Blood Trade

purr with delight. Which was all so very, very unfair. Because of her, my body was a traitor to the man who had handed me over for the violation of forced feeding and binding. I needed to hate him with a white-hot passion, but Beast’s binding to Leo also made her want Bruiser even more. My life was so horribly messed up.

“How are you?” he asked.

I shoved down on Beast’s autonomous reaction and managed to sound businesslike. “Bruiser. I’m good.” No thanks to you, I thought.

“I certainly expect so.”

I ignored that. “I need help.” He took a slow breath and I shook my head, saying flatly, “Not that kind of help.”

“Reading my mind, little sweetheart?” Bruiser was one of few men who could reasonably call me little; he was six-four to my six feet even.

“Not psychic, Bruiser. And it’s business, not personal.”

“If the help is for Hieronymus, Leo has forbid me to help you unless you give me excellent reasons. Do you wish to barter for my services?” He sounded so British at times like this, when he was flirting, or when he was angry.

“No.” I knew what Bruiser would barter for, and my bedroom services were not going to be used as payment, no matter how much fun Beast thought that might be. “I have a missing octogenarian human female, last see near Silandre’s Saloon. She’s vampire hunting.”

“Silandre . . . Silandre. Oh. Yes,” he said as the name found its place in his memory and the relationships, political and romantic, sorted themselves out in his brain. “Hmmm.” His tone changed, sounding uneasy. I let him think about it all for a moment as Eli studied the streets, keeping watch. “If this grandmother has staked Silandre,” he said, “there will be political repercussions. But if the grandmother is disappeared or drained,” he said, “that would reflect badly on Hieronymus and therefore eventually on Leo. So as the MOC’s primo, it behooves me to assist, even against his express command. You are tricky, Little Janie.”

“I’m learning.”

“I will make a call and see if I can provide you with access.”

“Thanks. And while you’re at it, Big H and about twenty of his scions have the vamp plague. I’m going to give them treatment.”

The light-and-playful tone disappeared. “Leo will not be pleased.”

“He pays me to protect him from dangers, and the way I see it, part of that includes danger to his reputation and his public image. An image that will suffer if vamps in his territories start spreading the plague. So tell him I said to get off his blood-sucking ass and negotiate a parley with Hieronymus.” I started to hang up, but stopped midthumb and said, “We’ll be at Silandre’s Saloon in ten minutes.” Then I disconnected the call, and heard Eli’s quiet laughter.

“When are you going to give the guy a break,” he asked, and spoiled it by adding, “and jump in the sack with him?”

The Kid sniggered into the headset.

Men. I didn’t answer, and Eli handed me his cell with pics of our prey displayed, as he eased back into traffic and down the hill.

The bluff on which Natchez sat was huge, and the road zigged and zagged and curled and twisted and dropped—like something Dr. Seuss might have imagined in a book titled The Cat in the Hat Drinks Blood. It was definitely interesting. While atop the bluff everything was high-class, the preserved remnants of plantation owners’ slave-labor past, while along the drop to the Mississippi it was something else entirely. Not that it wasn’t old—a lot of it was really old—but it was a mishmash of styles and colors and building materials, many unrestored, unpainted, and unrefinished, dives that hadn’t seen a hammer or nail or paintbrush in a hundred years sat right next to cute, well-maintained cottages, some with dream catchers hanging in windows or pentagrams and witch circles in backyards, and even stained-glass windows rather than clear glass. Bare dirt yards and sullen, chained dogs were separated from tiny lush gardens by picket fences, gardens that should have been winter gray but were brilliant with winter flowers, demonstrating the hand of an earth witch with her classical green thumb. Saloons were five feet from old-fashioned banks. A white-painted chapel with a tall, slender steeple was across the street from what looked like a yurt with a hand-painted sign advertising PALM READING and YOUR FUTURE READ BY A DIVINER, with a note to bring your own chicken or goat, presumably for sacrifice. My house mother would have had apoplexy. Beast was having a ball with the scents, and I stuck my head out the window to give her better access.

Blood and vamp—lots of vamp scents—and witch and human and water, water everywhere. Meat cooking and the smell of milk, goats, dogs, and house cats, mold and flowers and growing things.

Eli pulled past a white-painted, narrow, shotgun-style house and idled the SUV while we studied the facade through the back window. “You’re kidding, right?” I asked. Even in the uncertain light, the building was not what I’d have thought a vamp saloon would look like. The house had dark fuchsia shutters and elaborate fuchsia gingerbread at every eave and all over the tiny front porch. A pink front door, with a brass doorknob and knocker, was centered on the porch, and a pink wreath with pink bows hung in the middle of it. The yard was planted with pink-flowering sasanqua bushes. And, honest to God, there were a dozen plastic pink flamingos in the minuscule patch of grass.

“This is supposed to be a saloon, and the vamp is supposed to be a badass?” Eli deadpanned.

“The pink is camouflage?”

We both snorted. The bright and innocent color scheme could also mean that Silandre’s mental state had shifted, a polite way of suggesting that she was no longer completely sane. But there were two ATVs pulled to the side of the narrow road, and in one was a leather Gucci bag, metal buckles reflecting the moonlight. The sight made my mouth tighten in worry.

The building was three times as deep as it was wide, maybe more, with a back corner hanging high over the water, propped on stilts that looked new, as if the Mississippi had taken out the building’s foundation in some flood and it had been replaced. It didn’t look very reliable, more like a stiff breeze or a good rain could take it down.

“Typical Jane Yellowrock entrance?” Eli said. At my questioning glance he said, “Seat of our pants, weapons ready, shoot anything fanged that moves?”

“If he gives us a go-ahead, yeah. That.” My phone vibrated, and it was Bruiser. I opened it and said, “Jane.”

“You are difficult,” Leo said, using the captivating tone they employ when they go after free-roaming prey. “Most cats are.”

Beast sat up and stared out through my eyes at the cell. I pulled my gaze back to the house as a light came on inside. “I do try,” I said.

“My George has explained what you are doing and why, and though you deserve punishment for going beyond my wishes, I will allow you the latitude to pursue this in your own way. For now. I approve your desire to approach Silandre and deal with whatever events may be transpiring—and their ramifications. My George will call Hieronymus’ primo and inform him of my decision.”

“Thanks,” I closed the cell and put it in a pocket, “for letting me take the heat.”

“Problems in blood-drinking paradise?” Eli asked.

“Always. We have access to Silandre,” I said. “Let’s go before the fanged monster changes his mind and gives her a call with orders to kill us instead.”

“You like to yank his chain too,” Eli said, holding up his cell phone so I could see the photos. “One redheaded beauty coming up.” Silandre was a classically beautiful woman with scarlet hair, according to the photo on her driver’s license, sent by Alex. Which was just too weird—vamps with driver’s licenses.

Together we exited the SUV and moved quickly to the front door of Silandre’s. Eli had his little deadly toy in the crook of one arm, but since this was ostensibly a visit by Leo’s Enforcer, I left my weapons holstered, going for rep, street cred, and moxie over bullets. I didn’t bother to use the knocker; just turned the knob and entered. It wasn’t locked.

Knickknacks met my eyes everywhere I looked, kitsch down the ages, salt and pepper shakers, boats in bottles, and hundreds of dolls, most of them the collector’s porcelain type about eighteen inches tall, wearing hoop skirts or evening gowns, with real hair and perfect painted faces. And fangs. Collector’s dolls with fangs. I just