Dark Queen (Jane Yellowrock #12)

The Gulf of Mexico raced beneath us, black water and whitecaps and the occasional boat lights below, stars and a clouded moon above. Wind and prop noise were muffled through the earphones as Grégoire’s Vietnam-era Bell Huey blasted through the night, the pilot making excellent time.

Hate flying, Beast thought at me. Hate helo-copters. Hate bird wings. Will bite Leo for making Beast go on helo-copter.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just give me warning. I want to enjoy that.

Will tell Jane. But will bite Leo. Hate earthquake.

I thought about that one and realized she was referring to the intense vibration of the helo. It was pretty awful. Okay by me, but wait until after the Sangre Duello. I need Leo alive. Or undead. Whatever.

Beast is best ambush hunter. Best ambush fighter. Beast is best at everything. Why does Jane want Leo alive? To mate?

No. Leo is like a big-cat on the African plains, I thought as the helo rumbled into my veins and nerves, making my body quiver. He has smarts and claws and big teeth. He’s a good fighter. A really good leader. He’s a good ambush hunter. We need him.

Like male African lion in pride? Big-cat to fight off other cats? Big-cat to keep kits alive?

Yes.

Ambush hunter. Leo caught Jane and drank from her. Leo won. Leo beat Jane.

The memory of Leo trying to bind me slammed through me. I gripped the safety handle by my head. My mouth went dry. Yes.

Leo is good ambush hunter. Leo beat Jane. Beast beat Leo. Leo will keep kits of Asad and Nantale alive?

I had forgotten about that, about the kits. Leo and I will.

Leo and we will keep kits alive. Many more than five fights. We will kill many more than five vampires and their humans to save kits. And Beast will drink the blood of her enemies.

Five was as high as Beast could count. Beast. No drinking blood.

Beast didn’t reply.

Beast. No drinking blood, vampire or human.

The cat padded away from me, showing me her back, a sign of insult. Dang cat.

The helo shuddered hard and banked. Alex, sitting beside me, gagged. The Kid looked green and sweaty in the dull lights. I handed him one of the specially made puke bags. He took it with shaking fingers.

Spitfire Island was a spit of land with a house that didn’t seem to be on any map. It was hidden behind and to the west of Last Island on the barrier islands, and it was a lot bigger than I expected, for a name that had spit and fire in it. I had been expecting an island small enough to spit across or one small enough to raze with a single campfire. Instead, in the landing lights of the helo, I saw low-growing, wind-twisted trees, sawgrass waving in the rotor wash, and palmetto palms. Birds flew into the night in fear or guarded nests beneath the trees. What looked like an alligator—usually a freshwater critter—slid into the salty water of the Gulf of Mexico. And I saw the house.

Holy crap. The house.

I had envisioned a cottage with four bedrooms. I saw a green-painted three-story house perched on dozens of massive poles driven into the sandy land, with a staircase that rose twelve or fifteen feet from sand to a front porch. There were working metal shutters painted dark green lashed back to reveal white-painted windows that were open to the night air, with light blasting into the night. The house—mansion—had a simple hip roof atop the third floor with some kind of metal grating over it that was tied into the ground with long metal rods. Solar panels were built into the mesh, and I wondered if it would power all the lights glaring into the night.

There was no grass on the grounds, but the sand was pristine and sparkled in the landing lights of Leo’s helicopter. Low trees caught the bobbling landing lights, twisted scrub, and sword plants, which seemed appropriate. And there were people everywhere, three with flashes directing the helo to the sandy landing zone, marked out by shells in lines. No independent landing lights. No protection against the erratic winds, the helo taking the buffeting back and forth as it descended.

The touchdown was jarring and Alex fell out onto the sand, throwing up everything in his stomach, which was mostly pizza and garlic and cheese. I did better than expected, especially considering Beast’s catty annoyance. I might get seasick, but I did okay on the sashaying winds for the short flight. My stomach warned it would not be so sanguine on a longer flight. I stepped onto the sand, Eli beside me. We helped Alex to his feet and I slung the heavy gobags over a shoulder as we raced to the men and women waiting at the edge of the flashlights that illuminated everything in bright flickers of still life.

I recognized none of the construction types, who had stopped work to oversee our landing, some pointing. Some had beer bellies and were wearing boots and dirty layers. One grizzled woman stood scratching her stomach, a hard hat in her other hand. One guy looked like he’d stepped off a magazine cover—tall, dark, and handsome, with a carefully groomed scruff, a mustache, and jeans that rode low on his hips. I could see him in a tweed jacket, teaching on a university campus. Four looked like bodybuilders, all muscles and shape and form. One of them was a woman and she had shoulders to die for, like a power lifter, muscles you could still use. Her hair was pulled back in a tail.

Derek and some of his guys stood between the landing site and the house. Beast took over for a moment and, before I could stop her, she tossed my gobag at Derek. He caught it by instinct. Irritation flashed through his eyes. Beast chuffed. I could see the gold of my/our eyes reflected in Derek’s. I had a feeling that my co-Enforcer disliked my Beast as much as he did me. I grinned at him, showing too many all-too-human teeth, and said, “Thanks.”

He tossed it over his shoulder and then took my weapons bag and Eli’s two bags too. Dude had been drinking vamp blood, and a lot of it, to be so strong. There was a time when Leo’s other Enforcer would have hidden his extra-strong, vamp-blood-enhanced physique. Not now. And then I remembered the list of fights and wondered how many Derek was lined up for. He led the way up the steps and out of the wind and prop noise, his feet light, unhindered by the extra weight. Yeah. He had been drinking lots of vamp blood. As much as his humanish system could process. Not that I blamed him. He wouldn’t heal as fast as I would, if he took a lethal wound. He’d be much more likely to die. Like Eli.

Even with skinwalker healing, which was faster than normal even if I didn’t shift, I was still sore from my beating. Having someone else carry my gear was helpful, though I’d never tell Derek that. We followed Derek and I felt Beast prowl through my brain and out through my nerves, edgy, uneasy, spitting in frustration. Want to kill vampires. Want to eat vampires. Want to drink vampire blood.

As I took the stairway to the front porch entry, the construction types behind me offloaded supplies while people who were headed back to shore for the rest of the night climbed aboard. The roar changed and the helo took off again. I could feel the wood stairs strain beneath the weight of the men and women following me.

Between the open risers, I spotted summer ocean gear lashed to the pilings beneath the house, lit by security lights. Behind chain-link fencing attached to the pilings were brand-new lounges, kayaks, paddles, paddleboards, a midsized johnboat with a new-looking motor. All the stuff needed for a long weekend in the sun. In the center beneath the house was an open space where the workers had piled supplies, slung hammocks, and set up a table for meals.