Raven Cursed: A Jane Yellowrock Novel (50 page)

Grégoire rose, looking delicate as a child in gold brocade formal wear. He even had gold brocade gloves over his burns and a gold beret to hide his burned hair. “Yes, my master. Lincoln Shaddock, turned by Charles Dufresnee after the Battle of Monocacy, currently sworn to Clan Dufresnee, and with his permission, petitioning the blood-master of the southeastern United States. Rise.”

Lincoln stood, looking grave—my lips twitched at the play on words—and elegant in all black. Beside him were his scions, Dacy in cloth of gold and Constantine in U.S. military dress blues, a lot of lettuce on his chest—awards he’d won in the service of his country. At Shaddock’s side was Amy Lynn Brown, the reason for this parley after sixty years. Their faces were drawn and worried. Worse were the expressions on his blood-servants’ faces. Everyone in the room had some stake in the outcome of the proceedings, and everyone in the room had seen the battle in front of the hotel. Lincoln at the scene, doing nothing. Unmoving as a statue while humans died and Leo and Grégoire and Big Evan and I fought his battles for him. None of that was good, and added in with the general Fubar’ed mess of Evil Evie, things were not looking positive for him. The only thing I could think that might save him, was that Leo himself had been spelled by the witch once, and that might make the chief fanghead cut him some slack.

There had been layers upon layers of reasons for Leo’s decisions and actions relating to this parley. And none of them involved me. My lips turned up slightly, self-mocking.

Adelaide looked at me, the question in her eyes. I tilted my head in a shrug. The debate and discussion had gone on behind closed doors for two nights, as judgment was reached. If someone knew the findings, it certainly wasn’t me.

Hope and dread filled Lincoln’s face, and he was breath
ing occasionally with tension, oddly human on the undead, as Grégoire said, “Lincoln Shaddock is hereby given provisional permission to begin three new clans.” The room exploded in applause and a number of cheers. Dacy closed her eyes and seemed to be saying a prayer. Constantine barked for order and the place quieted. “Said clans are to be headed by his heir, his secundo scion, and one other of his choice. The Mithrans will be taken from among the remaining young rogues in his scion lair, assuming they come out of the devoveo within the guaranteed five years. As the human blood-servant Sarah did not die from the attack, and has been turned successfully, none will be staked or declared rogue.” There were more cheers, cut off quickly, and followed by a brittle, breathless silence.

“The position as Master of the City is to be denied Lincoln Shaddock at this time. In no less than one decade, Leonard Eugène Zacharie Pellissier, turned by, and heir of, Amaury Pellissier, his human uncle and Mithran father, blood-master of the southeastern United States, possessor of all territories and keeper of the hunting license of every Mithran below the Mason-Dixon Line, from the eastern border of Texas at the Sabine River, east to the Atlantic and south to the Gulf, with the exception of Florida and Atlanta, will send another envoy to reconsider Lincoln Shaddock’s blood-master status hopes. Until then, and for the duration, there will be the customary and agreed upon exchange of blood-servants and scions.” Grégoire turned and bowed to Shaddock, then bowed, much lower, to Leo. “This parley is concluded. My thanks to all who provided for us, kept us safe, and so well entertained in the city of Asheville.”

And that was that. I nodded to Adelaide, who clearly wanted to speak to me, but my job took me elsewhere. I busted my tail keeping the idiot vamps and the celebrating blood-servants safe the rest of the night. Drunk and rowdy but safe. No one died. No one got turned. No celebrating vamp met the sun by accident or intent. Everyone ate and drank and partied and I learned that even staid old vamps can act the fool on a dance floor.

I fell into my bed after dawn, knowing that by sundown,
when Leo and Grégoire headed back to Louisiana, I was done.

I slept until sunset, showered, dressed, called the bellhop and the valet, and was ready to check out by nine p.m.—regular checkout time for vamps. And I still didn’t know what I was going to do next, except return Fang, pick up Bitsa, and sleep for a few days. Dressed in jeans, jacket, and a minimum of weapons, I followed my stuff down the elevator and to the front desk. I was standing in the checkout line when I smelled the blood-servant scent, close by, familiar, deadly. The blood-servant was sworn to the same maker as the blood-servant who had attacked me in my suite. The guy I had killed.

