Blood Trade (Jane Yellowrock #6)

Blood Trade (Jane Yellowrock #6) Page 28

The vamp frowned, but I could tell he was going to bargain. That was one thing the older vamps understood—the art of bargaining. They had lived preretail, when humans often traded goods for goods in a marketplace. “One possibility,” he corrected me, “per drink, full meal, Fame Vexatum,” he said.

“All today—three drinks, for three names, within the hour. And if you drink and don’t tell, I’ll treat you like I did de Allyon.”

“To give you the names is to foreswear my allegiance. But the words I say will guide you.”

“And if they don’t?”

Francis seemed to ponder that a moment. “I will give you the possibilities first. Then, if you are satisfied, you will feed me.”

“Done.”

“You have my former mistress, Esther McTavish.” At my lifted brow, he waved that away. “But of course she doesn’t count, due to the pesky circumstance of her unfortunate demise. Charles Scarletti is Esther’s favorite scion.” I must have given something away when he said the name, because Francis gave a chuckle, low and hollow, like something from a Friday the 13th remake. “Yes, Scarletti joined us quickly after we arrived from Atlanta, eager to taste the wonders of the Naturaleza.”

“One.” I made a little give-it-to-me gesture with one hand.

He gave me a sly look. “And then there are the ones closest to Hieronymus’ heart.”

I drew in a slow breath. “Zoltar and Narkis?”

“I am not foresworn,” he reminded.

“Yeah. Whatever,” I whispered. “Big H’s sons. I am so stupid.”

I left the garage, dialing the number Big H had given me for his primo, Clark. When the call was answered, I said, “Jane Yellowrock here. I need three full meals for a hungry vamp prisoner. How quickly can you get them to my base?”

“I take it that you have bargained with food?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“Half an hour. If the vampire hurts one of my master’s blood-servants, I’ll kill him,” Clark said, his tone conversational.

I felt a real smile cross my face. “I’ll hold him down for you.”

Clark laughed, and it was strangely carefree for a guy who had just threatened death on a vamp. “One thing. Is the vampire in question ill with the Sanguine pestis?”

Crap. I’d forgotten that. Drinking from an uninfected human might infect the human. “Yeah. Send me someone who’s had the vamp plague and has gotten better. And thanks for thinking about that.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Yellowrock. All in a day’s work. Shall I send someone to supervise the feeding?”

I thought about what he might mean and said, “To keep the vamp from taking too much or hurting the . . . um . . . donor?”

“Exactly.”

Both, then. “Well, you need to know that silver isn’t going to hurt him and can’t be used as a deterrent.”

“Yes. I understand. But sunlight is still effective. And it’s daylight.”

I chuckled again, squinting up at the sun. “Yes, it is. Sure. Send along a bodyguard or two. And feel free to hurt the little vamp if needed, but don’t burn him to a crisp. He’s essential to my investigation for a while longer.”

“Understood. Half an hour, Miss Yellowrock.”

I hung up without telling him that his master’s sons were plotting against him, and went into the house. I came back out with the dart gun and medical kit, loaded the weapon with a one-dose dart, walked into the garage, and, without asking his permission, shot the vamp. He wasn’t expecting it, and the dart hit him midcenter of his body, just above his navel, where a mass of fading, puckered scars showed. Francis yelped and flung the dart away, cursing. It landed at my feet and I picked it up, turned on my heel and left the garage. Just before I closed the door behind me, I said, “You’re cured. You’re welcome, suckhead.”

Back inside, I was putting away the weapons when my phone rang. I could hear a car and the sound of tires on roadway in the background. I was on speakerphone. “Yeah.”

Eli said, “Two things. One: no way to track Misha’s location from her cell. It’s a dead end. Two: one of our staked vamps was Charles Scarletti,” he said, “his human servant, Wynonna, dead in the crook of his arm.”

“Well, crap. My sources in the Natchez vamp community are dying off faster than I can locate them for a tête-à-tête. According to Francis, Narkis and Zoltar have been plotting against their dad.”

“He did name his boys Narkis and Zoltar.”

“Good point. I’d have shot him too. Okay. I’ll get the Kid to see what he can dig up.” Pun intended. Before Eli could groan, I hung up. Staring at my cell, I considered my next call. I now had names given to me by a caged prisoner, yet I needed more data. I dialed Bruiser.

“Jane,” he said, and my insides twisted. “How are things there with the boyfriend?”

