Skinwalker

I looked over the speechless Rick’s shoulder and spotted his companion. She wore a short flared skirt and T-shirt, dancing shoes, flashy jewelry, and lots of makeup. “Bliss?”

 

 

“Miss Katie sent me. She said I could help?” She looked uncertain. “She gave me a week’s wages to miss work.” She started to say something else and stopped. The scent of fear was faintly bitter on her skin. I had no idea why Katie had sent her to me but I didn’t like it.

 

“It should be safe enough tonight, Bliss,” I said. “All I’m looking for is a really stinky vamp. He should smell sorta . . . decomposing.”

 

“A rotting vamp?” She put a hand on her hip, rings flashing and bangles clanging. “You’re kidding me, right?”

 

“Nope. And Bliss. I’m not prying, but what do you know about your birth parents?”

 

“Nothing. Why?”

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Bliss was more than a rogue vamp lure and vamp sniffer-outer. She was also Katie’s eyes.

 

Before we left, I wrote down the address of the Cherokee elder for Rick and asked him to track down the owners of all property within three miles in any direction. It was a lot of land, and the research would keep him occupied and out of my hair, doing stuff I hated. Then I locked my door and left with the two, Rick’s cigar leaving a trail on the air even a human could follow.

 

Three abreast, we walked through the Quarter, taking our time in the heat, heading for Bourbon Street. We were passed by tuxedo-clad waiters on the way to work, couples out for a romantic night, small groups of men looking for a good time in strip joints, and a few vamps out trolling for an early dinner or maybe just a snack to hold them over till later.

 

I spotted a group of young witches glamoured to look like older women, and I wondered what they were doing and why they needed a disguise. Bliss watched the group, her face tight with concentration, and I wondered what she saw. I wondered a lot of things and I had very few answers. She and Rick chatted as we walked, and I felt their eyes settle on me often, their curiosity like a blanket held around me. But I had nothing to say, and let my silence build.

 

The air was hot, muggy, and heavy, as if it carried extra weight, as if lightning and tomorrow’s rain infused it, waiting. I perspired in a smooth, all-over sheen and my new skirt brushed my legs and thighs with each step, the moist air swirling around me as I walked. The amethyst and chatkalite necklace and my gold nugget lay together around my neck, the stones warm. The voices and people we passed were relaxed and slow. The ambiance was heated, as if dance had already found me, as if I had slid into the rhythms and steps and was already mellow. I breathed in, sorting out the various scents.

 

The smell of seafood, spices, hot grease, and people filled the air. Food and liquor, exhaust and perfume, vamps and witches, drunks and fear, sex and desperation, and the scent of water. Everywhere, I was surrounded by water, the power of the Mississippi, the nearby lakes, the not-too-distant reek of swamp. The overlay of coffee with chicory, the way they brewed it here. The scent combinations were heady.

 

The streetlights hid as much as they revealed, like an ageing exotic dancer hiding behind fans or party balloons. Music poured from bars and restaurants, rich with jazz licks and dripping with soul. Together, it brought Beast close to the surface. I could feel her breath in the forefront of my mind, hear her heartbeat. Her pelt moved against my skin as if ready to break through.

 

There were a few cops on foot, their presence meant to bring a measure of security to the tourists. But the officers were nervous, each with a hand resting on gun butt, faces and eyes hyperalert, radios transmitting information to them in a steady stream. They were all twitchy.

 

Besides weapons and Kevlar vests, NOPD cops carried GPS tracker devices. Each had a built-in “officer panic alarm,” activated by pressing a button. If a cop pressed it, an alarm went out to dispatch, transmitting the officer’s GPS location, calling for all officers to respond. And it made an awful racket, an ear-piercing whoopwhoopwhoop.

 

The devices hadn’t helped the cops the rogue had killed. Had they not carried them that night? Or was the rogue so good at mind games that he took them all over before they could press a single button?

 

Cruising every street were media vans, local affiliates of CBS, NBC, ABC, a FOX News van with a picture of Greta Van Susteren painted on the side, even a local cable van. The reporters were looking for local color and anything they could get on the killer of cops and prostitutes—each hoping for an exclusive they could parlay into bigger ratings and increased personal fame.

 

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