Dark Heir

“You mean we could cut out his heart and he might not die?”

I shrugged in answer.

“That would ruin a perfectly good day.”

I smiled, my fingers working the skin of my injured arm, pressing deep into the muscles.

The silence in the SUV cab grew deeper as the sky brightened and Eli processed my statements. I rubbed my arm harder, wishing for the dragon T-shirt. The world spun and halted, spun and halted, a sickening motion that made me want to toss my cookies. Or toss the water I’d just drunk.

“I got an idea,” Eli said, his voice far too casual, the inflection off somehow. “What about using the blood diamond to track him? All we’d need are some witches we trust.”

I flinched. The blood diamond was a black-magic, blood-magic artifact that had been empowered by the sacrifice of hundreds of witch children. And I just happened to have possession of it. My arm ached more and I pulled up my sleeve to discover that the lines traced on it were darker, or brighter. Redder anyway. I hid them beneath the silk T-shirt sleeve. Someone I trusted once accused that I’d find a reason to use the blood diamond. That I’d justify using the blood-magic power to do good, and that using blood-magic power for any reason was a long road to hell. I said, “So, no.”

“No, what?” I forced my eyes open and looked at Eli. And realized he hadn’t spoken, he hadn’t suggested the blood diamond. Eli’s eyes were on the road, hands at two and ten. The SUV was stuck behind a cement truck, trying to navigate the narrow, one-way streets. Eli hadn’t spoken at all. I had been dreaming. Hallucinating. A chill started between my shoulder blades as a single huge raindrop landed on the windshield, a splatted star reaching out from the puddled center. With no more warning, rain pelted from the cloudy sky and grayed the city around us into a misty, watery film, a return to the darkness of predawn. Eli slowed and turned on the windshield wipers, his motions efficient and smooth as always. Around us, the typical New Orleans deluge isolated the interior of the car from the rest of the world, making it familiar and cozy, despite the rising humidity brought by the storm. Crap on crackers. Eli hadn’t spoken. “Nothing,” I said.

I didn’t think I should close my eyes again. Not just now. I studied my hand in the dim light of the rainstorm. It looked like I’d been beaten by two-by-fours. Bruised and broken looking.

My cell buzzed and I pulled it to see that I had a file from the Kid. I opened it and read his latest bit of research. Raising my voice to be heard above the water pounding on the vehicle, I said, “We need to talk about witches we can trust. Sabina said to get the Truebloods to introduce us to the witch coven leader here, but I’m not planning on taking that route if I can help it.” Molly had problems that she needed to deal with, without helping me again. I’d been hard on our friendship—for a good cause, to save lives, but still. If I could avoid using Molly, I would.

“Good. Molly has family. Kids.”

I nodded. He understood. I blinked, yawned, and forced myself to concentrate on the file open on my cell. “I took a minute, earlier tonight, to get Alex to look her up, and Lachish Dutillet is the leader of the New Orleans coven, a person of color of Creole descent.” I skimmed the file. “And crap. Her daughter disappeared under the rule of the Damours, so she has no reason to talk to me or to help the fangheads.”

“So we’ll just hop on over there and change her mind?”

I didn’t know if he was serious or not, but it didn’t matter. “I have no idea how to convince her to help us,” I admitted as I examined her photo. She was maybe mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, Creole skin and eyes. Pretty. A bit stout. I showed the poor-quality photo that Alex had captured from somewhere online to Eli. “She has to hate vamps.”

“You could tell her you killed the vamps who were killing the witches.”

“Eh,” I grunted. I didn’t think that would help. But Jodi might, with her familial witch connections. If I hadn’t run away from the press conference like a cat with her tail on fire, I could have asked her in person. I texted Jodi, Intro to NOLA coven leader? Today?

Instantly I got back from her, Yes. Have made calls. Lachish willing. Things in works now.

“Well. How about that,” I said. “Jodi already contacted her.” Eli grunted in acknowledgment. I flipped back through my info on the coven leader and said, “Lachish means ‘she who walks, or exists, of herself.’ It’s biblical.” Eli said nothing. “Names are important. They mean things. For instance, Younger could mean your ancestor was a younger son. Eli means ‘uplifted’ or ‘ascended.’”

Eli snorted. “I do belong on a pedestal sometimes.” Before I could roll my eyes he went on, “And what does Jane Yellowrock mean?”

“‘Gift from God, gold.’ But my Cherokee name, Dalonige‘i Digadoli, means ‘yellow-eyes, yellow-rock.’ Yellow-eyes because I’m a skinwalker and, hey, the eyes.” I pointed at my face. “Yellowrock for the gold the white man found in the Appalachians that eventually caused the Trail of Tears, so the yunega—white man—could take our land.”

“So your name is both a gift and a curse.”

And that was something I had never thought of before.

CHAPTER 8

Eye of Newt

It took forever to get home, with the rush-hour traffic and the rain affecting visibility. I closed the files, too tired to concentrate, and lay my head against the headrest while I massaged my injured arm. If I’d had my bike, I would have been soaked to the skin but home a lot faster. I had forgotten how much easier/faster/better it was to navigate city streets on a bike. I missed Bitsa. I had left a voice mail for Jacob, the Harley Zen-priest master motorcycle mechanic in Charlotte, North Carolina, who was trying to put her back together again, but he hadn’t returned my call. Jacob lived along the Catawba River and had originally built Bitsa from the rusted remains of two Harley panheads I had found in junkyard-graveyards. I knew Bitsa was in bad shape, but it was taking an awfully long time to get her back. And . . . he should have called. He just should have. I felt a tear trickle down my cheek, heated and burning. I missed Bitsa. Which was not stupid. It wasn’t. Fortunately, Eli didn’t notice in the dull lights.

We finally got to the house and Eli parked on the street, the rain still tapping down in a light shower. Oddly, I was sorry the ride was over. It had been nice. Stress-free. Vamp-free. Eli opened my door for me and stood there, in the pattering rain, waiting. I watched him. He looked kinda odd, and I asked, “What’s wrong, Eli?”