Praise for the Jane Yellowrock Novels
“A lot of series seek to emulate Hunter’s work, but few come close to capturing the essence of urban fantasy: the perfect blend of intriguing heroine, suspense, [and] fantasy with just enough romance.”
—SF Site
“Jane is a fully realized, complicated woman; her power, humanity, and vulnerability make her a compelling heroine. The fight scenes are exciting and the New Orleans setting is absorbing, but it’s the ever-evolving bond between Jane and her Beast personality that keeps this fun series fresh.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Jane Yellowrock is smart, sexy, and ruthless.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Kim Harrison
“Readers eager for the next book in Patricia Briggs’ Mercy Thompson series may want to give Faith Hunter a try.”
—Library Journal
“Hunter’s very professionally executed, tasty blend of dark fantasy, mystery, and romance should please fans of all three genres.”
—Booklist
“In a genre flooded with strong, sexy females, Jane Yellowrock is unique. . . . Her bold first-person narrative shows that she’s one tough cookie but with a likable vulnerability.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Seriously. Best urban fantasy I’ve read in years, possibly ever.”
—C. E. Murphy, author of Magic and Manners
“The story is fantastic, the action is intense, the romance sweet, and the characters seep into your soul.”
—Vampire Book Club
“An action-packed thriller . . . Betrayal, deception, and heartbreak all lead the way in this roller-coaster ride of infinite proportions.”
—Smexy Books
“A perfect blend of dark fantasy and mystery with a complex and tough vampire-killing heroine.”
—All Things Urban Fantasy
“Mixing fantasy with a strong mystery story line and a touch of romance, it ticks all the right urban fantasy boxes.”
—LoveVampires
TITLES BY FAITH HUNTER
The Jane Yellowrock Novels
Skinwalker
Blood Cross
Mercy Blade
Cat Tales
(a short-story compilation)
Raven Cursed
Have Stakes Will Travel
(a short-story compilation)
Death’s Rival
The Jane Yellowrock World Companion
Blood Trade
Black Water
Black Arts
Broken Soul
Dark Heir
Blood in Her Veins
(a short-story compilation)
Shadow Rites
Cold Reign
Dark Queen
The Soulwood Novels
Blood of the Earth
Curse on the Land
Flame in the Dark
The Rogue Mage Novels
Bloodrings
Seraphs
Host
ACE
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2018 by Faith Hunter
Excerpt from Blood of the Earth copyright © 2016 by Faith Hunter
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
ACE is a registered trademark and the A colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9781101991435
First Edition: May 2018
Cover art by Cliff Nielsen/Shannon Associates
Cover design by Katie Anderson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
CONTENTS
Praise for the Jane Yellowrock Novels
Titles by Faith Hunter
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1: I Killed the Only U’tlun’ta in NOLA
CHAPTER 2: Lots of Bloody Bubbles
CHAPTER 3: My Life Was a Soap Opera with Fangs and Fur
CHAPTER 4: Not Everything in Were Culture Required Teeth
CHAPTER 5: I Can’t Shoot a Suspect on the Ground
CHAPTER 6: “The Shoes,” I Whispered
CHAPTER 7: I Failed You
CHAPTER 8: You Can Try, Little Kitten
CHAPTER 9: Huggy Huggy Kiss Kiss
CHAPTER 10: My Fangs Were Bigger Than His
CHAPTER 11: QaStaHvIS yIn ‘Ej Chep
CHAPTER 12: He Asked Me to Have a Three-Way with Leo
CHAPTER 13: After I Spill Some Blood and Kill Some People
CHAPTER 14: Then You Date Her
CHAPTER 15: Jane Was Sick from Walking through Time
CHAPTER 16: A Mad Witch Is Never a Good Witch
CHAPTER 17: Stuck His Nose into My Crotch
CHAPTER 18: Rainbow-Colored Baby Bunnies and Lollipops
CHAPTER 19: It’s Poisoned
CHAPTER 20: Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda
EPILOGUE
Excerpt from Blood of the Earth
About the Author
To Jessica Wade, at ACE/Penguin Random House, with all my thanks.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The HUBS. For EVERYTHING.
Teri Lee, Timeline and Continuity Editor Extraordinaire, for the tight reins and careful details. All the changes . . .
Norman Froscher for the wine suggestions.
Margot Dachuna for the French.
Mindy “Mud” Mymudes, Beta Reader and PR.
Donald Kirby, daddy to a fierce Monster, Druid or witch, writer and gay man, who was my sensitivity reader and beta’d all the scenes with werewolves, queens, and LGBT.
Let’s Talk Promotions at ltpromos.com, for managing my blog tours and the Beast Claws fan club.
Lee Williams Watts for being the best travel companion and PA a girl can have!
Beast Claws! Best Street Team Evah!
Carol Malcolm for the timeline update.
Sheila Moody for the really good copy edit. Best one in ages!
