand she’s a special friend of Hieronymus.”

  “Well, that complicates matters,” I said. “Betcha big money H won’t give me permission to go in after Esmee, blades slinging.” Eli watched me out of the corner of his eye. I blew out a ticked-off breath. “Therefore, I need to go
over his head.” At which Eli smiled, that annoying twitch of his lips.

  “Kid,” I said into the headset, “send your brother pics of Silandre and her scions and blood-servants.”

  “Copy,” the Kid said. “On the way. Now.”

  Reluctantly, I dialed Bruiser, Leo Pellissier’s real Enforcer and right-hand meal. And the blood-servant who had betrayed me. Holding that thought firmly in mind, I ignored that my heart did a little backflip when he answered, “Jane.”

  Deep inside, Beast leaped to her feet and stared out at the world. It was just my name, but the way he said it sent tremors through her, and therefore through me, that settled into my belly with a liquid heat. Beast started to purr with delight. Which was all so very, very unfair. Because of her, my body was a traitor to the man who had handed me over for the violation of forced feeding and binding. I needed to hate him with a white-hot passion, but Beast’s binding to Leo also made her want Bruiser even more. My life was so horribly messed up.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  I shoved down on Beast’s autonomous reaction and managed to sound businesslike. “Bruiser. I’m good.” No thanks to you, I thought.

  “I certainly expect so.”

  I ignored that. “I need help.” He took a slow breath and I shook my head, saying flatly, “Not that kind of help.”

  “Reading my mind, little sweetheart?” Bruiser was one of few men who could reasonably call me little; he was six-four to my six feet even.

  “Not psychic, Bruiser. And it’s business, not personal.”

  “If the help is for Hieronymus, Leo has forbid me to help you unless you give me excellent reasons. Do you wish to barter for my services?” He sounded so British at times like this, when he was flirting, or when he was angry.

  “No.” I knew what Bruiser would barter for, and my bedroom services were not going to be used as payment, no matter how much fun Beast thought that might be. “I have a missing octogenarian human female, last see near Silandre’s Saloon. She’s vampire hunting.”

  “Silandre . . . Silandre. Oh. Yes,” he said as the name found its place in his memory and the relationships, political and romantic, sorted themselves out in his brain. “Hmmm.” His tone changed, sounding uneasy. I let him think about it all for a moment as Eli studied the streets, keeping watch. “If this grandmother has staked Silandre,” he said, “there will be political repercussions. But if the grandmother is disappeared or drained,” he said, “that would reflect badly on Hieronymus and therefore eventually on Leo. So as the MOC’s primo, it behooves me to assist, even against his express command. You are tricky, Little Janie.”

  “I’m learning.”

  “I will make a call and see if I can provide you with access.”

  “Thanks. And while you’re at it, Big H and about twenty of his scions have the vamp plague. I’m going to give them treatment.”

  The light-and-playful tone disappeared. “Leo will not be pleased.”

  “He pays me to protect him from dangers, and the way I see it, part of that includes danger to his reputation and his public image. An image that will suffer if vamps in his territories start spreading the plague. So tell him I said to get off his blood-sucking ass and negotiate a parley with Hieronymus.” I started to hang up, but stopped midthumb and said, “We’ll be at Silandre’s Saloon in ten minutes.” Then I disconnected the call, and heard Eli’s quiet laughter.

  “When are you going to give the guy a break,” he asked, and spoiled it by adding, “and jump in the sack with him?”

  The Kid sniggered into the headset.

  Men. I didn’t answer, and Eli handed me his cell with pics of our prey displayed, as he eased back into traffic and down the hill.

  The bluff on which Natchez sat was huge, and the road zigged and zagged and curled and twisted and dropped—like something Dr. Seuss might have imagined in a book titled The Cat in the Hat Drinks Blood. It was definitely interesting. While atop the bluff everything was high-class, the preserved remnants of plantation owners’ slave-labor past, while along the drop to the Mississippi it was something else entirely. Not that it wasn’t old—a lot of it was really old—but it was a mishmash of styles and colors and building materials, many unrestored, unpainted, and unrefinished, dives that hadn’t seen a hammer or nail or paintbrush in a hundred years sat right next to cute, well-maintained cottages, some with dream catchers hanging in windows or pentagrams and witch circles in backyards, and even stained-glass windows rather than clear glass. Bare dirt yards and sullen, chained dogs were separated from tiny lush gardens by picket fences, gardens that should have been winter gray but were brilliant with winter flowers, demonstrating the hand of an earth witch with her classical green thumb. Saloons were five feet from old-fashioned banks. A white-painted chapel with a tall, slender steeple was across the street from what looked like a yurt with a hand-painted sign advertising PALM READING and YOUR FUTURE READ BY A DIVINER, with a note to bring your own chicken or goat, presumably for sacrifice. My house mother would have had apoplexy. Beast was having a ball with the scents, and I stuck my head out the window to give her better access.

