Mercy Blade (Jane Yellowrock #3)

Mercy Blade (Jane Yellowrock #3) Page 52

Light was diffuse in the small church, let in by high windows blocked by overgrown foliage, shrubs that had been left unpruned until they had grown into small trees. The building smelled of paint, dust, mice living in the walls, and the fainter scents of the previous worshippers. The muffled engines of cars going by was the only sound, even the mice were quiet.

Here was one place I could never hide from myself. Not “here in a church.” But here inside, when I stopped and thought about God. I didn’t think he’d be ticked off that I had begun to study my Cherokee heritage, even the more mystical aspects of it, which were a lot more like counseling than about religion. I didn’t think he’d be ticked off that I had let a woman of a different species—a witch—lead me into meditation, despite all that “Suffer not a witch to live” stuff. I didn’t think he’d be ticked off that I killed and ate things when I was Beast, or that I shifted. But the stuff with Bruiser in the shower. And sleeping with Rick. That kind of stuff I figured he’d be ticked off about, despite the fact that the Bible said all sins were equal, lying equal to murder, gossip equal to hating, a healthy roll in the hay equal to drinking one glass of bubbly too many. So it was the cultural part of it all, not the “What God thinks about it” part that was giving me trouble.

Tell that to my brain. Can you ask forgiveness for something you intend to continue to do if you get the chance? Smokers know they’re going to smoke again. Hard drinkers know they’re going to drink again. Did they ask for forgiveness? Was it a waste of breath? Did it amount to lying to God, another sin on top of any sins not being repented for? Something dark and guilty squirmed inside me, like a mass of blind snakes, cold and scaly and hissing softly.

I sat with my head down as the small early service crowd gathered, deliberately projecting a keep-away aura. And kept my eyes down through the service, not singing, not following along in the Scripture reading. Just listening to both the preacher and the silence in my heart. I had issues. I needed to address them. But later. After I solved this dead were-cat case. And found Rick. And decided what to do about Bruiser—who was being spelled by Evangelina. Would a spell have made me more attracted to Bruiser? Had the mad make-out session in the shower been spell-induced? Troubled, I passed the Lord’s supper without partaking when it came around, and slipped out during the last prayer so I didn’t have to talk to anyone.

I changed clothes in the parking lot, pulling the jeans up under the skirt and slipping the skirt off over them. And drove out of the strip mall lot just as the preacher opened the church door, no doubt looking for one of his flock who was clearly troubled.

I pulled up the map app of the hotels where Reach said Rick had been, and followed them to the east side of town. The first place I came to was the right hotel. It looked just like the pics I’d been given, and it smelled like sick, wet dogs. Like a kennel left unattended for weeks. Like dogs. Not cats. Werewolves, not were-cats. I parked and tucked my helmet under my arm, walking around the half-filled, cracked pavement lot, watching for a sentry and checking out the cars and trucks, trying for nonchalance. No new vehicles, nothing green, nothing high dollar. Most had bumper stickers proclaiming the owners supporters of legalized marijuana, promising themselves capable of lead-based self-defense, and advertising various brands of beer, vodka, or tequila. Only half were English, the rest were Spanish. I was really going to have to take a good Spanish class. High school was no help at all anymore.

I rounded the building. In the side lot, I spotted Rick’s Kow-bike. Shock raced up my spine, stinging like fire ants. It was suddenly hard to breathe. The bike looked like it hadn’t been moved in days, leaves and debris on the leather seat. He would never have left the bike here, outside, in last night’s storm. Not if he was alive and uninjured.Adrenaline poured into my bloodstream as I walked around the bike, but any lingering scents had been washed off in the deluge. Parked next to the bike on either side were pickup trucks, a rusty blue one and a rusty red one. And they smelled like werewolves.

Crap.

Trying to still the fury and fear in my bloodstream, trying to look less menacing than I felt, I walked along the row of hotel doors, sniffing. I smelled wolf, strong and fresh, and the scent of Rick, weaker, older. My heart skipped a painful beat. I stepped into the small hotel office, which stank of stale cigarettes, old beer, fresh marijuana, and air freshener strong enough to make me gag. Pulling up a pic of Rick on my cell, and a twenty out of a pocket, I slapped the bill down on the counter and held the cell out to the clerk even before he said hello. “Know this guy? Seen this guy? I’m not here to cause trouble.” Leaving the bill on the counter, I thumbed open my PI license, tossed it beside the twenty, and added, “He’s missing. Cops think he’s dead.”

