Black Arts: A Jane Yellowrock Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

time I holstered up with two .308s and grabbed a light jacket to hide the weapons. And considered the rest of my armament. Most of it was locked safely away, but not all. We had children in the house. I laid all my guns on the bed and closed my bedroom door behind me.
    To Evan I said, “How ’bout you give the kids a bath?” To Eli I said, “And make sure everything is locked in the safe room.”
    The guys looked at the kids and then at each other. Eli said, “Message received.” He would put all the guns in the hidden room where we kept our armaments, and do it while the children were upstairs and not able to see the secret room.
    Without another word, I spun on a heel and took the side door into the dark, heading for Katie’s. The chill hit me, a wet, cold slap of air. I had once thought that Louisiana didn’t have a winter. I had been wrong. It was just winter Deep South–style, wet, icy air, a little road ice, the cold spells broken up with long periods of warm springlike air. We had been in the wet icy part for the last three days, and it would be later in the week before the seventies hit us again, a tropical storm front raging in off the coast. We’d have rain, rain, and then maybe a little rain. Some wind. Maybe some lightning. And some more rain. Inches of it. But at least it would be warm.
    I jumped to the top of the splintered boulder pile in my backyard, grabbed a jutting brick as a handhold, and leaped, pulling myself over the wall, swinging across and dropping down. It wasn’t a move a human could’ve made. Sometimes being human was overrated.
    I knocked on the back door of Katie’s Ladies and felt myself being viewed through the dynamic camera anchored overhead—a security upgrade I had installed when I first came to the Big Easy. There was another camera, smaller and better hidden, in the corner. Most people would never look for a hidden camera once they saw a big, obvious one. And most robbers, rapists, kidnappers, and general bad guys wouldn’t think about a hidden camera after they had disabled the obvious one. The door opened—a steel door with no windows, a far better security arrangement than the glass door originally installed. Troll looked down at me from his six-feet-plus height and grinned. “Little Janie. Come on in. Katie’s waiting for you in her study. You know the way.”
    “ Little Janie,” I grumbled. But I was getting used to the moniker. I was also called Legs, by some of the security experts in the city. Maybe it was dumb, but nicknames made me feel at home, welcomed, in some obscure way. And helped to alleviate some of the discomfort I always felt in Katie’s presence. I had never been comfortable with her, but, to make it worse, she had fed on me not that long ago, and it’s hard to excuse that kind of thing, even for me—and I understood a predator’s drive to dominate and feed.
    I blew out a breath, shook off the memory, and turned left, meandering down the hallway to Katie’s office. Katie was the heir to Leo Pellissier, the Master of New Orleans and the Southeastern U.S., except for Florida. She was dominant, strong, and a little scary, with less control than the MOC, less charisma, but, possibly, more raw power. Katie was the first sane vamp I’d ever met, and her office was the first place I had come when I got to New Orleans.
    Her office was much as it had been then, though the walls were now painted a cooler, darker seafoam green, and the hardwood floor was covered with a new silk Oriental rug, a burnt persimmon background woven with green waves along the border with a darker green and burnt orange sea serpent crashing through the waves in the center. The rug was modern and luxuriant and probably cost more than I had in the business’ checking account, which was a lot. The leather sofa still faced the desk, two leather chairs to either side. The bar and minifridge were on the left wall, and Katie’s ancient blackwood, hand-carved desk with the leather