Blood in Her Veins: Nineteen Stories From the World of Jane Yellowrock by Faith Hunter
I pointed the same finger to the witch, and then dropped it when her eyes landed on the finger. It looked accusing instead of attention-getting. I folded all my fingers into loose fists. “I’m Jane Yellowrock, and I have no desire to fight. The vamps call it parley, and it’s as good a word as any. I’m here to parley. Rules of parley include guarantee of safety to all involved and truce for the duration. So power down on the magical crap and let’s chat.”
The Amazon’s eyebrows went up. “Magical crap?”
“Magical stuff. Magical boo stuff. Magical woo-woo stuff. Spells. Workings. Magical thunder and lightning. Call it what you want. You win. Now power down and let’s talk.”
“Leo Pellissier would allow you to dodge a fight?”
“Leo is male and he thinks in terms of war, strategy, and one-upmanship. He also has testicles, which I’ve come to understand means he thinks with them as often as with his upper brain.”
The Amazon’s eyes crinkled, but if it was a smile it never reached her mouth. “You’ve come to parley about balls?”
Auguste, or maybe it was Benoît, laughed, displaying an impressive number of missing teeth. The other brother scratched his butt. Through his clothes, thank God.
I figured laughter, even laughter at my expense, was better than a magical war. “It seems to have worked as a conversational gambit.”
The witch chuckled, dropped her ward and all the aggressive power she had gathered. She plopped onto the recliner nearest the door and motioned to the ogres. “Wait outside, boys. There’s lemonade in the truck.”
“Hard?” one grunted.
“No. Freshly squeezed,” she said. “You can drink the hard stuff on your own time.” The ogres shuffled out and the stink in the house lessened appreciably. “So. Jane Yellowrock. Parley away.”
“First, who the heck are you?”
“I’m sorry.” She inclined her head regally, the gesture somehow increasing the image I had of her with tattooed blue skin and the finger bones of her enemies tied into her hair, maybe also in a necklace around her neck, some warrior goddess leading a tribe into battle. “I’m Solene Landry Gaudet, Oiseau Coven leader, sister to our host, aunt to the hotheaded fool hiding her baby.”
“You don’t talk like him,” I said, nodding to Lucky.
“Turn on dat coonass mojo, I can, if I need to,” she said, then dropped the accent. “But I went away to college and learned to speak in a socially correct way, so far as the rest of the country is concerned. Are we gonna parley or not? Sundown isn’t that far away, and I’m busy.”
I told her everything I knew, had figured out, guessed at, and deduced. It didn’t take long. “What we need here,” I said in conclusion, “is a way to stop the war, repair a marriage, and open lines of communication between the vamps and the witches. And then get you both tied in with the regional councils so dumb stuff like this doesn’t happen again.”
“I’m not giving the corona back to the suckheads,” Solene said. “It isn’t theirs.”
“It came from them,” I said, going for reasonable. “Shauna stole it.”
“This time. The corona is witch magic, old, and half-forgotten. Therefore, originally, it was witches who made it.”
“That’s one possibility. Another is that witch magic itself came from someone or somewhere else and that someone else made it and technically owns it. Or that the magic feels like witch magic but isn’t. Maybe humans made it and witches added the magic later, under contract to a third party. Which would make it belong to that third party. Or maybe it’s like a magic teapot, a spirit captured inside and needing to be set free.”
“Like a genie? Rub my lamp and you get three wishes?” She made a sound of disgust. “Tell you what. That third party shows up, proves it belongs to them, and I’ll give it to them.”
“What kind of proof of ownership is necessary?” I asked “How about if they can unlock the thing’s magic and use it? Would that do?”
Solene narrowed her eyes at me. It was clear that she hadn’t planned on my accepting her suggestion or having a rejoinder to it. I put on my best innocent expression. I’d never been very good at fake innocence, and I didn’t think Solene believed this face, but I kept it in place, hoping for the best. “All I’d need is to see it, take a pic of it with my cell, and we can start searching out its . . . provenance—isn’t that the word?—to get it back to its legal owner, its creator, or at least the person who should be responsible for it.”
