Troll turned as I approached, which gave credence to the old legend that when a vamp willingly shares blood, some of its speed and extra-keen senses get passed along. Faster than I could focus, Troll hit a key and the screen went blank, but the man himself smiled, a welcoming expression that surprised me.
I said, “I see you removed the camera from the back fence. Any reason why Leo Pellissier would spy on Katie?”
He frowned. “Leo didn’t put up that camera. He couldn’t. Spying is against the Vampira Carta.”
I laughed, a sharp cough of sound. “The what?”
“The Vampira Carta.” He lounged back and I spotted the .45 on his other side, within reach. Troll was antsy or scared or something worse. I guessed that getting one’s body drained of blood could do that to a guy. “What do you know of vampire history?” he asked.
“Frankly, except for finding new ways to kill them, vamps don’t interest me much.”
The easy humor left his face. “In Katie’s presence you use the term ‘vampire’ or the more proper term, ‘Mithrans.’ ‘Vamp’ is insulting.”
I sat on the arm of a chair, a position that allowed me to see the doorway in my peripheral vision and Troll full on. It also gave me leverage to launch myself in any direction without a change of balance. Troll grinned at my choice as if he’d had a mental bet on it. Considering that I hadn’t seen this chair before, and that I suddenly scented Katie on the air, maybe the bet was more than mental. I wondered if she was in the foyer watching on the security screens. I said, “Mithrans. As in the mystery of Mithras in ancient Roman lore?” Troll looked impressed until I said, “The whole thing is on Wikipedia, you know. Anyone can look it up. Not that the vamps and the Mithrans have been linked absolutely. Unless you just did. I might have to update the site.” I was joking, but Troll didn’t seem to catch that.
He glanced at his laptop in irritation and I grinned. The real world was catching up with the vamps. Mithrans. Whatever. They couldn’t like it. However, more than half of what was available about vamps in books and online was bogus, fiction, or wishful thinking, sometimes a mixture of all three. And nowhere was there an explanation of why vamps were affected by Christian symbols. It was my personal quest to find out about that, not that I’d had any luck.
“Leo’s muscle planted the camera,” I said. “Bet on it.”
Troll sat back in his chair, bemused but not disagreeing, obviously wanting to ask how I knew with such certainty. I changed the topic to see what happened. “I’m going dancing tonight,” I said. “Where in the Quarter do you recommend?”
“Dancing?” He couldn’t quite keep the startled tone out of his voice.
“Great way for a gal to smell out any problems in the city.” Literally. “The rogue chased down and ate a working girl last night. I’m up for seeing if it comes after me.”
“You couldn’t pass for a working girl in your dreams.”
I grinned. “I clean up good. I’ll drop by on my way out. Maybe you’ll think of a place.”
Back at the freebie house, I streaked on dark red lipstick and wrapped my braided hair up in a turban with Beast’s travel pack in the folds. I strapped three crosses around my waist so they dangled inside my skirt, hung one around my neck in plain sight, and strapped a short-bladed vamp-killer to my inner thigh, not where a dancing partner would find it unless we were doing the tango and got real friendly. I put two full-sized stakes into my turban and two handmade, silver-tipped, collapsible travel stakes into specially sewn pockets in my undies. The purple and teal skirt rode low on my hip bones and the peasant top rode low on my breasts, the tie open, a skin-toned jog bra beneath. Sexy, but showing nothing. The skirt whispered around my calves with each step.
I swished on a little bronzer to brighten my natural skin tone, drew on some sparkly gold eyeliner, and slipped into the new dancing shoes. In the mirror, I tested the movement of my skirt in a little maya hip move that looked like sex. Satisfied, I snapped off the bath light, made sure the house was secure, and closed down the laptop, standing in the dark house, thinking.
I had spent an hour in an online search into the mythos of the American Indian skinwalker, coming away with a confusing battery of images and legends. There was nothing that sounded like me, not exactly. Certainly nothing sane or free from evil.
The doorbell rang, interrupting. The house was dark and I moved through it by memory and the illumination of outside streetlights through the windows to the front door. I smelled the cigar before I saw him. The Joe. Rick. I threw the locks and opened the door, swished my skirts forward, saying, “Well. Looky what the cat dragged in.” I couldn’t resist the taunt. Rick’s eyes bulged at the sight of me. I was afraid I’d have to catch them and stuff them back in the sockets. I chuckled and said, “Thanks for the compliment. Lemme guess. Troll sent you over.”
“And me,” a soft voice said from the street.