Melissa Gilbert for the character history! 330 pages and still growing!
Mike Pruette at celticleatherworks.com for all the fabo merch!
Lucienne Diver of The Knight Agency, as always, for guiding my career, being a font of wisdom when I need advice, and for applying your agile and splendid mind to my writing and my social presence.
Cliff Nielsen . . . for all the work and talent that goes into the covers.
Poet and writer Sarah Speith for giving me Jane’s medicine bag. It is still perfect!
As always, a huge thank-you to Jessica Wade of Penguin Random House. Without you there would be no book at all!
CHAPTER 1
I Killed the Only U’tlun’ta in NOLA<
br />
I had been in my bed for all of one hour, and though the scent of Bruiser from the sheets and from his boxing gloves tied to my bedpost usually filled my head with calm, today his personal aromatherapy wasn’t working. I had rolled over half a dozen times trying to find a comfortable spot. Now the covers were twisted around me, my hair was tangled in a knotted mess, trapping me, and I was ready to explode. I resorted to punching my pillows in growing irritation, not that it helped. “I should give up and find something else to punch. Someone else to punch,” I muttered, thinking of Leo Pellissier, the Master of the City of New Orleans.
My attitude was so bad that my Beast retreated into the deeps of my mind to get away, her paws padding in a jog. “Coward,” I snarled at her. Being two-souled wasn’t easy for either of us.
A soft knock sounded at the front door. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. The first tap in each repetition more forceful than the others, but barely loud enough to hear through the closed bedroom door. Maybe a preacher. Or a steak salesman. Beast stopped and looked back at me. Excitement zinged through her. Man who sells meat? Cow at door?
I chuckled internally. Could be, I thought back at her. Or a proselytizing vacuum cleaner salesman. Did vac salesmen even exist now?
Is vacuum good to eat? Or salesman? Both? she added hopefully.
The knocking came again, a bit louder. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. It was a rhythm that Aggie One Feather, my Cherokee Elder, might have drummed. My partner and soon-to-be adopted brother Eli hadn’t answered the door, and I could hear shower water upstairs. I grinned and I was pretty sure I was showing teeth. Lots of teeth. I wondered if they were all mine, but I didn’t really care. I was sleep deprived and ornery and if this was some vamp’s minions calling to cause trouble about the arrangements for the upcoming Sangre Duello, that might actually make my day. I could use a good fight. A blood challenge to the death between Leo and the European emperor and all their pals would surely provide that, but until then, I had the knocking visitor.
I threw off the covers and twisted my long black hair back in a knot. In the black yoga pants and black T-shirt, I looked like a ticked-off ninja. I picked up a fourteen-inch-long vamp-killer I kept on the nightstand and tore open the bedroom door. The knob slammed into the wall behind as I reached the foyer. Eli stopped on the stairs behind me, shower-wet, a weapon at his side. My partner in protect mode. I shared my grin at him and his brows lifted, an infinitesimal gesture that meant loads for the former (and forever) Army Ranger. I didn’t bother to try to figure out loads of what. I peeked out the front, through the tiny slice of clear glass in the layers of bullet-resistant and stained glass window.
On the other side of the door stood a man, facing the street. He was tall, lean, maybe six feet three. Straight black hair hung long, down his back to his hips. Golden skin showed at his clean-shaven jaw, which looked tight with frustration. He was wearing black slacks and black blazer jacket. A white dress shirt collar showed from this angle and he was wearing polished leather cap-toe oxford shoes, what my boss, the Master of the City and walking, talking fashion plate, called a Balmoral. Imported shoes.
It griped my goat that I knew all that. Just another useless thing I had learned hanging around vamps. Another way they had changed me and my life. My irritation flamed.
I yanked open the door. The air swept his scent in. It was vaguely floral. A scent that teased at the back of my mind. Tsalagi. Cherokee scent. Beast surged into the forefront of my brain, landing crouched on silent paws. The man turned.
He had yellow eyes.
Beast thought, Littermate.
What? I said to her.
“Hello, e-igido. Dalonige’ i Digadoli,” the man said, his expression soft but intent. “Nuwhtohiyada gotlvdi.”
How did he know my Cherokee name? I knew those last words: Make peace with me.
The air swirled inside and back out. The man’s nostrils widened as he took a breath. Taking in my scent. His face changed—fear, horror, revulsion, dread. “U’tlun’ta,” he whispered, the word meaning liver-eater, black-magic skinwalker. Evil. Faster than I could follow, he drew a weapon, centered it on my chest.
Inside me Beast tore through, doing . . . something.
In a single instant, the man fired.
Beast screamed.
Time stood still.
The round exiting the weapon was stopped an inch from the barrel. The killer was frozen. Everything was frozen except me. Beast had bubbled time, taking me outside of normal space/time/relativity physics. She had saved my life. Again. “Thanks,” I muttered aloud to her.
