Faith Hunter - Skinwalker

Back in the kitchen, I turned off the fire under the singing kettle and poured the nearly boiling water over tea leaves in the filter in the porcelain pot. While it steeped, I made oatmeal the way my housemother at the children’s home had taught me. Bring slightly salted water to a boil, add whole grain rolled oats—never the instant or quick kind—in equal proportion, and stir until heated through. Maybe a minute. Maybe less depending on my hunger. Dump it in a bowl, add sugar and milk. Eat. With properly prepared tea.

I’m a tea snob. My sensei had introduced me to teas and teaware when I was a teenager and I had made a study of tea after hours, after he had bruised and beaten me into a pulp and somehow along the way, taught me how to fight like a man.

I’d been up twenty-six hours and was exhausted, but I was more hungry than tired, so I ate fast, putting away three bowls of oatmeal. My belly bulged, satisfied, though I got a sleepy wisp of Beast’s disgust and an image of a deer eating grass. Ignoring it, I carried the mug with me to the table and tightened the chenille robe. It was clean, and I figured whoever had prepared the house for me had left it. Or maybe the previous tenant had forgotten it when he moved out. He. Yeah. The house smelled of male most recently, over the other scents of the ages.

I sipped and relaxed, my feet in the chair across the table, the robe closed chest to shins. The table was old, maybe an antique, though I hadn’t studied antiques. Maybe next year. Or maybe I’d start languages next year; I wanted to learn French, Spanish, and Cantonese—Cantonese because of tea, of course. When I finished the tea—eight cups, four mugs—I rinsed everything and placed pot, kettle, and stoneware on a drying cloth. I tossed the robe at the foot of the bed and crawled between the soft, lightly scented sheets.

Before I slept I called Molly, holding the cell close to my ear.

“Big Cat!” she answered.

“Morning, Mol,” I mumbled, feeling sleep pull at me. “How’s the kits?”

“Kits? You’re still talking like Beast. You hunted last night.” When I mumbled a vague yes, she said, “Catch anything?”

“The rogue smells weird. Beast thinks it’s dying.”

“Vamps don’t die. Don’t eat that, Evan,” she said to her son, without missing a beat. “Crayons look pretty but taste bad. Angie, take the crayons away from him. Thank you. Vamps don’t die,” she repeated to me.

I closed my eyes, sleep so close it paralyzed my limbs, the world darkening. “I know. Weird, huh. You and your witch sisters figure out yet why Christian symbols kill vamps?”

“Not a clue, but the whole family’s looking. Interesting research.”

“Night, Mol.”

“Night, Big Cat.”

I woke at two in the afternoon to the sound of someone knocking. I rolled out of bed, feeling stiff, and pulled the robe on. I was still holding the cell phone and tucked it in the robe pocket. Barefoot, I padded to the front door and looked out through a clear pane in its stained-glass window. On the front stoop was the pretty boy, the Joe. Interesting.

He was standing at an angle so he could view the street and keep the door in sight. The too-cool, all-black look was gone. He was wearing well-worn five-button jeans and a tee so white it had to be brand-new, with scuffed, worn, stained, once-brown leather sandals. The sunglasses were still wrapped around his face. His nose had been broken once. A small scar across his collarbone disappeared into the shirt. On one bicep, I saw the fringes of a tattoo. I couldn’t see much, but it was a good quality tat, something dark with globes of red, like drops of blood, the ink bright and rich. An Oriental job, maybe. He hadn’t shaved, but the gnarly look suited him. I’d known kayakers—paddlers, river rats—who sported the look almost as well.

As if he sensed me, the Joe turned his head and removed his glasses. Black eyes looked at me through a tiny clear pane. The Joe didn’t appear to be armed. He had come to the front door in plain sight of anyone who happened by. I hadn’t heard the bike and smelled no fresh exhaust. He’d walked? He was alone. So I opened the door. Heat rolled in, sticky and heavy with moisture. “Morning,” I said.

He smiled. It was a really good smile, full lips moving wider before parting, to show white teeth, not perfectly straight, but uneven on the bottom. Something about the canted teeth pressing against his lower lip was unexpectedly appealing. His eyes traveled from my face down my body and back up in leisurely appreciation. “Actually, it’s afternoon,” he said.

I nodded and my hair fell forward, knotted in a half bun, bead free. I had forgotten to take the stone and plastic beads out before I shifted. Dang. Now I’d have to round them up out of the dirt. “So it is,” I said.

“You weren’t here last night.” When I didn’t answer, he said, “I knocked. Walked around. The bike was in the back, I could see it through the gate. But there were no lights on, no sound or indication of movement. You weren’t here.”

It wasn’t a question so I didn’t answer; it wasn’t quite an accusation, but it was close. This Joe was paying entirely too much attention to me and I had to wonder why. I was pretty sure he hadn’t fallen in love with me at first sight when I motored by him yesterday. I let a small smile start and he went on, a hint of amusement now in his eyes.

“When I checked with Tom, he said you had disabled all Katie’s security cameras. In eight minutes flat.” He knew Troll. More interesting. I quirked a brow, his amusement grew, and he said, “Tom said you gave him a nickname, but he wouldn’t tell me what.”

“You got a point, waking me from my nap?” I asked.

“Yeah. Let’s go for a late lunch. You can call Tom for an intro. Fair warning, though. He’ll tell you I’m trouble.”

I rested a hip against the door and considered. Whoever he was, he knew Troll, which made him a local boy; I needed someone with local contacts and connections, and it wasn’t too early in the investigation to start cultivating sources. With his looks and cocky attitude, I pegged him for a bad boy with associations in all the wrong places, making him perfect for the job. And even bad boys have to eat. “What do you have in mind?”

“Crawfish, hush puppies, beer. Salads if you want ’em,” he added, but sounding as if salads were an afterthought. Something he included because girls liked them.

“I’ve never had crawfish.”

“So?” He drew out the word, waiting.

“You got a name?”

“Rick LaFleur.”

“Walking or bikes?”

“Walk. I’ll show you the Quarter. Or part of it.”

I’d seen the Quarter last night, but I nodded anyway. “I’ll get dressed.” I pushed the door and the Joe’s hand caught it, holding it open two inches. I could see more of the tat, four points just above the bloody globes. And another tat on the other shoulder. Black and gray.

“You’re not going to ask me in?”

“Nope.”

“Kinda blunt, aren’t you. Fine. How long?”

“Ten minutes, tops.” Rick’s brows went up in disbelief. This time when I pushed the door, he didn’t try to hold it. He musta wanted to keep his fingers.

I dialed Katie’s Ladies, and when a sleepy-sounding female answered, I asked for Tom. Like Rick promised, Troll labeled him trouble, but then offered more. Rick LaFleur was his nephew, a good kid gone bad. Went to Tulane, got a degree, then went to work for a scumbag as muscle for hire. When his new boss went to jail for tax fraud, Rick started doing odd jobs: unofficial security, protection gigs, strong-arm stuff, and some low-level security jobs for the vampire community, Katie especially. He knew people. He had skills usually cultivated by thugs and thieves. Perfect for my needs. Troll suggested I stay away from Rick. I told him I’d take his recommendation under advisement.