Black Arts: A Jane Yellowrock Novel (29 page)

Del kept her face bland, but I could smell her amusement. “Yes. So it is.
Sparkly
. All right, let me help you with your offensive weapons.”

“None of my weapons are offensive. Most are kinda pretty.”

Del chuckled dutifully and corrected, “So they are. Weapons for offense?”

“Yeah. I got ’em.” I weaponed up through the little slits in the dress and strapped on the blades and the Walther .380 beneath the skirt. It wasn’t as powerful as a nine-millimeter, but it was the best weapon when faced with potential collateral damage—humans in crowded situations. Last, I added the small box for com equipment beneath the back waistline, pulled the ear wire and mic up, and hooked them in place. There were two main channels on the system, one for blood-servant security and one for my guys. The third channel was a private one, directly from Angel Tit to me. I checked the channels, hearing chatter on two and hearing Angel talking to someone in the background on the third. Satisfied, I looked at myself in the mirror, expecting to be wowed, but I wasn’t. I felt a bit like Cinderella in a before shot. Something was all wrong.

“Now, sit,” Del said. “Your hair and your makeup need a bit of attention.”

I sat and she went to work on me. When she was done, my braids had been rewrapped in the thick bun and the stakes had been stuck through it in a decorative fashion, not all out like a sunburst, but clustered, according to type. Wood stakes were placed with the rounded handle down, near my left shoulder; silver ones were handle-down near my right shoulder. It was an interesting way to wear them. I was wearing my trademark red lipstick, altered just a bit with a faint pink tint, some sort of smoky and gold eyeliner, a bronze blush, some shimmery, gold-flecked powder, and black mascara. I looked good, even if the neckline seemed way too low. In the three-inch heels, Del and I were of a height; standing side by side in the mirror, we looked great together, Adelaide like an angel, and me like an angel partially fallen.

“We’ll do, I think. Let’s get to work,” Del said.

• • •

Fashionably late, the established vamp clans began arriving, in order of importance. Once upon a time and not so long ago, there had been eight vamp clans. Now there were four: Laurent, Bouvier, Arceneau, and Pellissier at the top.

At the bottom of the pecking order, Clan Laurent was first to arrive, the clan name called out over the speakers. Bettina, clan master, entered alone, the petite woman looking like a Greek or Latin model, full of curves. Once she had been so sensual that lust wafted off her like steam above a volcano. Now she was colder, reserved, but also looked more comfortable in her new clan blood-master status. Meeting her at the door and extending his arm was Edmund Hartley, the former clan master of Laurent. Bettina looked happy to see the man she had defeated to become clan blood-master, and they bent heads together. It had to be weird to attend society functions with the enemies you fought and subdued and drank from, but with vamps, everything was weird.

Her heir and two other vamps followed her, their blood-servants to either side and behind them. The reek of vamp swept in and was pushed through the room on the air currents, the usual dried herbs and fresh blood, but with the sweet, fresh, spring bouquets, the funeral stink wasn’t as potent as usual.

Arceneau was announced next, and this one was the one I wanted to see, with neither Grégoire nor Dominique in town and Adrianna on the lam. The vamp was one I recognized but who was way down in the clan hierarchy, a fairly young vamp, indecisive and tentative, with preylike social skills, meaning that she was
way
down the hierarchy. She smelled faintly bitter with anxiety, like camphor and mint. I didn’t remember her name, and the announcer hadn’t bothered to share it.

Inside me, Beast was prowling, sensing the uncertainty the vamp brought into the room, the nervous tension. Her tail tip twitched slightly, side to side, as she paced. I breathed deeply and slowly to let her relax, but felt her staring through my eyes. From the looks I was getting from vamps and humans, they were glowing gold.

“Clan Bouvier,” the announcer said. The clans comasters Innara and Jena entered together. They were tiny, one blond and one darker haired, five foot two in matching shoes, and their dresses were two shades of red, one ruby and one dark fuchsia. The girls were mind-joined anamchara, fully loyal to Leo, and though they looked cute, they were deadly. I’d seen them fight, and savage was a good descriptive term. Roland, their clan heir, stood behind them, dressed in a black tux, looking deadly and cold. Other clan members and their blood-servants moved out around them.

The stink of vamp was now so strong I wanted to sneeze, and pressed on my nose to stop it as I talked into my mic. “Everyone in, except Clan Pellissier, who are secluded with Leo upstairs. We have ten minutes before the guests start arriving.”

In the ornate ballroom, all the humans went immediately for food and alcohol, some vamps slipping into the small alcove for a blood snack. Leo had approved the blood bar. I didn’t like the practice, but I knew there were no weapons stashed in the curtained nooks, and really, what could I say anyway? The humans wanted the blood-servant relationship. I took the time to grab a bottle of water and walk the perimeter of the ballroom, hydrating.

