Blood Cross: A Jane Yellowrock Novel Read online

  “No. Not specifically.”

  “There are four vamp parties this week. All I need is this—to know which parties Leo won’t be at, and then an invitation to attend at least one of them.”

  The silence after I spoke was sharp and pointed, like a bayonet held to the heart. “And how do you know there are four parties this week?” he asked. Any hint of flirtation was gone from his tone, which helped me focus, remembering that this man was Leo’s security expert and would likely kill me without a thought if his boss said to.

  I recalled the calendar hanging in Raisin/Ernestine’s office, every date of the vamp council’s social life marked in Ernestine’s lovely penmanship. Not that I was about to give away anything I might need later. Flirting with Bruiser was out, now, so I settled on flippant. “I have connections here and there. Is Leo still in mourning? Well, except to leave his coffin while trying to burn me alive in my own den.”

  Everyone knew that vamps didn’t sleep in coffins. Just very secure, hidden, underground rooms that they called lairs. Coffins was mildly insulting, and Bruiser said, “I understand that you were on the side porch, not the den, when you faced down Leo and his top scions.”

  Oops. Den was Beast talk. I was more sleepy than I thought. Or Beast’s comment about mating had taken me seriously off guard. Maybe I should hold off baiting the blood-servant of the city’s most powerful vamp until I was more awake and thinking less about Bruiser’s butt in tight jeans when he delivered Leo’s invitation to vacate the city. I said, carefully, “Figure of speech. You boys gossiping about me?”

  “When you killed the creature who had taken Immanuel’s place, you saved most of Clan Arceneau’s blood-servants; Brandon and Brian are alive and breathing because of you. But you left their blood-masters chained with silver when you found them, which works against you, and despite proof that the creature wasn’t Immanuel, Leo feels the loss of his son.” I could hear the distaste in his voice. “For good or ill, most of the clans’ security has a more-than-passing interest in you, Jane.”

  That woke me up better than a whole pot of tea. “Well, that makes me feel all warm and cozy.”

  “It shouldn’t. Why do you want to attend a vampire party?”

  Not so I could boogie with the rich and fangy. I thought it but I didn’t say it. What actually came out of my mouth was worse. “I need to sniff them.” Bruiser barked with disbelieving laughter and I could have socked myself. Thinking fast, I said, “Just after the hurricane passed, I found where the sire making the young rogues had been. He, or she, wears a striking, distinctive perfume.”

  Bruiser wasn’t going for it. “You aren’t human,” he said. “I saw evidence of that myself. So, does that mean that whatever form of supernat you are has an enhanced sense of smell?”

  In lieu of a formal introduction when we first met, I had taken Bruiser down and then burned his boss with a silver cross. Not something any human would likely succeed at. I was screwing this up. I lifted my nose in a self-conscious gesture that felt very Beast-like. “That invitation? The sooner, the better.”

  But Bruiser wasn’t being pushed. “Last time you went to a vampire party, you were under the protection of Leo himself. There won’t be anyone to protect you this time.”

  “You could take me.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. The silence lasted longer this time. A lot longer. I broke out into a hot sweat and wanted to babble to cover the silence, but I bit my lips and waited.

  “I would need to inform Leo and obtain his permission,” Bruiser said very carefully.

  Just as carefully, thinking of the way he looked, standing on my porch, I said, “That would be nice.”

  “I would tell him that taking you to the soiree would be an acceptable way to keep an eye on you, and whatever you were doing.”

  Taking you to the soiree sounded like a date. I wondered if he meant that. A flush spread over me, hot and needy. “Um . . . yeah. Okay.”

  After another long pause, during which I heard pages turning and computer keys clacking, he said, “Clan Rousseau is having an event tonight in the Old Nunnery in the Warehouse District.”

  “Tonight?” I squeaked, lifting a snarl of my hair and getting a good look at my unshaven legs. “After a hurricane?”

  “The Warehouse District is quite upscale and power has been restored there.”

  “I . . . um . . . I have a dress,” I said, thinking of my one little black dress.

  “Clan Rousseau requires formal attire.”

  “More formal than my dress?”

  “Much,” he said dryly. “If Leo approves, I’ll send someone over with a selection.”

  Of dresses? Oh, crap. “I look good in black.”

