I just stared, not knowing what she was thanking me for, but obscurely pleased by the compliment.
“For what?” I finally said.
“Do you remember Ann Shelton?”
Instantly the vision of the bitter, angry girl flashed into my memory. Blond and blue-eyed, her mouth turned down in fury. She would have been cute except for the constant rage. Ann had picked fights anywhere she could, anytime she could, with any girl she could. Her forte was goading them into fighting and then ripping off the clothes of her victims, leaving them exposed, crying, and hurting. I had hated her, totally and without shame. “Yeah,” I said. “I remember. But I haven’t thought of her in years.”
“She was taunting me one day in school, in the gym locker room after volleyball practice. Her buds were around her, laughing. I was crying. I knew what was coming. And she pushed me. I hit a wall at my back. All I remember is that suddenly she wasn’t in front of me anymore. You were. And you said, ‘The next time I see you picking on anyone—anyone—I’ll make sure it’s the last time you do. Ever.’
“And Ann got up in your face and said something stupid like, ‘Yeah? Whatchya gonna do, bitch?’ And you got this
As she spoke, I remembered that incident and said softly, “Ann said I’d go to juvie.”
“And you said it would be worth it. And I never thanked you.”
I shrugged and crossed my arms over my chest. “I didn’t remember it was you. I just wanted to make sure she stopped picking on Bobby and kids like him.” I looked over at the TV to find Bobby watching us, though I was pretty sure he couldn’t hear a word we said over the Disney music.
“And none of us thanked you. None of the picked on kids thanked you back then. You risked a lot to make sure Ann Shelton stayed away. So. It’s a long time coming, but thank you.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. I shrugged again. That’s me. Just chock-full of social skills.
“I’ve been reading about you,” Misha said. “According to Reach, ‘Jane Yellowrock,’” she quoted, “‘is arguably the best vampire hunter in the business.’ And that was before the info was updated with all the kills in Natchez last year.”
I had no idea what to say to that, so I said nothing, which was better than opening my mouth and inserting my foot, boot and all. Just when the silence—my silence—became uncomfortable, a knock came at the door. Misha crossed the suite and opened it. A bellman entered, pushing a cart into the room. It was laden with a small cheesecake and a plate of petit fours, a bowl of Chex mix, a plate of chocolates, two juice bottles, a carafe of coffee, a pot of hot water, mugs, clear glass teacups, and various tea bags. It was too much to hope for loose tea, even in a nice joint like this.
Misha tipped the bellman and then concentrated on making up a tray of treats for Bobby and Charly. I watched as she worked, trying to reconcile this self-assured woman with the Misha of memory. She glanced up and said, “Help yourself,” with that new, quick, professional smile, as she carried the juice and plate into the TV area.
I moved to the far side of the fancy tea cart, where my back went to the wall, leaving the entrance, the windows, and Misha all in my visual range. I picked through the tea bags and upgraded my opinion of the tea selection. There was a white peony, a green chai, and a spring oolong, all imported from China. There was also one called East Beauty Blooming Tea—a ball of green tea leaves sewn together by hand with jasmine and chrysanthemum flowers. When dropped in hot water, the tea ball would open, appearing to flower and bloom.
I didn’t usually care for flower-flavored teas, but I picked the blooming tea, which said something about both Misha and me, but I wasn’t smart enough to figure out what. I opened the package and dropped the ball into a glass teacup, not sure if manners dictated that I wait until Misha served me. But the thought of her waiting on me was an uncomfortable one, so I poured the hot water into the cup, over the ball. Instantly the leaves started to open and flower as the hot water rehydrated and relaxed them. It was like watching high-speed photography of a flower blooming, and I could smell the jasmine. As the tea steeped, I unwrapped a chocolate, leaned against the wall, and popped the candy into my mouth. The taste of hazelnuts, mocha, and vanilla, perfectly balanced, melted on my tongue. I’m not normally a chocolate eater, but I nearly groaned, it was so good.
“I know,” Misha said, walking back to me, a grin on her face. “Best chocolate
“Yeah. It is,” I said around the chocolate. “Um, why am I here?”
Misha pointed to the comfy upholstered chair set catercornered to the tea table, and I took my seat as she served herself chocolate and coffee. As she mixed her coffee, she said, “What did Reach tell you?”
“That you had a book deal. Book about vamps.”
“Yes.” She looked up under her brows, the grin still in place. “You don’t have to look so ferocious about it.”
“I’m not looking ferocious.”
“Not the sane ones,” she countered.
I sat back in the chair. “You’re kidding, right?”
For a moment, Misha’s face altered with some inexplicable emotion, but before I could identify it, the emotion vanished, replaced with the professional Misha. No, the professional Camilla Hopkins, reporter for Torch News.
“According to all my sources, the Mithrans who live by the Vampira Carta live by the rule of law, protecting blood-servants and blood-slaves, providing them legal rights and opportunities and the freedom to leave service anytime they want.” It sounded like a promo quote from a vamp PR firm. Just what we needed, the media believing the vamp crap.
I picked up my tea and sipped, stalling, trying to figure out why Misha was here and why she wanted to talk to me. “The Vampira Carta also tells them how to divide up territory,” I said distinctly, “and the cattle that live in it. Cattle are humans. They eat humans.”
That odd look flashed across her face again and it left me feeling cornered somehow, as if I was way more involved with the project than I knew about. Shock raced down my spine, hot and then frigid. What was her book really about? Some kind of
“Mish, what’s your book about?” I asked carefully, not letting my reaction show. “And don’t fob me off.”
Misha passed me a sheaf of papers, and I set the weak tea down to go through the typed pages. There were twenty, the content in outline form. The first pages had HISTORY, broken down into CREATION, MITHRANS, NATURALEZA, THE DIASPORA, EUROPEAN COUNCIL, NEW WORLD MITHRANS, and MISCELLANEOUS, with even more subcategories and suggestions and explanations beneath. The next section had POLITICAL HIERARCHY, with MASTERS OF THE CITY, HEIRS, SCIONS, PRIMOS, SECONDOS, BLOOD-SERVANTS, and BLOOD-SLAVES. “This is your outline for the book?” I clarified.
Misha nodded, sipping her coffee, hiding her lower face behind the cup. I remembered her doing that when we were kids, only back then it was orange juice or iced tea she hid behind. I flipped through the pages. There was one labeled HOW TO KILL MITHRANS—HUNTER METHODOLOGY. Another was labeled WHAT SCIENCE HOPES, and beneath that was a list of researchers’ names and the higher-learning institutes that paid them to think. One read MITHRANS AND MAGIC, another was labeled MITHRAN BLOOD AND MODERN PRESERVATION. There was MITHRANS AND WITCHES, and I flipped on through, not liking this. The vamps I knew were not going to like this, either. Leo was going to have kittens. And maybe kill me for being part of it in any way.
And then I found it. Near the back there was a section on VAMP HUNTERS. My name was at the top. The chill I’d been holding down shocked its way through me.
I had never hidden what I did for a living—killing vamps was my main source of financial income. I had a Web site dedicated to advertising my skills, with a headshot of me in vamp-hunting gear, a bio (mostly candid), and a list of kills. I hadn’t updated it recently, but clients could reach me through the contact link. No, I didn’t hide who I was or what I did, but I didn’t put it out there for the whole world to see either, especially in what could become a best seller.
I closed the pages and set them on the table between us. The anger I had kept from my face vibrated through my voice when I said, “You’re making me a target. And you want me to help you?” I stood and pivoted on
