Mercy Blade (47 page)

Moments later, Derek Lee and his small army of mercenaries braked their panel van. The side panel door slid open and Derek grinned at me from the dark confines. I glanced over their gear and decided they had enough to win the small war I planned. Derek said, “Sit rep.”

The situation report was brief. “Twelve foot chain link fence, only two exits, one on the front and one into the bar. Ten to fifteen werewolves still survive, if my count is right, likely in human form, likely hungover, and likely still asleep, in tents and a small cabin.”

Derek handed me a pad and I sketched the site. “Bounty is ten thousand a head. Literally. PAW wants the heads. Rick LaFleur, an undercover cop, is with them, but may be infected with the were-taint, not thinking like himself. Him, we want alive. No children seen, no pets, no collateral damage permitted.”

“Not good recon, Legs,” Angel’s Tit said.

“If I’d gone in closer, they would have smelled me.”

“There is that,” Vodka Sunrise said. “Noses on wolves gotta be better than bloodhound.”

I wanted to argue that point, but it seemed silly.

Derek handed the sketch to the guys. “Rock and roll, Legs.” The panel slid shut.

Pick a Target. Aim. Shoot.

The Vodka boys parked a mile away and—except for the driver, V. Chi Chi, who was working a compact little device: com equipment, to coordinate the action—the soldiers filtered into the trees. I dropped my helmet into the van with a hollow thud and shook out my braids. Knotted them into a single queue. Pulled on fingerless gloves meant for firing. I was going to be the diversion that let them inside the compound. “Semper fi,” Chi Chi said to me. I chuckled, and the sound came out like a growl. After that he didn’t speak, but he shifted in his seat so he could watch me. Smart man.

At the appointed time, Chi Chi pointed a finger at me. I kick-started the bike and sat, feet on the earth. Revved her a few times, letting her snarl and Beast’s scream merge, pound into my blood stream. The daylight grew crisp, sharp. The smells of the heated earth grew stronger, complex. Chi Chi said, “Go.” And I gunned the engine. Shot forward. Head down, into the wind. I roared toward Booger’s Scoot.

I drew Beast up, harder, stronger into my eyes, into my bloodstream, my reflexes. My heartbeat like war drums in my head. Racing to battle.

Booger’s came into sight, bright in the morning sun. Bikes parked out front and inside the fenced compound. I downshifted in the parking lot and slewed to a sudden, sliding stop. White shells flew, catching the sun. Tumbling in the air. Time slowed, a gelatinous, thick constraint on the rest of the world, shackles I moved through like dark lightning.

I dropped Bitsa. Pulling the M4 and a silvered blade meant for throwing. Strode to the front door. Kicked. It slammed open. Splintered wood flying, hanging in the air, the door banging into the wall. Inside, the chain walls were already being lowered. Humans screamed and raced into corners like rats. I screamed the challenge of the
Puma concolor
.

And smelled Rick’s blood. My eyes tracked the scent to a wolfman sitting at a table, trying to stand. Drawing a huge weapon. A .44 Magnum. I threw the blade. It pinwheeled slowly once. Hit him midchest. Just below the sternum. I pulled the H&K, raised it to the ceiling and fired.

After that everything was a jumble of death and blood as I moved through the bar, emptying the clip. Making my noisy distraction. Outside, in the compound, the sunlight was too bright, too glaring. The Vodka boys were already inside the fence, the wolf hunt and execution being carried out with military precision, methodical, precise, orderly. I had a vision of each of them, almost an overview. Behind cover. Pick a target. Aim. Shoot. Advance to cover. Pick a target. Aim. Shoot. Firing, taking down wolves and wolfmen. Mouth open, I scented for Rick.

I saw Booger fall, trying to shift into wolf. He died trying. Roul fell, his lovely hair flying. I saw Tyler fall, firing his small machine pistol, holes opening across his bare chest. The concussive sounds were deafening.

I followed my nose. Across the mat of sod. To the cabin in the center of the grassy yard.

Derek was at my left side when I reached it. My foot hitting the door so hard it splintered apart, sharp fragments flying. He was inside first, shouting “Clear!”

