Black Arts by Faith Hunter
Jodi’s expression changed subtly. “Let me guess. One of them was the witch, Alis Rogan.”
Missing Persons would have no interest in missing working girls, especially a missing working girl who was also a witch. Which was why I’d brought it to her. “Yeah. The coincidence of Bliss and Molly missing at the same time isn’t lost on me,” I said. “Keep an eye out and call me if you hear anything?”
“Yeah. Ditto on Katie filing missing-persons reports, even though NOPD won’t do much with them.” I nodded. NOPD would bury everything I brought them.
“Before you go. The knives and bullets taken from the Council House?” she said, referring to vamp HQ by its proper name. She handed me a sheet of paper that looked like info copied from an Internet site.
I read aloud, “Datura: a native plant, common in flower gardens. It’s also known as Jimsonweed. This deadly poison is related to nightshade and tomatoes. The toxins in Jimsonweed are tropane belladonna alkaloids, which possess strong”—I stumbled over the next word—“anticholinergic properties.” I finished the article. “This is all about ingestion. Why put it on a blade?”
“Because it can affect people even through skin. Accidental poisoning by gardeners has been reported. And because it’s easy to find and easy to use. Somebody was intending to send you on a psychedelic trip and/or kill you.”
And had gone about it in a weird way, especially considering my skinwalker metabolism. I’d likely have . . . What? Would it have metabolized out fast? Or would it have interfered with my skinwalker shape-changing? Too many people knew about me and what I was. Maybe this was a test as much as a murder attempt? I didn’t know how to feel about it. I folded the paper in half, over and over, until it was small enough to tuck into a pocket. I stood and gathered up the trash, tossing it into the nearby can, and putting the top on the coffee for later.
Jodi said, softer, “Jimsonweed is especially bad for witches. It makes them lose concentration, so they have trouble completing spells.”
“So why would they use it on me?” I asked. I shook my head. “Unless they thought I was a witch. Not.” I’d have to think about this awhile. “Beers when you’re done with the case?” I asked.
Jodi studied me as if evaluating my nonreaction. “Beers and burgers,” she amended.
I nodded and left the woo-woo room, making my way back up from the bowels of the building and back home in the SUV.
CHAPTER 10
Le Petit Chaton Avec Les Griffes
My orders came in the form of a call from Bruiser, which woke me from my nap. I flipped open my cell, shoved my hair back from my face, pulled it around, over my shoulder, and rolled into a sitting position on my bed. “Bruiser.”
Instead of his usually flirty hello, or his pleasant British-style greeting, he simply said, “Bring your weapons tonight. The master wants to spar.”
“Uhhh.”
“Nine p.m.”
“Spar?” I said, incredulous. But I was talking to the silent room. Bruiser had disconnected. I had never sparred with Leo before. Our only physical altercation was when Leo attacked me in the street one night when he was in the grieving process that vamps called the dolore. Basically, vamps just lived too long. Loss of a close loved one who had been with them for hundreds of years could make them lose it mentally, unless they had a Mercy Blade, the magical beings that helped vamps maintain mental and emotional control. At the time I killed his son, Leo didn’t have one, and he had nearly killed me. I closed the cell. “I don’t want to spar with Leo. Stake him, maybe. But not spar,” I said to my room.
I remembered the last time Leo had put his hands on me, and I shivered. He had forced a feeding. It wasn’t the only time I’d been attacked and fed upon by a vamp—most vamp-hunters have been bitten once or twice—I had even been healed from some bad vamp-fighting injuries by way of a vamp bite. But Leo’s bite was the only time the feeding had been done to bind me to a master vamp’s will. I thought about Leo’s apology. And about fighting him. My lips parted slowly and I chuffed. Forgiveness might be a lot easier if I had the MOC under the heel of my boot.
I checked the cell and saw that I had hours before I would have to fight the Master of the City of New Orleans. Time for a long stretch, time to get dressed, and plenty of time to plan. I crawled from bed and started stretching, the smells of something rich, meaty, and spicy coming under my bedroom door.
