Blood Cross

CHAPTER 17 Our sin has multiplied

Sabina was shorter than I, yet my feet dangled off the ground, my body against the chapel. Her fingers were like steel, cutting into my throat, twisting the steel chain links of the collar into my flesh, yet only the collar allowing me any breath at all. I was pinned, my neck stretched out. I couldn’t reach any weapon that might be effective against her.

I forced my panic down, but there was nothing I could do about my racing heart or the fear-sweat that beaded on my skin. And the children had only me to help them right now. I forced my hands to fall to my sides. Held myself tightly against another brainless move.

She spoke, and I had no idea what she murmured, but it sounded like Latin, like a . . . liturgy. And this was the priestess of the vamps. I had said that they had a religion. Maybe I was more right than I had guessed.

When she paused to draw breath, I tried to speak. “Please.” My voice was whispery from my arched position and from terror building beneath my breastbone. I forced out the words. “I seek. Absolution.” With the word, a faint tremor ran through Sabina. She eased her grip on my throat. My breath whistled in my newly healed tissues. Relief flooded through me.

I had been to water, had been prepared for battle. Purified. I drew on that calling. I could feel again the sluggish current flowing over me as I dropped below the surface. The warmth of the air when I stood, my feet in the muck of the bayou bottom. The blackness when I again went under. Strange peace flowed through me, tranquility lapping at the far corners of my mind like the black bayou, dark and slow. The emotion felt as if it had been hiding, holding itself silent and still until now when I might recognize it, use it. And I understood. This fight for the kits was the reason I went to water. This was the battle Aggie One Feather had foreseen.

Serenity flowed along my skin and settled into the distant crannies of my mind and heart, sifted through my nerves and soothed my flesh. I closed my eyes. I repeated my calling. “I seek wisdom and strength in battle, and purity of heart and mind and soul.”

The serenity that flowed through me seemed to move through my skin, bleeding into hers. She took a slow breath.

Her fangs clicked back in her mouth, her body trembling, her eyes bled back to human. She set me on my feet and stepped away. Blood pounded into my head. The world reeled around me and I caught myself on the edge of the porch, fingers digging into the underlip. Somehow we were on the ground beside the chapel, the dead vamp’s legs near my hand. I carefully moved away as if he might stand up suddenly and attack.

“Show me the site where this rogue rose on my land.” It was said in the command tones the very old ones use. Duress. Coercion. Vamp magic. It rippled over me like dry sand scattered in a smooth arc, burning and sharp. I wanted to go into the woods. Wanted to go back to the burial site marked with white shells. I turned and faced the woods, my booted feet on the crisp grass.

Beast touched the compulsion with a paw and batted its control away. I could almost see it unravel from me, like the fringes of a shawl pulled free from the weave. Crap. Sabina was strong. I took a breath, keeping it slow and steady. I didn’t want her to know I was unbound from her power, not if I could help it. I still had too much to learn.

I smoothed my hands over my thighs and kept myself from drawing a weapon. She was so fast I’d not get it halfway out before I was dead. I swallowed and it hurt, reminding me of her strength. “Sure. This way.” Legs shaky, palms sweating, I led the way back into the woods. I didn’t hear her footsteps follow, but the starched cloth of her habit made little chuffing sounds, cloth-on-cloth. The skin on my throat rose into fresh prickles at the thought of her behind me.

Still in command mode, she said, “Tell me what you know of the cross of the curse. And how you know it.”

The compulsion rippled over me, black motes of power, tinged with purple, ringing my chest, making it hard to breathe. Cross of the curse? The one she used to chase off the liver-eater . . . ? Yeah. But lying wasn’t my strong suit and lying so close to compulsion was probably impossible; I’d have to lie with the truth. Was that any less a lie? Something else to worry about later. After the children were safe.

“A little bird told me that you used a cross to chase off the creature who was attacking you. She said that it’s a . . . powerful weapon.”

She was suddenly at my side, visible in my peripheral vision. “Who is this little bird,” Sabina purred, “who speaks of the Blood Cross?”

I took a chance. “An owl.”

