Blood Cross (Jane Yellowrock 02)

I heard shells crunch beneath footsteps and looked up, but Bruiser was sliding his long, lean form under the wheel. Without another word, he closed the door and started the car, backing into a three-point turn. I took it as my cue and strapped the box to the back of my bike and powered up Bitsa. I still needed info about witch blood bringing the young rogue to sanity; I'd have to ask that one later. I followed the blood-servant of the master of the city out of the vamp cemetery, hardly noticing the passage of the road beneath my tires.

 

Why had Leo given me the bones? What was the purpose of the sites in the woods when vamps could be put to earth almost anywhere except a place with crosses on it? A couple dozen other questions piled on to the original one of who was raising young-rogue vamps. I had lots more questions, but I had proved one thing to myself. Vamps and witches, likely a small, renegade group of them, were definitely working together to raise new rogues. And if the new growth in the woods was an indication, it had been going on for decades.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 13

 

 

Nap time, Aunt Jane

 

When I got back to the house after depositing the check into Derek Lee's account, I found a note from Molly saying they were at Katie's Ladies visiting and doing laundry. She and the little witch Bliss had been visiting back and forth for days in the beginnings of a friendship that I hoped might help Bliss to accept her own power. I didn't think many mothers would let their daughters near a house of ill repute, but Molly wasn't most mothers. Open-minded, tolerant, and unprejudiced, that was Molly. She even let Angie hang around a skinwalker.

 

Alone on the property, I tucked the box of sabertooth bones and teeth into the back garden under a rock. It was stupid, but I didn't want them in the house. It was just too creepy. I couldn't use them; the genetic structure was male and I couldn't shift into a male animal. But what did you do with a gift from the master of the city? I couldn't toss them in the garbage.

 

Back inside, I discovered the dress I had damaged at the vamp party hanging, dripping, in my bathroom. I had thought it ruined, but Molly had gotten all the blood out. It maybe needed a needle and thread in a spot or two, but it looked pretty good for a blood-soaked rag.

 

On the bed, I found a packing box and sighed. More surprises? I slit the packing tape with a knife. No one was home to hear me whoop.

 

I'd lost my favorite leather jacket to the liver-eater masquerading as Immanuel, and the replacement I'd treated myself to was finally here. I'd been measured and fitted at a leather shop in town, getting to be part of the design process from the leather up. From the box I pulled out a buttery soft, armored, padded leather motorcycle jacket and the loose-fitting armored leather pants I'd thrown in for good measure, perfect for fighting vamps and for riding Bitsa. And something I'd never have thought of until living in the Deep South--they had zippered, mesh pockets that could be left open for air to move through. It wouldn't help much on foot, but on a bike, I'd be more comfortable.

 

Not wanting to get my sweat on them, I showered off, which I was doing a lot more than I ever had in the cool air of the mountains, and dressed in my one pair of long silk underclothes before pulling on the new leathers. The jacket had rings along the side seams threaded through with leather straps so I could adjust the fit for bulky winter layers or tighter for summer riding.

 

Stiff, shaped armor pads--not ballistic armor, but plasticized, high-density foam armor, wrapped in silver mesh--could be inserted into zippered pockets across my shoulders, down my back, along my forearms, legs, and thighs. At the joints of knees and elbows, more flexible armor could be fitted in. Straps had been sewn along the outer thighs for sheathed vamp-killers, and there was room in the wrists for forearm sheaths. Small leather pockets with Velcro fasteners were perfect for stakes and crosses, and one pocket was plastic lined for a vial of holy water. There were straps with snaps for securing my shotgun harness in place at my back. And all over the jacket sleeves, the high collar, at the inside of the elbow, and on the pants at my groin--the pulse points where vamps usually fed--tiny rings had been sewn. Silver. To poison any vamp who did manage to bite me. It was so cool I was drooling.

 

When I had it all on and cinched tight and weapons in place, I stamped my feet into my new, never-worn, black cherry Lucchese boots, let my braids fall around me with tiny clicks, smeared on my favorite bloodred lipstick, took a deep breath to prepare myself, and turned to the one full-length mirror at the closet. I didn't recognize the broad-shouldered valkyrie who stared back at me. "Holy crap," I whispered. I looked so . . . freaking fine. Ball dresses were for girly girls. This . . . this was for a warrior. For a vampire hunter. "Holy freaking crap."

 

I was still preening when Molly came through the side door, a huge basket of folded clothes in her arms, Little Evan strapped to her back papoose-style, and Angie leading the way. When they saw me, the two females stopped dead. Molly's jaw dropped. Silently she mouthed something and I was pretty sure it was a lot stronger than my own "holy crap."

 

Angie launched herself at me, squealing, and I caught her up in my arms. "Aunt Jane. You look beautiful."

 

"Deadly," Molly said. "Wicked. And gorgeous in a deadly, wicked, vampire killer way."