• • •
After a meal of BBQ ribs and salad, I pulled up the dossier on Jack Shoffru that Jodi had sent me. The file was dense with material: pdfs of scanned, handwritten notes from decades in the past, more recent reports from Interpol and the FBI, and still more recent reports from the Drug Enforcement Agency. The info was well structured, however, evidence of Jodi’s handwork and organizational skills. But the older, handwritten notes were the most interesting. It was historical documentation that Jack Shoffru had been contemporaries with Jean Lafitte, which meant he had been contemporaries with Leo. I sat slowly on my bed, making sure, cross-referencing dates, even downloading the file to my old laptop to see better on the bigger screen than the tablets.
I created a new file titled What-If, and typed in my notes, questions, and worries in bullet points. Mostly I had a lot of conjecture, and not a lot of facts. Okay—none. I had a lot of guesses. But they seemed to hint at a picture, or maybe several pictures, even if there was no mass to the smoke and mirrors at this point. I needed more facts.
Vamps’ lives went on for so long that the past was knotted and woven into the present in layers, sometimes in layers of blood. Like the blood diamond and the vamps and witches who had used it over the centuries. My breath caught. What if Molly’s kidnapper knew about the blood diamond? My what-ifs could be a lot of things and I shouldn’t be getting paranoid.
Too late. I had thought about the diamond and now it had me in its claws.
I checked the time and patted myself down to remove weapons. Even though I was licensed to carry in most of the Southern states, it sometimes wasn’t worth the hassle that could come from carrying them. Where I was going, weapons were a surefire way of getting attention from the po-po.
Weaponless, I grabbed my keys and left the house on Bitsa. There were eight or nine banks in the French Quarter/Central Business District area, and I’d picked the closest one for my banking needs and the safe-deposit boxes I rented. I didn’t think about them much, but . . . I had a fair number of evil toys in my possession. Well, in the bank vault, but it was pretty much the same thing. I parked and walked into the bank just before closing.
Minutes later, I was standing in a private room, no security cameras, no bank attention, and three bank boxes sitting in front of me. It had been a little bit of a hassle getting them to let me open all three boxes, but when I told the teller that she’d have to open them back and forth so I could rearrange my valuables, she gave in.
I lined all the bank boxes in a row and opened the first one. It contained my personal stuff—passport, the paperwork that stood in lieu of a birth certificate, made out in the name of Jane Doe, the papers with my legal name change to Jane Yellowrock. My security business licenses and PI license. I closed that box and pulled the others to me.
In the one on the left I found two lead-lined acrylic boxes, called RadBoxes by the manufacturer, the kind used in hospitals for blood contaminated by radioactive meds. Inside was a clump of reddish iron about the size of the end of my thumb. The iron blob looked unchanged, and I closed the RadBox without touching it. In the other lead-lined box were pocket watches. Everything looked okay, but the black arts artifacts always made me feel slimy and the stink of old dead meat and spoiled blood clung to my fingers for hours after I touched them. This time, I didn’t touch. Who says a cat can’t learn new tricks? I closed up the box and pushed it to the side.
In the second safe-deposit box, there were two RadBoxes, but here things were a bit different. Resting on top of one yellow acrylic box top was the thing that should have been inside. It was a coyote earring
Inside, in a black velvet jewelry bag, was the blood diamond. I opened the drawstring, eased the gem to the lip of the bag, and trapped the blood diamond in the cloth with the tips of my fingers, careful not to let it touch my skin. It looked like a pink diamond or a washed-out, pale ruby, about the size of my thumb from the last knuckle to the thumb tip, and it was faceted all over in large chunky facets. It was on a heavy gold chain, a thick casing holding the gem, the casing shaped of horns and claws. The gem was sparkling and dancing with lights, internal lights, not just reflected lights. I had a feeling that it would glow with its own light in a dark room, though I’d never tested that theory. The gem was beautiful and ugly and quite possibly the most powerful thing I had ever seen in my life—and that counted all the witches I knew put together. The blood diamond had been fed the deaths of hundreds of witch children for centuries, in fatal blood-magic ceremonies that featured human sacrifice. The diamond was an artifact worth killing over. It had belonged to the Damours. Now I had it, hidden away. It was safe, for now, but it occurred to me, staring at the awful thing, that I needed a will. If I died, someone responsible needed to have charge of it.
