Dark Heir

In the SUV, the AC running full out, I laid back my head and let my thoughts have free rein. It occurred to me that the children who had been sacrificed to power the gem in my gobag had been innocent. Only the Damours’ intent had been evil. The intent of the vampire-witches had destroyed the children and then twisted the power of their innocent souls to evil. That intent was a kind of . . . faith. A faith in death and evil. Troubled, I opened my eyes to stare out the window as Eli drove us toward home, passing lawyers’ offices, homes, apartments, dental clinics, and storefronts, all in old houses that carried the spirit of New Orleans’ décor and architecture. And I saw one in particular.

“Stop!” I said. “Pull in there!”

Eli hit the brakes and whipped the wheel, slinging his passengers against the doors. Alex cussed as his tablet flew from his hands and clattered to the floor. “Sorry,” I said to them both, as I popped the seat belt, opened the door, and dropped into a trot to keep up with the still-moving vehicle.

“Damn it, Jane!” Eli said, by way of reprimand.

“Sorry,” I said again, deciding not to say anything about the cursing, under the circumstances. I slammed the door and trotted on to the building. The storefront took up a wide lot with parking in front under a tree and on the street. One half of the storefront was empty. I felt a small space open up inside of me and fall through, like a sinkhole into the deeps of the earth, pulling in things after it.

The small church I had been attending had been in the storefront. It was gone now. A FOR RENT sign rested in the front window. I stepped slowly closer and pressed my forehead and my damaged hand against the glass. It was empty from wall to wall, the concrete floor swept clean. I had to wonder how long it had been since I had attended a service, how long since I had prayed. Since I had communed with nature. Since I had done anything spiritual. How long since I had called out for peace and help and . . . Too long. I was exhausted, broken, wounded, and still feeling the weight of the deaths in the bar. My fault. All my fault. I should have killed Joses Bar-Judas the first time I set eyes on him.

And how was it possible that killing another sentient being would have been better than letting him live? How was it possible that my committing murder was better than letting a prisoner go free? In hindsight, I knew I should have killed the Son of Darkness. But if I had killed the vamp hanging on the wall, as my instincts had wanted, just guessing that he would get free and kill humans, it would have been murder. Could I have lived with myself? Could I live with myself now? I dropped my forehead to the window glass.

I heard the SUV doors open and closed my eyes. Not wanting to see the guys whom I was putting in danger on this hunt. My fault.

I banged my head once on the window glass, caught in the emotional and philosophical and theological cesspool of my life. The window didn’t offer any suggestions, but it did rattle nicely. I laughed, but it sounded more like a sob.

“Jane?” Alex asked. When I didn’t answer, he said, “Your hand still looks weird.” When I still didn’t answer, he finished with, “You’re acting kinda weird too. Like, almost, you know, drunk.”

Without looking at him, I took a step away from the storefront, held out my hand, and pulled up my purple sleeve. The red-tattoo-looking veins were less bright under the shirt’s healing energies, but they were still there. “Well, crap. Drunk makes sense. I’m blood-drunk. From a spell thrown by a vamp who was starving to death, contaminated with silver, and then suddenly got a lot of blood and some magical mojo.” I pulled my sleeve down and stared into the empty building through the dirty glass. “I’m blood-drunk and still have a blood-magic spell working in me.” And I haven’t yet told you about the blood diamond. That too. “I need a cure. I dunno. I was thinking the church might have an idea how to heal my hand.”

The Kid nodded, his reflection in the window glass. “That makes sense. The church didn’t close down. It moved to a bigger building. I’ve pulled up the address.”

I whirled away from the window and looked down at the Kid. Only, not so far down as before. He was taller than he had been, standing at five feet ten or so now, and the nascent muscles I had seen before had gained definition. How odd . . . I reached up and patted his head. “Thanks, Kid. You’ve grown. Can you take me there?”

The sentences held one non sequitur after another, but nothing threw Alex. “I know. I’m grown up now. And yes. But why do you think a church can help you?” His tone suggested that churches, in fact, any kind of spirituality, were hokum.

I held out my hand and took a slow breath, facing the truth of what had happened. I was hurt, and until I figured out something to fix it, I was sidelined. Just like a human. “Vampire blood magic did this. I think only something the opposite of vampire blood magic can undo it. I tried Cherokee fire and cleansing smoke and it helped but it didn’t totally heal. Apparently I tried to shift but didn’t make it.” I thought about Beast, who was still and silent in my soul home, wounded, just like me. “And I honestly don’t think I can shift on my own. So, maybe, holy ground?”

The Kid gave me a one-shoulder shrug and we climbed back into the SUV. The guys talked a bit, then we drove a while, crossing under I-10 on Governor Nicholls Street, heading nearly opposite from the house and the nice comfy bed I needed so badly.

There were parts of Governor Nicholls that looked safe, like a pleasant place to live, with blooming plants on the galleries and well-kept homes, businesses, and yards. And then there were the other parts, with busted chain-link fences, busted windows, boarded-up doorways, and walls that were covered in urban street art and gang signs. The little church was in that part of the hood. It had taken over a small one-story house with the traditional double-shotgun front—a door on the left and a door on the right. The house had freshly painted yellow siding and dark green window shutters that were closed against the heat of the day. A new steeple perched on top of the roof ridge, and the sign in the small yard read, THE CHURCH, which seemed information enough for me. We parked, and I got out into the heat and humidity, which instantly tried to smother me, as if Mother Nature had shoved a hot sponge over my face. I carried the gobag containing the blood diamond and the iron spike discs in my good hand, and my feet dragged me from the vehicle in exhaustion.

I opened the gate, walked to the gallery and under the porch roof, and tried the door. It was unlocked, which, in this part of the city, was just weird. I pulled the iron discs and the black velvet bag containing the blood diamond and gripped them in my damaged hand. Tossing the gobag over my shoulder into the small yard, I knocked and opened the door. I took a step inside.