Blood Cross (Jane Yellowrock 02)

I punched with the vamp-killer into his unprotected side. But he was no longer there. He was on the far side of the shell circle. Vamped out. Holding his stomach. "Hungry," he said. "Please."

 

I rolled upright, taking up my weapons with me. Dropped the Benelli on its strap and slung it back, out of the way. I pulled two stakes, silver tipped and wicked sharp, and started across the clearing. Beast-fast. Before I realized that he had spoken. I halted so quickly I nearly tripped. This was a newly risen vamp--I knew it by the size of his tiny, needlelike canines, by the sight of the disturbed grave in the center of the pentagram. I knew it. No newly risen vamp was capable of coherent speech. They were rabid, feral killing machines, gaining the memory of speech over time. They had one need, one function--to eat. And through meeting that need, they killed. But this guy talked. He had said please. And he wasn't attacking. The silver crosses weren't hurting his eyes. He was . . . watching me.

 

I could hear my breathing, strident in the awful silence. Dread crawled along my skin like slimy snakes in the darkness. I brought my breath under control, but when I spoke, my words were breathy and puny sounding. "You understand me?"

 

After a moment, he nodded. One quick downward jerk of his chin. He understood.

 

And then, suddenly, as if it had been there all along, waiting, I understood. The timing of the disappearance of witch children had never corresponded to the appearance of young rogues. Because these young ones were in the ground a lot longer than the expected three days. They were bound into the ground with a spell, like a stasis spell, to keep them there . . . in the hope that longer in the ground meant greater sanity. The vamps I was hunting had managed to raise a vamp that was sane right away. With no need for curing, no insanity. No curse. No devoveo.

 

All the other young-rogue risings had been failed experiments. But this time it had finally worked.

 

But why the crosses in the trees? Maybe the spell that kept the vamps in the ground longer was also intended to make them immune to the power of the cross. Vamps who didn't suffer from the curse, and didn't suffer from the cross. "Crap," I whispered as the implications flashed through my mind. The experimenter had wanted to make sure his creations weren't flawed.

 

The value of a spell to raise sane young was enough to start a war over. Rousseau, St. Martin, and Mearkanis--were all three involved? No. Just Rousseau. No other clan scent was on this.

 

"Hungry," he said again, the word whispered and rough.

 

"I know you're hungry." His throat worked with need at my words. I held up the vamp-killer, letting the moonlight through the trees catch on the silver. "But if you can wait, if you can hold off, I'll get someone here to help. Understand?"

 

He nodded again and closed his eyes. "Hurry. Don't know how long . . ."

 

My mind raced. The first young vamp I'd taken down in this city had been restored to his sanity enough to make it into a club, into the ladies' room, and attack a woman. He'd made a mate for himself. He'd claimed territory. Not normal. Not for a new rogue. They got their name from their lack of sanity. Why hadn't I thought of that until now? Because I was settled into the rut of my own expectations.

 

I sheathed the stakes and pulled my cell, praying for bars. There were three, and though I really didn't want to call any of Leo's people, not after the big boss tried to eat me for dinner, I didn't have a choice. I speed-dialed Bruiser. When he answered, I said, "I have a newly risen vamp in control of his faculties, behind the chapel at the vamp cemetery. He says he can wait for a blood meal if you hurry."

 

"Talking? Not possible," Bruiser said.

 

"Fine. I'll stake him and we can argue over it later." The vamp across the clearing tensed and blinked slowly. I shrugged to show I wasn't serious.

 

Bruiser cursed once, succinctly. "Leo is . . . not available. I'll bring one of his scions. Try to keep him alive." The connection ended and I folded the phone back into its pocket.

 

"You got a name?" I asked the newly risen guy.

 

He seemed to think, and as he did, the sclera of his eyes bled back white, as if the act of answering a question brought him back to his humanity. "LeShawn. LeShawn . . . B . . . Brandt."

 

They didn't remember their names. Not for five years or more. "LeShawn, you think you can make it through the trees about two hundred yards?"

 

"T . . . try," he said. His fangs retracted and his human teeth were chattering in the heat as if he was cold. Which I imagined he was. They were always cold when they hadn't fed.

 

I controlled my fear and my breathing, making sure my reactions didn't push him over the edge. When I was calm, I pointed with the stakes again. "That way. You go in front."