Raven Cursed: A Jane Yellowrock Novel (13 page)

I didn’t move, my breathing steady and slow, listening, eyes slanted open a crack. Afternoon light angled through the window blinds. I’d been asleep for several hours and was now lying on my stomach, hair everywhere, pillow pushed away, hands buried under it, thick comforter bunched at my side, hiding me from the sitting area. And obscuring my view of the intruder.

Two guns were on the nightstand, three feet away. I’d have to push upright, roll, grab, off-safety, aim, and squeeze the trigger. If he was armed, I’d be dead. The knives were on the coffee table several feet away. My weapons might as well be in Europe. And there might be people in the next room. Others in the hallway.
Collateral damage.
All I had was speed, bed linens, and pillows. Not much to use against an attacker. I was naked. Vulnerable. Alone. But then, he didn’t know I was here, what weapons I might be holding, or were at my sides in the sheets. A tiny point in my favor. Or not. His uncertainty might make him kill me first and ask questions later.

Need claws,
Beast thought.
Shift
.

I clenched my hands and relaxed them. Once, and only once, I had brought Beast’s claws to my human hands. But I had no idea how I’d done it, and it didn’t happen now.
Too far away for claws,
I thought back to her. She hissed, but didn’t disagree, so I lay unmoving. Listening. Thinking. Beside the bed was another weapon I could use. It offered no precision, and was more along the lines of brute force, but it might give me time.

My intruder was stealthy, silent except for his breathing. Human blood-servant by his scent. Unfamiliar vamp-taint marked him, but it was old. He hadn’t fed from his master’s blood in days. He wore soft-soled shoes and unscented deodorant, no cologne. He hadn’t seen me yet, hadn’t killed me. I appreciated that in a man. But I smelled gun oil and lubricants. Yeah. He was armed. By the movement of air, I placed him. He was at the couch, looking over my weapons on the coffee table, paying special attention to my Benelli M4 shotgun. It was my baby, and was loaded for vamp with silver. If he tried to take it, I’d tackle him, weapon or no
weapon. He moved to my clothes, which I’d left piled on a chair. I heard the faint movement of cloth and leather as he went through my pockets and inspected my boots. He needed to turn away before I could move. I felt more than saw when he noticed me. Adrenaline poured into the air, the scent sharp and spiky as cactus.
Now or never.
I drew Beast up into me, pulling her strength into my bloodstream.

In one smooth motion I slid my hands down, beneath me. Pushed up and off the bed, whirling. Grabbing the bust of the founding father, its weight and my momentum continuing my spiral. Seeing the man, turning, raising his arm. Faster than human. I released the statue with as much force as I could power through shoulders, arms, fingertips. Grunting softly with the effort. Slung my hair out of the way. Grabbed the Walther PK380. Had it in hand when the bust impacted his body.

His soft
oof
was surprise more than pain. But it was enough to screw up his aim. The suppressor on his weapon made little spats of sound like books dropping. Mine was much louder.

I dove hard toward the foot of the mattress and down. Firing twice more as I fell behind the bed. I hit hard, right elbow taking the impact. Fingers going numb on the gun. Rolling back toward the intruder. Scrambling to my knees. Smelling blood on the air. Not mine. Panting.

The doorjamb shattered, the door blown open by sheer muscle power. The twins were in the room. Their movements blood-servant fast. Weapons drawn. One twin held his weapon in a palm-supported grip. One twin with a handgun in each hand. They rushed the guy. He went down, cursing, writhing on the floor, my rounds making him bleed.

Brandon took my gun and set it on the table. Turned me around, looking for blood, evidence of injury. When he found none, he tossed me a robe. Brian dialed 911. Derek and Wrassler raced in to the room. So did hotel security. It was chaos. And soon after, local cops arrived, to drag me down to the law enforcement center. At least they let me dress first.

“So, you don’t know who the guy is, why he had no ID, why he was in your room, or why he was carrying illegal, with a mounted suppressor. You don’t know anything. This guy just slipped into your room and started shooting at you.”

“Pretty much,” I said. The Chief of Police, Billy Chandler, liked me even less than Grizzard did, but Billy’s dis
like was just on principle, not because I’d gotten one of his men killed. Billy didn’t like anyone carrying concealed in his town, and he didn’t like tall motorcycle mamas with an arsenal and an attitude, guarding troublemaking fangheads in his town. Of course, he’d liked me no more when I’d just killed vamps for a living, and he liked vamps even less than he did me.
Cops
. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em. Which brought Rick to mind. I shoved the memory of his scent down deep inside.

