Skinwalker

“Things are done differently in vampire families as old and influential as the Pellissiers. The Marchand family has served as blood-servants to Clan Rochefort, in the south of France, for two centuries. The joining of the two families creates business opportunities for Clan Pellissier and strengthens the blood and commercial connections that they currently share.”

“So, if the girl is part of Clan Rochefort, why didn’t they bring her over?” I asked, trying to gain as much information as I could while I had a willing source. And trying to ignore the fact that I was as fascinated as any vamp-fangirl.

“Leo wanted to bring both of the young people over himself, so that Immanuel and Amitee could share in a mind bond later, if they so wished. We’re nearly here.” He lowered the privacy partition and gave the driver instructions.

I’d have to ask about the mind-bond thing. Along with vamp reproduction. Ick.

Leo’s house stood on a bend of the Mississippi River, the water purling softly in the night. It was at the end of a well-paved but little-used road, no houses within sight. The house was built on high ground, the hillock rounded and smooth and clearly artificial, some twenty feet above sea level, higher than anything around it. Curling-limbed live oaks arched over the long drive, standing like sentinels on guard in the night.

The white-painted, two-story brick house was a mixed architectural style all its own, with dormers in the tall slate roof, and gables at each corner with turret rooms, or whatever they were called, on the third floor. Light poured through the windows, black shutters at each, two shutters hanging open at an angle, proving they were working devices, not just for show. Stained-glass windows were here and there, shades of crimson and scarlet and cerise pouring into the dark.

Porches wrapped around both stories, interrupted by the turret things. Lights hidden in the foliage threw a soft white glow on the outside walls while others lit the drive and walks. It was a house originally built in the nineteenth century, one that screamed it had been constructed by slave labor. Slave labor probably kept it looking nice even now, all painted and pristine, but by willing blood-slaves, not by humans bought and transported wearing chains.

Limos moved toward us and turned in behind us, headlights glimmering on the drive. An old man stood at the bottom of a staircase to gesture at the house, as if the guests couldn’t figure out where to go once they arrived. When we pulled to a stop, he opened the car door and said, “Good evening, ma’am, George. Mr. Pellissier is waiting for you and the young lady to arrive.”

There were probably a dozen steps to the front door. I flashed a lot of leg going up and could tell that Bruiser was enjoying every moment. At the top of the stairs, a woman in sensible shoes and tux skirt with apron offered us champagne, and this time I took a glass to have something to do with my hands. Which were clammy with apprehension.

I had never been to a party as froufrou as this, and I already hated it—designer party clothes, party social manners, and party people milling around chatting. Give me a beer keg, a radio blasting country music, and a bunch of security experts discussing guns, edged weapons, and Har leys and I was fine. This was agony.

At the door I said to Bruiser, “You forgot to search me.”

“I’m saving that for later,” he said with a half grin. “Much later.”

Oh boy. I gulped the champagne. Bruiser chuckled and watched me look the place over.

Inside, the foyer was as big as the living room in the freebie house, floored in white marble, with a mosaic heraldic emblem in front of the door in black, white, gray, and maroon marble, depicting a griffin with drops of blood spraying from his claws, a battle-axe, shield, and banner. A real stone fountain splashed near the crest, beside tables loaded with fruit, cheese, and hot and cold meats: a whole salmon; a roasted piglet with an apple in its mouth; various fried meats; boudin in heaps instead of fried into balls, piled in a heated serving tray; sauces, crackers, and the overwhelming scents of spices and food and vamps. Lots of vamps.

Beast rose, seeing through my eyes, making me breathe deeper, faster, taking in the scents, the world a textured smorgasbord of fragrances, smells tangled as a tapestry, bright as a painting. I counted ten vamps standing in one group. Dozens in smaller groups. Crap. There had to be fifty of them, all well fed and moving human slow. All wearing designer gowns and tuxedos, any one of which cost more than everything I owned. Beast went all twitchy. So did I.

Bruiser stood to my side, watching me watch them. I knew I was giving away all sorts of things about me. And I couldn’t stop. I had never been in a room with so many vamps—sane or not—or so much money. I focused on the house and the scents I could parse. Vamp scent of old parchment, dried herbs, subtle perfumes, traces of fresh blood from recent feedings. And an underlying reek of entitlement. I didn’t smell the rogue. And no one instantly turned to me, pointed, and shouted, “Skinwalker!” I felt a faint disappointment even as relief washed over me.

There were two sets of stairs, one on each side of the huge foyer, curving up and around to a small space at the top, like a stage, with another hallway extending back. Rooms opened up to either side. On the ground floor, the foyer stepped down to a formal reception room beneath the upper floor, with furniture done in shades of charcoal, gray, and soft whites. It wasn’t bland, however; touches of color were everywhere from the paintings lining the walls to the pillows on the couches. Rugs in every shade were scattered all over the marble floors, their placement looking haphazard, but they had to be carefully positioned, didn’t they? Or did vamps not fall?

