Raven Cursed: A Jane Yellowrock Novel (2 page)

My deepest thanks (in no order whatsoever) to:

Mike Pruette, Web guru at
www.faithhunter.net
and fan.

The wonderful speakers at
www.irishgaelictranslator.com
for the spelling translations.

The Hubby, for the right word when my tired brain was stymied. And for the chocolate.

Joyce Wright, for reading everything I write, no matter how “weird.”

Adonna at the
authorpro.com
for all the help with PR! Love you guys!

Dave Crawford of
rapidexpeditions.com
, Mike Kohlenberger at Wildwater, and Itty Bitty, for allowing me to use their names, monikers, and/or likenesses in the book. The realism you brought to the project was a huge help! Also to Mindy Mymudes for the biology realism.

Misty Massey, David B. Coe, A. J. Hartley, Edmund Schubert, Stuart Jaffe, C. E. Murphy, Lucienne Diver, and Kalayna Price of
www.magicalwords.net
, my dear pals, for making this journey so much easier than it used to be. It’s wonderful to have you as my friends!

Kim Harrison (fan girl squeal)—thank you for the wonderful blurb.

My facebook fans at
www.facebook.com/official.faith
.hunter.

Jane’s facebook fans at
www.facebook.com/janeyellow
rock.

Beast’s facebook fans at
www.facebook.com/pages/Beast/135860763157310
.

Lucienne Diver, for doing what an agent does best, with grace, kindness, wisdom, and forgiveness.

Rosanne Romanello and Brady McReynolds at Roc for excellent PR support (waves).

Last, but never least—my editorial team at Roc: Thanks to Jessica Wade, who loves the multisouled Beast in Jane, and who worked hard to bring the plot and conflict into a darker intensity. To copyeditor Karen Haywood, production editor Kathleen Cook, and Jesse Feldman (who came in at the end)—this book is far better for all of you.

Y’all ROCK!

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

CHAPTER ONE: Lots of Things That Go Boom and Kill Bad Guys

CHAPTER TWO: Vamp-Fang and Werewolf-Bite Scars

CHAPTER THREE: You Fight Dirty

CHAPTER FOUR: If the Vamp-Poo Became Airborne

CHAPTER FIVE: Two Cups and You’re Done

CHAPTER SIX: Leo Pellissier’s Right-Hand Meal

CHAPTER SEVEN: Vigilante Law’s Got No Place in My County

CHAPTER EIGHT: You Chasing the Big Doggies?

CHAPTER NINE: Wrong Century, White Boy

CHAPTER TEN: I Sleep with Vamps for a Living

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Streams Talking Softly in Mountain-Water Tongue

CHAPTER TWELVE: Who? Bit? You?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Tag Team Sex? That’s the Best You Could Come Up With?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: You’ll Be True-Dead.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Be Polite to the Nice Pussycat

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Is This a Proposal or Something?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: And if the Fangheads Kill Them?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
Molly
Can Kill Cow?

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Want to Play?

CHAPTER TWENTY: Get Your Own Damn Shoes

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Things Had Just FUBARed

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: You Are Dead Meat

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Bloody, Damaged Jeansand Nefarious Intentions

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Eat Humans When They Go to the Dark Side

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: If He Moves, You Can Eat Him

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Sharing the Moon-Call

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Threw Her Over the Railing

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: I Was So Going to Hell

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Butchery Disguised as Surgery

CHAPTER THIRTY: The Blood-Diamond

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: A Marriage Ceremony with a Death Sentence at the End

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Double-Dead Bodies

AUTHOR’S NOTE

A lot of research went into this book, both to keep it factual, and to protect others. All mistakes herein are mine, and were not made by the kind people who helped me.

The factual parts I worked so hard on were the kayaking and the scenes set in the Appalachian Mountains. The scenes in Hartford, Tennessee, were as perfect as I could make them, and if you drop by, be sure to say hi to Dave Crawford and Jedi Mike Kohlenberger. Yeah, they are real people, the bigger-than-life kind who simply have to go into a book to keep it real too. Itty Bitty (not her real name) has moved away, or you could meet her too. While you are in Hartford, go rafting, or take a kayak lesson at Rapid Expeditions. Take a zip-line trip through the trees at Wildwater. It’s a rush! Take a backcountry jeep tour. Hike up the mountain to the top. Go hungry, and eat in the Bean Trees Café. Have a day or three of fun! There is a lot to do for such a small place.