There was silence between us until we neared the ring of white shells. I would have known we were close even without the direction sense and the sense of smell that was stronger and finer than any human’s, known by the glowing of the crosses nailed to the trees. They reacted to Sabina’s presence from forty feet away, glowing brighter until Sabina had to stop, shielding her eyes from the brilliance.

Her voice breathy with pain, she said, “I smell the sire; most certainly Rousseau.” Her eyes covered, she backed away several steps. “This place reeks of the past, of evil once battled and conquered. It stinks of witch magic, burned and strong. I smell the blood of sacrifice. Of witch blood that was spilled here. The blood of our sin.

“I have failed,” she moaned, “and now our sin has multiplied.” Her voice rose to a wail. “Our sin has multiplied.”

She presented me with her back, bent and hunched in pain. When her wail and its echo had dissipated, a silence settled on the woods. Sharp and acute, as if the forest itself listened for more. Long moments later she whispered, “I will give you answers at the chapel. Return there.” In a heartbeat, with a rustling through the trees and a frail movement of wind, Sabina was gone. The crosses brightened for an instant and dimmed.

I now knew without doubt what was happening in the circles. A Rousseau was killing witch children, their blood and fear powering a working of dark magic to increase the number of days a vamp spent in the grave, in order to raise a vampire who was sane. It was the only thing that made sense.

My heart filled with rising desperation as I tramped back through the woods to the chapel.

I stopped at the edge of the vamp cemetery, surprised. I hadn’t really expected Sabina to be waiting, but she sat in the chair, moonlight bright on the white of her clothes, her face in shadow. I moved slowly to her and saw that LeShawn had been moved in my absence. And beheaded. His body had been rolled to the bottom of the stairs at the front of the building. His head sat to the side on the stump of his neck, positioned to stare at Sabina. Which was disturbing on so many levels.

Again, I deliberately made noise when I approached from the side and rear and eased my butt onto the porch, one booted foot on the ground, sweating in my leathers. Neither of us spoke for a long time as the night air moved sluggishly across the cemetery. Night birds called. A bat fluttered close by and away. Sabina sat statue-still, breathless, pulseless, dead. When she took a breath for speech, it startled me and I jumped, but Sabina was staring at LeShawn’s eyes, his appearing focused, as if he watched us—a trick of the moonlight.

“You talked of the Sons of Darkness. They are not oft spoken of by my kind. Their shame is all our shame.”

I didn’t reply and Sabina took another of the weird-sounding breaths. “There is a scrap of parchment remaining, from the first history of our kind and the first prophecy of our savior. The original parchment is oft copied, oft translated. As priestess, I retain a scrap of the original scroll as well as an early copy. It tells of the Sons of Darkness and their great sin. It tells of how they made us. The Sons shared with us their blood curse, creating a race of beings with many gifts, yet bearing great agony, great pain, the sin of the world in our blood.” She paused, and I heard a barred owl call from far away, hooting in the species’ four- and five-beat melody. It always sounded like “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?” It was answered from even farther away, the notes plaintive. Owls liked it here. The silence between us had stretched and I didn’t think Sabina was going to continue. When she spoke again I jumped.

“And though they sinned the darkest sin, the Sons prophesied the salvation of our kind.” She cocked her head, still watching LeShawn. His blood had leaked onto the white shells and into the ground. “If it is discovered that you are the savior, the one who will bring us to peace, then I will tell you all. Only the savior of the Mithrans may yet hear the entirety of the old tale.” Her eyes were suddenly on me, their weight like a lead-lined blanket, heavy and immobilizing. I was careful not to meet her gaze. She studied me. “But I think you are no savior of my kind. My wait is not yet concluded. I may not yet seek my ending.” She blew out a breath that smelled of old blood. Very old. Again, I wondered when she last ate.

Sabina licked her lips and I felt as if an electric shock passed through me. I tended to forget that she had once been human, and might still be capable of human gestures. Sabina held her eyes on me. “I scented three Mithrans at the place of rising, all familiar to me but from long ago. I thought it impossible for a vampire with a lair in this city to remain unknown to me. I thought it equally impossible for a small family or even a solitary vampire to survive in Pellissier’s hunting territory; they would have been dispatched long ago. But the past has returned and brought its evils with it.”