• • •

The first guests to arrive were cops. “Special Agent Richard LaFleur of the Federal Psychometry Law Enforcement Department and Detective Jodi Richoux, New Orleans Police Department,” the voice announced. Rick’s tux fit him like his own skin, or his own pelt, black and touchable. On his arm walked Jodi, wearing a long dark chocolate brown dress in some kind of gauzy material that flowed around like veils. She looked good and she knew it. I was betting the flowing skirts hid her service weapons and a backup. I had left word that law enforcement was permitted to have guns on premises.

The two had a good working relationship, from the time Rick worked in NOPD, and, like good partners, they immediately split up and started working the room, meeting people and checking out my security measures.

Rick made it over to me faster than I thought possible, considering his casual saunter. He didn’t put an arm around me, but he did ogle my cleavage, with an appreciative grin. “Nice dress, babe. But I bet you look even better out of it.” I tried to force down an instant flush, but it rose anyway, settling deep in my belly. Without waiting for a reply, he chuckled and moved on past, to greet a vamp just walking out of the blood bar.

“Dang,” I mumbled under my breath.

Through the overhead speaker, stringed instruments started playing. I listened to the com chatter, hearing that the next guests had begun to arrive.

And then something changed. A voice on the full-member-security channel stopped speaking midsentence, and didn’t start speaking again. I saw two of Derek’s men in the hallway adjust their headphones and look around, their bodies suddenly hyperalert, so it wasn’t my unit. I tapped my mic. “Angel, security cameras. Do you see anything odd? Someone not where they’re supposed to be? Doing something weird? Lying down like they just passed out?”

“Sound off,” Angel commanded. The regular service chatter was cut and a tense silence lay over the security channel. One by one, Derek’s people checked in, their words preceded and followed by tiny clicks of the com system.

“T. Jolly Green Giant,” the first said. “All is a go. Front entrance is clear.”

“T. Sweaty Bollock. All is a go.”

“T. Antifreeze. I’m good. Back entrance is clear and shut down.” The
T
stood for Tequila. Derek named all his groups of men after drinks.

“T. Sunset. Clear.” “Trash Can, clear.” “Red Dragon, clear.” “T. Acapulco, clear.” “V. Martini, clear.” “V. Lime Rickey, I’m good.” The
V
stood for Vodka. And no one else spoke.

A long silence sounded before I heard, “V. Lee’s Surrender, clear,” Derek said. “We got one disappeared.”

I tapped my mic. “Angel, who’s missing? Cameras. Report.”

I remembered to breathe, forced down my anxiety, and drew my Walther, catching Jodi’s eyes. Pointed to the guest entrance. When she saw my gun, she nodded and drew her service weapon, moving with it in both hands, pointed down, trigger finger along the slide. She moved to stand beside the entrance, but behind a column that gave her both protection and a good angle of fire.

“Vodka Sunrise is down,” Angel Tit said over the coms unit, his voice calm. “I repeat. Vodka Sunrise is down. His position is beside the elevator on the back entryway floor.”

“Hold your positions,” Derek said. “On my way.”

My heart started racing. Something bad was happening, and it had started at the elevator. Someone had gotten past one of Derek’s men.

Angel Tit said, “All I can see is his boots. Suggest you take the nearest men with you. That would be Trash Can and T. Sunset.”

“Sunset, move midhallway and cover both ends,” Derek ordered. “I’ve taken the stairwell. I am in position. Trash Can, approach the elevator.”

“T. Sunset. I am in position.”

“Trash Can. Entering elevator.” I heard the soft
ding
of closing doors over my com. Trash Can was in the most dangerous position. Whatever the cameras had missed could be waiting for the doors to open. A second
ding
indicated that the doors had opened. “Trash Can. Leaving elevator.”

“Lee on bottom floor,” Derek said softly. “I have V. Sunrise in sight. Repeat. Have a visual on Sunrise. He is on the floor but he is moving. Repeat, man down, but he is mobile.”

A string of curses came over the com, in the harsh, slurred tones of Vodka Sunrise. “Somebody knocked out my tooth.” And then he started back cussing.

“Entering hallway from elevator,” Trash Can said. “I have a visual of target. No encoms,” he said. “Repeat, no encoms.”

“Situation is secure,” Derek said.

I gave Jodi a thumbs-ups and touched my mic. “High-alert status for entire team. Anyone, I repeat,
anyone
, who enters your area is to be stopped, ID-confirmed, and searched as you consider appropriate. Angel, go over security on the cameras in that area. I want to know what happened.”

