Faith Hunter - Blood Trade

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 evah .”

“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.” What does ferocious even look like? “I look worried,” I said. “Vamps are dangerous.”

“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 exposé ?

“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 my heel, heading for the door. Somehow Misha reached it before me.

“Not outing you,” she stated. “Not going to say anything you don’t want said.”

I let a small smile pull up one side of my mouth. “Oh yeah? You gonna let me have the right to edit out anything I don’t like?” Misha’s face fell. “I figured not.” I reached around her for the doorknob.

“Okay,” she said. I stopped. “I’ll let you read over anything I write about you, and if it’s wrong or untruthful I’ll take it out.”

Which wasn’t a huge help. The truth was bad enough, and I wanted to keep the few secrets I had left to myself. But if I left the hotel room, even the right to take out the lies would be off the table. I was smart enough to know that much. Reach would tell her anything she wanted if the price was right. If I stayed, I might be able to bargain for my privacy and secrets. My fists clenched and opened as I hesitated. “What do you want from me?”

“I need an intro to Hieronymus here in Natchez and to Leo Pellissier in New Orleans. I’ve tried but they won’t talk to me. I need someone to give me that extra edge.”

I stepped back and stared at her, waiting, giving Misha a chance to make her case.

“My book deal is structured so I get the biggest payout on delivery of the manuscript. I need the money.”

“We all need something.”

She ignored my derision. “So far, all I have is a contact with a primo blood-servant of a minor clan here in Natchez, a human I talked to ten days ago named Bryson Ryder.” She was watching my face, and hers fell. “You’ve never heard of him?”

I shook my head. I didn’t remember that name from my quick perusal of the Natchez files, and the first thing I had looked at was clan names, their blood-master’s heirs, and primos to get a handle on Natchez’s organizational structure. “Clan name?” I asked.

“Clan Petitpas.”