Blood Trade (Jane Yellowrock #6)

Blood Trade (Jane Yellowrock #6) Page 4

His voice took on a more demanding tone. “You will not speak to me in such a manner, my Enforcer. I require you to remain in New Orleans.” The MOC wasn’t used to people saying no to him.

“Hmmm,” I said. While I decided how difficult I was going to be, I checked the straps on the gear. Nice and secure. And I was feeling difficult, so I decided to go with that flow. “Yes, I will, and no, I won’t. The safe room at Katie’s is finished. The safe room in your new clan home is standing in the middle of the construction like a vault. You have more than sufficient security twenty-four/seven at vamp HQ, plenty of privacy, and no problems securing ample blood supply. You do not need me, and I got nothing to do here until it’s time to install the security in your new house, and that won’t be for another month. I’ll give Big H your regards.”

“You will not,” he hissed. I hit the END button, grinning happily. I did so love yanking his chain. I walked through the house one last time and picked up a boot box from my closet, the one that held my paltry jewelry collection and my neck protectors. Locking the house, I added the box to the stuff bungeed to the back of the bike, pushed Bitsa around front, and swung on. The guys were sitting in the oversized SUV, idling in front of the door, waiting. I lifted two fingers to Eli as I motored past and headed for Highway 61and Natchez. The phone buzzed madly in my pocket and I laughed happily as I motored away from Leo.

The roads in Louisiana are on the far side of horrible. They had been constructed with expansion joints, a necessity because of the weather, but somehow when the road surface expanded into the open spaces of the joints, it all rose a little. Riding on Louisiana highways was a constant, unpleasant, thumpty-thump that dulled the mind and wore out the backside, and with the state’s current financial crisis, none of the potholes had been repaired, further adding to my discomfort. It was a miserable trip made worse because I was in a hurry and wanted to get to Natchez as quickly as possible, so I didn’t stop for anything. I didn’t want to talk to Misha Hopkins, I didn’t want to take that trip down memory lane, but all I could think was that Misha had Bobby with her, and Bobby was on my personal list of people to protect. Always had been.

Near two p.m., I pulled up at the mansion where we had stayed last time. Rich people wouldn’t have called it a mansion, of course, maybe a cottage or something, but to me it was huge: three stories; set off the road; the grounds planted with live oaks, magnolias, pecan trees, and azaleas, with an eight-foot brick wall enclosing the large backyard. The house was maybe a little over ten thousand square feet, not counting the servants’ quarters under the eaves on the third floor or the multicar garage out back, with rooms over that. The last time we were here, Eli had originally declared the house difficult to secure, but the walls were two feet thick, the windows were easily shuttered, and four shooters had held off an armed attack, which made it mighty nifty in my opinion.

I pulled Bitsa into the shade and studied the facade. The bullet holes had been repaired and the place looked good. The guys pulled in behind me and, just like last time we were here, I left them to unload while I took the three low steps to the door, which opened before I knocked. The owner stood there wearing a huge smile, a bizarre mixture of colors and fabrics, and her trademark string of pearls wound around her neck and resting across her little rounded belly. Esmee was a skinny, wrinkled woman with shocking red hair and no fashion sense. Today she was wearing purple velour elastic-waist pants and a frilly shrimp-toned blouse with full, pleated sleeves, bright red lipstick that had bled into the creases of her mouth, a stars-and-stripes scarf, and a pair of emerald green ballet slippers with feathers on the instep.

Hands clapping joyfully, she rushed through the door, saying, “You came back.” She held her arms out to me for a hug.

Crap. I’m not a hugger. I don’t like to be squashed up against a stranger. I’m not even real fond of back-slapping handshakes. I took a quick step back, but Esmee was fast for a tiny elderly woman, and she caught me. She was also stronger than expected. Her grasp on my elbow stopped me in my tracks and she wrapped her arms around me, her head stopping about midchest on me. She rocked me back and forth in a fast little shimmy. “My son said you’d never come back, but I’m so glad you did.”

I managed a startled, “Huh?” Son?

She pulled away to look up at me. “I hadn’t had so much fun in years as when you were here last. Not even when Ronald and his charming wife stayed here.”

She was talking about President Reagan and his wife, Nancy. Esmee’s home had been a B and B for years. “Um.” Succinct. That’s me. I added, “We got the place shot up.”

“I know,” she said, as if that was the best thing in the world. “I hadn’t shot my gun in years till that day. Since then, I’ve been target shooting several times, and the sheriff and I even shot some skeet. I beat the pants off that girl. Come in! Come in!”