“Copy. On it, Legs.”

Jodi reached me. “What?”

“Don’t know. We had a man down. Something’s wrong, but I don’t know what.”

“Vamp parties are so much fun.” She moved away into the crowd, her gun once more hidden in the flowing folds of her skirt. I looked around. No one on the other communications channel seemed to have noticed anything odd. The blood-servant security types looked calm and efficient in whatever jobs they were doing.

“Legs,” Angel Tit said into my earpiece.

“Go ahead,” I replied.

“Something funny about the footage. It’s all blurred. When it clears, Sunrise is on the floor, bleeding and not moving. Magic sometimes does this to digital footage.”

“Magic,” I said bitterly. “Copy it and send it to Alex.”

“Copy.”

A form appeared at my side, startling me. I had one hand on the blade at my thigh before I recognized Gee DiMercy. My breath went tight. The misericord was slim, slight, and deadly, dressed in black but not a tux. He was wearing an odd sort of outfit, tight but elastic, allowing him to move. He looked dark and deadly, like a modern-day ninja or hired assassin. Which he was, in a way. And worse, he was fully armed with knives strapped at both thighs; they had long blades for knives, more like short swords with carved ridges on the utilitarian grips. “We have a problem,” he said, staring at the door the guests used from the porte cochere.

“Yeah, I—” And I realized he didn’t have access to the communication channels. I followed his gaze, my right hand still holding the Walther .380 and my left on a knife hilt. A couple entered and my hands tightened on both. “Crap,” I said. The place went slowly, uncomfortably, silent.

Much too late, the announcer said, “Ahhh. Jacques Shoffru, Master of the City of Veracruz and Cancún, Mexico, and all hunting territories between. And his companion, Adrianna, formerly of Clan St. Martin, currently of . . .” The speaker hesitated, not sure how to name a vamp who had been given a death sentence. He ended with the more polite “of Clan Arceneau.”

Crap. Crapcrapcrap.
Adrianna was working with Shoffru. Starting when? For how long? Did that mean Shoffru knew everything Adrianna did? Did she have anything to do with the attack on Sunrise? “How long has she been on the premises?” I demanded.

Gee tilted his head up and looked down his nose at me. “Only now. She has been in my sight all but about two seconds as she rounded from the elevator.”

I tried to put that into the time that had gone by and the man down, as Derek took over the situation on the ground floor. I tapped my mic. “Derek. How many just came up?”

“Elevator full, two groups of fifteen. Coordinated movements. No one separated from the groups, no one unaccounted for.” Meaning nothing looked hinky with them as it might relate to Sunrise hitting the floor and losing teeth. But if magic had been used, who knew what had really happened? I looked back at Adrianna. “How did Adrianna get past you? And is it okay for me to hurt her? Bad?”

Gee said, “We can discuss how she eluded me later. For now, she is on the arm of Jack Shoffru, and as his guest, she is in possession of an invitation, one that guarantees her access to the premises and personal safety while she is here.”

I chuckled, the sound low but not amused. Along with every other eye in the room, I studied the pair. Adrianna had her scarlet hair up in a fancy do of braids and curls and pins and pearls. She was wearing a designer dress the same scarlet as her hair, the skirts flowing out around her, her shoulders and décolletage bare, the neckline covered with crystals and pearls and plunging nearly to her waist. Around her neck was a Celtic necklace, and a gold snake crawled up one upper arm, jewelry she had worn to a vamp function before—the night she tried to kill me. My heart rate sped at the memory.

“Got another smear on-screen,” Angel said. “Sending men to intercept.”

“Copy,” I said.

Escorting her was the mystery man, Shoffru. He was swarthy-skinned for a vamp, his dark hair loose and shoulder length, curling toward his chin, like the finger of beard that defined his jaw. He was wearing a tuxedo, the suit, shirt, and cummerbund all midnight black, and his tie and shirt were both undone and hanging loose to reveal his chest and the thick black hair matted there. He was strong, athletic, and walked with a hip-rolling swagger that looked like trouble. He also looked as if he’d been drinking, and maybe he had been, vamp-style, on lots of blood. His dossier hadn’t said anything about his lifestyle in the last hundred years, but he acted like a Naturaleza, well muscled and aggressive. And he was wearing gold earrings, thick, inch-diameter hoops that looked old and heavy, like booty he might have taken from a plundered ship. Last, and really weird, was the lizard on his shoulder. It was a bright green with darker green stripes down its sides, and its snout was up, tongue flicking as it took in the room. I had read about the lizard, named Longfellow, but hadn’t expected to see it at a formal occasion.