Black Arts (Jane Yellowrock #7)

Black Arts (Jane Yellowrock #7) Page 33

“And”—I closed my eyes, letting the final picture come into focus—“you brought Adrianna back to life after I staked her because you thought she might know things you wanted to know. You kept her alive even though she was a ticking time bomb because she did know things.” I opened my eyes and met Leo’s. “And you let all that happen because you knew there were magical artifacts on these shores and you wanted them.”

Leo sat back in his chair. His power rose in the room, a slow, coiling draft of energy, familiar and spicy, like black pepper on my tongue, this time mixed with blackberries and anise, a strange combination that signaled anger to the hind reaches of my brain. I backed two steps and my knees touched the chair, but I stayed standing.

“The witches are my affair. You are not my adviser, nor my priestess; you are my Enforcer. It is a position of power and honor, which you claimed, and which I allowed even though, like George, you are not one to be bound. Within the confines of that position, you will not work against my policies, my strategy, or my needs. And I will have respect from you, Jane.”

I flinched and sank into the chair. He didn’t know that Beast was bound. From Leo’s viewpoint, everything I’d done, everything that had been done to me, had been a decision on my part or had led from a decision or choice I made. A court of vamp law might suggest that even the involuntary feeding and binding had resulted directly from the moment I had claimed to be Leo’s Enforcer. By claiming the position, I had tacitly agreed to be fed upon and bound. The Mithran version of a forced Vulcan mind meld had been the result. It had been an intimate violation. Not my fault. Not my fault, some small logical part of me stated.

It wasn’t my fault. It also wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t legal in a human court of law. But to a fanghead it was all that and more.

A memory flared through me, my body, flat on my back, held in place by the vampire priestess and Bruiser as Leo bowed over me, fangs extended. The pain as he ripped into me.

Not my fault. Not my fault. But that knowledge was not much help at the moment.

I had been such an idiot, and Leo had used my idiocy to his benefit. Though it might not be my fault, I hadn’t looked before I jumped, flying by the seat of my pants.

Adelaide reached over and took my hand. The contact was a shock, my hands like ice. “She doesn’t know, Leo. She doesn’t understand about the council and the witches.”

Which wasn’t what I was reacting to, but I wasn’t going to share my thoughts. Leo considered me, his eyes narrowed, his face still a thunderstorm. He took a breath he didn’t need and blew it out hard. “That is not a topic to be discussed tonight,” he said to Adelaide. “We have more immediate issues to resolve.”

CHAPTER 12

Do We Call the Police?

Leo went on. “The gather tomorrow night will be for two purposes,” he said, pulling my mind back to the present. “To welcome the applicants from Mexico, and to formally announce to my people the intent of the European Council to visit. The latter is known, of course, but the announcement must be accomplished pro forma. I have also been informed by Raymond Micheika that we are also to receive visitors arriving from Africa. They will be accorded the same respect as the last visitors.”

Though I’d never met the man, I remembered the name. Micheika was a rare African werelion, and was the leader of the International Association of Weres, and the leader of the Party of African Weres—PAW. Surprised, I asked, “Is Kemnebi coming?”

“I was not informed of the identity of the arrivals,” Leo said sourly, “only that three cats were to arrive, along with a grindylow and several servants.”

“So you’ll be housing Mexican vamps and African weres and parading your newest applicants for admission to the NOLA vamps all in one evening.”

Eli chuckled. “That’s a FUBAR waiting to happen.”

“What is a fubar?” Leo asked.

Quesnel, the sommelier, entered through the door before I could reply and started pouring the wine. He held the bottle up high and let it gurgle into the glasses, which I thought was highly entertaining. As Quesnel passed the glasses around, Leo stood, the genial host. “A toast,” he said, lifting a glass. “In honor of my new primo.” He lifted his glass.

And the best part? The MOC was still moving stiffly. I had put a whammy on him. And that part of my night felt really, really good.

• • •

Eli, Wrassler, and I spent the rest of the night going over all the security protocols and implementing the changes to the parking area out back. The Kid called in the middle of the meeting and told us he had nothing new to share. It wasn’t a necessary call from an informational standpoint, but it made me feel better to know that someone, somewhere, was still working on finding Molly, Bliss, and Rachael. We were going in circles trying to find them, and I was getting itchy under my skin just thinking about the passing time. The call kept me from screaming. Or lashing out and beating up someone. Neither would be productive.

We were nearly done when Wrassler got a text on his cell. He held up a hand to stop the discussion and dialed a number. “Tell me everything.”

I didn’t need my enhanced hearing to make out that the person on the other end was hysterical, crying, gasping for breath when she wasn’t screaming. “Sonya’s gone! She’s gone! She went to her rooms to change and she never came back!”

