Dark Queen (Jane Yellowrock #12)

Beast chuffed. Beast is still learning to use good nose from ugly dog. New stinks are hard to learn. Beast padded away from me, into the depths of my mind. No cops were here in any official capacity.

I moved away from the house and into the relative quiet of the dark. I found a wind-and storm-beaten tree to rest against and sat on the low limb, looking out over the ocean. I didn’t see U.S. Navy ships. Maybe Leo had found a way to keep them off the shore, though they had to know that warm bodies were here because the defensive hedges were not yet in place. The military had satellites and the ability to track heat signatures. In a few hours, here on this one island, would be the greatest accumulation of powerful Mithrans in the world. If the military had the ability to scan through a hedge of thorns thrown up by Lachish and the other witches, the possibility of a missile mishap existed, one that accidentally decimated an island and a house that had never appeared on maps . . . The opportunity was there. The military could track all the boats and the helos arriving and departing. Military satellites would see what civilians couldn’t. Would they take the chance that Leo would win and the peaceful status quo would be maintained? Or would Uncle Sam wipe us all out? I was becoming a paranoid conspiracy theorist.

The cynical part of me said the government would dither and yammer and yada yada for days, at which point the Sangre Duello would be over, for better or worse. The really cynical part said they would blow us to kingdom come. It started to rain, an icy deluge that chilled me to my bones. “Great.”



* * *



? ? ?

I was back at my little limb, dancing shoes ground into the storm-wet sand, silk-clad butt resting on the wind-scoured bark, as the helo landed, its rotors chopping the night. These would be the last deliveries. The NOLA vamps were now all on Spitfire Island. Staff raced to unload luggage from the helicopter. A few raindrops splatted down for a moment, big splashy things that left star patterns in the sand.

I watched from the shadows as Leo stepped from the helicopter, a black shadow in the night, his hair flying in the rotor wash. He was dressed for travel in black jeans and a black sport coat with a white shirt, more casual than I ever remembered seeing him. He was walking to the house and the line of waiting blood-servants when he stopped. Swiveled his head in that unhuman way they have, his nostrils fluttering. And his eyes settled on me in the dark.

Abruptly, he changed course and came to me, stepping gracefully on the sand. He stood staring down at me, the scent of ink and papyrus and black pepper whirling on the prop wash, Leo’s scent. His power spun after it, spiky and intense, like flaming velvet. The wind shifted, carrying away the helo noise, enough to talk. “My Jane. You sit in the dark. Do you grieve when no death has yet occurred?”

“People I love will die in the next night or two. People you love.”

“War is always hard. Death is inevitable, even for Mithrans.”

“I love how you comfort me.”

Leo laughed, that wonderful laugh the powerful ones use, that sends shivers down your spine and makes magic dance on the air. “There is no comfort in war, my Jane. Nor in death. I would not attempt to comfort one who faces battle. There are only platitudes in words.”

Maybe I was still human enough to want platitudes? But I didn’t say it.

“The corset style suits you well,” he said.

I reached up and touched the décolletage of the scarlet corset-styled top, designed by Madame Melisende, Modiste du les Mithrans. The golden lace was made from silk thread, as soft as heaven. My breasts were hefted high, making it look like I had a lot more in the boob department than I did and my doubled gorgets were propped on mounded flesh. My black skirt was a fighting formal, designed for dancing and weapons and battle, but on first glance looked soft and feminine.

My combat boots, the red leathers, a brand-new undergarment, and the white, buttery-soft-as-pigskin moto-jacket fighting leathers were spread on the bunk, ready for the right moment to change. The leathers were backed with Dyneema fabric and hard plasticized armor between the layers. They were lined with silk and there were defensive anti-spells woven into the entire thing. Both sets of leathers were adjustable, so that if I shifted into half-form, they would shift with me, stretching where I expanded and contracting where I shrank. But I wasn’t wearing the leathers. Instead, I was dressed in sexy-formal garb, weapons chafing my exposed flesh.

The helo lifted away before I spoke, the artificial wind whipping the low branches and throwing sand. As it flew away, I heard the approach of the other helo. It was a staggered landing pattern, so the staff didn’t have to reassemble every few minutes, and it had been going on all evening. But Leo’s was supposed to be the last one. A surprise for us all? Someone unannounced? Someone to throw the entire Sangre Duello into total discord? Sure. Why not? Sometimes I thought Leo was more cat than I was. I deliberately didn’t ask about it. I said, instead, “I like the white leathers. They’re different. But this will make a confusing impact.”

“True. And when you fight, you will be the only snowflake among us.”

Snowflake. He was baiting me. Again I didn’t reply.

“Though perhaps a well-knapped white-quartz blade might be a better analogy.”

The helo’s lights danced across the sand.

“I know why you are so sad, my Jane,” he said unexpectedly. “Fear rides a red horse, its coat the color of blood, the color of battle and of loss. Fear is the greatest enemy.”

I frowned as the new helo circled, the lights touching everywhere. “I can’t fight like everyone wants me to,” I said at last. “Falling into that Zen meditation that Eli talks about is hit-or-miss. And when I hit I just slice people up.” Like Callan. “And when I don’t fight in Zen, I lose bits of time.”

“You may not have to fight at all. Nor might I. But if fight you must, then fight as you dance,” he said, his eyes piercing through the dark, his hair already curling in the wet air, “and as your cat hunts. You have balance and muscle memory and claws and teeth. You have deep perception of how an enemy moves and breathes, in the same way you sense how a dance partner moves and breathes, and what steps he may make next. I have seen you take in an opponent and gauge his or her frailties and weaknesses and strengths in the space between heartbeats. You have timing and stealth and joy in movement. All these things are yours by training and nature, my Dark Queen. Incorporate what you can, but do not try to change now. Fight your way. No European will expect such a thing.” He held out a hand. “Come. Let us greet the last arrival.”

“If it’s a suckhead, I hope he can bunk with you. We’re out of room.”

“I fully expect at least one of them to lair with me.”

Hmmm. My mind cataloged the missing vamps as I put my hand into his and let him lead me to the line of waiting staff. The helo finally landed. And Katie stepped onto the sand.