Dark Queen (Jane Yellowrock #12)

His face showing nothing, Ayatas slid out of his jacket, then his shoulder holster, and unclipped his badge, handing them to Derek. He pulled an elastic out of a pocket and pulled his hair back, tucking it into his shirt where the long strands couldn’t blind him. The tail could still be used as a weapon, but it would take close contact to get a hand on it. Then he kicked off his dress shoes and peeled off his socks. Even his sweaty feet smelled floral as he accepted the staves and walked across the gym to the empty fighting mat.

The fighting mats cleared out and the number of spectators along the walls and sitting on the bleachers increased. Someone whispered, “Prepararse para la muerte,” which was Spanish for “Prepare for death.” I said, softly, but loud enough for Leo to hear, “This man is a special agent of PsyLED and under the protection of the Enforcer.” And he may be my brother. Or not. If Ayatas somehow hurt Leo, I might be able to keep him alive long enough to get him outside.

The men went through the meet-and-greet ceremony, a truncated version that skipped the names and titles and went straight to tapping staves together in a salute. Ayatas moved in and tapped Leo’s staves, then back out, fast. Faster than human. Skinwalker-fast. I knew that speed. Without Beast, it was my own speed. Pulling on Beast’s abilities was like skinwalker on turbo.

Leo backed away and his staves started circling in La Destreza, the cage of death, the magic circle. So did Ayatas’s. Interesting and interestinger. Ayatas knew La Destreza.

They engaged slowly as Leo tapped Ayatas’s staves, a two-tap with his long stick. Ayatas tapped back with lunges, feeling out his opponent. His feet were long and slender at the heels, wide at the toes, the shape of the feet of a man who wore moccasins in his youth, not boots or shoes, yet the skin of his feet was smooth—the feet of a man who got regular pedis. Or who shifted shape to an animal and then back into the form of his human DNA, with no calluses or scars. His knees were bent for balance, his quads pushing against the suit pants. He was poised, posture neat, his body stable, rock steady. The taps sped up, becoming clacks, loud enough to echo on the bare walls. No one was taking bets on the winner. Not yet. Ayatas landed three taps on Leo. The Master of the City laughed and tossed his shoulder-length hair. I realized he had left it down to give Ayatas an advantage. Leo’s version of fighting honor.

The clacks sped. And sped again. I found myself moving closer, watching every move. Beast crouched at the front of my mind, panting, chuffing when one of the men landed what would have been a bloody deadly wound had they fought with steel. Leo’s long stave caught in Ayatas’s hair, ripping out the elastic, sending the hair in a swan-wing arc, free.

And then, with his hair flying, Ayatas raised the short stave back over his shoulder and threw it. Like a small ax. Like a tomahawk.

Time seemed to slow down for me. Not the Gray Between of time bending, but the battle time slowing that allowed me to see everything happening. The muscles in Ayatas’s arm flexing and releasing. The spin of the practice sword. The stave hitting Leo in the collarbone, slightly to the left of middle.

And memory flashed over me.

The trees had been brilliant with fall colors. The smell of meat in the smokehouse and the wisps of hickory smoke had filled my lungs. The house was part cabin, part white-man house, with long, smooth boards over the outside, painted white, and chinked logs on the inside for warmth. It was Elisi’s house, on land she farmed. But Edoda was the hunter, and he had brought back black bear and two bucks, all three animals scored with claw marks.

I wanted to hunt with Edoda, not farm like Elisi. Edoda was humoring me. The clan women were butchering the meat, watching while Edoda taught me to fight.

“Did you see?” he said. “The moment of release?”

I nodded.

Edoda placed the smaller ax in my hand. It was a white-man ax, the head made of steel. It was very expensive and Edoda had bought it with the skins of his hunting and the dalonige’ i he had found in the riverbed. White man’s first love—gold—had purchased the ax and the new dress I wore, the spinning wheel, the hoe, and other farming tools for Elisi. Edoda pointed out the parts of the ax: “Head, handle. On the head is the poll, the eye, the cheek, the toe.” He touched different spots on the sharp edge. “The bit or blade.” He slid his long fingers down to where the head joined the handle. “Beard, shoulder, heel.” His hand reached the curved handle. “Belly. This curve is what gives the ax its balance and its strength.” He slid his hands down the handle. “Throat, grip, knob.” He placed my hand on the grip. Adjusted it. Showed me how it felt by swinging his weapon, grip only tight enough to guide, not strangle, the wood. I swung mine.

Edoda nodded. I had done it right. He spun, his arm flashing back, muscles tightening and releasing. His larger ax flew. Bit deeply into the dead tree. I copied his movements. My small blade sank in beside his. Not so deeply. Only the toe of the blade. But it held.

“Well done, Gvhe.” He patted my head.

His hand had been warm, smooth. I had been safe.

I blinked back into the gym, my body bathed in a cold sweat, the memory a fleeting moment, now gone.

Leo laughed and I focused on the combatants. The battle was over. Leo had a bloody ear and Ayatas had blood on his face and a busted lip. They had played rough. Ayatas shook an injured hand and Leo offered to heal him. Ayatas refused with words that showed he knew vamp politics. “I am honored, Leo Pellissier, Master of the City of New Orleans. But my kind heal well on our own.”

The men were bruised and one of the battle-hard staves was broken. That was a first.

“You’re both stupid,” I muttered. But I must have spoken too loudly as they both shifted to me, bodies bladed, two warriors facing a common foe, though relaxed, the foe not attacking and of no real danger.

I turned and left the room, walking alone down the empty hallways, leaving behind the echoing voices and the smell of testosterone and blood. Remembering the sound of my father’s voice.

“Well done, Gvhe.” Gvhe. Wildcat. My name had been Wildcat.



* * *



? ? ?

I still had a few minutes before tea and wandered to what once had been the conference room but for now was the main security area. The walls of HQ had been newly spelled, top to lowest basement, against flood and rising water table by the local witch coven. There was a hidden weapons storage unit on the back wall behind a new shelving unit, one of four in the complex. There was enough coffee and tea for a platoon to survive a week-long hurricane. HQ was now equipped with three different methods of making power, plus batteries big enough to run all the computer systems and one coffeemaker for that same week. We had guns, computers, and coffee, everything we’d need in case of problems. We might go hungry, but we’d be well caffeinated.

The big view screens over the table and around the room were all lit, all showing images of different parts of the compound, captured on camera, divided as to location. There were a series of the grounds. Tex (a vamp) and his dog were patrolling. There weren’t a lot of vamps who liked dogs and vice versa. Three humans and two more vamps covered the grounds with him, inside the tall walls. A loyal sniper provided overwatch on our roof and grounds from his hide across the street. Things were as safe as I could make them.

There was a series of views of the gym, the area outside Leo’s office, and his new, more secure bedroom. There were two from inside the blood-servant rec room. A series of camera views showed the entrances and the elevators (including the ones that had once been secret) and the various stairwells.