  His voice heated. “Yes, you do. I’ll call after sunset.” The line went dead.

  I closed the cell, staring at the floor. “Okay,” I said, not sure exactly what had happened.

  “Well, well, well,” Molly drawled. I looked up from contemplating the floor to see her leaning against the doorjamb. “Big Cat has a daa-aate,” she sang out. Smugly she said, “And Big Cat might get lucky.”

  I dropped back into the covers and banged my head on a pillow repeatedly as Molly laughed at me. I remembered my body’s reactions to the sight of Bruiser’s butt, and the tattoos of my beasts on Rick’s shoulder. I hadn’t kept track of the phases of the moon. If tonight was a full moon, Beast’s and Molly’s hope that I’d get lucky was more probable than I wanted to imagine. During the full moon, Beast was more in control than usual. And Beast hadn’t mated in a long, long time. For that matter, neither had I.

  CHAPTER 6

  I’d rather be shot, stabbed, or chewed on

  I grabbed the laptop, stalked to the master bath, and shut the door. Lighting candles so I could see in the dark room, I sat on the toilet seat, thinking. What had I gotten myself into? Crap. Online, I searched calendar sites for one that listed the phases of the moon. The full moon was two days away. Relief poured through me. I was safe.

  Mate, Beast demanded.

  “No,” I said. “Not Bruiser.”

  Beast sent a rush of sexual energy through my brain and suddenly I had a mental image of Rick, naked, spread out on a bed like dessert. There were claw scars across his chest, pale against his golden skin, and his tattoos almost glowed—a mountain lion and a bobcat on one shoulder and big bloody cat claws on the other. “Not him, either,” I muttered.

  Thanks to the natural gas, I had a long hot shower, during which I washed my hair and did all the fun things a girl did before a formal party . . . and a date. . . . I followed it with a long cold shower, during which I argued with Beast about my sex life. The conversation ended in a draw, and when I left the bathroom, the walls still steamy because the exhaust fan didn’t work, I looked more presentable, nails polished, legs and pits shaved, skin all slathered with good-smelling cream, and brows plucked. As soon as I shifted again, I’d lose all the results of the effort, so I didn’t get gussied up often. But it felt really good when I did. As I primped, the smell of slow-cooking steak wafted in under the door, making my stomach rumble with hunger.

  I braided my hip-length black hair and left it hanging down my back, wet and still dripping. Throwing on jeans and a tee, I made my way through the house. The sound of a man’s laughter stopped me in the entry. Bruiser? No. Rick LaFleur. And Angelina.

  Molly, murmuring baby talk, was upstairs and I wondered why she had left Rick with Angie. Then I smelled dirty diaper, and I knew exactly what had happened.

  Moving with the silence of my kind, I stopped outside the open kitchen doorway. Rick was turned to the side, so he couldn’t see me, and I paused, studying him. Rick hadn’t been to the house since he was mauled. Though pale, he looked good sitting in the kitchen, holding one of Angelina’s dolls as she leaned against the arm of his chair.

  “And I have a redheaded Martha, and a blond Rachael who wears a long dress like a princess, and two brown-headed dolls, Sally and Mary, but Ka Nvsita is m
y favorite biscause Aunt Jane gived her to me, and biscause she gots black hair like Aunt Jane and is a Indian.”

  “She kinda looks like your aunt Jane too,” Rick said.

  “Nuh-uh. The real Aunt Jane is Chur’kee and her skin is browner, but she has scars and yellow eyes, and Ka Nvsita doesn’t. I’m gonna ask Santa Claus for another Chur’kee doll this winter, except that Santa Claus isn’t real. Did you know that?” she whispered, looking from the doll to the cop. “It’s a secret. I know lots of secrets.”

  “Like what?” Rick asked, his gaze focusing down on the little girl.

  “Like names and stuff. And how to make oatmeal. And how to start the war—”

  “Just like a cop to ask personal questions of a child, grilling her away from her parent, and doing it while sounding all innocent,” I said.

  Rick looked up, caught in the act and not even trying to look ashamed. “Oops,” he said, not sounding at all contrite. His eyes traveled at a slow, leisurely pace from my feet to my gold nugget necklace dangling over my shirt, to my face. “But no need to be envious. I’d like to hear your secrets too. All of them.”