I heard screaming in the background. Running feet. Eli looked at me and placed a hand on the blade at his side. I could almost read his thoughts as the other hand touched his chest. No flak jackets. No Kevlar. But all his toys were close at hand. He made a pointing gesture, I nodded, and he trotted off, to get our weapons and bring the vehicle around.

Over the phone, the woman was back, screaming, “We went to check on her. Her clothes are in a pile on the floor, like she just dropped them. Which she never would! She’s so picky about her things. It’s so anal it drives me— Never mind. That doesn’t matter.” I could almost see the girl waving the unimportant away with a frantic hand. “She’s gone. Vanished.”

“Jocelyn, take a deep breath,” Wrassler said. He sounded calming and soothing. “That’s right. Slow down. Take another breath. Good.” I had no idea who Jocelyn or Sonya was, but Wrassler knew, and from his expression he was deeply concerned. “Now, tell me. Was there a pile of ash or grit, like granules of sand, in or near her clothes?”

Jocelyn was shocked silent, and then we heard her take a shaky breath. “How did you know that?”

Wrassler didn’t answer her question. “Mr. Pellissier’s Enforcer and I will be there in a few minutes. Touch nothing. Do nothing. Understand?”

“Yes.” She sobbed and gulped. “Like on those crime shows. Evidence and all.” Jocelyn sobbed again. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“We don’t know. But you are Sonya’s primo.” Which told me who they were, and left me feeling gut-socked. I had never heard of the two. As the Enforcer and head of security, I should know every vamp and primo in the city. And clearly I didn’t. “Take all the others,” Wrassler said, “and leave the suite. Go to the bar. We’ll be there in five minutes.” He closed the cell. “Come with me,” he said, starting back down the hallway, looking around.

“Eli’s getting his gear,” I said, mind-reading.

Wrassler pulled a mic out of his shirt collar and tapped it active. “Bring my SUV around, one driver, one shooter.” He tapped the mic off and began removing the coms apparatus as he led the way. Without me having to ask, he said, “Sonya is a new scion, released into the world only two weeks ago. If there’s ash or grit, then that makes two killed in just days.”

“Any history on vamps turning to ash?” I asked, remembering that Reach was supposed to be researching that.

“Nothing that Reach has bothered to tell us,” Wrassler rumbled, anger in his tone. He pushed the way out of the back of the building and rushed into the waiting car—a typical vamp-mobile, armored body, heavily tinted windows, and armament in the side panels of the doors. The lead vehicle rumbled off as I hopped into Eli’s SUV and belted in, gearing up as best I could as he tore out the gates after Wrassler.

In minutes, we pulled up in front of a narrow three-story building just off Bourbon Street. There was no sign, no neon, no nothing to identify the place, just three shuttered windows, long and narrow, and a tall wood door bound with rusted metal, a large ornate lock, and a door handle. On the second story above was a wrought-iron balcony with columns shaped like leaves and flowers, and some kind of supporting iron filigree along the roof. Four long, narrow doors and windows, closed and shuttered, lined up with the ones on the ground floor. The third floor was similarly arranged, but the windows and doors were out of sight from the angle on the street as we pulled up, which I knew Eli didn’t like.

“I’ll scout around,” he said, parking and taking off into the shadows.

Much more slowly, Eli’s extra go-bag slung over my shoulder, I followed Wrassler and his shooter, a security guy I knew served Clan Pellissier but couldn’t name. For now he was P. Shooter, which made me smile. P. Shooter wore jeans and a sweater, and had enough guns on him to take out a street gang. I tucked my braid into my T-shirts to dangle down my back, out of the way. Unholstered a nine-mil and readied it for firing.

Wrassler knocked and a tiny access panel in the door opened and shut instantly. Stupid. They needed cameras. All an invader would need to do was stick a gun in the panel when it was opened and fire. The door opened and a well-rounded, buxom woman fell into Wrassler’s arms, breathing as if she’d run a marathon. I could smell her fear-stink sweat.

“Update, Jocelyn,” Wrassler said, edging her inside. P. Shooter and I followed and closed up behind us, looking up the narrow, curving stairway to make sure no one stood at the top. P. Shooter moved into the room, already quartering it.

“They’re all in the bar,” Jocelyn said, “and I had drinks and food brought out.” She shuddered a breath that shook her to her toes—which were bare and painted and adorned with rings and anklets. Pretty feet. Thick, beautiful arms, skin the color of walnut, but soft and oiled to a sheen, large breasts, and no bra. Long flowing clothes—a washed silk salwar chemise in purples. “No one has been in or out of the house—so far as I can tell—since we closed up for the dawn. And I kept everyone out of Sonya’s room.”