Dark Queen (Jane Yellowrock #12)

The island looked pretty. More importantly, we now had six fighting rings, three on the third floor and three under the house on the hard-packed sand. These were laid out with river rock, brought in on the tugs and half buried in the sand. Lights had been mounted. Outdoor bouts had sounded like a lark to the vamps who were already on-site, and they did look pretty spiffy, though fighting on sand, even hard sand like that beneath the house, was tricky. The construction types had earned their bonuses.

The house was staged. The furniture was in place: sofas, chairs, tables, lamps, beds. A lot of beds, mostly bunks, but a few kings, and queen bunk beds for the vamps. A pool table that had to weigh half a ton. Food, wine, and alcohol had been ferried over. There were rugs tastefully placed and art hung on the newly painted walls. Linens had been brought in. The housekeeping staff had made up the beds, put towels and washcloths and soaps and hotel-sized toiletries in the bathrooms. There were even flowers all over, live ferns and leafy things. Plus the cut flowers all over the kitchen in crystal vases.

The entire island was gorgeous. The house was stunning.

Since four p.m., the two helos and two chartered boats had been taking the construction types back to shore and bringing in our people. The last helo carrying humans and construction equipment was taking off with a rotor roar and lights flashing against a cerise sky as dusk knocked on the horizon. The next helo would begin the transfer of vamps.

Soon, the house and the entire island would be packed. Even with the construction crew gone, there would be too many people, creatures, beings, their scents all mingled and mangled and jarring, merging into an overwhelming pong, though the constant breezes and perpetual gulf rains would blow and wash a lot of it away. The noise of helos and voices and stomping feet and complaining already hurt my ears. Everyone was rushing around getting settled, storing gear. It was a morass of conflicting stinks and sounds and color.

Part of me loved the excitement, looked forward to the fights. I figured that part of me was nutso. The rest of me wanted to hitch a ride back to NOLA. It crossed my mind that I could maybe swim back if I only had a dolphin bone or maybe even a shark tooth. But . . .

We had been given notice of the beginning of the Sangre Duello. Just a few hours away, at ten p.m., Titus, his first round of fighters, his security, and his blood-servants would all be ashore. There would be no preliminaries, as at a parley. No long titles or jibber jabber. No semipolite or stiletto-sharp discussions. There would be two hours for the seconds to approve of the final arrangements of the first bouts, for the weapons of the first round to be chosen and inspected, and for the fighting rings to be assigned. Titus and his minions would be fed a meal and then led up the stairs to the third floor, settled on benches, and given time to armor up and warm up as needed.

At midnight tonight the first bout would begin.

I was not ready, but my gear was all here, including the things I’d told Gee DiMercy to pack and ship. Leo had approved my idea to defeat a betrayal by Titus by involving Ayatas and Rick, though not on the island as PsyLED had wanted. Maybe I was learning how to sneak around and strategize in overlapping layers like the vamps. Or like Beast. Thanks to my one phone call, my final plans were in play.



* * *



? ? ?

I was on my knees beside the bunk bed I’d chosen when I heard a familiar tap-tap-tapping of heels on wood floors, climbing stairs. I dropped to my butt, my back to the door. “No,” I whispered. But the familiar cadence was still climbing, followed by a thump-thump-thumping I couldn’t place. I scooted around to the door and spotted Molly, my BFF, taking the last step to the second floor, her red hair already springing into tight curls with the salty moisture. She was dragging a large bag, what I’d heard her refer to as a portmanteau. The bag opened into two parts, and had been designed half for clothes and half for magical trinkets. By the way it thumped on the steps, I knew she had packed heavy on the magical crap.

Molly was not supposed to be here. She was not to have been told the time and date of the Sangre Duello. I’d left orders. Another head appeared over the half wall of the steps as the person attached climbed behind her. This one was familiar as well, with straight long red hair, and pointy nose as seen from the side. Molly’s niece. Shiloh. Technically, as her clan master, my scion.

“My room is one of the windowless rooms. Yours is there.” Shiloh’s hand pointed toward my room. “And we haven’t told—Oops.”

“Yeah,” I said, standing in a single twisting motion that unfolded my legs and pushed me upright, hands free. “My scions, who swore to me. You didn’t tell me that either of you would be here. And after I expressly forbade it.”

Molly’s eyes flashed and I knew I had screwed up. Molly had never liked being told what to do. “Your Enforcer and your primo countermanded your orders,” she said, her words precise. “As did the leader of the witch coven of New Orleans, Lachish Dutillet. Adan Bouvier was not the only witch on that boat with the emperor, not the only one in captivity. You need magical protection from attack from the gulf.”

I stared at her with horror. I hadn’t told her about Adan, about what had been done to him. I’d tried to protect her from the awful truth of what Titus’s vamps did to witches.

“Humph,” Molly said, asperity in the tone. “Yes. I heard about him, from Lachish, Adan the vampire weather witch. She heard about him from someone else.” Her tone said she should have heard about Adan Bouvier from me. She was right. I dropped my eyes. “Jane. You need the witches to keep you safe while you fight. We need Leo’s vampires and the rest of Clan Yellowrock to keep the witches safe and alive. Leo dies and we are all royally screwed.”

My face must have given something away because Molly dragged her portmanteau across the hallway to me, her eyes boring into mine, her voice rising as she continued to speak. “You think the witches don’t know what will happen to us, to our families and our children, if Titus wins this stupid”—she shouted—“foolish”—she shouted louder—“blood challenge?”

I backed into my room, toward the open window. Toward escape. Molly followed, into the too-small room. The heavy, two-door case had little wheels that squeaked and bumped over every uneven place in the floor. Molly was wearing a deep, dark, bloodred winter dress with a little black jacket and black heels. Red wasn’t usually Moll’s color, but this looked powerful on her. And she was wearing a pearl necklace and carrying, in her other hand, a small rosemary plant. “Look at me,” Molly demanded.

Molly is predator, Beast thought, admiration in her words.

Molly is angry, I thought back. And a mad witch is never a good witch.

“Jane!”

I looked her in the eyes. “I’m here not because you need me,” she said. “I know you can take care of yourself. I’m here because my people need me.”

“You’re pregnant,” I blurted out.

Kits, Beast murmured.