Black Arts (Jane Yellowrock #7)

Black Arts (Jane Yellowrock #7) Page 21

I needed to talk to Adrianna. And by talk I meant communication of a kind that made my blood run cold just thinking of it. But no one around me was safe as long as Adrianna ran around free. I wondered if Leo would give me leave to go after her. I need to talk to the MOC. I needed to decide how far I’d go to keep my people safe. I said, “Thanks, Ed. We’ll talk later.”

I closed the phone in its bulletproof case as Wrassler entered, his treads heavy on the wood floors. The door closed behind him and he dropped his burden on the floor beside the woman. The man made a satisfying whomp when he hit. Evan whistled a note and I knew the wards were back up. The big man stood in the foyer, watching us across the rooms; I figured he was trying to control his temper and not accidentally zap the prisoners. “Evan, you got any magical truth-serum-spell-whammies up your sleeve? ’Cause we need some answers from these two, and now.” I rolled the human woman over, faceup. She was muscular, a bodybuilder who also worked on endurance training. Her arms were buff, and her thigh and calf muscles beneath the black skintight running suit were long and lean. She wore her hair short and slicked back with gel, and her eyes were darkly lined in black. She stared up at me with disdain.

Evan stepped closer and looked the woman over as I frisked her again, finding a knife I’d missed before, a thin, narrow-bladed weapon sheathed in a thigh pocket. “Cute,” I said. “I guess it would be corny to say”—I pulled my vamp-killer with its fourteen-inch blade—“this is a knife.” She narrowed her eyes and didn’t laugh. Some people have no sense of humor.

“I got whammies,” Evan said, “but they won’t work on these two.” When I looked my question at him, he bent down and yanked a metal charm off the woman’s neck. The chain broke with a snap and she grunted again. Fear spread over her face, and she looked around, as if startled. Evan said, “Somebody’s been mixing vamp compulsion with magic on them.”

As soon as the chain broke, the smell of old blood hit me, and I realized that the compulsion charm had been activated with blood. I backed away, wrinkling my nose.

“Where am I?” the woman demanded, struggling to rise, her bound hands pushing at the floor. Her body took on the scent of confusion and, beneath it, the smell of fear.

Prey, Beast whispered to me.

“You don’t remember coming to my house with a submachine gun and enough ammo to finish a small war?” I asked.

Her eyes went wide. “Are you nuts?”

“You came to my house! My home!” I shouted. I wanted to hit her with my fist, or with my claws, slashing open her face. But I controlled myself, gulped a breath, and shoved down on my fury, because the woman on the floor in front of me was truly, completely confused. Adrianna had been part of the Damours’ black magic rituals. Seemed she had learned something from them. Maybe picked up a few magical things, like amulets that made humans willing conspirators in crimes. And I didn’t beat someone to a pulp for being brainwashed by magic, no matter how satisfying it might feel while I did it.

I said, “Wrassler, would you be kind enough to drive these two to vamp HQ and see if Edmund Hartley will drink them and their memories. I need proof who ordered this.” Because I was going to hurt that person. Badly. Yeah. And every dime I had said it was Adrianna.

“You do know that among Mithrans, such acts are said to be close to Naturaleza methods?” Wrassler asked, his voice neutral and without inflection.

I thought about Edmund’s tone when he said it was his pleasure, and the spike in the center of my soul grew colder. “Noted,” I said shortly.

Wrassler looked into my face and shrugged. “Sure. I’ll ask.” He held out a hand to Eli for more strips, and the two men zip-stripped the humans to within an inch of not breathing before carrying them to the SUV still parked in the middle of the street. I stood at the door and watched as they also loaded the dead vamp. If Leo’s usual rates for killing vamps who acted out and put humans at risk applied to this guy, I’d just made a few thousand bucks. Somehow that fact, and the fact that I had just told a vamp it was okay to abuse a human, didn’t make me very happy. Anger roiled under my skin, building up like steam with no place to go. I wasn’t liking myself much. Not at all. But I also didn’t know what to do different. I didn’t know how to protect the ones I cared about without crossing lines. Lines I might not be able to cross back.

Once Wrassler was gone, Evan leaned against the doorway, one arm up to support and balance him, his head resting back against his palm as he stared up. Almost as if speaking to the painted wood, he said, “You asked if witches were working with the vamps. When we broke the chain on her charm, I heard a voice, whispering, like a spell being worked long-distance.”

“Well, that’s just ducky,” I said.

The big guy nodded as if he agreed with my sarcasm, dropped his arms, squared his shoulders, and walked to the safe room. He opened it with a touch of his hand, and the bookcase swung open to reveal the room beneath the stairs, narrow and tight, the stone-lined walls and wood shelves hung with weapons of all kinds, a bed and emergency supplies along one wall, and a trapdoor in the floor for escape.