She seemed to expect a comment, but I couldn’t think what I should say. When I didn’t reply she looked away. “A witch child was killed at the place of first rising. The child was drained of his blood and his body taken away.”

I couldn’t help it. I flinched. Sabina went on unperturbed. “Such is against the Vampira Carta, against our ways and customs, punishable by true-death. Will you bring the culpable ones to the day?”

I nodded. “But you have to help me,” I said. “Do you know anything that could help me find the vampire who is doing this?”

“Clan Rousseau once practiced blood magic, which required them to sacrifice with the blood of human and witch children. Some of these Rousseaus denied the guilt that all Mithrans must carry, and that older Mithrans must, by law, pass on to their scions. They claimed the way of the Naturaleza—believing that they had the right, as predators, to hunt and kill humans. And they claimed that the sin of the fathers was not passed to the sons.” She shook her head. “Their sin was discovered and these Rousseaus were wiped away in a great purge.”

Excitement shot through me. I had heard of the purge. And this bit of history was tying all my information together.

“A strange form of insanity has always run in the Rousseau bloodline. Not something of which we oft speak. But it is there, nonetheless.” Sabina looked back at LeShawn. I nearly trembled at the release from her gaze. His eyes were glazing over in death, milky and no longer appearing to watch the priestess. His features seemed to sag, and Sabina’s mouth turned down at the corners, seeing it. She looked old, her skin like creased silk. I breathed out my relief slowly, and wondered if she could smell the pheromones of respite in my breath, in my sweat.

“Many of their line never find sanity after they are turned. Several decades pass and they still rave. Many such must be put down by the clan master.” Her words took on the cadence of pronouncement and coercion, the vamp compulsion vibrating in her tones. “Look to the Rousseau Clan. Look to the long-chained. Look to the dark arts. Look to the island and the history of bloodshed. Look to any who survived the purge, who were forgiven their sin and survived the cleansing.”

Beast held off the force of her compulsion with claws pricking my mind; I could think and remember her words, yet not get sucked under by her. I realized that the priestess was giving me clues in her command. Not very good clues, but better than I’d had so far. But she might also be telling me to do more than I planned.

“Sin must be judged,” she continued. “Absolution, if given in error, must be rescinded. Retribution and justice must be meted out on the sinners and the guilty.”

She hadn’t said I had to bring them here. Had she? I was careful not to promise more than I could. And was equally cautious not to refuse. “The vampire council hired me to kill the rogue maker. When I find him, he’ll be destroyed along with his scions. Their heads will be taken to the council as proof.”

“ ‘The workman is worthy of his hire.’ You will be rewarded for bringing an end to this evil.”

I was smart enough to note that Sabina hadn’t exactly said I’d be paid. She said I’d be rewarded, which could mean anything, including my death to keep her secrets.

Sabina turned to me, a half smile on her face. “You will not find death at my hands or at my order.”

All righty, then. The vamp was reading my mind or my body language. Either one meant that it was time for me to move on. “I’ll say my good-bye, then.” I slid off the porch and to the ground.

“You may leave the head of the newly risen. I will see to it that bounty payment is waiting for you at the council building.” After a moment she smiled. “You may call upon me again.” And she disappeared with that weird brush of old-blood-scented air. The door to the chapel snicked closed. And I hadn’t even seen it open.

I swore softly, looking at the body and head. Sabina had pretty much told me to leave it alone. I wasn’t about to disagree. No way. I crunched across the shells to my bike and helmeted up. I knew the young-rogue makers hadn’t been at the Rousseau clan home. Yet Bettina had smelled of one of them at the vamp party.

I paused before kicking Bitsa on. Bettina knew. She had from the very beginning. She’d had to. She was their master. All I had to do was get Bettina, shackle her in silver, and make her tell me. I had the formal invitation to visit, and Leo had access to the security systems of all the clans. There was a good chance he’d know—and that meant Bruiser would know—where her lair was.

I looked at the sky. The sun was rising. First I’d see Molly. Then it was time for a chat with Bruiser. A long chat. About purges and the Rousseau Clan. And the long-chained. And security systems. I was close to finding the children and Bliss. I knew it in my bones.

