Blood Trade (Jane Yellowrock #6)

Blood Trade (Jane Yellowrock #6) Page 46

“You got shot.”

I went still, shock sizzling through me. Eli pushed a tray to me that held a universal gun-cleaning kit, and, with nothing else to do after that announcement, I began to disarm, setting my weapons on the table, mags out, chambers open, barrels pointing at an exterior wall and away from people. Like Eli, I kept one close at hand and ready to fire. More than one gunman had been caught with his pants down and all his weapons broken down, and had ended up dead because of it.

“I got shot?” I said. The M4 required no tools to break it down, and I started fieldstripping the weapon by muscle memory and habit.

“With a dart,” Bobby said. “It made you trip over your own feet and fall asleep. And some men came and got you and carried you away.”

“Hmmm,” I said. Deep inside, Beast crouched and hissed, showing her canines, which was strange. I remembered a few things from the big-cat’s memories and I said casually, “Did they put her in a cage? The lion in your dream?”

Eli looked up at that and focused on me, but I was watching my hands while studying Bobby with my peripheral vision. He was upset.

“Yes. And they took your blood,” he said. “And then it got nighttime, and you turned into Jane and you opened the cage and ran away. But you were . . . you were naked.” Bobby was red-faced and watching my hands on the weapons.

“It’s okay, Bobby,” I said gently. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

He looked up and then back down. “We aren’t supposed to look at porn. It’s bad.”

“It wasn’t porn, Bobby. It was just a dream. We can’t control our dreams.”

Bobby shrugged, lifting one shoulder, his eyes still on my hands on the weapon. I pulled back the bolt and unscrewed the nut at the top of the barrel on the Benelli, letting my old friend get over the embarrassment. My hands were sure, and the stink of lube formula was strong in the room that usually smelled of bread and bacon and roast. I began to relax at the familiar activity of weapon care and yawned hugely, which made Bobby smile and relax too. “You used to yawn like that at school,” he said, “and then you’d growl, low in your throat. Mostly to make people stop picking on me.” He looked at Eli. “Jane was my protector. There was this big group of bullies and they were mean all the time when the housemothers and counselors weren’t looking. But then Jane saw them being mean one day and she beat them up.”

Eli’s brows went up. “All of them?”

Bobby nodded, his face lit with some emotion I couldn’t name, but might have been perilously close to hero worship. “All of them at once. And after that, whenever she saw them, she’d yawn and show her teeth and growl and it was so cool. They didn’t bother me anymore after that.”

I pursed my lips and concentrated on my shotgun. The M4 was good for twenty-five thousand rounds of continuous firing, so it didn’t usually need much in the way of maintenance. This time, there was some blood and brain blowback from the spidey vamp who had died while trying to suck the weapon. From the kitchen came the smell of strong coffee—espresso, the way Eli liked it.

I remembered the gang Bobby was talking about, the loosely organized pack that roamed the grounds of Bethel Nondenominational Christian Children’s Home and . . . My hands stilled. Loosely organized.

Vamps were never loosely organized. They were kept in line by blood sharing and bindings and physical and emotional trauma, and that organization always included the heir and spare. I thought back to the meeting of the clans at the warehouse in Under the Hill. “Eli? Did we ever meet Lotus? The MOC’s heir?”

The Ranger was watching me. “Not that I recall. Why?”

“We should have met Lotus.” I tried to remember all the faces I’d seen. According to her original dossier, provided by Reach, Lotus was Asian and slight, with long black hair. She should have been introduced to me by now. “She wasn’t at the reception when we first got here. I vaguely remember Big H’s sons, the Daffodil and the Life.”

“Narkis and Zoltar, respectively,” Eli said, amusement lurking in his eyes as he reassembled a second handgun, the sounds ringing through the silent house. “Though I’ll pay money if you’ll call them that to their faces.” He reached into the kit and removed a small screwdriver, replacing it with another at the same time. He was neatness personified.

I was betting money that Sylvia was a slob, which would have made me grin had my brain not been otherwise occupied. “Lotus wasn’t in Big H’s lair when we gave out the doses of antibody, either,” I said. “So we haven’t met her.” I pulled out my phone and scrolled down to Big H’s primo blood-servant and hit CALL. When he answered, I said, “Where’s Lotus?”

The man didn’t answer. I racked my brain and came up with the primo’s name. “Clark? Where. Is. Lotus?”

“She has been . . . excommunicated,” he said slowly. “That is all I may say.”

“When was the last time Big H drank from his sons?”

“Four days,” he said. “Why—” He stopped quickly. “Narkis and Zoltar have not betrayed their father.”