I looked back over my shoulder to see Eli watching, one corner of his mouth tilted up. I was reasonably sure he was laughing at me as I was pulled inside.

Esmee’s grasp on my hand was like the talons of a hawk as she pulled me through the living room, past the dining room, butler’s pantry, wine closet, and coffee bar. Off to the side were the wet bar, billiards room, music room, TV room, servants’ toilet, powder room for guests, and a coat closet bigger than a small garage. The downstairs was exactly as I remembered it, sans holes in the ancient plaster. The place had copper-coffered twelve-foot ceilings and tricolored wood parquet floors covered with silk rugs. Her family had been rich for centuries and the place was full of antique wood furniture. It was decorated in generations of treasures, stuff you might see on Antiques Roadshow that was worth tens of thousands of dollars. Each.

A maid and the three-star chef lived upstairs, which meant we would have to do no cleaning and someone else would keep lots of food on hand, which always made me happy. Esmee stopped in the small nook off the kitchen, where there was a table and four cozy chairs, probably a breakfast room. A roast piglet—still steaming from the grill—lay on a cast-iron tray on top of a trivet, the kind that whirls around for ease of serving. My mouth started watering as if I hadn’t eaten in days. To the side of the trivet were small bowls of condiments and a loaf of homemade bread with several slices already cut. There was also a bowl of fruit and a tray with cubes of different cheeses, each stuck with a toothpick.

“I asked Jameson to put together a small repast. Now let’s see. You take tea—am I right? Sit, sit.” She pushed me into a chair and I sat. It was that or fall over from her shove. The little woman was wiry and strong. “Jameson?” she called. “We have guests.”

The nearly unflappable man appeared in the doorway, a white apron over his khakis and button-down white shirt, a white linen towel over one arm. In the other was a teapot, the spout steaming. He didn’t look quite as happy as Esmee did to see me, which was not a surprise—the last time I was here he’d ended up under a table during the gun battle—but he didn’t try to scald me with the tea or stab me with the knife beside the piglet, so I was okay with that.

“Good day to you, Miss Yellowrock.” Turning to the side, he said, “And to you, Masters Younger. We have water for the elder Younger and cola for the younger Younger.” Which made me grin, but the brothers had obviously heard it before, because they ignored it.

Esmee pointed to seats and took the one that Jameson pulled out for her. The brothers sat as Jameson poured tea and brought drinks and passed out plates before taking a big, two-pronged sterling silver fork to the piglet and pulling meat off the bones. The smell was heavenly, divine, fabulous—all the words that meant “good.” Beast watched the fork pull on the succulent flesh and thought about catching a wild piglet in the forest.

Esmee said, “So, my dears. Who do we need to kill this time?”

My appetite went into hiatus.

Esmee clasped her hands before her like a little girl waiting on Santa. Jameson’s brows rose so far that they nearly sandwiched into his hairline. The Kid snickered. Eli’s lips twitched and he leaned back in his chair as if watching a show. I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again, and realized I had no idea what to answer.

Eli snorted softly and said, “Miz Esmee, we’re just here to reconnoiter and for Jane to do an interview. The press, you know.”

Jameson gave a small nod of approval, but Esmee’s face fell. “But . . .” She looked woebegone, as if we’d stolen her favorite doll and cut off its head, but then she smiled, showing off dazzling new white teeth. “Once you reconnoiter, then you might have to kill the vampires taking our people. Yes? And I get to help.”

Carefully, Eli said, “If we find something to kill and have time to come get you, we will.”

“What fun!” She clapped her hands, and Jameson looked at her fondly, as if she were a dotty favorite aunt. “But the press was awful to the Reagans when they were here. The media is not allowed on the property. I hope you don’t mind, dear,” she said to me, “but you will simply have to meet with them elsewhere.”

“I don’t mind at all, Miss Esmee. That privacy—and your ability with firearms,” I added quickly, “are the very reasons we wanted to stay here with you.”

“Aren’t you sweet?” She patted my hand and said, “Serve these charming young people, Jameson. They have reconnoitering to do.”

To Eli I mouthed a silent thank-you. His lips quirked up on one side and he gave his attention to a piglet sandwich, heavy on the pork, light on the bread, with a plateful of fruit to the side that might have satisfied a troop of monkeys. Eli ate healthy, while his brother’s sandwich was heavy on the sauce and bread, with an apple slice and three grapes to the side. Mine was more like a plateful of pork with no bread and no fruit at all. I groaned with delight at the burst of roast piglet flavor and said, “I may have to marry you, Jammie.”

“I’d rather be married to a cobra, Miss Jane,” he said gently in what might have been a Boston accent. “No offense.”