  I wasn’t completely certain that it was a sexual come-on; it could have been just a cop crack, but combined with the look, I had a feeling it was more. Fresh meat, Beast thought at me. I laughed at her comment and Rick thought I was laughing at his. Angie smiled at us grown-ups, laughing for no reason she could see, and trotted out of the room.

  “Why are you here, Rick?” I crossed my arms and leaned against the door frame.

  “No power at my house. No TV. The batteries in my iPod are dead. No lights. No electricity for the stove. I knew you had gas for cooking. So I brought an early dinner.” He smiled slowly, showing very white teeth. “Steak that was going bad in my fridge. With fresh greens from the farmer’s market, and flowers”—he pointed to the bunch of daisies and sunflowers in a milk pitcher—“and double-baked potatoes I picked up at Mario’s.” He pointed at a foam cooler near the fridge. “Molly already seasoned and wrapped the steaks in foil and tucked them in the oven with your . . . beef jerky.” The last two words were said with a clear distaste. Seemed Rick didn’t care much for jerky.

  “Cozy,” I said, hiding a grin.

  “Nice toes,” he said back.

  I looked down and tapped my toes on the floor in a riffling motion. The nails were painted bloodred with gold flecks in the polish. My fingernails were painted with clear, and filed short. My stomach rumbled with hunger. Looked as though we had company for dinner.

  “I also thought we might pick a day to work on our bikes,” he said. “Yours sounded a bit rough last time I heard it.”

  “You ride a Kow-bike. I ride a Harley. Different tools—metric versus standard.”

  “Sometimes different tools make for a lot of fun.”

  Okay. Definitely sexual innuendo that time. I grinned at him and shook my head. For a gal who had been out of circulation for a few years, I was getting a lot of attention. Too bad they were cop, blood-servant, and angry vamp. I’d be lucky to survive. “Better make it later in the week. I got to get all girlied up for a party tonight. I’m guessing that grease under my pretty nails would clash with my dress.”

  “Party?”

  “Yeah. Down in the Warehouse District at the Old Nunnery?” I made it a question, because I didn’t know where the Warehouse District was or what the Nunnery was, but neither sounded like someplace I should dress up for. “Given by Clan Rousseau.”

  Rick’s brows went up a fraction. “Oh yeah?” At my nod, he said, “You need a date? Or maybe backup?”

  “I have an escort,” I said, “but thanks.”

  “Okay. Keep my cell number handy. If you need backup, call. And if you don’t need me for backup, call anyway. I’d love to debrief you on that.”

  “I’m not interested in being debriefed. But I might be persuaded to share some things.”

  Just then Angie pattered back in and climbed straight up into Rick’s lap. “Uncle Ricky, what’s debeefing?”

  “Angie Baby,” Rick said, adopting one of Angelina’s nicknames. I wondered when he had heard us use it. “A debriefing is when nosy cops ask nosy questions about things most people think they got no business knowing.”

  Angie dropped her hands and looked at me. “Like Uncle Ricky asking me about you?”

  I looked at Rick, who had the grace to give me an embarrassed half grin and a small shrug. A lock of black hair fell over his brow, vaguely Elvis-like. My heart did a little pitter-patter. The man was too good looking for my own good.

  “Yes, Angie, like that,” I said. I handed Angelina her doll, took her up in my arms, and carried her to the stairs. “Scoot upstairs. Help your mama with Little Evan. I need to talk to Ricky-Bo.”

  “Okay, Aunt Jane.”

  Angelina’s feet tapped up the stairs. When she was out of earshot, I turned to Rick. Sweetly, I said, “If you chat up my godchild again without either her mother or me present, I’ll hurt you.”

  Amused, Rick sat back and spread one arm out over the back of the chair beside him in an expansive posture. “You threatening a cop?” Black eyes glinting, his other hand unconsciously curled in to touch his chest, tracing the scars that had to be there.

  I let my smile go, not hiding under the pretense of geniality. “Yep. I dropped you in one move the last time you needed a lesson. Angie is off-limits and you know it. That was low.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was. I took advantage of a situation that fell into my lap, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  I wasn’t expecting an apology. My estimation of the man went up a notch. Men who had the capacity to apologize—and who knew the right words with which to do it—were few and far between. I’m not a whiz at social situations, and an apology wasn’t something I was emotionally prepared to deal with. “Okay,” I said, sounding far less gracious than he. Voices and the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs were about to put a stop to our conversation, thankfully.

