I tapped Aya’s number.
“FireWind. How may I assist the Dark Queen?” he said as he answered. I figured that meant he was at work or with other people, and he was telling them who was calling and telling me that this was a formal discussion. So much in so few words.
“We need to speak privately.”
“One moment.” I heard something moving quietly, a door closing, a second one opening and closing. The soft squeak of a chair. “You may speak privately, my sister.”
“Have you seen Grandmother?”
“No. Hayalasti Sixmankiller did not return to her home. No one has seen her.”
“I’ll be sending you a file and photos from a history book, one that’s maybe part journal, part picture book, about a fanghead I killed in legal combat. Then we need to talk about Grandmother and a skinwalker named Ka N’vsita, and what might happen if twou’tlun’tasare working together. Grandmother and Ka. Here in NOLA.”
I heard a soft tap. “Send it to my email. I have my personal laptop open. This is private. Not part of any record, correct?”
That was one good thing about Aya. He was all business, and when it came to cop stuff, not argumentative. He was willing to consider unpleasant possibilities and not hold my thoughts against me. “Yeah. You will want it private. Because it’s about us. Our kind.” I took photos of the pertinent drawings and sent them to his email, then forwarded the translation of the book.
We waited in silence until he said, “They have arrived.”
Tsalagididn’t curse, not the way white people did. But when Aya opened the files, he cursed in English, a soft whispered word. As he read and looked through the drawings, I closed de Allyon’s book, placed it back in the small box, and put the box top back on. I started talking and I told him everything. All my New Orleans years. Death and murder and betrayals and mistakes. Then I brought all the strands together: “Shaun MacLaughlinn was a midrange powerful vamp. Now he’s something more because he survived the loss of hisanamchara. He might be working with Ka, the Firestarter, and Monique. And I can’t rule out Grandmother.”
When I finished, he was silent. I didn’t even hear papers shifting or keys clacking. I looked up from my cold empty tea mug to see Alex sitting at the table with me. Silent. No tablets, no electronics. Not even wearing earbuds to keep up with his world. He was utterly still, his eyes on me.
Aya finally said, “It will take me some time to digest this, my sister.”
“I’ve been living it, and I’m still digesting it. What if Ka and Grandmother are bothu’tlun’taand are working together? Do they need the Rule of Three too?”
Aya murmured, “They may. And if so, they will want a third skinwalker. They will want you or me for anu’tlun’taworking. Or one of the skinwalker cousins.” He stopped. “I haven’t told you about them. Did you know that I...wehave three distant cousins in Oklahoma?”
“No,” I said sourly. “You haven’t gotten around to that.” Of course I hadn’t told him about the two brother-big-cats I had scented so long ago out west. They had most likely been skinwalkers. “I have things to tell you too. When this is all over, we’ll have an honest, frank talk about skinwalkers.” Before he could reply, I added, “And yes, that includes the half-form, though I’m not sure how much I can tell you about how that happens.”
Aya made a noncommittal sound. “If your conjectures are true, then the Rule of Three might require George Dumas for his Onorio power. Is the body of this Monique in a safe place? And are you certain you don’t wish the dead to become true dead? The Onorio you hold prisoner is a potential threat and rallying point.”
“Yes to the first. No to the second. I have a traitor at HQ. That traitor will want to free her. We’re watching her body, with a full team ready at any moment to respond.”
“Your call, of course. I’m in Knoxville. I’ll arrange official leave and take the first flight out. I’m on my way. Keep yourselves safe.”
The call ended, and I thought,Little brother to the rescue.I wondered if his presence would make things better or worse.
I heard a sound at the front door and felt my body tense for fight or flight. The scent hit me, that wonderful mixture of meat and spices that always heralded food from Cochon Butcher. Eli strode into the room, his dark skin sheened with rainwater; Bruiser, also rain-damp, was behind him. The sky had been spattering down off and on for hours.
Eli gestured at the table, and I gathered up my stuff and carried it to the bedroom, out of the way. When I got back, the table was full of meat and goodness. There was duck pastrami, country sausage, broiled boudin, smothered greens, mac and cheese, deviled eggs, potato salad, and two loaves of bread from a local bakery. Bruiser, Eli, and Alex were already loading up plates for an early lunch, and Ijoined in, putting a little of everything onto mine. Grabbing a knife and fork, I started to dig in.
I stopped. Frowned. Alex had said I didn’t offer thanks anymore. I wasn’t sure how a tribal chick who had been Christian-dunked in a river and then self-dunked many times as part of Cherokee rituals was supposed to pray.
“Jane?” Bruiser asked. There was worry in his tone.
“I need to say thanks,” I said, staring at the food in front of me. Eli and Alex exchanged glances, as if they had been talking about just this. All three guys put down their cutlery and folded their hands on the table. I could feel their eyes on me, and with my part-cat nose, I could smell their relief. To them, this meant that I was acting more like myself. Or my old self. “I’m—” I stopped. “I’m not sure how anymore,” I said more softly.
“I’ll say it,” Eli said, his gaze heavy. A silence stretched, and I realized he was waiting for me toman up, as he might put it. I gave a slight nod. Without looking down or closing his eyes, he said, “We are grateful for safety. We are grateful for bounty. We are grateful for life. We are grateful for laughter. We are grateful for each other and for family and for clan. Amen.”
I thought about that statement of gratitude. It wasn’t like any prayer I had ever heard. There was noLord thisorLord that. But there was also no naming of the corn mother or the sun and moon. It was a statement of fact, of gratitude. I had a feeling it would not be enough for me at some point in the future, that I would need to go talk to God in my soul home and get my spiritual life back on some kind of track, but for now, it was a beginning.
“Amen,” I said quietly. And then I grinned and added, “And we are grateful for the pig who died to give us this meat.”
“Amen to that,” Alex said. Irritable, he asked, “Now can we please eat?”
We ate. Silent and comfortable.
