Blood Trade: A Jane Yellowrock Novel (49 page)

“Nearly.”

“Shut up. I’m not done.”

I sat back and shut up.

“You saved my wife. You saved my kids. Admittedly, you put them in danger in the first place, but I know my wife, and she was right in the middle of the trouble anyway. Then you killed one of us who had been caught up in the darkness of demon calling. You saw it and you dealt with it, and I didn’t see it and I did nothing. You saved us all. And I have treated you like shit. And, yeah, I know how you feel about that word, but that’s what I treated you like.”

Evan laughed again, this one through his nose and almost real. “You can talk now.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of self-flagellating hooey.”

“I am— It is not— You are so fuc—”—he paused, fisting his hands—“dang polite, it’s sometimes hard to remember you carry an arsenal and have a posse to do your bidding.” He looked from his fists to me and said, “Stop grinning and go ahead.
Talk
. I’m listening.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Evan glared at me, and I shrugged. “Seriously. Thank you. I love Molly. I love your children. I even love you, though that shocks the heck outta me. And I have missed you all so much. I want back the family we once had, but I know that Molly may never again let me. It makes a huge difference to know that you aren’t sabotaging that in any way.”

“I know it wasn’t sensible to have been so angry at you for everything that happened,” he said. “Evangelina was out of control, so steeped in demon magic and blood magic that the entire Witch Council working together might not have been able to bring her down. You did us all a huge favor taking her on. You put your life on the line.”

I shuddered, remembering the way her flesh gave to the pointed blade. The feel of her blood, hot and thick, as it erupted over my hand. “I would take it back, if I could,” I whispered.

Evan sighed. “I knew all along that my feelings weren’t logical and that I should just
deal
and get over it. I knew that. But . . . there’s stuff you don’t know. About me and my history. And it makes it hard to let people in, close to my family.”

He took a breath that sounded relieved and shaky and determined all at once, which was a lot for most people, but probably not for an air witch like Evan Trueblood. “I’ll let you talk to Angelina. And I won’t say anything when Molly is finally ready to call you. She forgives you, by the way. For killing her sister.”

Joy swept through me at the words. I nodded and wiped away a stray tear that had escaped down my cheek.

“It’s just hard yet. I think she’ll come around soon and— Are you
crying
?”

I nodded, miserable. “I’m not sure, because I’m not good at this stuff, but I think it’s supposed to be happy tears, though that always sounded stupid to me. Why cry when you’re happy. You know?”

Evan said nothing to that, but I could smell his scent change. He was horrified. Which made me laugh and cry at the same time. “Okay. We need to talk business,” I said.

“Good. This was a little touchy-feely for me.” I could hear the relief in his tone.

“Three things. One: I’d like for you to listen to Rick’s spell. He nearly turned on the first night of the full moon. He was hurting and worried that he’d get stuck in his cat form. Can you tweak his spells?” Evan nodded, and I went on. “Two: The vamp in the garage that Soul told you about? It admitted to being present when Bryson Ryder and his family were killed. And though I can’t prove it, I’m betting he was the vamp who talked to Misha, claiming to be Ryder, a primo of a nonexistent vamp clan. He liked playing games with females, and when Misha described the voice, it fit—old, elegant, Southern. If so, then he was the one who gave Misha to Lotus, Silandre, and Esther.”

“So you killed him,” Evan said flatly.

“No. I turned the thing he’d become over to Big H, carapace, tiny little wings, bug-ugly face, and all.”

Evan’s beard curled into a smile. “Losing that much money musta hurt.”

I smiled back. “The MOC paid me part of my fee even though his head was still attached. And it was worth the loss of the rest to keep you magic-using types happy.

“And three: I know you and Molly offered to show your healing spells to Misha for Charly. I know you’re going to work with her as soon as she’s able to travel. But I want you to consider what might happen to your spells if you added a vamp’s blood in.”

Evan went still as a vamp. For a long time he didn’t seem to breathe. Slowly he turned his head to me. “No witch has acquired access to a vampire’s blood in my lifetime. Use of it is nearly mythical.” He studied my face for proof that I was jerking his chain. “There are spells and workings from hundreds of years ago that show the efficacy of vampire blood in healing witches. How are you gonna get Leo to order a scion to donate?”

“Leo owes me one. A boon, sorta.”

“A vampire owes you a boon?”

I was getting pretty good. I had astounded Evan several times today and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. I quoted, “‘In recompense of your debt and in honor of your service, you may choose a gift from among mine. Choose wisely.’ Sounds like a boon to me.”

“Yeah. That is . . . stellar.” Then his face twisted into a frown so dark it looked like a storm was raging inside him. “Let the other shoe drop.”

“Well, there’s just one problem. Somewhere around here is the spike from Calvary, used to make amulets. It was probably the focus for all the power from the circle of witches, and with it, it’s possible to do transformational magic. And Hieronymus, Master of the City of Natchez, wants it for his very own.”

Big Evan groaned. “It just never ends with you. Does it?”

EPILOGUE

Bobby stood straight and tall, his red hair brushed and shining in the noonday sun, his new suit sharp and neat. Misha and Charly stood to his sides, dressed to the nines. Misha still looked drained, pale, and wan, but she was alive and writing and working on her book’s deadline. Charly looked better than I had ever seen her, her hair growing back out and her skin pink and healthy. I knew the impression of good health was only skin deep. She still had leukemia, but the combo of vamp blood, Evan Trueblood’s magic, and chemo seemed to be working, at least for now. I stood at a right angle to the three, wearing my full vamp-fighting gear, at Bobby’s request. He wanted me to look like a vamp killer on his special day.

Eli, wearing full-dress military uniform, stepped slowly, formally, to Bobby, his eyes staring straight ahead, his every movement ceremonial. When he reached Bobby, he stopped, put his feet together, and slowly, so slowly, saluted Bobby. My old friend’s blue eyes followed every motion, every movement, full of wonder.

The Ranger slid a box from the crook of his left arm and opened it. Inside was a Purple Heart. I had argued against Eli giving Bobby his own medal, but Eli had laughed and said, “I won’t miss it. I’ve got two more.” Which was a story for another day. I hoped.

Tears gathered in my eyes as Eli lifted the medal from the box and carefully pinned it over the left side of Bobby’s chest.

Bobby’s eyes swelled with pride. He stood straight and tall, his eyes never leaving Eli’s. The Ranger stepped back and saluted Bobby again. Bobby raised his hand and touched the medal, and then sought me out. “I’m a hero too now, Jane.”

“Yes, Bobby Bates. You really are. You always have been.”

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. . . .

I 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.

In the woods around us, shadows lengthened and darkened. Mule handlers looked around, jittery. I sent out a quick mind-skim. There were no supernats present, no demons, no mages, no seraphs, no
others
. Well, except for me. But I couldn’t exactly tell them that. I chuckled under my breath as Homer snorted and slapped me with his tail. That would be dandy. Survive for a decade in the human world only to be exposed by something so simple as a sonic boom and a case of trail exhaustion. I’d be tortured, slowly, over a period of days, tarred and feathered, chopped into pieces, and dumped in the snow to rot.

If the seraphs located me first, I’d be sent back to Enclave and I’d still die. I’m allergic to others of my kind—really allergic—fatally so. The Enclave death would be a little slower, a little less bloody than the human version. Humans kill with steel, a public beheading, but only after I was disemboweled, eviscerated, and flayed alive. And all that after I
entertained
the guards for a few days. As ways to go, the execution of an unlicensed witchy-woman rates up there with the top ten gruesome methods of capital punishment. With my energies nearly gone, a conjure to calm the horses could give me away.