  Blood and vamp—lots of vamp scents—and witch and human and water, water everywhere. Meat cooking and the smell of milk, goats, dogs, and house cats, mold and flowers and growing things.

  Eli pulled past a white-painted, narrow, shotgun-style house and idled the SUV while we studied the facade through the back window. “You’re kidding, right?” I asked. Even in the uncertain light, the building was not what I’d have thought a vamp saloon would look like. The house had dark fuchsia shutters and elaborate fuchsia gingerbread at every eave and all over the tiny front porch. A pink front door, with a brass doorknob and knocker, was centered on the porch, and a pink wreath with pink bows hung in the middle of it. The yard was planted with pink-flowering sasanqua bushes. And, honest to God, there were a dozen plastic pink flamingos in the minuscule patch of grass.

  “This is supposed to be a saloon, and the vamp is supposed to be a badass?” Eli deadpanned.

  “The pink is camouflage?”

  We both snorted. The bright and innocent color scheme could also mean that Silandre’s mental state had shifted, a polite way of suggesting that she was no longer completely sane. But there were two ATVs pulled to the side of the narrow road, and in one was a leather Gucci bag, metal buckles reflecting the moonlight. The sight made my mouth tighten in worry.

  The building was three times as deep as it was wide, maybe more, with a back corner hanging high over the water, propped on stilts that looked new, as if the Mississippi had taken out the building’s foundation in some flood and it had been replaced. It didn’t look very reliable, more like a stiff breeze or a good rain could take it down.

  “Typical Jane Yellowrock entrance?” Eli said. At my questioning glance he said, “Seat of our pants, weapons ready, shoot anything fanged that moves?”

  “If he gives us a go-ahead, yeah. That.” My phone vibrated, and it was Bruiser. I opened it and said, “Jane.”

  “You are difficult,” Leo said, using the captivating tone they employ when they go after free-roaming prey. “Most cats are.”

  Beast sat up and stared out through my eyes at the cell. I pulled my gaze back to the house as a light came on inside. “I do try,” I said.

  “My George has explained what you are doing and why, and though you deserve punishment for going beyond my wishes, I will allow you the latitude to pursue this in your own way. For now. I approve your desire to approach Silandre and deal with whatever events may be transpiring—and their ramifications. My George will call Hieronymus’ primo and inform him of my decision.”

  “Thanks,” I closed the cell and put it in a pocket, “for letting me take the heat.”

  “Problems in blood-drinking paradise?” Eli asked.

  “Always. We have access to Silandre,” I said. “Let’s go before the fanged monster changes his mind and gives her a call with orders to kill us instead.”

&nb
sp; “You like to yank his chain too,” Eli said, holding up his cell phone so I could see the photos. “One redheaded beauty coming up.” Silandre was a classically beautiful woman with scarlet hair, according to the photo on her driver’s license, sent by Alex. Which was just too weird—vamps with driver’s licenses.

  Together we exited the SUV and moved quickly to the front door of Silandre’s. Eli had his little deadly toy in the crook of one arm, but since this was ostensibly a visit by Leo’s Enforcer, I left my weapons holstered, going for rep, street cred, and moxie over bullets. I didn’t bother to use the knocker; just turned the knob and entered. It wasn’t locked.

  Knickknacks met my eyes everywhere I looked, kitsch down the ages, salt and pepper shakers, boats in bottles, and hundreds of dolls, most of them the collector’s porcelain type about eighteen inches tall, wearing hoop skirts or evening gowns, with real hair and perfect painted faces. And fangs. Collector’s dolls with fangs. I just shook my head.

  There were Tiffany lamps, tassels, rocking chairs, piles of silk pillows, fanged stuffed animals, and everything had price tags hanging on them. Silandre’s Saloon had been converted into Silandre’s Shoppe. The smells were nearly overwhelming: scented candles, dried herbs, potpourri, popcorn, vodka, and blood. The dried herbs were mixed vamp; the blood was human. I tensed, hearing a gurgle from ahead in the depths of the shop. No one was screaming, no one was fighting; whatever was happening was obscured and muted by all the stuff in the building.

  The room was maybe eighteen feet wide—the width of the house—with narrow windows down each side in rows like in a church. From what I could see, which wasn’t much, the building was at least sixty feet long. Shotgun style for real. From somewhere ahead, a phone rang with an old-fashioned, tinny sound. The gurgling got louder and took on a gasping rasp.