To protect others—for instance, law enforcement officials—I deliberately changed facts or left them out. A case in point—the law enforcement center in Asheville looks nothing like it is portrayed here, to help, in a small way, to keep our cops safe.

A scene involving a real search-and-rescue team, with K-9 and search dogs, was cut because the book was simply too long with it left in, but I’ll post it someday on the Web site.

My thanks to all my fans, who are keeping this series in print. You have my everlasting gratitude.

Faith

I rode into Asheville, North Carolina, for all the wrong reasons, from the wrong direction, on a borrowed bike, with no weapons, ready to work for the vamps again. It was stupid all around, but it was the gig I signed up for, and I was all about satisfying the client, keeping him safe, eliminating the danger, and finishing the job. Or staking the vamp, depending on the job description. “Finish the job” had become my second mantra, right behind “Have stakes, will travel.”

I was not at all happy that I’d taken this gig, once again working for the Blood Master of the City of New Orleans, Leo Pellissier, though this time was different. Of course, that’s what I always think—that there’s a new and better reason to keep up a business relationship with the chief fanghead. Money counts, of course, and the MOC pays extremely well, but I’ve begun to think it’s also because I’m a masochist and curious—as in, curiosity killed the cat.

At the thought, my Beast chuffed with amusement.
Not dead. Am good hunter. Smell cooked meat and running deer and mountains. Free flowing water. We are home.

Yeah, we are.
And that thought put a smile on my face, despite my misgivings. I’m Jane Yellowrock. I’m licensed and experienced in the security business but I made my street cred as a rogue-vamp hunter. I am, according to
most, the best in the business. I am also a Cherokee skinwalker living with the soul of a mountain lion inside me, the one I call Beast. I may well be the last of my kind, since I killed the only other skinwalker I ever met when he went nutso and started killing and eating people. My occupation has a definite ick factor.

The job at hand was to set up and provide security for the vamp parley taking place in Asheville, and it wasn’t likely that the location was accident or coincidence. Lincoln Shaddock, the most powerful fanghead in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina and Tennessee, had been applying to Leo for sixty years for the right to become a master of the city. Leo—who was a lot more powerful, territory-wise, than I ever guessed—had turned him down, until now. Leo always turned down vamps who thought they deserved to be the master of a city, because he was power hungry and had a god complex—that was nothing new. Now the chief bloodsucker of the South was willing to discuss a change in status for a vamp who wanted my hometown? No way was that a total fluke.

One factor that could have influenced the MOC was that a young vamp in Shaddock’s scion-lair found her sanity in just two years. That was a record. That was huge. Vamps had been trying to find a way to shorten or defeat the devoveo for two thousand years. But was it huge enough for Leo to reverse course? I had my doubts. No, there was something else. I just didn’t know what. Yet.

Leo never had just one motivation for anything, but layered motives, some focused on his political organization in the world of vamps—like the parley with the witches in New Orleans, which was not going so well, last I heard. Some focused on ancient history. And because the chief MOC of the South was intensely curious about me, maybe some focused on me. Vamps, politics, blood, and sex were all parts of a single whole, and since I was on retainer to Leo, I was now a part of that political maneuvering. Lucky me. My own curiosity was sending me right into the middle of it all, maybe because so many things from the last job seemed like untied ends blowing loose and frayed in hurricane winds. My life, once so uncomplicated, had become a storm that should
have sent me running away. But I hadn’t run. I had to finish the job.

The new bike took the hills of I-40 with a little wobble. It was a chopped Harley masterpiece named Fang, with a gleaming royal blue paint job and hand-painted sabertooth fangs on the gas tank between my legs. It was beautiful, comfortable, sexy as all get-out, and had saddlebags to hold my traveling gear, but it wasn’t the best bike for mountain riding. I’d not be buying Fang, no matter how much the owner hoped I would.