Rick lay on a cot, bound and gagged. Naked. Bloody. Half dead. And the were-bitch lay beside him, on the floor. Her throat freshly ripped out by three claw marks. I could smell the faint stench of fish beneath the smell of blood and feces. Fishy-smelling bayou water pooled at the bedside, mixing with the blood. The grindy had gotten to her first. The grindy had carried out were-law, first on his mistress, Safia, for biting Rick, and now on Safia’s friend for the same crime. Nonhuman footprints, wet with water and blood, led out through a broken window. I was too shocked to even care. I knelt over Rick, my back to the room as Derek took Magnolia’s head.

I pulled a knife and sliced through Rick’s bonds. Lifted him, his ragged breath hot on my neck. And carried him like a baby out of the cabin.

The van roared through the compound fencing, taking out an entire section of the chain link. One of the boys had cut enough away during my diversion so it wouldn’t be a difficult feat. The van braked to a stop and the side door opened. I climbed inside, Derek with me. He slammed the sliding door. I sat on the floor. Holding Rick. “Go,” I said. The word didn’t sound remotely human.

Derek grunted, “Pellissier clan home.” The van took off just as I smelled gasoline and saw a gout of fire through the windshield. The Vodka boys were burning the place. And I knew the bodies of the wolves would disappear, deep in a swamp somewhere.

We bumped horribly over the ground back into the street. Rick groaned, turned to the side and vomited. He was covered with bite marks, lacerations, cuts, his skin green and yellow and purpled with bruises old and new. And he stank of his own filth and sex and wolf and sickness. He was burning up with fever.

Derek opened a gallon of water and poured it over Rick, his blood and filth washing over me, sloshing to the floor. Somehow I had grabbed a sheet up with Rick, and I pulled it gently from under him and sopped his torso. Derek poured another gallon of water over him, washing him clean, which didn’t seem like a standard battlefield medic task.

As if he knew what I was thinking Derek said, “I called vamp HQ. Asked the black leopard how to treat him. He said get as much blood and saliva off him as possible.” Silent, movements economical, practiced, he tore into packets of medicated bandages and slapped them over the worst of the injuries, the bandages self-sealing. Four went on Rick’s throat. More on his shoulders. And his groin. He rolled Rick over and applied some to his back, taking special care of a deep one over Rick’s left kidney. Derek quickly ran out of the prepared bandages and started improvising. Opened packets of gauze, tape, antibiotic ointment, Cling Wrap, and applied more. I helped turn Rick and move his limbs, hearing Rick’s breath hitch with pain and a wheeze from deep in his lungs.

My breath was hot and tight. My heart thundered in my ears. But as we worked, the Beast and battle chemicals leached out of my system. I touched Rick’s face, his beard uneven and wet beneath my fingertips. His eyes were black, one swollen shut. His jaw was swollen on one side. The tattoos of the mountain lion and bobcat on his shoulder had been shredded as if chewed, and looked like ground meat, yet I could still make out tattooed blood droplets and both sets of big-cat eyes, the amber of the artwork almost seeming to glitter in the bloody mess.

When the worst of the bleeding had been contained, and the worst of the wounds covered, Derek handed me a bottle of water. “Here. See if you can get him to drink.”

I shifted Rick gently and raised his head. His body burned where it touched me, his fever dangerously high. I held the bottle to his lips and dribbled a bit between them. They were chapped and swollen, split and bruised. A tear trailed down my cheek. It hurt to breathe past the ragged pain in my throat.

He swallowed. Again. And lifted a hand to bring the bottle closer. Latched onto it with his mouth and drank, hard and fast. Sucking it dry. Derek replaced it with another. Rick drained that one too and sighed as if it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

He opened his one good eye. Blinked. Focused on me. His face was too beaten for me to read any emotion on it. Until he smiled. “Jane. Jane Yellowrock,” he whispered. “I dreamed of you.” His lips moved into what have been a smile. And he closed his eye.

Beside me, Derek was applying a blood pressure cuff, and checking Rick’s vitals. I gathered Rick close and bent my head to his. “I dreamed of you too,” I whispered into his ear. His smile widened. Only a hint. But I saw it.

Moments later, we pulled to a stop and Derek opened the van door. Rick in my arms, I stepped from the van and carried him up the front steps of the Pellissier clan home. Inside, standing on the mosaic of the Anzu, was Gee. Gee took Rick into his arms and sat down, right there on the floor. Blue magics spilled over Rick, hiding his naked, bruised and broken body in an indigo mist shot through with purplish, pink sparks.