Molly was sitting up in bed brushing her long red hair. She stared blindly out the window, her face slack and grieving, tears trailing down her cheeks. I stood in the door, silent, watching, and my heart clenched like a fist. Her babies were missing and it was my fault.

“I’ll get them back.”

The words were brittle in the high-ceilinged room and Molly started, the brush stopping halfway. She closed her eyes and, with a visible effort, controlled her misery and completed the brushstroke. When it reached the tips of her hair, she set it aside and wiped her face. “I know you will.” She forced a smile on her mouth and held out an arm. “Come here. I have things I need to say.”

I forced my feet to cross the room and sat stiffly beside her on the edge of the mattress. She curled an arm about my waist and, with my own eyes prickling, I held myself rigid against the comfort she offered. I didn’t deserve it, though Molly wasn’t likely to accept any of my opinions. She pulled me over to her, against her hip, and laid her head on my shoulder. And she burst into tears.

My voice froze. So did my body. Inflexible as a day-old corpse, I raised one hand and clumsily patted her shoulder. And then Beast put a paw on my mind and took over. Jane is predator only. I am mother of kits. I am alpha. The words resonated in my mind; surprise radiated through me with the echo. Beast took over my hand and stroked Molly’s hair. Took my other arm and encircled Molly, drawing her closer.

I’m more than a predator—

No. Jane is predator only. Not mother of kits. Not mate. Jane is nothing except part of Beast. Killer only.

The words stilled my thoughts. Pain spiraled through me, cold and crystalline, like frozen, shattered quartz.

My mouth opened, and it was Beast’s words on my tongue, falling from my lips. Her tone was lower than mine, raspy as a coarse sponge on stone. “We will take back kits. We will kill predator who took them. Jane and Beast, together, will rend them. Bone from flesh, blood from veins. We will kill. Will retake kits. This I swear on my own kits.”

Molly stopped breathing. Her heart beat hard twice and then smoothed to a fast cadence. Carefully, as if fearful of springing a trap, Mol pulled back and stared into my eyes. Her pupils widened. Her lips parted. I heard her heart rate speed, her breath hitch. “Son of a witch on a switch. Beast?”

I purred softly. Stroked her hair once. Then I stood and walked from the room.

It was dawn, and heavy heat was already starting. I’d never been in a place where the air had weight and pressure, like a pressure cooker forcing the air to bear down against my body. It had a sensation of urgency to it, the way that holding my breath underwater created the necessity to rise and breathe, as if each breath was possibly my last.

We were on the road out of town, wending through the traffic and the heat, before Beast let me go. My mind was still in shock mode, trying to see why Beast said I was only a predator. Only a killer. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t. But it was going to take a killer—and a pretty dedicated one—to bring Angelina and Little Evan back to Molly alive. And Bliss. Had to remember Bliss.

I bent over the bike and sped past a semi belching diesel fumes. The cars in front of me blurred together as I rode and thought. I took the streets by instinct and muscle memory, thoughts banging around inside my head like a heavy-metal drummer on meth.

I pulled up in front of the Rousseau clan home; its front door was hanging open in the early dawn. I pulled the Benelli even before I killed the motor. Drew my biggest vamp-killer. Moved up the walk and into the silent foyer, ready for anything. But it was a waste of effort. The clan home was empty and quiet. I prowled through deserted rooms, kicking open closets, checking under beds, in bathrooms, and in pantries. From the lingering smells, the place had been vacated during the night. And it hadn’t been voluntary. Blood stained the walls and floors in several places. The air was still tainted with the heated smell of burned magic and the stench of the rogue maker and his two cronies. I was familiar enough with them now to parse the three different scent signatures, so similar that they had to be all of the same bloodline. The three siblings had attacked a vamp clan home. And won.