I sighed, but kept the sound away from the phone. How was I supposed to answer that when Bruiser and I had . . . issues? Beast’s wanting-to-fool-around issues, and my the-man-betrayed-me-and-should-die-for-it issues. I decided to ignore it all. “Just ducky. What effect would vamp blood have on a child with acute lymphoblastic leukemia? The worst kind of all.”

“One moment.” I heard clicking and realized he was typing. Looking something up in a database I knew nothing about? I wanted access, but was in no position to ask for it. Dang it.

“The news is neither good nor bad,” he said. “Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it does not. Are you talking about the little girl? Misha’s daughter?”

“And you know about Charly how?”

I could almost hear his smile when he said, “Reach, of course.”

“Humph.” This call was on an official cell, so I figured that Reach was listening in. I said, “Hey, you big-eared rat. Telling tales works both ways.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Bruiser said softly, “Thank you. Jane, if you decide to try to feed the child, I’ll ask a Clan blood-master to attend you. Reach. I suggest that you call me. Now.”

“Thanks, Bruiser.”

I hit END and waited as I walked back out of the house, the cell in hand. The door closed behind me, leaving me standing in the chill air. Seconds later, my official cell rang. “What the hell was that about?” Reach demanded, heat in his voice.

There were lots of reasons why I’d given Reach away, the most important among them that Bruiser would have figured it out soon anyway and asked me why I let it continue. Being on retainer to the MOC meant I had to play politics, protect myself, protect the chief fanghead, and protect his interests. No way was it in Leo’s best interests to have Reach listening in on the calls. And it sure wasn’t in my best interests, not anymore. Now that I had the Kid, it was time to take Reach down a peg or two. I shook my head. “You figure it out, hotshot.” And I hung up.

“You’re just getting all your jollies today. Aren’t you?”

Without turning around, I said, “You do know that sneaking up on a skinwalker is dangerous, right?”

Eli laughed. “I like you. I might be certifiable for it, but I like you.”

It made little sense—except that somehow Eli had become family—but I smiled and ducked my head around to find him leaning against Jameson’s car. He still smelled of charnel-house effluvia. “Yeah. I like you too,” I said.

“So, why are you so jumpy today? Leftover depression working itself out of your system?”

I started to deny having been depressed, but it would have been a waste of time and a lie. “Probably.” I felt better having said it aloud again. And I was jumpy. I frowned. “Want to spar?”

“Been hoping you’d ask. I found a gym over the garage.” He jerked his head at the building and I followed him, our boots loud in the thin winter air. “So,” he said as we climbed a set of outside stairs to the garage’s second floor. “Are we ever going to end up in the sack together?”

I was startled and then amused. “Ewww. It would be like sleeping with my brother.”

Eli burst out laughing, looked back over his shoulder, and teased, “So let’s get it on, baby.”

I shook my head. “Idiot.”

“Bitch.”

“Wrong species.”

We were still laughing when we reached the room over the three-car garage and I stood in the doorway, taking in the gym. “Swuuueeet.” It had everything: free weights, a ballet barre, a total-workout machine that targeted different muscle groups, ski machine, stationary bikes, two treadmills, a hot tub in the corner, a large open space with thick rubberized flooring suitable for yoga or sparring, and a shower and dressing area. I pulled off my boots, tossed them in the corner, and removed my weapons. In the opposite corner, Eli was doing the same, our reflections casting back to us from a wall of mirrors.

“When we last sparred, how much were you holding back?” he asked.

“You walked out of there.” When he looked confused, I added, “I left your joints intact, didn’t break your spine, and didn’t hit you in the xiphoid process, piercing your diaphragm or liver. For starters.”

Eli nodded. “Let’s keep the same rules, then. You hold back. I’ll try to kill you with my bare hands.” I was still laughing when he attacked.

Beast slammed to the surface and spun me to the side, my left hand sweeping into a claw that had to hurt as my nails grazed his ribs through his shirt. He retaliated with a leg sweep and a series of fast punches, all below the belt, followed by a chest strike intended to bruise a breast. Two of the punches and the chest blow landed. I oofed out a pained breath and hit in him square in the jaw, twisting into the motion with all my new, more muscular body weight. A lesser man would have been lights-out. Even Eli might have hit the floor, except that he landed on a weight bench and rolled over it, giving him the seconds needed to shake his head and come back at me.