Mercy Blade (Jane Yellowrock #3)

Mercy Blade (Jane Yellowrock #3) Page 54

I kept on searching, knowing that something was here. If I just knew what to look for. Vamps didn’t have conflicts that started today. They had conflicts with roots in the past. Sometimes way in the past. This one started back in the early 1900s, and because I hadn’t figured it out yet, Rick might be dead. When I reached the end, I threw the pile of photos and photocopies onto the bed in disgust.

“Think,” I whispered to myself. The cops had heard that were-cats were in town, parleying with Leo in the two weeks before the official announcement and weres came out of the furry closet. They sent Rick in to investigate. The wolves showed up and Safia somehow heard about them. Rick heard about the wolves from Safia and went to visit them too. So far so good.

After a day off in the mountains with me, he dove right back undercover—but something had changed in his absence. Ricky Bo had known there were problems when he got back to town, but for whatever reason, he couldn’t call in official backup. So he’d taken a girl to breakfast at our favorite restaurant—Safia? The wolf-girl?—hoping I’d dig deeper. And I hadn’t. I’d pouted. Working for Leo had done the rest. I’d ended up in the middle of fighting cats and dogs and left Rick out to dry.

Angry at myself, at Leo Pellissier, and at Rick, I reweaponedup—not that I thought I’d need firepower until night, but, since I’d never been very good at walking softly, it might be smart to carry my big stick everywhere I went. Especially if there was a chance I might not make it back before nightfall. I dressed in my leathers, strapping the M4 to my back with the extended butt stock in place. I wouldn’t be target shooting but the extra stability might be handy. The Benelli was loaded with seven hand-packed, silver fléchette rounds, 76 millimeter shell shot, six in the magazine, one in the chamber.

My braided hair I curled into a fighting queue, leaving nothing to grab during a down-and-dirty fight. I added three sidearms to my weaponry and magazines to my pockets. Lately, when I bought weapons, as many as possible used 9 millimeter ammo and interchangeable magazines. Handy in case a gun jammed. And all guns jammed eventually, no matter how well machined.

I added all my claws to sheaths, my favorite vamp-killer—the hilt hand-carved by Molly’s husband Evan—under my left arm. I caught sight of myself in a mirror, my eyes glowing dark gold, my face pale and set.

A shadow on the wall at my back moved, the reflection of a branch at the window, pushed by the slow breeze outside, something I never noticed. But for an instant, it was a shadow on a cabin wall, moving with purpose. I heard again the slapslapslap of the yunega’s body hitting my mother’s. I felt my father’s blood cooling on my face as I added more stripes, blood promising blood.

It was vengeance never satisfied, the empty place in my soul that justice should have filled was still dark and cold. If the wolves had killed Rick, I’d leave none of them alive. This time, the guilty would pay.

I turned slowly, watching in the mirror as my hands found each weapon, practicing the single-move drawing action, checking that each slid easily out of holster or knife sheath. I stared at the crosses I usually carried, leaving them on the hook in the closet. I wasn’t hunting vamp. I wouldn’t need them. But that wasn’t why I left them there. I left them because I didn’t deserve to wear them. I had never hunted thinking beings before, only insane vamps, mindless killing beasts with no hope of sanity.

Weres . . . Weres had human feelings, thoughts, hopes, and dreams. And it was likely I was going to kill some, deliberately, with malice and intent. Vengeance wasn’t Christian. Vengeance was something darker. Older. Vengeance was blood-sworn. Blood promising blood.

I closed the closet. Dialed Derek Lee. He answered on the first ring. “Legs.”

“If I need backup against wolves this evening, are you and your men available?”

“How much?” He meant how much would I pay him. And Reach had taken all my ready cash and then some.

“Free. Unless I can make Leo pay. The wolves have Rick LaFleur. He’s hurt.”

I heard the disgust like white noise breathing into the phone. “I’m in. I’ll bring anyone else who’ll come.”

I ended the connection and headed out of town, gunning Bitsa. I was going wolf hunting, and the best place to start was the last place they had been—reconnoitering Leo’s clan home at four a.m. Maybe I could pick up a scent there. If nothing else, I could tell Leo that Tyler had been framing Bruiser.

Midway across the river, I fished the cell phone out of my pocket and tossed it over the barrier. Hence the name, throwaway cell, I thought with cold humor. Time to buy a new one.

New Orleans’ infamous traffic was light as I sped toward Leo’s clan home, sweating in the day’s wet heat, trying to breathe in air that was mostly water. Last night’s rain had evaporated into the already steamy atmosphere, and I felt like I was drowning with each breath, as much with worry over Rick as with the high humidity.

