Faith Hunter - Jane Yellowrock World Companion

“Jane.” His voice was a caress, and he knew she heard the tenderness in the word; her color went higher and she glanced away, only a brief moment, to compose herself. He wanted Jane Yellowrock, even more than Leo did, because he wanted her with her own free will intact, unchanged and unchained. He wanted her to want him, to need him as badly.

Of course there was the small matter of the former-undercover policeman, the black wereleopard, recently turned, and Jane’s attachment to him. George knew the man, had studied his dossier quite well. Unless Rick LaFleur had changed drastically since he acquired the were-taint, he would not stand between them for long. His history suggested that he was incapable of maintaining a romantic relationship with only one woman for any length of time. And it was even more unlikely that he would survive his next full moon, though George wouldn’t wish such pain and madness on anyone, even a faithless, charismatic rival. He would wait, bide his time. One thing that he had learned over the decades as the primo to the master of the city was infinite patience.

Jane sat in the chair and looked at the steaming breakfast, a small smile on her lips. Her head gave a faint shake as if surprised at the food waiting for her, but she didn’t comment. She sipped her tea, added two teaspoons of sugar and a dollop of fresh cream, and sipped again, making him wait. Little games she played as naturally as she breathed. “Hiya, Bruiser,” she said as she picked up her fork and tasted the eggs. Chewing, she stared back at him, her face impassive, her amber eyes steely, as cold as the steel and silver in her braids and hidden on her body. “So. I’m here.” She ate another bite and drank down half of her tea. The waiter refilled her cup. He’d been well tipped in the past and knew to stay close, but out of earshot. “Your suckhead boss needs my help again?”

He smiled slowly, watching her face. “He allows you freedom and leeway that he allows no others.” When her expression didn’t change, he added, “I think perhaps he cares for you.”

Jane leaned in slowly, her scent wild and untamed, feral as a hungry predator. She smelled of deep woods, and danger, and long hunts beneath a full moon. He didn’t know what she was, and he wanted to. He wanted to know everything. Jane said, “Leo Pellissier cares for nobody and no one except those he drinks from . . . and owns,” she added carefully, watching his reaction to her insult. George smiled, amused at the words. He had heard much worse over the decades. She said, “Leo doesn’t own me. He has no control over me. None at all. And I could give a rat’s hairy backside what he wants. I am a free agent, not one of his dinners.”

George chuckled and curled his fingers under to keep from reaching out and caressing her face. “Then I pray he never drinks from you, Jane Yellowrock. I like this freedom of yours. This splendid, wonderful freedom.”

“Yeah. Whatever. I got your e-mail with the request from His Royal Fanghead about the disturbance at the club. You got any more details than a rogue, but sane, vamp trying to drain the lead singer?”

“Yes. We’ve had two different attacks this week, incidents when we’ve found employees passed out, blood-drunk, but who claimed they had no memory of a Mithran accosting them. Such complete compulsion suggests an older, masterful Mithran and none have come forward.”

“And no one smelled a new vamp? I mean, I know the odors in the Royal Mojo Blues Company can be overwhelming, but vamps can smell other predators.”

“Leo would like for you to inspect the premises and give us your opinion.”

Her eyes narrowed, the amber irises constricting with her thoughts. “So he knows or guesses who it is, but he’s playing politics. He can’t move against the person himself, but I can.”

“You are learning how Mithrans operate,” he said with approval in his voice.

“Yeah. Back to that rat’s hairy—”

“And you don’t care about Mithran politics,” he interrupted. “I know. Would you like to ride with me or follow on your bike?”

“I’ll meet you there,” she said. She finished the omelet with quick, economical bites and drank down the tea. Standing, she left the restaurant and he followed, watching her legs move beneath the jeans. Her legs were, arguably, the most incredible part of her. Her long braid bounced against her marvelous bottom, begging to differ with his assessment.

Behind him, the waiter cleaned the table. He would add the bill to Leo’s account along with his customary thirty percent tip. Bruiser knew how hard most people worked to make a living, and he wasn’t miserly.

He pulled his car in behind Jane and parked next to the bike she called Bitsa. He’d learned when she explained that the Harley was made from bitsa this and bitsa that, by a Harley Zen master, mostly from two old rusted bikes. He’d been a motorcycle man in his day. Someday he would show her his collection, and perhaps offer her one of the older pan heads. But not until she was already his.

With the key, he unlocked the restaurant and held the door for her. She lifted her eyebrows at the gallantry and he smiled, waiting for a comment about she was strong enough to open her own doors. But this time she said nothing as she moved into the dark of the club. She stood in the shadows, sniffing in long bursts, breathing in that odd way she had, so like a wild animal. Upon their first meeting, she had growled at him. He smiled to himself as he turned on the lights. She had taken both him and Leo down fast. It was one of his best memories of her—and he had many.

Lights on, the bar was revealed for what it was. An old building renovated to current standards for bathrooms, sprinkler systems, and wheelchair access, with a long bar, food service and kitchen, storeroom, and bandstand stage in front of a dance floor. He had watched Jane dance there several times, her body lissome and supple and exceedingly flexible. His smile widened as he remembered.

Jane moved across the room, smelling everything, going into bathrooms, checking out every part of the empty building. She ended up at the back door and when she called he met her there. “Open this?”

He hadn’t checked this entrance himself. It was a fire escape, and was unlocked from the inside during business hours. There was no way for anyone to use it without an alarm going off. But Jane didn’t know that, and so she’d found something he had missed. Fresh eyes and better-than-human nose. What is she?

Using another key, he turned off the alarm and unlocked the door, which opened onto a narrow alley, no more than three feet wide.

When the door was open, Jane dropped to one knee and studied the filthy ground, sniffing, studying the alleyway. “Female vamp. Old. She stood in the alley for a while, then came in through here,” she said. “Someone turned off the alarm for her and opened the door, so she has an accomplice. Human, I’d say, male, healthy, possibly a new blood-servant, blood-drunk, complaisant enough to do anything she wants.” She pointed at the paved alley and George knelt beside her. “See these marks? Heels. Stilettoes. Tiny feet, maybe a size five.”

George saw what she was pointing to. He’d studied tracking with an old Arapaho Indian many years ago, but applying learning gained from a moccasin-wearing teacher was difficult to apply to modern footwear in a paved alley. He made a soft “Hmmm” as he followed the footprints with his eyes, losing the print about ten feet down. Jane stood and moved along the alley, avoiding piles of trash and feces and wet spots that indicated vagrants used the alley as a public toilet. He grimaced. He’d see it was hosed down after this was over.

She stopped in front of a recessed area in the brick of the building beside her. Like RMJB Club, it had been many things over years, once a dress shop, once an art gallery, once even a strip club, back when the French Quarter had catered mostly to the flesh.