“If it belongs to Satan, one of his emissaries, a demon, a Watcher, or any of the dark pantheon, the witches will keep it.”
“As long as the phrase dark pantheon is not construed to include Mithrans or vampires, I’ll agree to that. If the vamps actually own it, it goes to Leo Pellissier.”
“If you can provide appropriate provenance that it belongs to the suckheads, I’ll turn it over to them. I’ll stipulate that I’ll ‘turn it over to the rightful owners.’”
That was too easy. I had a feeling that Solene knew the wreath had never really belonged to the vamps, and that maybe she had knowledge and proof that they had stolen it themselves. But, remembering the corona in the street, hazed by energies and the rain, I had another thought about the crown, one dealing with some of the squiggly lines on the base, the ones shaped like lightning bolts.
Before I could act on it, Solene said, “One other caveat. The suckheads never were able to crack the magics. If we crack the wreath’s magics tonight, all bets are off. If we can use it, it’s ours.” She looked too self-satisfied, as if she knew she’d crack the magics and she had just been playing with me up until now. But realistically, if they cracked the spell on the thing and could use the energies contained in it, there was no way I’d get it back. They’d turn us into fried toads if we tried to take it away.
I scowled but said, “Agreed. When can I see it and take pictures of it?”
“Now. Auguste and Benoît have been guarding it in the truck.” Solene grinned at what she saw on my face. “I’m not dumb enough to leave it anywhere unprotected. The suckheads might be bound by daylight and night, but their blood-slaves and -servants aren’t.”
I stood and motioned the Youngers up too. I saw Eli pocketing something as he stood, and I figured he’d had a weapon ready the whole time. Knowing the elder Younger, he’d have more than one at hand. As if we’d all been pals forever, we made our way out of the tidewater house to the truck, Lucky and his family following at a safe distance. It was one of those real Humvees, the ones that had been used in wars, if I was any judge of such things, because it was still painted in desert camo, was scarred, scratched, dented, beat-up, had a less-than-minimalist interior—two seats and a flat metal bed behind them—and looked like a survivor. It had to sound like a herd of charging rhinos when it ran. And I hadn’t heard anything until the door opened. Solene has a spell that can dampen audio. Now that would be cool to have. Maybe I could bargain for that later on.
The ogres got out of the Humvee and stood to the side as Solene opened the back door, lifted out a battered blue cooler, and set it on the ground. She raised the plastic top and took out the wreath. Up close, I saw pretty much what I’d seen the night before, but in more detail. It was a metal wreath, neither silver nor gold, but a hue that might have been a mixture of both, or maybe white and yellow gold mixed together. It was a dully gleaming metal circlet, carved or incised along the base with markings that could indeed have been decorative or early language, triangles and circles and squares in no particular order. The upper part was carved or shaped in ascending points in what could have been laurel leaves. Some kind of leaf, anyway. There were no stones or other ornamentation. But the haze of magics was much clearer at this distance, even with the sunlight.
I didn’t ask to touch it. I simply pulled out my cell and started taking photos of it, walking around Solene to get the corona from every angle, taking the attention of the group wi
When I was done I said, “Thank you. If I can figure out how to call for a parley, I might like to request another meeting before the coven meets tonight.”
Solene shrugged easily. “Fine. In the main intersection of town, a quarter hour before dusk. After that, the circles will be formed and we won’t come out until dawn or until we figure out the magics in the wreath.”