Bruiser took me by the elbow and guided me through the house, silent, our footsteps the only sound, to a white marble bathroom. He removed my weapons, placing them carefully on a marble counter, gold flecks showing in the polished stone. He removed my leathers, undressing me like a baby. Unable to see for the tears that blinded me and dripped onto his head as he unlaced my battle boots, I let him. When I was naked, he pushed me under the steaming shower. And left me there. I cried. And screamed. And roared. And beat the walls with my fists.

I ended up head down over the toilet, retching until I was empty, clean, inside and out.

Two weeks had passed, and I still hadn’t gotten the carnage out of my mind, my memory, my nightmares. I had thought I was used to the stink of slaughter, the screams, the cursing, the eardrum-blowing concussions. The stench of my own fear-sweat. The smell of the dead.

I’d been wrong. Nothing about that morning at Booger’s Scoot had fit in with my past experience. Unlike my usual chase-’em-down-and-stake-’em method of hunting and killing rogue vamps, this had been a slaughter.

There were twelve werewolves in the fenced compound, most in human form. Within five minutes, all were dead. Maybe it had taken only two minutes. I hadn’t checked the time. While the battle went on, it felt like it took forever. And only an instant. From the moment we got into the panel van, time had started breaking and stumbling as it tried to find its way back to normal. I still had nightmares; not of the battle, but of the time in the van, bandaging Rick’s wounds. Holding him. I’d wake, crying, the feel of his fevered skin, his beard, fresh and intense in my memory.

I could have taken him to the hospital, and maybe I should have, but what could a doctor do? Treat his symptoms, not the contagion in his bloodstream. The world would have known he’d been bitten by werewolves. Repeatedly. If he went furry, he’d have been a prize to doctors and scientists. His life would never again have been his own.

So I’d left Rick there, with Gee curled up beside him on the marble floor in the foyer, lying on the mosaic of the Anzu. Derek drove me home, me wearing Bruiser’s sweat pants and hoodie, his scent trying to replace the scent of Rick’s sickness in my nostrils. The Vodka boys brought Bitsa home later that day, cursing about the witchy locks that had burned them while getting her into the van.

My belief that I had been working two cases had been both right and wrong, though I managed to solve both of them. It had all been tied together, with Tyler and Maggie Sweets and the awful event that turned her were at the center, like a pole around which everything else swung.

 

The next morning, I had tried to visit Rick at Leo’s, but he’d refused to see me. He’d sent word by Bruiser to keep away. And I’d left, hating the look of pity in Bruiser’s eyes. Later that week, Bruiser called to tell me that Rick had left. Bruiser called. Not Rick. From him, I’d heard nothing, not a word, not a text, not an e-mail. Not even after the first night of the full moon, last night, which would have forced a shift on him, if he had the contagion. Bruiser told me some of what Rick had endured, things he’d learned from Gee DiMercy, the Mercy Blade, as the Anzu tried to heal him from the were-taint.

Rick went through hell at the hands, fangs, and claws of the wolves. Had suffered things that made him not want to see me. Guilt. Shame. Post-traumatic stress. Pure hell.

So . . .
Crap
. I was leaving.

Maybe it was all girly to leave an entire city and a really profitable job because of one man, but that was my plan. I hadn’t told Bruiser or Leo yet. They thought I was just taking a few weeks off, heading back to the mountains to rest and visit with the Everheart sisters, who were justifiably worried about the changes in Evangelina, who had gone home, and wanted my input. The vamps would figure it out when I didn’t come back. Or when I called Deon to ship my belongings home; they were boxed and ready to go, sitting on the floor of my closet with Maggie’s trunk of belongings that I’d never bothered to open. What was the point? She was dead.

Tyler was dead too. Jodi and NOPD were not happy campers about the carnage at Booger’s Scoot, but there wasn’t much they could do about it until Congress settled whether weres were human, with equal rights under the law, or animals, and under control of local animal control officers. The battle had fueled the contentious legal debate between vamps and the U.S. government, but NOPD’s problem was that no bodies had been found. No one could prove anyone was even dead. Stalemate. For now. No one had seen anything, heard anything, or knew anything. Derek’s men were in the clear.

I hadn’t burned any bridges. Not yet. For now, I was getting outta New Orleans. Away from the kinder and gentler Leo, who seemed to be around too often, his Mercy Blade at one side, his prime blood-servant at the other.