Dark Queen (Jane Yellowrock #12)

I spent the day in my bedroom, moving money around, writing e-mails and letters—on real paper with a pen. Predominantly my abdication as emperor of the EuroVamps, dated to the coming full moon. Eddie Boy could have it. Sending texts. Appointing people to positions of power. Choosing two vamps as temporary heirs to the European Mithrans—Grégoire as heir, and Katherine as second heir. Seemed simple enough. If they didn’t abdicate. Granting Ming of Glass status as Master of the City of Knoxville. Granting Lincoln Shaddock Master of the City of Asheville. This made sure Amy Lynn Brown was safe, in Clan Shaddock, protected by her now-powerful Blood Master. Trying to figure out how to ensure that Leo’s newest werelion cub fosters were safe, but not sure how to do that. I ended up leaving that for Edmund to determine.

I also appointed the Youngers as coheirs of Clan Yellowrock. Gave them money and power to protect Molly and Big Evan and my godchildren.

Kitssss, Beast whispered before falling silent again. All Beast’s kitssss. She had been oddly uncommunicative since I returned to my human form. I didn’t know what her relative silence meant, but she wasn’t missing; she was still there inside with me, so I was okay with her silence.

Rereading the will I had signed months ago, a will that left trusts for my godchildren, for Molly and Evan, for the Youngers. Leaving everything else to the heirs of Clan Yellowrock. I wasn’t sure the office of Dark Queen could be passed on, but if it could, it would go to the entire NOLA witch coven. I left Bruiser all my magical items and Bitsa—the things that held me here and gave me power, and the one thing that spoke to me of freedom, my panhead bastard Harley.

I sent a letter of intent to the B-twins, the Robere brothers, who were the lawyers of the NOLA vamps, to sue Raymond Micheika, the leader of all the weres on earth (and especially the leader of the African weres, the most politically powerful group). In the letter I accused Raymond of treachery against Americans, on American soil. I told the Roberes to proceed with legal papers in my name, with any charges and grievances they could think of, and asked them to send a copy of the paperwork to whatever legal department in the U.S. government would be most effective at keeping Raymond off U.S. soil. I signed it, the Dark Queen of the Mithrans and the Blood Master of Clan Yellowrock of New Orleans. I even signed papers for the house that had once been Rousseau Clan Home. It was big enough to be the Clan Home of Clan Yellowrock, the official clan residence, and it was actually two full-sized homes in one, perfect for clan business. And it had a pool. I toured a few more houses online while I was at it, and bought two more. Money wasn’t a problem. Not now. Not ever again. I talked to Bruiser on the phone, loving the sound of his voice, loving the fact that he loved me. His last words were, “Ed took the Learjet, so I’m flying commercial. I’ll be back from New York on the red-eye. Don’t wait up. I’ll crawl in beside you.”

“I won’t wait up,” I promised.

I checked the news for the last weeks to discover that there had been a number of grisly deaths on the full moon—homeless men slashed to death with knives, throats slit. The grindys had been at work, killing people bitten by the rogue wolves, the new, fledgling werewolves the rogue pack had created. The news of the insane serial killer had hit the airwaves like a tsunami and then disappeared when the killings stopped. If the dead had been wealthy, the press would still be going nuts over it, but since they were poor and largely unidentified, the press had drifted quickly to other stories. Typical, I thought cynically. As well as I could tell, the rogue pack were all dead too. I wasn’t sure why the grindys didn’t kill all the werewolves and be done with it rather than letting the Bighorn pack survive and thrive. Maybe it was the fact that they had a leader and they didn’t spread the were-taint. Maybe something else.

While I worked I packed. Quietly. Surreptitiously. Weeding through the things I now owned. Finding that I ended up with just enough to fit in Bitsa’s saddlebags, which, oddly enough, was mostly just the clothes, boots, and weapons I used to travel with and a few of the smaller magical trinkets I wanted to keep.

An hour before dusk, I walked out of my room and through the house, hearing Alex in the shower, smelling roast in the oven. I eased outside. I was weaponed up. Dressed for the road and the cold weather. Riding leathers. Boots. I walked across the side porch.