I nodded and turned to Lucky. “Thank you for your hospitality. Shake a knot in Shauna’s chain so she can fix this thing with Gabe. Your daughter is a spoiled-rotten brat with delusions of what a mature relationship really is. She needs to understand how the different kinds of vamp relationships really work, how vamps feed, and how much blood they need. Gabe needs to be taught how to feed without a sexual component. I’d suggest you and Bobbie, Clermont Doucette, Shauna, and Gabe sit down together and explain the facts of life to them both. And I suggest it be done tonight, as soon after sunset as possible. I’ll send a request to Clermont if you want and facilitate this particular discussion. Text me when you decide. But let me make this clear.” I drew on Beast, lifted my head, and assumed all the power of the Enforcer position. Lucky stepped back at the glow in my eyes, and Solene did a double take. The leader of the BO witches stepped between me and her niece, as if her human flesh was a shield. That simple action made my heart melt with both tenderness and anguish, because no one in my entire childhood memories had stepped between me and possible danger. But a melting heart didn’t stop me.
With the full force of my skinwalker energies pulled up around me, I said, “If I have to get in the middle of a lovers’ spat, I’m not gonna be kind or gentle. I’ll make sure things are fixed one way or another, but the happiness and safety of two stupid kids is not my primary goal. You people will handle this. Understood?” Lucky and Bobbie nodded. I turned my gaze to Solene. “Because as it turns out, relationship issues are the least important part of why I’m in BO. I’m here for the wreath, to find its rightful owner. And I won’t leave without seeing that done. That’s not a threat. It’s a statement of intent.”
Without letting the witch leader reply, I pivoted on one toe and walked to the SUV, giving her my back as if showing her there was no way to harm me. That was a lie, but it wasn’t one I’d admit to, not after such a great parting shot. I climbed into the passenger side and closed my door, hearing two others shut in the same moment, as if we had choreographed it. Eli started the engine and the powerful motor hummed as we rolled sedately out of the drive and down the street. I twisted in my seat and smiled brightly between my partners. “That went well. What did you find out?”
Alex shook his head. “You are one scary woman, Jane Yellowrock.”
“Yup. A big-cat. Which is way scary.”
Eli’s face was totally expressionless, even more so than normal. This was his battle face. “Two things. One. Never step between me and a target. Two. I brought the psy-meter. The wreath redlines.”
Psy-meters had been developed by Uncle Sam and were used to measure paranormal energy. Eli should never have been able to get his hands on one, and I had never asked how he came to possess it, for fear it had “fallen off a truck” somewhere. Eli had sources I didn’t want to know about. Every species and mystic device had a reading, one when at rest and another when actively using magic. Magic itself had a reading. Even I had readings. The wreath redlining when at rest meant one of two things. La corona contained massive power, or it was always in use.
“Okay,” I said, processing that and adding it to the overall picture of the thing. “No stepping between you and a target, not even to allow you a chance to draw a weapon.” I didn’t add, Fortunately she wasn’t a target, and there wasn’t room in the house to step the other way. That would have been an excuse. Eli didn’t accept excuses. There was always another way.
Eli gave me a stare before swiveling his eyes back to the road. He wasn’t happy. Maybe he had heard my silent excuses?
Alex said, “I started a search online, which is still ongoing, for magical implements shaped like a circle or a wreath. I also ran it through Reach’s database. Currently we have forty-seven magical and historical things that are shaped like circles, are made of metal, and are, at present, missing.”
“Keep me in the loop.” I took out my cell, the one with all the pics, and sent them to Alex and Eli for record-keeping. Then I sent three of the best to one of my contacts in PsyLED, the Psychometry Law Enforcement Division of Homeland Security. I figured I’d hear back fast if it was anything. I yawned hugely and said, “Sundown comes quick. I need some shut-eye. Unlike you two, I didn’t sleep last night. Take me back to the B and B.”
Eli sent me a sly expression that fell somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “Sharing a room with Edmund, are you?”
“Yeah. He’s in my closet. Get over it.” Eli slid his eyes back to the road, miffed that I didn’t rise to the bait. But truth be told, I wasn’t happy about the vamp sleeping in my closet, which sounded like the punch line to a very bad joke. Not happy at all.