The guy behind the counter was mid-twenties, stoned, lank-haired, with bloodshot eyes that stared at the money. He licked his lips like Pavlov’s house pet before turning his eyes to the cell. He studied the picture a long moment before putting his fingertips on the bill and meeting my gaze. “I’d get fired if I told you he’d been staying with a girl and some other guys in rooms 114 and 115. So I can’t tell you that.” He picked up the twenty and put it in his pocket. “Sorry. And I can’t tell you the rooms adjoin either.”

I chuckled and said, “Hypothetically speaking, if someone busted in a door, and wanted to pay for it to avoid the cops being called, how much would that cost a girl?”

“Last time the repair bill was two hundred. But the cops got called.”

I dropped two hundreds and a fifty on the counter. “Write me a receipt for a door for two seventy. No one sees it but my accountant and Uncle Sam at tax time.”

The kid thought about it a moment, his brain on slow-mo. He scratched his butt while thinking, and finally nodded. “Make it an even three and you got a deal.”

I added enough bills to make him happy, but kept my hand over them. “For this, you also turn off the security cameras for ten minutes. No one dies, no blood, no cops, no press.”

“I’ll leave it on just in case you get carried away and I have to cover my butt,” he said, still scratching the object of his discourse, “but you can come back and steal it from me.” He pointed at an old-fashioned VCR player under the counter. The kid might be stoned but he was still thinking. He gave me a receipt on a hotel letterhead, which had been photocopied on a machine in desperate need of toner. His signature was illegible and I was guessing it wasn’t his, not that I cared. I’d be turning it over to Leo for reimbursement and to my accountant. A partial lie, another sin to add to my growing burden of them. I dropped an extra twenty on the counter to sweeten the pot. He said, “Business doing nice with you,” and laughed as if he thought it was really funny. Stoner humor had always escaped me.

I walked to Bitsa, took out three handguns and belted two into a special holster at the small of my back. I checked the loads on them all, chambering silver shot rounds. I slid two knives into my waistband. I could have called for backup—either Derek Lee or the cops. I didn’t. Rick’s scent was fading. So I’d check the place out first. I did slide a pair of brass knuckles over my right fingers. I had never used brass knuckles, but right now, they felt good. I probably needed my leathers for protection, but I wasn’t going back home to change.

I took a breath, studying the door locks. Settled my grip on the H&K 9 mil in my left fist, though I was a far better shot with my right. I’d be up close. Aiming wasn’t essential. I’d need the power behind my right hook; I wanted to wound, not kill. I strode up to 114. Drawing up Beast, letting her flood my system. Unleashing just a bit of the fury boiling inside me.

I swiveled around and forward. Weight perfectly balanced with momentum. Lashed out, transferring power through torso, hip, thigh, knee, leg, foot. And kicked the door, my boot hitting just under the lock. The door jamb splintered. The door slammed open. Broke the security chain. Wood slivers and lock parts flew, catching the morning light. The door hit the back wall. The smell of werewolf hit me. I was inside before the two wolves in human form were half awake.

One went down at the foot of his bed with my boot heel imprinted on his jaw. The other one tried for a gun that I slapped away. Punched him in the face. I was pretty sure I broke his jaw and a few teeth. He was out cold, his remaining teeth not aligned right anymore. I looked at my fist. It didn’t even hurt. Dang. Brass knuckles are cool!

Four seconds after I kicked in the door I was in the next room. Pivoted, weapon ready to fire at either door or window if needed. It was empty. It reeked of werewolf bitch, sickness, and sex. A lot of sex. Under that was the taint of Rick’s blood. I broke into a hot sweat, but forced myself to stand and observe, taking everything in, with all my senses. Overlapping impressions bombarded me, visual and olfactory, the taste and texture of the air on my exposed skin.

The room was trashed, as if a pack of rabid dogs had torn it apart, dissecting the furniture into its component pieces, with only the bed still standing, though it was severely wounded. From the stink, the wolf-bitch had routinely bedded down and mated with all of the male weres in the nest of torn sheets and mattress stuffing. And with Rick, a lot.

Wolves mate for life, Beast thought at me. Sick bitch.

I scented old beef blood and saw a bowl filled with water in the corner, a bloody place on the carpet and a scrap of rancid meat against the wall where a were had eaten in wolf form.

The stink of were-bitch had a sickly smell, even to my human nose, as if I could sniff out the virus or bacteria that was making her crazy. It smelled stronger and more virulent than that running in the male werewolves’ veins. The were-cats hadn’t smelled like this. Sabina’s old Roman scholar’s info was starting to smell real likely.

The closet doors were missing. Female clothing hung on several hangers, the rest rumpled on the floor beneath the rod. The bathroom was neater than the rest of the place, maybe because it hadn’t been used much. There were girl toiletries everywhere, spilled, dumped, half empty. The toilet lid was up, and an image of the were-bitch drinking from it made my lips curl with savage humor. A blond wig was half hidden under the counter.