Faith Hunter - Easy Pickings

I looked up to see Jo busy with a werewolf and the little Asian muscle-man who had felt me up when he’d patted me down earlier that day. I’d mentally promised a rematch when I had my weapons again, and now I did.

Before I could shoot him, Joanne’s sword disappeared. She grabbed the Asian guy by the shirt, slammed him around to bounce his head off a wall, then kneed him in the nuts. He collapsed in a dazed, whimpering puddle, and Jo snapped, “Maybe that’ll teach you to keep your goddamned hands to yourself, asshole,” before turning to deal with her werewolf.

I couldn’t remember the last time—any time—that somebody had stood up for me. Not just stood up. Protected. I hadn’t known she’d even noticed Mr. Touchy-Feely, and there she was offering up some well-deserved justice. I was touched. In thanks, I shot Jo’s were twice.

She grunted her own thanks. I liked Jo. She didn’t get all girlie, despite her feelings about not killing things. People. Whatever. ‘course, she hadn’t killed Mr. Touchy-Feely and she’d still taught him a lesson he’d be remembering every time he peed for the next week, so maybe there was something for me to learn there. I’d have to think about it.

Not right now, though. I checked for Laz—fighting four vamps and looking like he was having fun—then dragged Grégoire across the floor to Leo, dropping him beside his friend. “This was way too easy, y’all. I’ve fought Leo on my world and ended up bleeding. I woudda died if we hadn’t been interrupted.”

“Your world?” Leo grunted. I had broken his jaw, and he pressed on the broken pieces of bone working them back into place to heal. That had to hurt.

“Yeah. On my world Amaury is dead, poisoned by drinking from a woman drunk on brandy mixed with colloidal silver water. On my world you are the Master of the City of New Orleans and most of the southeastern U.S. You are freaking powerful. There? I wouldn’t have connected with your jaw, and if I had, I’d a broken my foot. You are powerful on my world, not the weak-as-a-human thing you are here. Your uncle is siphoning your power too, isn’t he? How about you call off your vamps and let me kill Amaury for you?”

“You would challenge me?” The silken voice was spiked with power, and slid across my nape like rose thorns dipped in molten glass. This was the kind of power I expected from a vamp.

I turned and faced the Master of the City. And fired four shots into his chest, heart-shots every one, silver ammo. He dropped to his knees. “Yeah. Where I come from, you are true dead, and the world is a better place for it.” I reared back to take his head, and suddenly, he just . . . wasn’t there.

I leaped to the raised dance floor, a wall at my back, the crispy critter in front of me. I hadn’t heard the tell-tale popping of displaced air, but he was gone. Which was freaky.

Laz stepped to the stage with me, to my left, and Jo followed, standing out front, her silver sword glowing wildly blue. “Where’s Serena,” she asked.

“Dat bebe,” Laz rumbled. “I hear bebe cry. From de back of de building.”

I listened, but heard nothing except a storm brewing outside. Smelled nothing but charred werewolf.

“The wind is coming up,” Jo said.

“So?” I asked.

“So I’m guessing somebody is about to unleash Katrina-in-a-bottle.”

“And if it gets free?”

“This city is toast,” Jo said flatly. “Blown away by category five winds and rain and tides strong enough to take out the levee.”

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.”

Laz laughed. So did Jo, though it didn’t sound happy. “Amaury isn’t a witch,” she said. “He can’t control that much power on his own. That means he’s got a power circle with witches going twenty-four/seven, or he’s got some kind of—” She lifted her sword and waved it in the air. “Some kind of thing. Something like this, that can be charged with magic.”

“Like an amulet?”

“Yeah! A storm amulet.” She looked like she thought that was awesome for about two seconds. Then she looked like she’d actually thought what that meant through, and turned green. The rain outside splatted down in a burst, so hard it sounded like a drum corps in the street. The wind grew louder, its pitch rising to a scream, like a screech owl the size of a bus. It sounded angry.

A tendril of wind quested into the room, lifting and swirling papers, overturning glasses on the bar, pushing at the tables from underneath, making them rock. And the wind was heated, wet, feeling like the breath of a large animal. The burned body at my feet started to smell worse, a putrefied stench of burned hair and flesh. I. Did. Not. Like it.

“He’s a power-hungry maniac.” I said. “My bet is an amulet, so he doesn’t have to trust witches to do what he wants. What would the amulet look like? And can we just smash it when we find it?”

“Crap, you think I know? It could be a toothbrush or a snow globe, for all I know. But I’m dead certain we can’t smash it. Everything would go boom.”

In the corner, Leo swiveled to his butt and sat up. “Pull the stakes from Grégoire and I will help you.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“For me,” Katie said. She put out a pale, thin hand, slid it down Leo’s face in a caress that was pure sex. “He would do it for me. And for Grégoire. Amaury is dangerous. He feeds from us until we are near death. Without him . . .”

“Yeah. Without him, Leo takes over and this city is better. Stronger. Which leads us back to the problem. What do we do with the amulet when we find it?”

Lazarus, with all the serenity in the world, said, “I will take it.”

Jane barked a laugh. Meowed a laugh. Whatever short-tempered shapeshifter chicks who turned into big cats did when they let out a short, sharp laugh, anyway. “You’ll take it. Really.”

Laz, who had manifested plenty of sense of humor, didn’t seem to have any now as he nodded once. “Oui, yes. Really.”

“And just how’s that’s going to work?” As far as I could tell, Jane was happy to forget about our larger problem while she gave Lazarus a good mocking. I sighed, about to interrupt, when the rich earthy brown of Laz’s aura began to crack.

Power shone through the cracks. Not witch power, not black sorcery, not shamanic power, not magery. He shone gold and black and brown and green, jewel-like earth tones. He got brighter and brighter, until my eyes began to hurt and then to burn. I swore, flung an arm over my face to make myself stop looking, then dropped it again with the Sight safely turned off.

Laz looked normal again. Well, as normal as any six-foot-six bald man with a body like a young African god could look, anyway. I said, “Well, fuck me,” very softly.

Lazarus, bless his predictable little heart and soul, leered at me. “Name de time and de place, mon cour.”

I couldn’t help it: I snorted a laugh. He wasn’t going to distract me, though. “I knew you weren’t a sorcerer. I thought you were a witch. A really strong one, like my friend Melinda. One with a personal connection to her goddess. You’re not.”

“No.” Laz spread his hands wide, palms up, innocent. “I am not dem t’ings.”

“No,” I agreed, and started to grin. Jane was over there all but doing the pee-pee dance, dying to know what the hell we were talking about, but before she could ask, we all heard an infant wail from behind the stage.

Jane, who had the quickest reflexes I’d ever seen on anybody, whirled and yanked the stakes from Grégoire’s belly. I half wanted to stay and watch what happened to an un-staked vampire, but Jane raced along the wall and through the door at the end. Laz and I went after her and the vamps followed.