I stopped on the west side of the river, at a little roadside stand called Best’s, that advertised on hand-lettered signs, BEST BOUDIN BALLS 4 U, BEST BOUDIN IN LA., BEST C-FOOD, BEST BOILED P-NUTS, and BEST GUMBO. The place looked like it had been glued and nailed together with Katrina storm debris, every board weathered, out of plumb, crooked, split, and warped. But they had actually been nailed over a prefab body to make the business look older than it was. Inside, Best’s was clean and neat, sparkling with white paint, and a nirvana of fried and steamed scents. I bought a bag of boudin balls—boudin being meat, most often pork, special spices, and rice stuffed into pork casings, a kinder word than pork intestines. Boudin was removed from the casings, shaped into baseball-sized servings and fried in pork fat. Heart-attack-style food for humans, comfort food for Beast.I was antsy to get to Leo’s, but hadn’t bothered to eat before leaving the house for church. Fasting or guilt-tripping, not sure which, but I’d used up all my available calories on the wolves at the hotel. I was starting to shake. I ate six balls fast, straddling Bitsa, ignoring the curious and worried small crowd staring at my arsenal, and slurped down a two liter Coke, giving me the basic food groups: fats, protein, and carbs, delivered with a caffeine/sugar kick. I stored the last six Cajun meatballs in Bitsa’s saddlebag, used the little individually wrapped wipe that came in the greasy bag to clean up, and checked the time. It was nearly three. The day was moving much slower than it felt.

I kick-started Bitsa and gunned the bike out of the shell-covered lot, spinning small white shells into a long C-shaped trough as I turned toward Leo’s once again. I had no plan. I was flying by the seat of my pants. The story of my life. All I knew for sure was that I’d park Bitsa downwind of the clan home and proceed in on foot to reconnoiter.

Most likely scenario was that the wolves would be gone, in which case I’d try to figure out which way they’d gone. Middle case scenario, I’d locate sentry wolves—watchdogs—left behind to survey the joint, probably from the distant tree line in wolf form. I’d take one of them. And make him tell me where Rick was. Then I’d call Derek Lee and his marines in to act as enforcers and backup while I freed Rick. Worst case scenario, the wolves would still be there, in which case I’d call Derek Lee and his marines in to act as enforcers and backup while I freed Rick. But that last state of affairs would be a lot more bloody. And a lot more dangerous.

I was two miles from Leo’s, on a deserted stretch of secondary road with hayfields, pine tree forest, and scrub brush overtaking fallow fields to either side, when I caught a glimpse of brake lights in Bitsa’s chrome. A car I had just passed slowed. Started a hard, fast, three-point turn in the middle of the road. I rounded a curve and decreased my speed, watching over my shoulder. When the car didn’t catch up with me, I clutched, increased speed, and finished rounding the curve.

I saw the shapes first, leaping from a pickup truck, spreading out in a semicircle. Some low and horizontal—wolf-shaped. Some taller and vertical—man-shaped. That’s when the smell hit me. Werewolves.

CHAPTER 21

Killing Teeth Tore Through . . . and Took Me by the Throat

I knew several things instantly, putting it all together in overlapping possibilities. There was no scent of Rick on the wolves. I’d been set up. The weres in the hotel had gotten loose and called their buddies. Or there had been an undetected wolf watching when I went in the hotel rooms. I hadn’t sensed a sentry, but there might have been one. Or maybe the helpful clerk had placed a call when I left. However it happened, they’d been watching for me. And I wasn’t getting out of this one without an ass whupping.

It was six to one, two humans, four oversized wolves, and a car full coming back this way for the second wave. The humans were the most deadly, despite the wolves having fangs and claws. The humans had guns; they took cover behind truck doors.I had to get through this bunch. Fast. I aimed Bitsa between two wolf attackers. Pulled the M4 left-handed, clumsy. Needing the right on the accelerator. Thumbed off the safety and braced the butt stock against my forearm. I didn’t need to ready the tactical shotgun for firing. It was built to be ready. I pointed it at the wolf on the left. Estimated he was forty feet away. Gunned the engine. Eating up the distance until I was close enough to fire. “Die, doggie,” I muttered. And squeezed the trigger.

The firing concussion was muted by the riding helmet. The weapon bucked. The hand-packed round hit the wolf in the ribs under his right front leg. The silver fléchettes exploded inside, ripping through and out in a spray of blood and gore. Not a direct hit, but good enough. I pointed the gun at the wolf beside him, much closer now. Braced the barrel on my right arm. Pulled the trigger. The first dogboy was still twisting and falling when his partner took the second round in the neck, dead on his feet. Not hard to do. Not hard to kill. Living with it later would be a bitch, though. Living was always harder than killing. A lot harder.

Threat level down by two. I took my first breath since gunning the engine, tasting burned powder and blood, hot on the air. I took out a wolfman next. Only feet away. Easy shot to the leg, showing beneath a car door. He fell, his mouth open, screaming; his gun spun in the air.