  Rick glanced at the empty doorway. “So, who’s your escort tonight?” he asked quickly.

  “George Dumas.”

  Rick’s eyes went wide just as Molly and the kids entered the room, effectively ending the chat. But I could see the sharpened interest in his gaze and I knew the subject would come up again. Soon. Rick was professionally interested in George. And I had to wonder why.

  The rest of the day went by fast and I found myself enjoying it, even knowing that Rick was hanging around to see what would happen when my “date” arrived. The temps heated up in the un-air-conditioned house, the world all muggy and sweaty, despite the windows Molly threw open. The smell of slow-cooked beef built and poured out into the steamy day. The four of us played kiddie board games and Go Fish with Angie until she fell asleep, exhausted from the heat, and then we played Hearts until our supper of slow-cooked steaks and double-stuffed potatoes.

  The lights went on and off a dozen times as city utility workers tried to get the system back up and running, but before dusk they went off. And stayed off. Again. We made do with candles and lamps, but were running low on supplies. If the electricity didn’t come on and stay that way, I’d have to motor around soon for lamp oil and more candles if such could be found. Five minutes after the sun set behind the cloud bank left over from Ada, my cell rang. The number in the display was Bruiser’s.

  Rick watched as I took the call on the side porch. He’d been chatting happily to Molly about eighties bands, but now he had an ear half-cocked my way, trying to listen in.

  Speaking softly, I said, “What’s up, Bruiser?”

  “Yellowrock. A woman will be there with a gown in half an hour. I’ll pick you up at ten. Be ready. Be unarmed.”

  “You’re such a charmer.”

  “You, on the other hand, are a bloody, sodding pain in the ass,” he said equably. I often forgot that Bruiser wasn’t American by birth, and then his accent would peek out, he’d use a term or phrase that sounded s
o very British, and I’d remember. The call clicked off and I chuckled as I returned to the kitchen.

  I looked at Rick. “This is going to get seriously girlie. Maybe you should take a hike.”

  “I have sisters, and they always need a man’s perspective when it comes to formals. You gals tend to get all froufrou, with ruffles and flowers and lace and stuff, instead of calves and cleavage—the important parts. I’ll stay.”

  He said the last two words in such a way that I thought it might take monumental rudeness or a lot more muscles than I was supposed to have to cart him bodily from the house. I shrugged. “Suit yourself. But ruffles? Do I look like a ruffles kinda gal?”

  Rick just grinned. I spent the time cleaning up the dirty kitchen and washing dishes. Rick picked up a drying towel and put things back where they had been, which told me something about the cop or raised new questions—either he was observant, with total recall, or he had been in my kitchen before.

  The woman with the dress showed up in a panel van thirty-two minutes after Bruiser’s call, knocked once, imperiously, and when I opened the door, strode into the house as if she were here to take over my life.

  “Madame Melisende,” she said, as if the name was vastly important, popped a card into my hand, and looked over the ground floor of the house. “This will do,” she said of the living room. To Molly, she said, “You. Bring lamps.” And strode back into the night, leaving behind the scent of numerous vamps. Which was weird.

  Molly looked at me, grinned with some secret amusement, and went to gather and light more hurricane lamps. Rick tossed the damp dishtowel over his shoulder, sat back in a wing chair, and crossed his legs as if for a great entertainment. His expression just missed being teasing, which set my hackles up. Rick and Molly seemed to have an idea what was about to happen.

  When Madame Melisende came back in, she was trailed by a little human assistant with a clipboard, glasses, and stringy hair. Mousey would have been the simplest description of the assistant, but Madame Melisende herself defied simple words. I looked at the card she had given me, which assured me that she was Madame Melisende, Modiste du les Mithrans. She was mostly human, about five feet tall, white-haired, and steely-eyed. She looked seventy, had to be at least a hundred, had the energy of a twenty-year-old, and carried that smell of multiple vamps, like a blood-junkie. Which brought out all my curious instincts, though I couldn’t think of a way to ask why she smelled as she did. Humans can’t smell vamps, or at least not the way I can.