Casually, I swiveled on the heel of my well-oiled Lucchese boot, and looked out over the hotel lobby. No one caught my eye. No one stood out. Where was he? Derek and Wrassler exited the elevator and I caught Derek’s eye. I held up a hand as if gesturing hello, but swiveled my index finger, an order to be sharp and look around. Instantly, his demeanor changed, the alert stance of the soldier taking over. Wrassler caught on fast, his gaze finding me; he stopped near the fireplace while Derek swiveled back toward the elevators, ostensibly looking at something on his phone, but one hand having pulled a weapon.

I opened my lips, scenting as I scanned. Finally I saw her, standing near the fireplace. The petite woman must have just entered. I pointed Derek to her and slid out of line, one hand on my Walther at my spine. Wrassler was closest. He smiled and said something to the woman, a really bad pickup line, by the anger in her shoulders. She was tiny, but wiry, and I picked out two bulges on her—a gun at her back and maybe a blade at her hip. The elevator door opened. Leo and Grégoire stepped around the corner, Grégoire’s arms and hands still swathed in bandages from the burning he’d taken. The twins were behind them.

Everything happened fastfastfast.

The girl took a half dozen steps away from Wrassler, pulling a handgun. Derek leaped in front of Leo. I screamed to the twins. Wrassler pulled his gun and jumped at the girl
with a bellow. I raced in, Beast-fast. Draw. Un-safety. No time to aim. Seeing the room as a slow-moving video. Hearing the first shot. From the side. My hand and gun were one unit. Firing. One. Two. Three. Chest shots, midcenter on the girl. Racing in. Seeing Derek fall, blood on his throat. She was still standing. Wearing a Kevlar vest. I squeezed off a single shot, midcenter forehead. Carefully placed.
No collateral damage.
The girl went down.

More shots sounded. The three burst rat-a-tat of a submachine gun. Leo diving. Grégoire diving. Something stinging my arm.

I whirled, seeing the others. Two. Male. Dressed in bellboy uniforms. Each with small, ugly, compact weapons held with professional ease. Firing. The scent of human and vamp blood on the air. No one was behind the bellboys. I emptied my weapon into them, even as one turned toward me. They didn’t go down.
Vests
. They all were wearing bullet-freaking-resistant vests!

I dropped the Walther. Bullets wouldn’t stop them.

Claws. Jane throwing claws.

I dodged hard right. The first blade left my hand. Flashing in the overhead lights. Imbedded itself in the gunman’s throat. I’d aimed lower but I wasn’t complaining.

My second blade hit the second gunman under his left arm. But the kill shot was Wrassler’s two-tap to the forehead. I landed hard. On my wounded arm. And it was over except for the blood and the screaming and the cops.

I directed the emergency medical personnel to the wounded humans, including Derek, who had taken two nonlethal rounds to the flesh of one shoulder and thigh, and two hotel guests, who had been caught in the crossfire. I sent the cops to the twins who answered the legal questions. And I sat, alone, on a hotel sofa, watching it all with a goofy smile on my face. This was my life. Vamps and guns and getting shot at. My life was crap. And I loved it, now that Beast was back. She wasn’t talking yet, beyond her orders in the fight, but I could feel her claws scrape across my mind, hear her breath panting. She was back, fully and completely, even if she was pouting.

Of course, I’d killed more humans. I’d have to deal with
my own responsibility at some point, though these humans had been trying to kill me and the people I was sworn to protect. That helped. Maybe enough to disperse any possible guilt that might later attack. I was getting better at dealing with guilt all the time. But maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. Time would tell.

At some point, the EMTs realized I was bleeding and they treated me, bandaging and haranguing me about needing to be seen at the hospital. A round had grazed the inside of my upper arm, taking a groove of flesh with it on the way past. Ruining my lightweight riding jacket. And my shirt. But not my mood. With Beast back, that was doing great.

Later, I saw Leo and Grégoire into their car and out of the parking lot. And I was done. The job was a success. Except for the lingering question—which blood-master had just declared war on the MOC of New Orleans and the greater Southwestern USA?

Love Jane Yellowrock? Then meet Thorn St. Croix.
Read on for the opening chapter of
Bloodring
,
the first novel in Faith Hunter’s Rogue Mage series.
Available from Roc.

No one thought the apocalypse would be like this. The world didn’t end. And the appearance of seraphs heralded three plagues and a devastating war between the forces of good and evil. Over a hundred years later, the earth has plunged into an ice age, and seraphs and demons fight a never-ending battle while religious strife rages among the surviving humans.