• • •
I slept for four hours, about normal during an investigation, and Edmund behaved himself, maybe because I kept the blinds slit open and Eli woke me an hour before sunset. Not giving an opponent an opportunity to attack (or try to be snarky or try to seduce me) is the best offense. Being offensive to Edmund Hartley seemed the wisest course of action.
I showered and dressed in jeans, boots, and a T-shirt, and pulled a lightweight jacket on, black summer wool for a touch of formality that said I was taking everything seriously. I wished I had fighting leathers, but until I could afford more, I was out of luck. No way was I asking Leo to pay for them, no matter that some people seemed to think fighting leathers were part of my job expenses and therefore his financial responsibility. Just in case I had trouble, I pulled on a pair of cheap black sneakers—good for traction, easy to replace. Tucked a silver cross into a lead-lined pocket and silver and ash wood stakes into my bun, and strapped on a few weapons before hoofing it downstairs.
We ate a nice supper, nice meaning it was a five-star-type meal: a crisp salad with fresh bread to start; leek, spinach, and cream soup; braised rabbit with wild mushrooms; bacon, fig, and brie tartines; and a lovely white wine. Enough food to stuff a woman watching her weight. Miz Onie served huge quantities for breakfast, but not for supper. There were too many green things and not near enough meat to satisfy a skinwalker with battle—mental and possibly physical as well—ahead. When we left the B and B, all weaponed up and ready to rumble, we made a fast trek to Boudreaux’s Meats and ate a real meal. Barbecue pig, slaw, and French bread. That crazy coonass witch could freaking cook!
The sun was setting as we left the eatery and meat shop, and Lucky clicked off the lights and locked the door behind us. His wife and daughter were waiting in a car at the curb, engine running, for a meet and greet with the Doucettes, and, amazingly enough, they handled it all themselves, without my help. They had even agreed on a location convenient to all, in the blood bar across the street. Maybe the BO citizens were growing up. We’d meet the two families in the bar after the witches got their circle going.
Eli was dressed in Ranger desert camo and weapons. Lots of weapons. Even Alex was tacked up, with tablets in his pockets and my Benelli M4 on its harness up his spine. It looked strange to me for the Kid to be wearing weapons, but it worked. Fully armed, looking like a high-tech, paramilitary gang, we crossed the streets, weaving between an unused grader and a front-end loader. The heavy-duty equipment was beginning to rust—not unusual in the high humidity of Louisiana.
In the square, witches had gathered, standing in a circle. Back from
I checked my cell. No one had gotten back to us about the wreath. The Kid had worked all day and still had nothing from historical archives, museum archives, or law enforcement archives about a missing corona/wreath/breloque. None of the photos he had found were a match for the one in BO. Nada. Nothing.
It was hard to tell for sure, but the sun was nearly gone when the last witch showed up, rushing in on a bicycle, which she dropped in the street, and raced into place, heaving breaths. She managed a gasping “Engine trouble. Bike. Water.” Another witch handed her a bottle of water and she drained it, still gasping.
Solene, who was standing in the center of the circle looking cool and maybe a little bored by the presence of the blood-servants, bent and placed the wreath on the pavement. The waiting humans tensed, every single one. Preparing for something. Three in one group pulled extendable truncheons and snapped them open. I drew the M4 Benelli shotgun from Alex’s back and slapped the barrel into my palm with a resounding smack. “Think twice!” I shouted.
Eli laughed, the scariest sound I’d ever heard him make, and said, “Leo Pellissier’s Enforcer will have no trouble making mincemeat of you untrained coonass idiots.” They shifted, finding my partner in the falling dark. His voice softened now that he had their attention, and I could practically see their bravado melt away. “And I’ll be pissed, because that means I’ll have to clean up the blood and guts.” His voice went conversational, but with an edge, a little crazy-sounding. I liked it. “It’s hard to get blood off asphalt, know what I mean? Of course, brains are the hardest. They’re sticky; they adhere to the tar like sourdough and Elmer’s glue.”