“To carry concealed, blades have to be less than six inches long. North Carolina law,” Billy said. “The shortest one in your possession is twelve inches.”

I almost said, “Penis envy?” but clamped down on my big mouth. I love messing with cops, and one day I was gonna mess with the wrong one. But I was getting smarter. Finally. I couldn’t stop the grin, however, and Billy’s eyes narrowed as if he’d heard the words anyway. “I wasn’t carrying concealed,” I said, sounding reasonable and calm. “The blades were on the table.” Not to say that I didn’t carry them concealed. I did. Often. And if stopped by the cops, I’d use the Vampira Carta as my defense, not that the reasoning would get me very far, but it was all I had.

“And you don’t know who he is?”

“Nope.” He’d asked me that ten times in the last hour. I’d had enough. I waved at the one-way mirror and pointed at my Coke can. “Can I have a refill here? The service in this joint is awful.” I looked at the chief. “No tip, this time, Billy.” Back at the mirror, I yelled, “You guys got all my money. Put some into a machine for me, would you?”

Billy shifted on the hard table. He was sitting on the edge, trying to tower over me, trying to use height to cow me. And though I’d never say so, it was working, sorta. I was six feet tall in my bare feet. In boots I was way taller than most men, and wasn’t used to them looming over me. So I shrank down lower in my seat, slumping, and stuck my feet out the other side. I held the empty can up again, flicking it with a fingernail, making it tink.

After a long, tinking moment, he said, “You’re a pain in the ass, Yellowrock.”

“Ditto, Billy. Why don’t you sit in a chair. The table has to be making your butt numb. Is my lawyer here yet?” The
B-Twins had promised to send one, when the cops dragged me off.

“He’s here.” Billy sounded frustrated. Maybe he needed more fiber in his diet; fewer doughnuts, though he wasn’t overweight, just soft around the middle. “You’re free to go.”

“No, ‘Don’t leave town,’ advice?”

“Far as I’m concerned, you can leave town again and not come back. Things are more peaceful without you around.”

“Only on the surface, Billy Boy. Monsters swim in the deep dark depths.”

He cursed under his breath, and stood as a man entered. I checked the hairline and said, “Brandon.” Then it clicked. “You’re the lawyer you promised me.”

“Graduate of Tulane Law, LLM, in 1946.” He pretended not to see the chief’s double take, and he smelled of the truth. Brandon really was an attorney. “And while I don’t practice in North Carolina, I do have privileges, pro hac vice,” he said, as if that meant something to me. “But to make sure all your ‘I’s are dotted, I brought along a friend.”

A female blood-servant walked in behind him, not someone I knew, but she smelled like Lincoln Shaddock’s blood, expensive perfume, money, and entitlement. She was taller than me, which made me uncomfortable for some reason, blond with perfect makeup and flawless skin, an innate elegance, and she was wearing a tailor-made silk suit. I crossed my arms over my T-shirted chest and nodded from my slouched position. She nodded from her superior one and twinkled blue eyes at Billy. “Thank you, Chief. We appreciate you expediting the release of Miss Yellowrock.” She put out her hand as if she expected him to kiss it.

Billy Chandler blinked and melted even as he sucked in his soft belly and pushed back his shoulders. He took her hand and smiled. “Ms. Mooney, you have always been an asset to this department and this city. Anything we can do, within reason and the law, is always our pleasure. And you pass that along to your mother, you hear? Anything.”

Yeah, like he had a chance with the woman. And what was with the royal “we”? And wait.
Mooney?
Shaddock’s heir was Dacy Mooney. I straightened and looked the blood-servant over.

“Dacy is well aware of local law enforcement’s appreciation for her generosity.”

“That in-unit computer upgrade has made a vast difference to the cop on the street.”

“We have to protect the boys in blue,” she said, twinkling at him, and gently removing her hand from his grip.

“Yada yada,” I said, standing. “It’s nearly dark, I’ve had no sleep to speak of for days, I’ve been invaded, shot at”—
and shot a man,
my heart whispered—“been dragged down to the LEC, and kept without food and water, and I’m ready to get outta here.”

Mooney flashed me a wide smile and gestured to the door. I led the way into the hallway, passing by the lady lawyer. She looked like a million bucks. A Paris Hilton, if Paris had unfeigned self-assurance and molecular-deep class. Her suit was form-fitted, her bag was snakeskin, and her hair was twisted up in a sleek French twist. She smelled great. I disliked her intensely for it. Which made me feel all kinds of guilty, and angry for the guilt. “Miss Yellowrock, it’s an honor to meet you,” she said as I passed.