Thorn St. Croix is no ordinary neomage. All the others of her kind, mages who can twist leftover creation energy to their will, were gathered together into Enclaves long ago; and there they live in luxurious confinement, isolated from other humans and exploited for their magic. When her powers nearly drive her insane, she escapes—and now she lives as a fugitive, disguised as a human, channeling her gifts of stone-magery into jewelry making. But when Thaddeus Bartholomew, a dangerously attractive policeman, shows up on her doorstep and accuses her of kidnapping her ex-husband, she retrieves her weapons and risks revealing her identity to find him. And for Thorn, the punishment for revelation is death. . . .

stared into the hills as my mount clomped below me, his massive hooves digging into snow and ice. Above us a fighter jet streaked across the sky, leaving a trail that glowed bright against the fiery sunset. A faint sense of alarm raced across my skin, and I gathered up the reins, tightening my knees against Homer’s sides, pressing my walking stick against the huge horse.

A sonic boom exploded across the peaks, shaking through snow-laden trees. Ice and snow pitched down in heavy sheets and lumps. A dog yelped. The Friesian set his hooves, dropped his head, and kicked. “Stones and blood,” I hissed as I rammed into the saddle horn. The boom echoed like rifle shot. Homer’s back arched. If he bucked, I was a goner.

I concentrated on the bloodstone handle of my walking stick and pulled the horse to me, reins firm as I whispered soothing, seemingly nonsense words no one would interpret as a chant. The bloodstone pulsed as it projected a sense of calm into him, a use of stored power that didn’t affect my own drained resources. The sonic boom came back from the nearby mountains, a ricochet of man-made thunder.

The mule in front of us hee-hawed and kicked out, white rimming his eyes, lips wide, and teeth showing as the boom reverberated through the farther peaks. Down the length of the mule train, other animals reacted as the fear spread, some bucking in a frenzy, throwing packs into drifts, squealing as lead ropes tangled, trumpeting fear.

Homer relaxed his back, sidestepped, and danced like a
young colt before planting his hooves again. He blew out a rib-racking sigh and shook himself, ears twitching as he settled. Deftly, I repositioned the supplies and packs he’d dislodged, rubbing a bruised thigh that had taken a wallop from a twenty-pound pack of stone.

Hoop Marks and his assistant guides swung down from their own mounts and steadied the more fractious stock. All along the short train, the startled horses and mules settled as riders worked to control them. Homer looked on, ears twitching.

Behind me, a big Clydesdale relaxed, shuddering with a ripple of muscle and thick winter coat, his rider following the wave of motion with practiced ease. Audric was a salvage miner, and he knew his horses. I nodded to my old friend, and he tipped his hat to me before repositioning his stock on Clyde’s back.

A final echo rumbled from the mountains. Almost as one, we turned to the peaks above us, listening fearfully for the telltale roar of an avalanche.

Sonic booms were rare in the Appalachians these days, and I wondered what had caused the military overflight. I slid the walking stick into its leather loop. It was useful for balance while taking a stroll in snow, but its real purpose was as a weapon. Its concealed blade was deadly, as was its talisman hilt, hiding in plain sight. However, the bloodstone handle-hilt was now almost drained of power, and when we stopped for the night, I’d have to find a safe, secluded place to draw power for it and for the amulets I carried, or my neomage attributes would begin to display themselves.

I’m a neomage, a witchy-woman. Though contrary rumors persist, claiming mages still roam the world free, I’m the only one of my kind not a prisoner, the only one in the entire world of humans who is unregulated, unlicensed. The only one uncontrolled.

All the others of my race are restricted to Enclaves, protected in enforced captivity. Enclaves are gilded cages, prisons of privilege and power, but cages nonetheless. Neomages are allowed out only with seraph permission, and then we have to wear a sigil of office and bracelets with satellite GPS locator chips in them. We’re followed by the humans,
watched, and sent back fast when our services are no longer needed or when our visas expire. As if we’re contagious. Or dangerous.

Enclave was both prison and haven for mages, keeping us safe from the politically powerful, conservative, religious orthodox humans who hated us, and giving us a place to live as our natures and gifts demanded. It was a great place for a mage-child to grow up, but when my gift blossomed at age fourteen, my mind opened in a unique way. The thoughts of all twelve hundred mages captive in the New Orleans Enclave opened to me at once. I nearly went mad. If I went back, I’d go quietly—or loudly screaming—insane.