Blood Trade

and Leo haven’t kissed and made up. Leo Pellissier will not be happy if you go to work for a scion he’s unhappy with.”

“Icing on the cake as far as I’m concerned. Ticking off the MOC has become one of my favorite personal pastimes.”

“Just make sure he doesn’t get so pissed that he kills you for it.”

“Awww. I’d think that was sweet concern for me if I didn’t know you better. You’d miss out on the finder’s fee if I were dead.”

“Like I said. Smart women are hot.”

“What’s the second thing I need to know?”

“You have an appointment with a reporter-turned–book writer in Natchez at four this afternoon. She’s writing a book about vamps.”

I chuckled sourly and picked up my combat boots and a pair of green snakeskin Lucchese boots. I tossed them onto the bed. “No, I don’t.”

“Stop being contrary. You know this chick. You were good friends. BFFs. Her name is Camilla Hopkins. You were raised with her in that high-class joint the state stuck you in.”

I hesitated, thinking through all the names of all the girls I’d roomed with in my years in the Christian children’s home. There were a lot of them. Most of the girls were there only a short time before going home to distant family or entering the foster-care system. Or jail. Juvie was where the troublemakers went. I’d almost ended up there myself a time or two. But I didn’t remember a Camilla.

As if reading my mind, Reach said, “Camilla is her professional on-air name at Torch News. In the home, she went by Misha.”

The name clicked and my lips turned down in distaste. “She was never my pal. More like a neutral observer.” Misha had never directly attacked me at school, but she never did anything to stop what the other girls did, either. Until I learned to fight, my life had been fairly awful, and no one had helped to make it better—not Misha, not anyone.

“A little verbal and physical abuse is good for the soul,” Reach said.

“I’m not talking to the press. No matter who it is.”

“She said to tell you she was bringing Bobby.”

I went still. Bobby. I hadn’t thought about him in years. Bobby Bates had been a special kid a couple years younger than me, with an IQ of 74—too smart to qualify for federal help. Like me, he’d fallen between the cracks and only the charity of Christians had given him a place to live. Bobby had been picked on at school, and I had protected him when I lived there. I had gone back a few times in the years before he turned eighteen, making sure he was left alone by the kids who might otherwise have made his life miserable. Then he’d gone to live with an aunt or his grandma or something and I never saw him again.

“Why does she have Bobby with her?”

“She didn’t say. If you want to know, regular rates apply.”

I shook my head and checked the time. “No, thanks. How did she know I’d be in Natchez?”

“She didn’t. She called me for an intro to the Louisiana and Mississippi vamps for her research, and your name came up.”

That made sense. Anyone doing research into vamps would contact Reach. And that same anyone would hear about me sooner or later.

“She could have e-mailed me for an intro to them,” I said.

“She tried. No reply. Which is a sloppy way of doing business,” he said.

His statement stung, but he had a point. I couldn’t remember the last time I checked my business e-mail. Weeks probably.

“Camilla Hopkins is already in Natchez,” he said, “staying at the Grand. I told her you’d be taking a gig there and she wants to renew old acquaintances.”

I had no doubt Misha had paid him to arrange a meeting. Besides having compiled the largest vamp database, Reach was also a master planner and manipulator, merging multiple job opportunities and always managing to make money. “Where do I meet her?”

“I’ll text you all the details. Oh, and check your frigging e-mail.” The connection ended. In disgust, I tossed the phone on the mattress and started packing in earnest. If I was going vamp hunting, I’d need all my toys.

CHAPTER 2 You Might Have to Kill Something

I was standing outside when the blasted cell rang, and I knew who it was without even looking. Not by a ringtone, but because Beast started purring. Her hyperawareness of the MOC was one big reason why I hadn’t let her out to hunt. I stared at the phone, considering not answering. It was daylight and that meant Leo was up past his bedtime and likely cranky.

I sighed and answered. “Yellowrock,” I said.

“It is my understanding that you have accepted a job with Hieronymus.” Leo’s heated, silk-velvet voice caressed me, the voice vamps use when they want to seduce for sex or dinner. Or both. Once upon a time that compelling tone had very little effect on me. With Beast bound to him, I wanted to strip naked and hop on Bitsa for a quick roll in the Master’s bed. Beast sent me an image of Leo and me on silk sheets, all hot and sweaty and bloody.

Not. Gonna. Happen. I took myself under firm control. Not. Gonna.

“Yep. I took the gig.” I was pleased when I sounded normal—professional and calm, with just a hint of snark that always came out when I talked with Leo. “Big H pays even better than you do.” I talked while securing my gear to the back of Bitsa. The guys were stowing weapons and our new underground com unit—UCU—in the SUV out front, so I had privacy to needle the MOC.

“You are on retainer, and you are my Enforcer. You may not leave the city without my direct order.”

“Whoa. Not the way retainers work, Leo. Get one of your minions to bring you the paperwork. My retainer with you doesn’t preclude my taking other jobs when you don’t need me. If you fall under attack, you can send your helo and I’ll be back to New Orleans in a little more than an hour, well inside the two-hour window required.” Leo started to say something, so I interrupted and talked fast to keep him from getting a word in edgewise—as a matter of principle. “Besides, as your Enforcer, this gig fits under that umbrella. Big H has Naturaleza vamps running around loose, vamps with the vamp plague, likely infecting other vamps. It’s your job as Blood Master of the Southeast USA to address that issue, your private lab in Texas that found a cure for the vamp plague, and therefore it falls under the umbrella of your responsibility to provide treatment.” All it took was one dose of the medicine—like a vaccine. The syringes were packed up in my supplies; the doses were easy to administer to vamps in civilized surroundings, requiring a shot to the arm muscle; to treat vamps in the wild, I had a dart gun and one of the specially made darts used by vets for sedating wild game. Of course, I expected to stake any sick vamps I met in the wild, not cure them, but at least I had the option.

Stretching my desire to needle the MOC, I said, “As Hieronymus’ blood-master, you should have gotten up off your blood-sucking butt and made sure your people were treated. Since you didn’t, this is now a loose end that needs tying up in order to”—I took a breath and put on my best lawyer voice, quoting from the retainer contract —“protect the security of the territory, hunting grounds, and territorial borders claimed by Leo Pellissier.” I let the legalese tone drop away. “Big H’s problem is directly to your north border, he is still legally sworn to you, and therefore he is your problem—and mine.” Which was absolutely the truth, and I felt all righteous having come up with it while I packed.

His voice took on a more demanding tone. “You will not speak to me in such a manner, my Enforcer. I require you to remain in New Orleans.” The MOC wasn’t used to people saying no to him.

“Hmmm,” I said. While I decided how difficult I was going to be, I checked the straps on the gear. Nice and secure. And I was feeling difficult, so I decided to go with that flow. “Yes, I will, and no, I