I returned to Bitsa and headed back out of the city. At the first gas station I came to, I pulled in and up to a pump. Ignoring the stares of the other patrons, I strapped my shotgun to the bike. Removed my leather jacket against the rising heat and stowed it in one of the sidesaddles. The mesh collar went beside it, the stakes and vamp-killers as well, leaving me still well-armed enough to fight a small war. Feeling more comfortable, though smelling of night-terror sweat, I filled Bitsa’s small tank up with gas. While it gurgled into the nearly empty tank I pulled my cell and hit REDIAL, calling Bruiser. It rang through to voice mail. Fortunately, I knew where he lived. Remounting, I roared against the current of the rush-hour traffic out of the city. The farther I rode, the denser the traffic got, the madder I got. Leo and Bruiser were keeping things from me, things I needed to know to get the kids back. And Bliss. Couldn’t forget her. By the time I reached the drive to the Pellissier clan home just before seven thirty a.m., I was royally ticked off.

The house was at the end of a well-paved but little-used road, no other houses within sight, plowed fields all around, horses walking from barns into the day, heads bobbing, mares with foals gamboling along. Curling-limbed live oaks arched over the long, slightly uphill drive, the house built on high ground, some twenty feet above sea level, higher than anything around it. The Pellissier clan home stood on a bend of the Mississippi River, which I could smell through the trees, the river air wet and sour and powerful even at a distance. The oaks to either side passed at speed as I roared up the drive.

It might not be smart to come here, even though this wasn’t Leo’s daytime lair, and likely none of the Pellissier scions used it as a lair except in emergency. But in the daylight, I didn’t have to worry about vamps; I needed answers and this was the best place to get them.

I slowed as I neared the white-painted, two-story brick house. Bruiser and three others were sitting at a large, round, cloth-covered table on the front porch, eyes on me, Bruiser quickly hiding the relief he felt at seeing me. He had wondered if Sabina had killed me. Not enough to help me, of course.

I was clearly interrupting an important conversation, business talk over china and a meal. As if I cared. I came to a stop at the front steps and cut the engine, my booted feet on either side of Bitsa. I set the kickstand and dismounted, throwing a leather-clad leg high for impact.

I blinked against the bright sun, and suddenly realized that I hadn’t slept—really slept, like more than a nap—in days. Something else I could deal with after I got the kits back, like my being a killer and nothing else. The smile that lit my face with the thoughts must have been pretty ugly, because one guy’s hands disappeared beneath the table, going for a weapon.

I climbed the steps, my boots the only sound, loud in the morning air, my eyes holding Bruiser’s. An answering smile curved his lips up on one side and his eyes slit in consideration, though he lounged back in his chair in casual unconcern. The anxiety of the three with Bruiser had a smell and it gave me a perverse pleasure to worry the little group. “I see you survived Leo’s temper tantrum last night.”

Bruiser nodded. “As did you.”

“Barely. Can’t say the same for the Rousseau clan home.”

His expression hooded over. “Tyler, Louisa, Dale, we’re finished for now. Give me an hour with Miss Yellowrock.” Like well-trained dogs, they got up and left us alone. As if to break the tension, Bruiser leaned in and rang a little silver bell on the table. Seriously. He rang a bell. And a woman in a white and gray maid’s uniform appeared from the side door.

“Tea for the lady,” Bruiser said, without taking his eyes from me. “A nice, black, single estate.” To me he said, “Have you breakfasted?”

I propped my hands on my hips, knowing my stance was hostile and aggressive. “Not today.”

“Eggs, bacon, fruit, cereal?” he asked, the genial host, offering an informal list.

I was about to refuse, but my stomach rumbled in answer. And why not? I had to eat. I was drawing on Beast’s power and that used a lot of energy. “Half dozen eggs over easy, a rasher of bacon cut thick and cooked crisp. Lots of toast, no butter,” I said to her, playing as though I didn’t see the general shock at the amount of food I’d requested. “And thank you.” When I smiled at her, there was no halfway about it and the Latino girl smiled back, ducked her head, and returned though the side door. See? I can be nice.

Bruiser indicated a chair at his left. I didn’t see any reason to be obstinate or difficult—any more than I already was—so I took it and sat, the legs of the chair scraping hollowly on the porch flooring. I smelled gun oil. Bruiser was armed on his own home turf. That seemed relevant, but I wasn’t sure how or why.

The food must have been cooked and sitting on a warmer, because the little maid reappeared immediately, carrying a large tray. She served me. Bruiser poured my tea. So far, so good. I hadn’t had to kill anyone. Yet.