Faith Hunter - Blood Cross

To my Renaissance Man,

who takes the Class IIIs, lets me cry on his

shoulder, and brings me chocolate

My Deepest Thanks to

(in no order whatsoever):

Mike Pruette, Web guru at www.faithhunter.net and fan.

Rod Hunter, for the right word when my tired brain was stymied.

The Guy in the Leather Jacket, for promo work and for telling me Jane needed a softer side.

Sarah Spieth, for help with New Orleans settings.

Holly McClure, for Cherokee info and for allowing me to study her novel Lightning Creek .

Joyce Wright, for reading everything I write, no matter how “weird.”

Misty Massey, David B. Coe, C. E. Murphy, Kim Harrison, Tamar Myers, Greg Paxton, Raven Blackwell, Christina Stiles, Sarah Spieth, Melanie Otto, and all my other writer friends, for taking the journey with me.

My Yahoo fan group at [http://www.groups.yahoo.com/group/the-enclave/] www.groups.yahoo.com/group/the-enclave/.

My cowriters at [http://www.magicalwords.net] www.magicalwords.net.

Lucienne Diver, for doing what an agent does best, with grace and kindness.

Last but never least—

My editor at Roc, Jessica Wade, who:

saw the multisouled Beast in Jane;

has guided this series into darker, more intense plotlines;

who had to spend waaaay too much time on this novel,

pointing out all the problems;

and who helped me fix them. You are the best!

Y’all ROCK!

Molly and the kids and I were eating a big lunch when the lightning hit. The bolt slammed into the ground only feet from the house, throwing brilliant light through the windows, shaking the floor beneath us. I grabbed the table and looked up to see Molly questing with her senses to discern if the lightning had harmed her wards. She had deactivated them because lightning and wards don’t play well with each other, but even a quiescent ward can be structurally damaged. She gave me an “it’s fine” look, but I could tell she was uneasy. Without the wards, the house where I lived while I fulfilled my current contract with the New Orleans vamp council was unprotected.

Molly—a powerful earth witch and my best friend—and I are used to the summer storms in the Appalachian Mountains. Though they can be violent and intense, they had nothing on this monster. Outside, Hurricane Ada was pounding New Orleans, the category-two storm bringing with it wind and torrential rain, though none of the might and tidal surge of Katrina and Rita, and much less of the damage. Human memory is short; most of the natives had elected to ride out the storm, depend on the new levies to hold, and trust in the improvements to the city’s infrastructure, courtesy of Uncle Sam. The only unanticipated aspect of the storm was the intense lightning and two tornados that had set down in the middle of the city’s electric grid, resulting in the loss of power. The wind died for a moment and then slammed the house like a giant fist, the walls quaking. A fresh burst of rain drummed against the windows.

Without power for the air-conditioning units, it was growing muggy inside, but fortunately, I had gas-heated water and a gas stove, and the city’s water supply hadn’t been impacted. So the kids had sandwiches and hot canned soup and Mol and I had prime rib, mine huge and rare enough to still have a moo or two in it, Mol’s daintier and cooked medium. I had even made spinach salads to placate health-conscious Molly.

Wind swirled against the front of the old house, and the noise went up a notch for a long moment, the house groaning. I had never been through a hurricane, and even a category two was pretty intense. I couldn’t imagine a cat three or four, with a storm surge. It was no wonder Katrina and Rita had devastated the Gulf Coast, despite the efforts of New Orleans’s witches to ward against landfall.

I finished off the steak, ate a spinach leaf, and took a tour to check for damage. The old house in the middle of the French Quarter wasn’t mine—only on loan, as long as I was under contract—but I intended to keep it in the same pristine condition I got it in. Not that the vamps I worked for were making that easy.

I studied the twelve-foot-tall ceilings on both stories looking for leaks, made sure the towels at the doors were sopping up any rain that had blown in, and checked to see that the windows were secure. So far, so good—no leaks, no damage. I sniffed at the damp air to confirm that the lightning strike hadn’t hit the house. No smell of smoke, just the strong odor of ozone. It had been close.

On the side porch on the first floor, my old, rebuilt, one-of-a-kind Harley, Bitsa, was safe and sound under a heavy tarp I’d bought to protect her. Out back, the granite boulders my vamp landlady, Katie Fonteneau, had brought in for the rock garden I’d needed installed were rain-slick and broken. Those were not going to survive my stay here. Already the stones were cracked and split, and one had been ground to sharp shards and piles of grit. I exchanged mass with stone when I shifted into an animal whose genetic structure and size were vastly different from my own. It was dangerous. And it always resulted in damage to the boulders. Quite a lot of damage.

The power came on for a moment and the lights flickered. The fountain in the back garden stuttered, sending water into the air, the naked vamp statue in its center glistening with wetness. The vamp sent up a last, single spurt as the power flickered and died again.

I walked from window to window, watching the wind and rain attack the subtropical vegetation and my rock garden, probably the only one in the entire French Quarter. It was beautiful, even in its current condition.

“You’re pacing.”

I looked at Molly, and then down at my feet.

“You need to shift. You’ve been in human form all week. The kids and I will not fall into the sinister hands of the evil vampires if you take the evening off.” She curled on the sofa and wrapped her arms around her knees, her red hair falling in frizzy curls from the humidity, curls she hated. Angelina raced up and threw herself on the leather cushion with a gust of trapped air. Molly rolled her daughter over, keeping an eye on Little Evan, who had found his ball under a chair and was bent over, butt in the air, trying to get to it. “I’ll set my wards. They’ll keep us safe.”

“Is Aunt Jane gonna turn into Big Cat tonight? Can I watch? Please, please, please?” Angie asked. She was only six, but already the little girl was coming into her gift—and it was strong.

“No. That’s private for Aunt Jane. And we do not talk about that, remember?”

Angie dropped her voice into a whisper and put a small finger over her lips. “It’s a secret. Shhhhh.” And then she giggled, a sound that always brought a smile to my face.

“Leo’s not himself,” I said, “not since I killed the thing that took over his son. He’s still grieving, and my sources say grief can make vamps . . . not exactly rogue, but unstable. I don’t trust him.” Still, Mol was right. I hadn’t shifted in too long. I could feel Beast’s pelt rubbing under my skin, insistent. I needed the night.

Beast will guard kits , Beast thought at me. I am strong. And fast. And have killing claws and killing teeth. I shushed her with a calming thought.

“Leo won’t violate your contract with the vampire council to find the young-rogue maker.” Mol laughed up at me and added, “Of course, when you fulfill the contract, all bets are off.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel oh-so-much better.”