Blood Trade (Jane Yellowrock #6)

Blood Trade (Jane Yellowrock #6) Page 50

“Soul, can you do another magical scan for Misha? Or maybe a scan for a full witch circle?”

“I have tried questing,” she said softly, “and found nothing because of the interference. All I could detect was the massive magical energies in Natchez and Under the Hill.”

“Okay. Bobby and I are going for a ride,” I told them.

“You think he can dowse for you while he’s awake?” Eli asked.

“Only one way to find out.”

“I’ll come along.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Soul, will you look after Charly?”

“Certainly.”

“The rest of you eat, hydrate, and gear up like you’re going to war.”

Rick and Bruiser looked each other over and didn’t move. Rick’s glower heated up, his eyes starting to glow that weird shade they did when his cat was scratching on his spirit. He was looking at Bruiser when he growled, “Why?”

I wanted to say, Because I said so, but that might not be effective on my crew. “Because things might get hairy.”

“Are you going to tell us your plans?” Soul asked.

“Sure. Right now, I’m trying to narrow down the locations where Misha might be prisoner. As soon as we get back, we’re going to rattle some cages until a pretty flower falls out.”

“Lotus,” Soul said, sounding pleased.

“Bingo. And I’m not picky how we get our info, begging PsyLED’s pardon,” I added. I stood and checked my pocket watches. Each was in a separate pocket, so they couldn’t touch. Just in case.

The sun was setting, a red blaze on the western horizon, amazing from where Bobby and I stood dead center of Under the Hill. The Mississippi was a mighty, roiling monster, currents twisting and diving, carrying debris beneath the surface to reappear farther on. The river air was heavy with moisture and chilled with winter.

Two barges moved upstream and one down, all heavily laden. The long call of the barges sounded and were answered, like the mating calls of water birds. A riverboat casino docked near shore advertised in neon, a startling purple scene of palm trees and three round circles above them that looked like something on a slot-machine screen or gambling chips, or maybe three full moons.

As we watched, the river changed color, tinted bloody by the falling sun. Behind us, to the east, clouds still massed on the horizon, as thick and roiling as the river, blackened by the coming night. The first stars of night were out, brilliant in the icy air. A police car rolled by, its engine noise muted by the wet night.

High on the hill behind us, the night lights of the city of Natchez burned bright. On the streets around us, a few tourists were wandering, taking in the sights—not nearly as many as usual, thanks to the deaths that were making the news. Eli was patrolling the streets and yards, unseen somewhere nearby.

It was the first night of January’s full moon—the full moon known by many American Indian tribes as the Full Wolf Moon. The silvered orb was still below the horizon, but soon it would rise slowly behind a final thin layer of clouds, like a virgin bride dressed in lace veils.

Which was pure poetic crap. It was an icy ball of rock trapped by the gravity of the Earth. I knew that. But every ancient culture on Earth had revered the moon, had planted by its cycle, married and buried by its cycle, traveled by it, harvested by it, sailed by it. Animals mated by it, especially cats of all kinds. And Beast thought it was beautiful. For that matter, so did I. Just not poetic. No way.

It was . . . useful. Yeah. To ancient peoples. And to Beast when she hunted antlered bucks in harvest time, and skinny, cold deer of any gender in snow time. Useful. That was the moon.

Beside me, Bobby laughed, the sound familiar and comforting somehow. He put his cold hand into mine and I clasped it. Without looking away from the sunset, I said, “You should have brought gloves.”

“But I need to feel the watch. Bare skin is best for that,” he said, sounding like the grown man he was, sounding sure and certain and in control. This was a new Bobby, not the child of my youth, despite the remembered, childlike laughter.

“Are you sure of this?” I asked for the umpteenth time.

“No. But trying is the only way. And Misha is dying.”

I blinked back tears at the misery in his voice. Misha was his family. Misha had taken him in when his own family failed him or died out. Would I have done the same? I wanted to think that I would have taken Bobby in, but I had to doubt it.

“You always doubt yourself,” Bobby said.

I started. “You a mind reader now too?” I asked harshly.

Bobby shook his head, and I saw it in my peripheral vision. “No. But your magics change color when you don’t believe in yourself. They go all green and muddy, like the river down there.”

I held in my sigh. I had forgotten how much Bobby saw of the physical world when he was a child. It had translated into the metaphysical world as an adult. He’d grown into his magic in a totally natural, perfectly fitting way.

I managed a smile. “So I’m muddy?”

“Kinda muddy,” he agreed, nodding, not hiding his smile.

