Blood Trade

troops had decided not to burn it to the ground in the Civil War, using the port instead to move troops and gear and to secure the waterway. After the war, Natchez had been left with most of its charm: lots of fancy, prewar buildings, antebellum homes, churches, graveyards, and old live-oak trees swathed in moss—as well as its notorious past. Its location had allowed it to maintain its infrastructure and rebuild faster when most other towns around the South had suffered harder and longer.

During the Reconstruction, carpetbaggers brought in trade opportunities, work opportunities, and an influx of cash for the newly impoverished whites and the newly freed slaves, many of whom were trained as dockworkers or mule handlers or seamstresses or hat makers, as well as the freemen of color who had been educated doctors and poets and lawyers, many of them land owners who had owned slaves of their own. The town survived and thrived.

Eli dropped me off in front of the Natchez Grand Hotel, not coincidentally one of the hotels Reach had suggested I stay in. The place was redbrick and—arguably—had the best location of any hotel in town, boasting views of the historic old downtown on one side and the Mississippi River and the river walk on the other. I took the elevator up to the top floor, where Misha had a two-bedroom suite, and knocked. I sensed a person on the other side of the door, and felt myself studied for a moment through the peephole, Beast’s instincts alerting me to surveillance. The door opened to Bobby’s smile-wreathed face.

“Jane!” he shouted, and grabbed me in a bear hug that cracked my back.

I was prepared for this one; Bobby had always been a hugger. A silly smile on my face, I hugged him back, squeezing him hard. Bobby believed that the harder the hug, the more love was in it.

“I missed you, Jane.” Bobby rocked me in his arms—discomfortingly similar to the way Miss Esmee had—and his red hair tickled my chin and cheek. He had changed, his body filling out, and he was taller than I remembered. But his scent was familiar: baby shampoo, foot powder, and Bobby. For some stupid reason, tears gathered in my eyes as I held him.

In the room, I scented cleansers, fabric fresheners, Misha, perfume, and herbal bath products; I also smelled another human, a child. But there was something else beneath the familiar scent of Bobby and the smell of a hotel room, something not quite right. I felt Beast stir and stare out at the world through my eyes. I drew in the air, uncertain of the strangeness in the weak scent. Something chemically astringent and harsh, and something else— something sickly. “I missed you too, Bobby boy.”

Gently I pushed him back and blinked away the tears to study him with my eyes, rather than just my nose and hands, seeing the teenager he had been and the man he was now. Bobby would never grow up like other people did; he’d always have the mental capacity of a ten-year-old, always filled with the wonder, the joy, and the hopefulness of a child. But he had grown older. He had fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his freckles had grown closer together than when he was a teenager. The extra pounds I had felt in the hug were well distributed on his frame, and the weight looked good on him.

“You’re different,” he said, squeezing my shoulders. “All muscley.”

“And you grew at least ten inches,” I hyperbolized. “You grew up on me.”

“Come on in and meet little Charly.” Bobby took me by the hand and led me into the living room area of the suite. A little girl was curled up on the sofa, watching TV. “Charly, this is Jane.” The little girl waved to me shyly. “Jane, this is Charly. She’s Misha’s little girl and my best friend.” The child was maybe seven or eight, skinny and pale, with thin brown hair cut in a pageboy to her ears. She was bundled up in pink velour sweats that were sized to grow into, and a blanket covered her legs. She wore a pearl ring on her left hand, something that looked too adult for her but seemed to fit. I lifted my hand in greeting, and she pulled the blanket up to her chest as if uncomfortable with my gaze, so I looked away and took in the suite.

Misha had paid for a hospitality suite with adjoining rooms. Fancy digs for a reporter-turned–book writer. There were children’s books and toys in a large wicker basket, a lavender hoodie jacket on a hanger on a hat rack instead of pitched over a chair back, a pair of women’s running shoes placed precisely side by side below the jacket, a packet of folders lined up neatly at the corner of a table. From the way her shoes were lined up and her hoodie so carefully hung, I didn’t think the control freak I remembered had changed all that much. A coat sized for Bobby was on a hanger on a doorknob to a room with two double beds. Across from it was a room with a king-sized bed. The place was decorated in beige and a soft rosy red, with dark wood furniture. A soothing palette.

Bobby said, “Misha is in the bathroom. We’re watching Disney. Charly likes The Lion King.”

I nodded, scenting again that faint hint of sickness. I looked Bobby over and thought about his scent rising to me when we hugged; he was fine. I looked at Charly again, my nose tracking both the sickness and the scent of chemicals to her. Her paleness wasn’t natural to her skin tone, but was the pale of anemia. Her hair lacked the sheen a child’s usually had, and was dull and far too thin. On the sofa arm beside her was a small clump of hair. There was another clump on her shoulder. And a small bald patch on her crown.

Her hair was falling out.

Charly was getting chemo.

Kit, Beast thought at me, staring at Charly. Sick kit.

I stood rooted to the floor, horrified and totally out of anything that might have resembled a comfort zone. I was in a hotel room with Bobby Bates and a very sick child. Fortunately, before I had to react to my sudden new knowledge, I heard a noise from the open door.

CHAPTER 3 I’ll Break Every Finger . . . One by One

A door opened in the room with the large bed and I turned in time to see a light switched off and shadows move. I had no idea what to do with my hands so I tucked them into my jeans pockets, but that felt posed so I gripped them behind my back, which felt even more posed, and I realized I was nervous.

Beast, who had been oddly silent, chuffed with amusement. Jane is afraid of prey.

Not afraid, I thought back. Uncertain, maybe. And she isn’t prey.

Prey or hunter. Or plant. Or earth and rock. Or water and air, she added with a soft snort. There is nothing else.

I stifled a sigh just as Misha walked into the room. She had changed since the children’s home. She was taller, her hair worn in a chic, tousled bob, and much blonder. The highlights made her blue eyes look bluer and accented her sharp cheekbones. She was wearing jeans and layered T-shirts in bright blues, shades of royal and indigo, fuzzy socks on her feet, and was color coordinated from top to toe. Her only jewelry was a large pearl wrapped in silver dangling on a silver chain. She moved with an unself-conscious poise. Misha had grown up. She stopped in the doorway and we stared at each other, silent. In the background, the volume went up on the TV as the kids got bored with watching us. I recognized strains from the animated Disney movie as I studied the woman in the doorway.

Beast was good at waiting games, but my nerves didn’t let me wait it out. I lifted a shoulder in a tentative shrug. “Hi.”

A slow grin spread across her face. She’d had her teeth fixed, and the effect was blinding white against her pale skin and all that blue. She looked gorgeous. “Hi back. Are we supposed to hug?”

I didn’t know what my face showed, but whatever it was made her laugh softly. “Yeah. I’m not much of a hugger either. And it feels stupid to shake hands.” When I didn’t respond, she said, “You’ve met Charly?”

I nodded.

“I have coffee and tea on the way up.”

“Tea, please,” I said, with my best children’s-home manners. Then, because I was getting more nervous, I added, “You look gorgeous.”

“And you look dangerous.” She flashed me a quick smile and I knew that she meant it as a compliment. “Just like you did back in the home, except with better-quality clothes.” She tilted her head. “I never had a chance to thank you.”