I had a mental image of Leo’s feet flying up in front of him as he landed in a thumping tumble, fanging his lip. Beast’s soft laugh escaped me, breathless. Bruiser raised his brows in puzzlement. I didn’t enlighten him. We moved on inside. Maybe ten feet from the front door.

As we passed a group of vamps in formal wear, one black-clad blond woman turned and sniffed the air in my wake. Faster than I could follow, all the others followed suit. Eyes began bleeding black. Fangs snapped down. I stopped. Whipped around to confront them, my back to the wall. Beast rose in my eyes. For a single moment we faced each other. Me wearing heels. No weapons. Crap. My heart rate sped up. Beast poured speed into me, her pelt rising and rippling beneath my skin, her claws flexing in my fingertips. The vamps each took a single measured tread toward me. Spreading out. Ringing me. Crap, crap, crap!

Bruiser stepped to my side. Placed a proprietary hand on my spine. “The rogue hunter,” he said. At his touch and the words, they stopped. I stopped. Beast went still, but so close to the surface I could feel her killing claws burning in my fingertips as if I were already shifting.

As if the vamps shared a single thought, their fangs snapped back in place. The pheromones of alarm in the air reduced. I remembered how to breathe but it hurt, as if my lungs had dried out and lost elasticity. I forced my clawed hands to relax. The blonde looked me up and down, slowly, as if committing me to memory. Cataloguing me. The way a cattle baron might remember and catalogue his herd. “Dominique,” she said, her voice heavily laced with French. “Acting head of Clan Arceneau. You may call upon me.” Moving human slow, she turned her back. The others followed suit.

“Crap,” I whispered. “You may call upon me?” Was that a command? Like hell I’d call on her. Bruiser took my arm, pointed to the food, and murmured, “I’ll be right back; try not to get killed.”

“Good idea,” I said, breathless, trying to shake off the fear and adrenaline. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He stepped away, gliding almost as smoothly as a vamp. Music started up and I spotted a trio of human musicians with stringed instruments in the corner beneath a huge portrait of a king in robes and crown, slender hunting dogs at his feet. The musicians were playing something classical and vaguely whiny. Not good dance music. I wanted to giggle at the thought. A hysterical, terrified giggle.

Keeping my back to a wall when possible, and my eyes on the vamp groups, I raided the meat table, adding a wedge of cheese and a strawberry just for kicks, and tried to figure out what to do next. What did one do to celebrate not being eaten? Maybe I could go up to all the vamps present and ask if they knew any rogues. A single adrenaline-laced giggle burbled up, like a terrified heeee, and the waiter behind the meat tray looked at me oddly. I stuffed a hunk of piglet in my mouth and said around it, “Low blood sugar,” to explain the laughter. He set an icing-covered pastry on my plate by way of reply.

Still shaky, I took myself and my overloaded plate on a house tour. Unlike the homes I visited on my Garden District excursion, here I was an invited guest. I figured that meant I could roam where I wanted. It might not help me kill a rogue vamp, but it might help with future searches and vamp contracts to know how the fanged and moneyed lived.

To the right of the reception area was a restaurant-sized kitchen. Inside there were two chefs in white hats and at least a dozen waiters coming and going. The pantry and linen rooms were behind the kitchen with a hallway leading to the backyard and a five-car garage not visible from the front. It was full of fancy cars: the limo that brought us here; an old, boxy Mercedes; a 1950-something Chevy, fully restored; an old Ford from the early days of the automobile—maybe a Model T? I didn’t know my old cars. But Leo had a Porsche Boxster in old-blood maroon, which made me smile. It was the Porsche that finally made me relax. That and the protein. I had never tasted pig this good.

Behind the foyer was a short hallway and a locked door, the room seeming to take up a lot of space. Leo’s personal quarters? Several fresh human blood scents wafted under the sill and Beast’s hackles rose at the smell, but there was no fear mixed in the blood. Curious, I stood in a shadow and watched for a while.

Shortly, two vamps, a man and a woman, left the room, reeking of fresh blood and sex. They didn’t lock the door or catch my scent, didn’t turn my way. I stepped up, caught the door before it closed, and peeked in. It was a suite with a huge bed, couches, chaise lounges, a studio-sized TV screen, and several humans in various stages of undress. Two were cuddled up with a female vamp who was feeding from them, one at a time. I got it. This was the blood bar. Where vamps came for hors d’oeuvres. And now I knew what to call the donors. Blood-junkies. Yuck. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">