He brought his children out of the safe room, the Kid following along. I expected Alex to look upset at having been placed with the children, and then he raised a long-barreled weapon from beside his leg and handed it to his brother. “You need to teach me how to use it,” Alex said simply, his face tight with responsibility and the dawning reality of the world as a dangerous place, a place he wasn’t prepared to survive on the training he had so far. “Something more than ‘Point and shoot.’”

“Noted,” Eli said.

The smaller children were sleeping deeply, a spelled sleep that had kept them silent, out of harm’s way, and safe from playing with the weapons in the room. Evan carried them both up the stairs while Eli and I took care of securing the house, which meant putting weapons and noisemaker alarms at the windows and doors. You don’t always need a fancy electronic security system. Fog can make some systems useless, and if witches are involved, they might have ways to eliminate or decrease even a magical system’s effectiveness. I’d seen it happen—once—to an Everhart-Trueblood ward, a hole blown into it, leaving the edges tangled and frayed.

A pyramid of empty cans was a nifty, low-tech way to be alerted to a B&E.

When Evan came back down, I picked the conversation back up. “You can hear long-distance spells?”

“Sometimes. If the spell is directed at me, if the speaker isn’t in a vault with no outside air flow, and if the working isn’t warded against it, which most practitioners don’t bother to do.” He went to the kitchen and brought back three cans of Coke. We each popped a top and took a swig. “Warding against long-distance listening requires more energy, and not many witches have the ability. Since I’m not officially registered with PsyLED—yet—not everyone knows I’m an air witch.” The weariness in his tone pulled at me. His wife was missing. His children were in danger. Because they were my friends and my extended family, they were my responsibility. And I hadn’t helped much so far.

I looked down at my drink can for a moment. It was my fault that Big Evan was out of the closet in any way. Maybe my fault that Molly was in New Orleans, and therefore her family in harm’s way. Again. “I’m sorry,” I said again, feeling the weight of guilt. I stared at my hand and clenched my fist, remembering the feel of hot blood spurting over my hand as I killed the violently psychotic witch Evangelina, Molly’s sister, the demon-caller. Remembering. Knowing I had no choice. Yet knowing that I’d hurt Molly beyond imagining.

“No help for it,” Evan said, reading my body language. “Once Evie brought her power play public, in front of cameras, it was only a matter of time before someone looked closer at the Everharts and, by extension, me.”

But I knew he was thinking about the children upstairs. The witch gene was X-linked, meaning it passed through the X chromosome. Molly was a witch, Big Evan was a witch. There was a one hundred percent chance that all their daughters would have the X-linked gene and be witches. There was a fifty percent chance that any son, like EJ, would be a witch, making him predisposed to the childhood cancers suffered by almost all witches, cancers that killed almost all males. And there was also a fifty percent chance that any girl child would have the witch gene on both X chromosomes, making her a weapon, dangerous, something to be feared or desired. The Trueblood children had already been in danger, as Everhart children, the descendants of a known witch, a danger made far worse by me when I let others in on Big Evan’s secret. I had done it to save Rick LaFleur, my ex. I had done it with all good intentions. And like most of the things I do when flying by the seat of my pants, my action had unintended consequences.

My anger, my protective instincts, which had seemed to be cooling, flared hot again. “I have to go back to vamp HQ,” I said, “and see what Edmund found out from the humans Wrassler took back. I’ll be home after dawn.”

Eli tossed me a set of keys, which I caught single-handed. “Take the SUV. Weapon up. And don’t surrender them at the door. Be careful.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. But I did as he said, and weaponed up fully, holstering four semiautomatic handguns, my Benelli M4 shotgun loaded for vamp with silver shot—rounds made with sterling fléchettes—two vamp-killers, and twelve stakes in my bun before I left—the new stakes with small buttonlike ends to make them easier to shove through flesh. As I departed the house, I heard Evan singing softly, “B-b-b-b-bad. B-b-b-b-bad to the bone,” George Thorogood’s version, his singer’s voice low and rough and not hiding the anger and fear inside him.

As Evan sang, Eli chuckled, his eyes telling me that I looked good, real good, and that if other people hadn’t been present he would have been ragging me about being a totally kick-ass, hot chick. I just shook my head and closed the door on the lyrics. The sad part? I probably was bad to the bone. As if listening in to my darker thoughts, Beast whispered softly inside my skull, Jane is killer only, a litany she had begun not that long ago, and which, for reasons I didn’t understand, made me feel really awful.