My bastard Harley, Bitsa, had sustained damage in service to Leo and was in Charlotte for repairs at the shop of the Harley Zen-master who built her out of parts of old bikes. I liked to think of her being in a spa for some sustained TLC. I wish I was getting some TLC myself. Instead I was riding into my former hometown on a gig that all my instincts said was dangerous. But weren’t they all? I’d feel better when I had my weapons back. Most of my guns, knives, and my wardrobe, were being shipped in on the flight from New Orleans that would bring the vamp assigned to this parley.

Roaring uphill around a big rig, I gave Fang some gas. Strands of loose black hair whipped in the truck’s air-wave, pulled free by road wind. Most of my hair was well secured, braided down my back beneath my summer-weight leather riding jacket, but the shorter strands flew wild or stuck to me under the helmet’s faceplate. The September sun beat down on me, parboiling me in my own sweat.

I was here a day early, meeting the security team, setting up protocols and methodology, and getting the lay of the land. I had a lot to do in very little time.

Near dawn, some thirty-six hours later, the helicopter landed. The vamp—or Mithran, as they liked to be called—had flown in to the Asheville airport from New Orleans in Leo’s private jet and been transferred under heavy security to the helo, which had been sent ahead and kept under guard until needed. Now the artificial wind of the rotors whirled the hot, early-autumn air, mixing the stench of helo engine, the effluvia of the city, a mélange of restau
rants, and the wood-scent of surrounding mountains. The helo settled with a skirling wind and a horrible whine that hurt Beast’s ears. I touched my mouthpiece. “Report.” If someone wanted to make a statement and send a message to the vamp community, now would be a good time.

“All quiet,” Derek Lee said. He and two of his best were stationed in key spots on high ground, with low-light and infrared scanning devices, and all the high-tech toys that make former Marines happy. They also had lots of things that go boom and kill bad guys. They were in heaven. A sniper was scanning from the roof of the tallest building with acceptable line-of-sight, targeting the antivamp protesters who had set up in front of the hotel. Four other men had secured the path from the hotel’s helicopter landing pad to the door. I’d brought Derek Lee on as my personal assistant, and he had already proven himself worth his weight in gold, not that I’d tell him. His expertise was costly enough, and he’d demanded at-risk pay for his crew, which meant they were all making a large piece of change on this gig.

Beast was close to the surface of my mind, adding her strength and speed to my body in case I needed it. My heart beat faster, breath drawing deep. I had done all I could to protect Katie, Leo’s heir, and keep her safe throughout the parley. She was a blood-sucking killer, but I liked Katie.

Except it wasn’t Katie who stepped to the ground. It was Grégoire, Leo’s number two scion, the vamp Leo had been dangling at me for several weeks. Until now, it hadn’t been anything obvious or overt, just seeing the slight, blond, prettier-than-a-girl vamp at every meeting, at every lecture teaching me how to deal with a high-class vamp parley, at three vamp-style tasting events to educate me on the practice, and at the security meetings. And now the big surprise. Of course, I could be reading it all wrong, but the signs pointed to the blood master of the vamps wanting me bound to him one way or the other, and since I hadn’t fallen in a swoon at his feet or into bed with any of the other vamps who had offered, he was tossing his best bud my way.
Great. Just freaking great.
It wasn’t like I could totally dis the guy—sock him or something. I was up to my neck in Mithran protocol, according to the Vampira Carta, and had
to follow the rules of vamp etiquette. But that didn’t stop me from glaring at him.

Grégoire, wearing a cloak that shimmered even in the predawn dark, tossed back the hood and found me in the shadows. He knew I wasn’t human, they all did, because I smelled wrong, but none of them knew what I was, and I wasn’t telling. His blond hair shifted and blew in the rotor breeze, the color of his scent a pale green, the honey gold of spring flowers, and luscious. He smiled, that slow smile they do when they’re trying to charm, the one that starts in their eyes and melts to their mouths, transforming their faces into angelic beauty. Fallen angel beauty—deadly, but dang pretty. He was slight, at five feet seven, delicate, with dark blue eyes the color of the evening sky, and he carried himself with an elegance that put even the other vamps to shame. He started toward me, moving as slowly as a human, graceful as a dancer.