She snorted, a half chuff, half growl, staring through my eyes at the man, even as the headache/bellyache/muscle aches hit. It was like a tiny bomb going off behind my left eye combined with a case of the flu, and if the two most recent time-bubbling experiences were an indication, it would only get worse. For now, I was okay-ish. Not perfect. Not totally okay. But able to function.
The stranger was firing one of the new Glock GDP-20s, a military-issued police service weapon. I looked closely to see a hollow-point round. Somehow, being shot at calmed my anger. Using my vamp-killer and muscle power, Beast knocked the round down, changing its trajectory to impact the floor molding. The sound of silver-plated vamp-killer blade hitting lead was a dull tang in the Gray Between. The wood stood the best chance of stopping the round and the hole could be filled with wood filler and painted over. Eli was good at that kinda stuff.
I stepped into the man’s reach and, still using the blade, lifted his notched lapel to reveal a pocket beneath, heavy with a case about the size of a pack of playing cards. Without touching his body, I pulled out the case and opened it to reveal a badge.
“Well. That figures,” I muttered, maybe talking to God, maybe talking to whatever evil spirit had cursed me. “Like I needed the candy sprinkles of a gun-happy cop dumped over my blood duel ice-cream cone.” The badge was a PsyLED shield, issued to the Psychometric Law Enforcement Division of Homeland Security, the cops that police paranormals. Like me. But I’d think not even PsyLED would send someone to kill me at my own front door. In the middle of the day. With tourists walking across the street. Maybe the badge was a fake? I looked at the guy. He didn’t look like a killer. There was nothing forgettable about him and most assassins worked to be average and unmemorable. His clothing was well-tailored but more Brooks Brothers and Men’s Wearhouse than Armani. His eyes were wide. Terrified. And he was firing one-handed, his left still rising for a standard two-hand grip. Panic-shot.
Not good ambush hunter, Beast said.
Right. This had been surprised, messy, not well planned. I went back over what had just happened. An assassin or a PsyLED cop came to my door. A Cherokee, one with yellow eyes, who spoke at least some Tsalagi, knew my full Cherokee name, and asked me to make peace. Then freaked out over my scent, called me a nasty name, and shot me. Yeah, that covered it. I leaned in closer and searched his irises for the telltale shimmer of amber contact lenses. There was nothing. A frisson of shock lanced through me and I shoved down on it.
Yellow eyes. Floral scent. Beast calling him littermate. What did Beast mean? My breath was still coming fast. Getting shot at will do that to a girl. I shoved down on my reaction and slipped out of the assassin’s reach without touching him. Last thing I needed was to drag a killer inside a time bubble with me.
Beast said nothing, but I felt faint tremors running through her.
My belly wrenched, a sick, snaking pain, as if my guts were knotting, a reaction to bubbling time.
I stood barefooted in the entry and studied him. The man was handsome. Golden skinned, lightly tanned even in winter. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Maybe twenty-five, showing age from spending time in the sun. Or older if he had a good beauty regimen. I sniffed again. Definitely floral, very delicate and faint. Aftershave? Traces of a woman’s perfume? I studied his jaw. Not shaved. B
ut the clean, hairless jaw of some tribal males. The electric shock trying to flood me intensified. My whole body was aching.
I looked up the stairs. Eli, wearing only damp workout shorts, had a steady aim on the man, just over where my shoulder would have been. He had already fired, the round in midair. My bro had fast reflexes after drinking vamp blood for healing. His round would enter the man’s right eye, killing him instantly.
A man had come to my door and tried to kill me. I should let Eli do his job. Except . . . A cop, maybe even a real cop with real badge. Yellow eyes. Floral scent.
Skinwalker, Beast thought at me again. Demanding.
My shock settled. Just having the word spoken between us helped. “Yeah.”
I climbed the stairs to Eli. I needed to talk to him before I did anything. I needed my partner’s tactical and strategic experience. Mostly I just needed Eli Younger to help me get . . . steady. To help me think. My belly seemed a bit better, but the headache was getting worse and rational thinking wasn’t easy. I knocked Eli’s round down too, until it now aimed at the floor. I stood in front of Eli, not certain what to do. Eli would say I should pull him into the time bubble with me. It was the most satisfactory tactic in this battle situation. But spending time in no-time did bad things to genetic structures.
My own was a scrambled mess that might lead to death someday from a brain tumor, a brain aneurysm, a stroke, or maybe bleeding out through my damaged digestive tract. The nausea and headaches were getting much worse much faster, and after today, I had no doubt that they were part of bending/bubbling time. Not that a doctor could tell me what might happen to a skinwalker with damaged genes. Until this minute I’d thought I was the only skinwalker alive. I’d killed the only other one I had met in the last hundred seventy years. He had been u’tlun’ta, killing and eating and replacing people with his own shape-shifting abilities. Black magic even worse than what I had done when I killed Beast and pulled her soul inside with me.
Beast thought, Prey is at watering hole. Attack or hide.