Yeah. Happy thoughts inspired by the gem of death and destruction.
I closed up the bag, stuck it back in the RadBox, and called the teller to help me put everything away properly. Satisfied that the Icons of the Dark were safe, but not emotionally content with that fact, I rode back home, weaving through rush-hour traffic, which in New Orleans was a whole ’nother kinda awful.
• • •
I left the house again at seven forty, Eli driving. He had insisted on coming with me when I told my assembled pals and houseguests about my evening’s plans. His exact words were “Leo’ll bust your butt. This I hafta see. I’m driving.” My roomies. So supportive.
In the SUV, I adjusted the stakes in my bun to keep from stabbing my scalp when they hit the vehicle roof and didn’t speak until HQ was in sight. “You did a good job on the door and windows.”
“I did a little construction for Uncle Sam.”
“Anything you can talk about?”
“Nope.”
“You keep secrets like a madam,” I said conversationally. “All tease and no share.”
Eli made a sound like choking and I let myself smile, knowing he saw it when he glanced at me from the corner of his eye. He recovered quickly. “Holy sh—crap, woman. But you got that all wrong. I am never a bottom. Totally a dommes.”
“Promises, promises,” I said. He made the spluttering sound again, but I went on. “Okay. You know the vamps will try to take our weapons away when we get to the door. Yours especially,” I added. “Security protocols that I put in place.”
Eli grunted, lowered the SUV window at the gate to vamp HQ, and said to the little camera, “Eli Younger and Jane Yellowrock to see Leo Pellissier.” The gate opened and the window rose. “Despite you not wearing a leather bikini, cuffs, and a dog collar, this is gonna be fun,” Eli murmured.
I just grinned. “Someday I’ll tell you about the mud wrestling.” This time he swallowed down the choking sound.
We parked in the front of HQ, the only vehicle parked there tonight, and walked together up the stairs. Just as we reached the top, Eli asked, “So, what does sparring mean to a vamp?”
“No idea,” I said sourly. “But I don’t think I’ll enjoy it.”
Eli huffed a laugh as the air lock doors opened. “Sure you will. Just let your eyes do that weird gold glow. You fight better when that happens.”
Deep inside, Beast chuffed and flicked her ears. Fun, she thought at me.
“Besides, I have an idea or two that might help.”
“No backstabbing. And I mean literal backstabbing,” I said. Eli just looked thoughtful.
Four security types met us inside the air lock, two pairs of twins, all male, all with military-length haircuts, and all dressed in black pants and white shirts. “Ms. Yellowrock, Mr. Younger,” one said. “Your weapons, please.”
“You can have the guns, but the stakes and knives stay with us,” I said. “I’ve been invited to spar with Leo and have a feeling I’ll need my claws. Blades,” I corrected quickly.
“One moment,” one said. He murmured into his mouthpiece, listened, and then looked at me. “Mr. Dumas says that will be acceptable, but he insists that you each be accompanied by two security. You’ll have to wait while backup arrives.”
“Fine by me,” I said. Four security for two guests? Someone was taking my suggestions to extremes. However, Eli and I together could probably take down an entire squad, so maybe not. I unbuckled my holsters and started placing my handguns in the black lacquered trays. Beside me, Eli did the same, but with far greater reluctance. Eli liked his weapons. “All of them, Eli,” I said. “Next we get frisked.”
Eli shook his head at that and said to the security, “Get fresh and die.”
