I chuckled and drained one of the shakes through a straw with a long slurp of satisfaction.
Rinaldo dropped me off down the street from my house and I walked the rest of the way, carrying his towel. I had insisted that I be allowed to wash it for him, taking refuge in manners when I really just wanted to keep him from seeing the thin, washed-out blood soaked into it. He charged me an arm and a leg for the after-midnight fare, cash, and I paid it without demur. I also tipped him well, wanting to keep my safe transportation happy. As it was, if Jodi ever discovered and questioned him, Rinaldo would provide a lot of unusual information to the suspicious cop.
When I got inside, I showered off fully clothed, hung up the wet things, and re-dressed in vamp-hunting garb, human style. I had gotten a good look at the rogue vamp in his nonstinky form and I now knew enough to go hunting. The vamp that didn’t stink had been painted on a mural once, decades ago. I recognized him from the naked vamps partying in the mural at Arceneau clan house—Grégoire, blood-master of Clan Arceneau, lately traveling in Europe.
When I left the house, my shotgun was slung over my back, the Benelli still loaded with the hand-packed silver-fléchette rounds. I carried a selection of silver crosses in my belt, which would be hidden under my leather jacket when I zipped it up, and stakes in loops at my jeans-clad thighs. I hooked the chain-mail collar over the necklace of panther claws and bones, the gold nugget necklace well secured. If I had to change again tonight, I wanted all the help I could get. Studded leather gloves protected my hands, steel-toed boots were laced up my legs. Vamp-killers were strapped in leather sheaths at waist and thighs. My hair was tightly braided in a long plait, close to my head and tucked under a skullcap. No vamp would be able to grab me by the hair during a fight. Into pockets went extras: extra crosses, a vial of baptismal water—not that I knew yet how it worked against vamps, but in a pinch I was willing to try it—a camera for proof of death, and extra ammo.
My cell rang five times while I dressed, all the calls from Jodi. Her voice mails went from nasty to threatening. The last thing I grabbed was the wooden box of Molly’s witchy tricks from the top shelf. It was slightly dusty, free of fingerprints, proof that no one had touched the box through the obfuscation spell on it. I unlatched it and studied the charms: petrified wood disks hand-carved in bas-relief, scenes of the cross with a dead Jesus on them. I dropped them down my shirt collar; they slid down my belly to rest against my skin at my jeans.
This time when the cell rang, it was Molly’s number. “Molly,” I said, heading out the door. “It’s the middle of the night. What’s wrong?”
“You opened the spell box,” she said. I thought about that for a span of heartbeats. Before I could reply, she added, “Be careful.” And hung up.
I chuckled. “I’ll do that.” I kick-started the bike and took off. I was two blocks away, the bike roaring beneath me, when the first marked cruiser turned down the street, lights flashing, but sirens silent. I had gotten away just in time.
Even with the leather jacket unzipped and the gloves off, even at fifty miles an hour, the wind wasn’t cooling. It was wet with unspent rain, heavy with fog, the artificial breeze I created as I rode smelling sour and ripe. I was sweating like a ditchdigger, trickles running into my hairline, under the skullcap, streams damping the silk shirt against my skin, pulling with every movement under the vest. I was so hot I was pretty sure I was melting, and the charms resting against my skin added to the sense of sweltering itchiness. As I sweated and drove, I dialed Jodi.
“Richoux,” she answered. “Where the hell are you, Yellowrock?”
“Out and about. How’s Rick?”
“Dying,” she said, the single word brutal.
I felt a chill settle on me, like the chill of death, cooling the sweat that smeared my skin. I remembered the tattoos. I remembered his worry that I was in danger. “How bad?”
“They flew him to Tulane Medical. He’s in surgery. They’ve given him four units of blood and most of that is on the floor. Where the fuck are you?”
I slowed and wheeled the bike off the road. Came to a stop and killed the engine. Into the phone I said, “I’m sending help. Tell the docs.”
“Tell them what?”
I hit END and speed-dialed another number. Bruiser didn’t answer. Leo, the head of the vamp council of New Orleans, picked up his own phone. “Jane.”
I said, “I need a favor.”
“And what do you trade for this favor?”
Beast growled. Leo, hearing the sound, chuckled. I thought fast. I had only one thing the blood-master of the city wanted. Crap. “You still want a taste of me?” I asked, hearing a tremor in my voice. Hating it. Knowing that Leo could hear it too.