Yeah. No. Later.
Beast growled and milked my mind with her claws, long sharp claws that gave me a headache, while forcing me to lean down and sniff the little boy, who smelled of lotion, baby powder, urine, poo, milk, and witch, from his mother. I was still holding the baby when the witch magics shuddered through me. The sink of roiling energies filled the home even as the door opened and she walked soundlessly inside. It was the Amazon. And she was fully powered up, angry and expecting trouble. And me with my hands full of baby.
Behind her, just outside of her range, two ogres followed, Auguste and Beno?t, Margaud’s brothers, ugly as homemade sin and twice as big. Margaud’s brothers each weighed in at an easy three hundred pounds, hirsute, sour with last night’s beer, and both smelling of fish and gator. Their last showers were weeks ago. Maybe months. Maybe never and the men thought wading through a bayou was the same thing as a bath. The men wore matching T-shirts, this time in subtle shades of orange, or maybe that was just the expanded sweat rings under old-fashioned bib overalls; on their feet were unlaced work boots that might have been brown once upon a time. I set the baby on the couch and stood, motioning Eli to stay put. I stepped in front of him, allowing him opportunity to ready weapons. The brothers were human and taciturn, even by my standards, with expressionless faces. The only active thing about them was the stink, and it might have walked around the house all by itself. The silent Cajuns glowered as they crowded inside.
The witch was huge, six feet tall, and outweighed me by more than I had thought, all muscle and attitude. Dark hair and eyes, packed into T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes. Breasts like beach balls. I had a quick image of a blue-painted, tattooed, Celtic queen going into war buck naked, a knife and spear her only weapons, with the bones of her enemies tangled in her hair. She was surrounded by a haze of power that made my own bones ache. She extended a hand to activate a preprepared magical working.
Lucky grabbed his small family and snapped up a ward. Leaving the boys and me at the hands of the witch, me with access only to mundane weapons, which I’d never use in the confined space. So I went with my best talent, my smart mouth. “I know ogres eat human flesh. I have to warn you, I’m older and stringier and harder to kill than I look.” I pointed at Eli. “Military.” I pointed at the Kid. “Underage. Be nice!”
I pointed the same finger to the witch, and then dropped it when her eyes landed on the finger. It looked accusing instead of attention-getting. I folded all my fingers into loose fists. “I’m Jane Yellowrock, and I have no desire to fight. The vamps call it parley, and it’s as good a word as any. I’m here to parley. Rules of parley include guarantee of safety to all involved and truce for the duration. So power down on the magical crap and let’s chat.”
The Amazon’s eyebrows went up. “Magical crap?”
“Magical stuff. Magical boo stuff. Magical woo-woo stuff. Spells. Workings. Magical thunder and lightning. Call it what you want. You win. Now power down and let’s talk.”
“Leo Pellissier would allow you to dodge a fight?”
“Leo is male and he thinks in terms of war, strategy, and one-upmanship. He also has testicles, which I’ve come to understand means he thinks with them as often as with his upper brain.”
The Amazon’s eyes crinkled, but if it was a smile it never reached her mouth. “You’ve come to parley about balls?”
Auguste, or maybe it was Beno?t, laughed, displaying an impressive number of missing teeth. The other brother scratched his butt. Through his clothes, thank God.
I figured laughter, even laughter at my expense, was better than a magical war. “It seems to have worked as a conversational gambit.”
The witch chuckled, dropped her ward and all the aggressive power she had gathered. She plopped onto the recliner nearest the door and motioned to the ogres. “Wait outside, boys. There’s lemonade in the truck.”
“Hard?” one grunted.
“No. Freshly squeezed,” she said. “You can drink the hard stuff on your own time.” The ogres shuffled out and the stink in the house lessened appreciably. “So. Jane Yellowrock. Parley away.”
“First, who the heck are you?”
“I’m sorry.” She inclined her head regally, the gesture somehow increasing the image I had of her with tattooed blue skin and the finger bones of her enemies tied into her hair, maybe also in a necklace around her neck, some warrior goddess leading a tribe into battle. “I’m Solene Landry Gaudet, Oiseau Coven leader, sister to our host, aunt to the hotheaded fool hiding her baby.”