“Okay. I can kinda wrap my head around that. How does Grandmother’s DNA fit into all this?”
“Hayalasti Sixmankiller’s DNA is in seriously bad shape. A batch of replicated genes on the X chromosome is tangled like a hairball.” He glanced at me. “Similar to, but a lot worse than, yours pre-rift. It looks like someoneadded DNA with an ice cream scoop and tied it together with yarn. That could be because of someone she ate alive, and the black magic that pulled their DNA into hers. Or not. We don’t know.”
“Question. Will you ask Wrassler, on the QT, what happened to any samples of Immanuel’s blood after I killed him? Maybe blood-stained carpets or rugs or cleaning cloths?”
“If he’s got any, you want it tested?”
“Yeah. Let’s find out what we have.”
“Meanwhile, keep this in your pocket.” He handed me a small brown paper bag. “It’s a scrap of your granny’s sweaty shift. Dr.Northern returned it, and Eli thought you might need it someday.” He glanced at me, and I must have looked confused because he added, “Le breloqueuses blood as a weapon. Maybe it can use sweat too.”
And maybe Grandmother could track me by it. But I shoved it into a pocket anyway.
Alex called security. “Alex Younger here. Heading back to the queen’s personal residence.”
The car in front took a right. We followed.
***
After the attack that wasn’t an attack, I was tense, so I made a pot of strong black tea. While it steeped at the kitchen table, I dragged the trunk of journals close and pulled out an armload I hadn’t looked over yet. I flipped open five before I found one in English. I read the first page, handwritten in that old calligraphy style of the classically educated human of European descent. It was simply a name and a date in immaculate penmanship.Immanuel Justinus Henri Mainet Pellissier, in the year of our Lord, Seventeen Ninety.
This journal was written by Immanuel.
I closed it, a finger holding my place on the page. This journal was one of the last ones handed down to me by Derek while we were raiding the storage room on sub-four. He had given me this one on purpose, knowing I had killed Immanuel or, rather, the creature masquerading as Leo’s son.
Hardly daring to breathe, I reopened the book and turned the page, staring at the words and lines of a diagram, a lineage, vamp style. On one side were physicalchildren—children of the body—written in black ink. On the other side, written in a browning grayish ink, was a vampire lineage. I dropped my nose close to the page and sniffed, getting a whiff of what smelled like old fanghead blood and funeral flowers and ashes. The ink had been made from vamp blood.
Immanuel.The name was like a talisman and a curse. His death had been the origin of everything that had happened in this city since the day I first arrived.
I had killed him.
This man, Immanuel, with blondish hair, an elegant demeanor, and the stink of scorched flesh and rot, was the reason I had come to New Orleans, hired to track and destroy a vampire murderer. Saving the witches was the reason I stayed. And now I was stuck here, queen of the beings I used to hunt and kill. Holding the journal of Leo’s son.
There could be DNA on the pages. I got up and went to my room, returning with a pair of gloves. Three-hundred-plus-year-old blood, spit, and sweat from turning and touching pages was probably not useful for DNA, but I wasn’t taking a chance.
I turned the pages, reading names here and there. Shopping lists. Descriptions of parties. Names of beautiful human women he slept with. Beautiful vamps. On page 3, Immanuel described himself as a man of leisure, an unashamed womanizer, a rake, a dilettante, and a man of style, which in my time meant he was lazy, a player, and a fashionista. A name jumped out at me, feeling vaguely familiar, as if I had heard the name before. Tsu Tsu Inoli. Russian? Asian? Scandinavian? Probably phonetically spelled.
The cell rang and I flinched just a bit. My honeybunch’s face was on the screen. I glanced into the living room to see Alex’s feet hanging off the end of the sofa. I hadn’t even noticed his soft snores. The Kid didn’t sleep enough, so this was either a power nap, or he was crashing and would be down for hours. I picked up my teacup. My voice soft, I answered, “Hey.” And sipped. The tea was strong and fragrant, and a sense of well-being moved through me with its warmth.
“Hello, my love,” Bruiser said. “Did I wake you?”
“No. I’m just having tea and holding Immanuel’s journal. I just found it. It’s like a treasure.” There was a long silence. “Bruiser?”
“I heard you. Who packed the trunk for you?”
“Derek.”
He was silent again, but this time I could hear a chatter of voices in the background. “Derek is missing,” Bruiser said. “He was providing a blood meal to Signy, a Scandinavian Mithran who came to HQ this past winter.”
A quiet thread of fear twined through my heart. “Go on.”
“The furniture is overturned and there is a pool of blood in Signy’s room, with droplets here and there in the hallways. Two other Mithrans confirmed by scent that it is both human and Mithran blood. Nothing was on the standard digital security cameras, and it appears there was anobfuscationworking in use. Wrassler is tracking via the laser monitors and FLIR cameras, but so far we can’t prove if he left willingly or not.”
I said, “When we were fighting European vamps in Asheville, we knew they sent some fangheads here, hiding among the Mithrans who came for sanctuary. Was she one?”
“It is possible.”
“Do I need to come?”