As he spoke, the last red sliver of the sun vanished below the horizon. The far shoreline was lit by Vidalia, Louisiana. Here on the Natchez side of Under the Hill, the lights were fewer and glowed less brightly, the moon witches in Under the Hill having made certain to leave off porch lights, to work by candlelight while inside, hurrying to gather supplies until the moon was ready to rise. Then the witches would be outside, in gardens and yards, in copses between trees in the woods, in well-marked circles, absorbing the moon’s power, working their craft.

“The moon will be up in ten minutes or so,” I said. I took his elbow and pulled Bobby off the sidewalk onto a patch of grass at the curb.

Bobby breathed out and let go of my hand. He closed his eyes and dropped back his head, as if he were falling asleep on his feet. But his hands rose, fingers splayed, as if searching in the darkness, waiting for a gift to be placed in them. “Magic is everywhere here,” he said, his tone a thing of wonder and delight. “So much magic.”

He threw out his arm in a slow, broad sweep, to include all of Under the Hill. “There’s small circles everywhere tonight. I never felt so many witches before.” He pointed upstream. “There’s a small coven there, all from the same family. Misha would say it was nicely balanced.”

I tilted my head, studying him. That was an odd thing to say. For a human.

But . . . not for a witch.

Misha? I sucked in a breath, grabbing a puzzle piece that might not fit anywhere. It might not belong in the image I had been constructing at all. Or it might be the one missing piece. Misha was a witch? The evidence said no. I remembered the smell of the three in the closed hotel room the day I got to town. Human—all of them smelled human—and I had a sense of smell Beast-acute. Even Bobby smelled human. Bobby, who had magic and shouldn’t smell human.

This was crazy. Misha had never smelled witchy, not ever. But witches don’t come into their power until they hit puberty. I had no idea how old Misha had been when she became a woman grown, as the old saying went.

But . . . Charly’s illness—witch children were prone to childhood illnesses and cancers.

Charly was wearing an adult-styled pearl ring that was too big for her finger. Misha had worn a pearl necklace that first meeting. Had the scent of magic been spelled away? Was their jewelry spelled to shield them from discovery?

Softly, I asked, “What kind of witch is Misha?”

Bobby laughed, the sort of laugh he might have had had he been born differently. “Mish thought you would figure it out. Charly wanted to tell you right away, but Misha said to wait. She never let us tell anyone, to protect Charly. She said her being a witch didn’t matter because she had the spell to hide what she was.”

“The spells are in the pearls?”

“Anti-witch-detection spells,” he said with a quiet laugh.

So much for my sense of smell. “But then she came here to write the book,” I said.

“But it still didn’t matter,” he said, “because she wasn’t going to see witches. She was going to see vampires.” He dropped his hands and lifted his head, surprise on his face when he looked up at me. “Are you mad, Jane?”

I had never been good at hiding things from Bobby Bates, and he could read my reaction on my face. As honestly as I could, I said, “No. I’m not mad.” But Misha had been wrong about her being a witch not mattering, because any vampire would have known Misha was witchy the instant the vamp bit her, and no Naturaleza would have turned down a free meal. Misha had gone for a story and research and to find a vamp willing to donate some blood to her daughter. And now she was most likely part of the witch circle I was looking for, being used for God knew what.

But Bobby had no way of knowing that, and I wasn’t going to tell him. The poor decision and the possible catastrophic results weren’t his fault. It was Misha’s for making the decision, and maybe a little bit my fault for not figuring it out already. I was too dependent on my nose, and maybe always had been.

“Moon’s up,” Bobby said, holding out his hand. An instant later, I felt it too, and the magic in Under the Hill increased dramatically as witches everywhere settled into circles, bathed in moon power.

I pulled the pocket watch from my pocket, and Bobby stepped back fast. “That is ugly and it stinks, Jane.”

I turned it over. It was just a cheap pocket watch, base metal with a flying duck in bas-relief on its cover. As far as I knew, no human had noticed the spell smell. “Ugly how?”

“Bloody magics, like rotten meat. Like dead things dug out of the ground.”

Which was an apt description for a vamp, in many ways. “Do you still want to do this?”

Bobby scowled and jerked his left hand at me, demanding.

The plan was to test the waters by letting Bobby hold one pocket-watch amulet and see if he could pinpoint the witch circle that powered it. Then, if nothing happened, we’d try it with two pocket watches, then with three. Of course, there was no safe way to test my method, but I had been holding the watches and they hadn’t hurt me.