Ed’s fancy car was gone, just like so many things. I loaded Bitsa’s saddlebags. Opened the wrought-iron side gate with its fleur-de-lis scrollwork at the top. Straddled my bike. Sat there, staring out through the gate.

“You not gonna say anything?” I asked.

Laconically, Eli said, “Figured that was your job, since you’re the one running away from us.”

I looked back. My partner was sitting in one of the rusted metal chairs we had picked up in a junk place somewhere, the kind with a frame made of a single length of metal pipe, and that rocked back and forth as the metal gave and returned to normal. But he wasn’t rocking. He was dressed in jeans and a zipped jacket. Boots. He looked good. Best brother I might ever have.

“I’ll be back.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. I’ll be dead, I thought to myself. Didn’t say it aloud. “I need some time.”

He nodded, that minuscule motion that was all Eli. He stood. “You’ll need these.” He stepped off the porch and walked to me. In his hand were two small white boxes. I opened the first one to see the medicine bag that had once belonged to my father. Symbol of the life I had lost, the violence I had found. “Ayatas says you should open it.”

Instead, I closed the box and Eli gave me the other one. In the bottom of the box was a stack of business cards. New. The logo at the top was of a crown stabbed through with two stakes. Below that were two lines.

JANE YELLOWROCK.

HAVE STAKES, WILL TRAVEL.

I smiled slightly and tucked a card into my jacket pocket. The boxes, I shoved into the saddlebag on top of my ammo and stakes. I tilted my head up at him. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Babe.”

“Tell Alex—” I stopped.

“I’ll tell him,” Eli said softly.

I rose up and dropped my weight down, kicking Bitsa to life. She spluttered for a while, so I pulled on my helmet. Adjusted the fit of the Benelli M4 so it didn’t pinch my butt. Looked up at Eli. His eyes were intense, calm, so . . . alive. I smiled. He smiled—a real smile full of joy, of family.

I gave Bitsa some gas. Pulled along the two-rut drive and out onto the street. Gave her some more gas. And took off for I-59. And the road to home.





EPILOGUE





I stopped several times for gas, for fluids. No food. I couldn’t keep anything down. I was getting sick fast. The cancer Beast had told me about was taking over. I could feel hard knots in my abdomen. I just hoped I’d get back to Appalachia in time to shift into her, so she could return to her beloved mountains. I wasn’t sure we’d ever be able to be Jane again, but Beast could take care of herself.

It was well after midnight when I stopped at a Hampton Inn and Suites off of 459, the loop around Birmingham, my butt tired, my body cold and weary. I paid for a room and took a long hot shower. Dressed in sweats. Climbed into bed. Couldn’t sleep. Belly hurting. The pain was kicking in.

At three forty-two I heard the rotors of a helicopter, distinctive, familiar. I lay in the dark, tears in my eyes. I hadn’t wanted this. Hadn’t wanted to make anyone else hurt. But I’d paid with a credit card. Of course I had. All along the route—Cokes, coffee, gas. Hadn’t even thought about it. And there was the Kid. Probably mad as hell, cussing, probably drinking energy drinks as he traced my passage north.

The knock sounded at my door. I got up. Stopped to look at myself in the mirror. I looked like crap. Well, I was dying. So there was that.

I opened the door.

Bruiser was leaning against the doorjamb. Dressed the way I’d first seen him the very first time in New Orleans. Dark slacks. Dress boots. Crisp shirt. Dark jacket. “Hiya,” I said.

Bruiser stared at me, as if memorizing my eyes, my mouth. But when he spoke, his voice was without inflection. “Soul visited. She says you’re sick. She says you smell like cancer.”

I took a slow breath. Watching him. “I’m dying. I’m guessing I have a few days. Two weeks at the most.”

“You’re heading back to the mountains. To the estate you bought today. Yesterday,” he amended, his face giving nothing away. “You intend to shift to Beast and let her live out her natural life span.”

“Pretty much.”