The security guy who had been doing the talking said, “Former SEAL here. I’ll wipe the floor with you, army boy.”
Eli grinned, showing his teeth. “You can try.”
“Men,” I muttered. And not in a nice way.
• • •
We were led through vamp headquarters until we reached the elevator. I had never been entirely comfortable with the elevator, knowing that it went to parts of the building that were inaccessible by stairs. Which seemed unsafe in case of fire, unless the vamps had escape tunnels. Which they did. But I hadn’t been shown where they all were either. I figured I’d have to become Leo’s Enforcer for real for that to happen, and I wasn’t that interested. All six of us crowded into the cramped area, the smell of blood and humans and steroids filling the airless space as the doors swished closed. Some humans were using gym candy. I wondered briefly what effect anabolic steroids had on vamps who drank the blood of servants who were using, then let the thought flutter away. I had more important things to worry about. The leader twin swiped his card and the elevator moved.
We were let out on a floor I didn’t recognize, though I did recognize the same make and model of security cameras that Bruiser, Eli, and I had installed on all the other floors. Too much to ask that I’d get paid for the design down here too. Dang vamps.
The hallway was carpeted. We passed what looked like storage rooms and locker rooms, one for men and one for women. We passed a lounge with couches and a small kitchen, smelling of old pizza and tacos.
The reek of vamp and blood and aggression swirled on the air currents, pushed by the ventilation system. Beast peered out through my eyes and purred, Fun. A small smile pulled on my lips, and her delight peered through my eyes. A sideways glance by one guard let me know that my eyes were glowing gold. Beast sent a shot of adrenaline through me. Fun, she thought again. Like finding new territory filled with big prey.
Down, girl, I thought at her.
The guard opened a door and the stink of sweat and blood and testosterone whiffed out at me. The room we entered was sized for a basketball court, one with various lines on it that allowed it to become tennis, multiple wrestling rings, and areas for martial arts mats to be placed. Tonight the martial arts pads were down. I had halfway been hoping Leo had something else in mind when he said spar, like verbal sparring, where my snark ability would come in handy. No such luck.
All along the white-painted concrete walls, there was also stadium seating, styled with padded benches with metal backs. They were full. On the center mat, two vamps were sparring, their movements so fast I could barely follow. Beast leaned into the forefront of my brain and studied the speed and flexibility of the two. It was like watching a dance, a dance with a loud drum solo sound track—sla
“We don’t have a hot tub hidden away at the house somewhere, do we?” Eli murmured. I sighed, knowing the question was rhetorical. “I have a feeling you’re gonna be one bruised babe tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” I mean really. What else could I say?
The match ended with a quick feint-punch-block move that sent one opponent flying off the mat and into the wall with a crack that I could feel through the floor and that left a bloody smear on the white-painted concrete blocks.
“That hadda hurt,” Eli said. His tone was far too jovial and I slanted my eyes at him to see a huge happy grin in place. Before I could respond, a loud clap sounded and my attention was pulled to the center of the court.
Leo stood in the very middle of the padded center mat, dressed in loose black gi pants in a style I’d never seen before, with flaps that folded over the sides and ties that were stuck inside the waistband. His feet were bare, toes gripping the mat, his chest was bare, and his arms were out to the sides. He turned in a slow circle so the assembled could see him clearly. His skin was pale olive white after centuries out of the sun, his ribs standing out starkly. Scars showed evidence of piercings and slashes, and over his left ribs, beneath his arm, a huge scar traced the flesh like a spider’s web, as if his ribs had been caved in by a massive mallet or a grenade or—
I felt Eli tense beside me. “That killed him,” he murmured. His hand reached up as if to touch his collarbone and the scar there. He stopped and let his hand drop slowly. Leo had been a warrior for all of his life, fighting sorties, night battles, attacking out of the darkness, a demon from hell, a soldier’s worst nightmare. And he had the scars to prove it. How bad did a wound have to be to leave a scar on a vamp?