I swallowed down my retort and the sigh that wanted to follow. In the hallway I turned, tucked my jealousy away into some hidden part of me, and put out my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too.” I managed not to sound grudging, which was unexpected and satisfying.

We shook and she said, “My car is outside. We can speak there.”

I collected and signed for my valuables—except for the gun I’d fired—and meekly followed Mooney outside. Even in the mountains at 2,134 feet elevation, September in the South was sweltering. The muggy heat slapped me like a steamy towel across my exposed flesh. “I know you must be starving,” she said. “Let’s stop for an early dinner so we can talk.” She stepped to a waiting, slightly stretched, black limo, that was, honest to God, a Volkswagen, sparkling in the late afternoon light. I had no idea they even made Volkswagen limos.

Sliding bonelessly into the car, she was as graceful as a swan, and I was all kinds of ungainly clunky as I slid in after her. Brandon closed the door after himself, sat across from
us, and the car pulled into traffic, around the loop, and onto College Street.

Mooney said to the driver, “Take us to Mr. Shaddock’s place, please, Erving.” He lifted two fingers in acknowledgment before the privacy window went up. Shaddock’s only restaurant, so far as I knew, was a barbecue joint, and my estimation of the blood-servant went up a notch. Either she was psychic, had deduced by my slouch and my T-shirt that I was a fast-food, meat-and-potatoes gal, or she had researched me. I was betting on the latter. She added, “Two of your security experts will be joining us for the early meal.” She looked at Brandon. “Your brother and the others can handle security for the sleeping Grégoire?”

“They can,” I answered for him, looking the VW over. The limo rode heavy, as if armored, and it had computer screens and cell phones on chargers in discreet little pouches, champagne and beer in a little glass-fronted fridge, and windows so darkly tinted that a vamp could have taken a ride in the daytime and not been charred. It was clear the limo had been hand-built to order. And best of all, there were holstered guns in the side pockets. Immediately I felt better. I always did around guns, as long as they weren’t pointed at me. “May I?” I indicated one particularly interesting weapon that had a grip a linebacker might have used.

“Help yourself.” Her lips curved into a secretive smile, the kind an adult gives a kid when they get a new toy, and I wanted to say something snarky, but figured it might get me banned from the lovely-looking weapon. I eased it out of the case, which was a heavy-duty plastic mounting, not a holster as I had supposed. The weapon wasn’t something I could casually pick up. I had to lift it from its casing. And when I did, I sighed. It was a S&W, X-frame Model 500.

“Holy Moly,” I whispered. The handgun—small cannon—had an overall length of fifteen inches with an eight and three-eighths inch barrel. The cylinder was almost two inches in diameter and nearly two and a quarter inches long. “Holy Moly,” I repeated. Carefully, I thumbed the cylinder open and spun it to reveal five charge holes, each a half inch in diameter.

“You’ll find them loaded with 50-caliber cartridges—
sterling silver rounds seated in traditional brass,” she said. “Hand-packed vamp-killers.”

Or werewolf killers,
I thought. “This sucker weighs nearly five pounds, fully loaded.”

“And yet you lift it with ease.”

I’d given away something I still wasn’t ready to admit and had no idea how to fix it. I shrugged. “Strong wrists.”

Mooney laughed and crossed her legs. Unlike most women she was wearing hose, and they shushed gently with the motion, drawing Brandon’s eyes to her legs, as she’d clearly intended. Her smile widened and she gave me a look that said, “Aren’t men cute?” Instead of giving that thought voice, she said, “We’ve never been properly introduced. I’m Adelaide Mooney, blood-servant and daughter in life to Dacy, Lincoln Shaddock’s heir.”

I didn’t want to like the woman—she was too . . . perfect. Elegant. Ladylike—but I was starting to. Dang it. “Why is it loaded with silvershot?”

She inclined her head, as if I had done something particularly bright, like a dog with a new trick. Or as if I’d passed a test, something set up to prove I deserved to be in charge of security. Her blue eyes tinted toward a delicate shade of lavender, maybe cornflower blue, and were uncomfortably direct. “Your record is exemplary and your eye for weapons is excellent. You come highly recommended by Leonard Pellissier and by my security researcher, who provided a dossier on you in record time.”