And if he drank from them, he would know. Drinking from a scion or a blood-bonded servant involved a sort of mind reading. I knew that from personal experience. Francis had said the ones closest to Big H had turned on him. Zoltar and Narkis were not the ones closest to Big H. I had assumed, and Francis had let me. I hung up, spun out of my chair, and pounded up the stairs, feeling Bobby’s eyes on me as I ran. Behind me, I heard him say, “She can run fast, huh?”

Eli grunted. Mr. Conversationalist.

I brought down the papers and the electronic tablet the Kid had given me, both filled with research into the vampire family trees in Natchez, sat at the table, and ran through the list of authorized kills in Natchez. Lotus wasn’t there. I wasn’t supposed to kill her. So where was she?

I scrolled through the tablet to Lotus’ personal info and history, as compiled by Reach, the Kid, and Bodat. Under Lotus’ known acquaintances I found Esther McTavish. And Silandre. I sat back with a satisfied smile. Lotus’ name wasn’t on Hieronymus’ kill list, yet she was involved with all this craziness. Either Big H was in love with her or he didn’t know how far she had gone to the dark side. So unless she attacked me or a human or I could prove she had drained and killed a human, I couldn’t kill her, though she was, maybe, now in charge of the Naturaleza in Natchez.

Like usual, vamp problems and troubles went back decades, sometimes centuries, and untangling the skein of old injury, torment, and conflict was impossible. After a time, old pain became like a living being, with breath and self-determination.

“First we finish the guns,” I said. “Then we nap. Then we go back to Silandre’s Saloon. Tell your brother to concentrate on relationships between all the vamp females.”

Eli shrugged. Bobby smiled happily, his joy like a beacon of contentment in the room, satisfied because I was satisfied. I had forgotten how his inner happiness could radiate and fill up an empty space. Or an empty, lonely heart.

CHAPTER 19

I Look Like a Well-Dressed

Street Person

I woke when Charly climbed on the bed with me. “Not now, Charly,” I mumbled.

“It’s Sunday. We have to go to church.”

“Not today, Charly,” I mumbled again. I touched my lips. They felt numb.

“Yes. Today.”

The covers were yanked off my shoulders and down to my waist. Chilled winter air followed it, covering me, and I was glad I had put on a T-shirt and leggings to sleep in. “No.” Blindly, I shoved to push her away, hitting only air while simultaneously grabbing for the covers. And hitting only air again. Cold air. “We’ll go to church another day.”

“Yes,” Bobby said. He grabbed my flailing hand and pulled it. Colder, smaller fingers took my other hand and yanked. Insistent.

“Noooo.” I was head and shoulders off the bed when I finally opened my eyes. “I don’t want to go to church.” It sounded whiny even to my own ears. “I want to sleep.”

“And Charly needs to pray.” Bobby said.

“I have to pray for my mama and I have to pray to God to make me well. Mama made me promise.”

Which went straight through to my heart like a silver-tipped stake and woke me up. “Crap,” I mumbled. I wrenched my hands free and braced myself on the mattress, shoving my hair out of the way. “I didn’t bring a dress. All I have are my fighting clothes.”

“Miss Esmee has a skirt you can use,” Bobby said. “She said it’s purple. And you can wear a T-shirt. Like you did in Bethel.”

Bethel. The children’s home. He’d used the Bethel card. I blew out a breath. I knew when I was beaten. “Okay. Get dressed. I’ll find a church.” The kids left, and I groaned out of bed and to my feet. I braided my hair in the bathroom and smeared on a bit of red lipstick.

Out of curiosity, I peeked into Bruiser’s room; it was empty and—by the lack of fresh scent—had been for some time. The chores for his master were time consuming, even though the relationship had undergone a fundamental change. I closed the door and looked over my meager clothing. “Black, black, and more black,” I said, putting on a bra and black tee and green Lucchese boots over the leggings. I’d look stupid. But Charly needed to pray. And maybe I did too.

Still, I packed a nine mil in its box, loaded, safety on and no round in the chamber. Locked the box. Carrying it, I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Black hair, amber eyes, copper skin, black circles under my eyes to match the black tee, the black leggings. The only colors were in my irises and the green snakeskin boots. Which clashed. And I didn’t have a Bible. I hadn’t brought it. I couldn’t remember the last time I hadn’t brought a Bible out of town. I was going to church, and I packed a gun. How sick was that? I was so going to hell, and not for my sex life or the vamps I killed. But for the slow wandering away from God, from prayer, from any kind of spirituality. I hadn’t even remembered it was Sunday. Yeah. Hell.