Skinwalker. Part 9

"They're sending Katie to ground tonight. You need to be in the cemetery before midnight."

"I need to what?" I stretched my lids, sleep-sand cracking at the corners. It was still daylight, and I heard laughter outside, tourists chatting. "Troll?" I said to the cell.

"Katie survived the attack," he said, his voice weary. "But Leo says she needs to go to ground. It's a healing ceremony. I don't know much about it. But all the Mithrans congregate at the cemetery and they . . ." His words trailed off. "They bury her."

"And getting buried heals her?" I said, striving for sarcasm, and having to settle for disgust. Vamps creep me out. "And I have to be there why . . . ?"

"They've been summoned to a gathering. The older vampires will be there, all in one place." I heard him lick his lips. Softer, he said, "Humans aren't allowed to attend, so you have to get there early and find a place to hide."

So I can do surveillance. Right. I checked the time on the cell and rolled to my feet. "My cell's dying. Send one of the girls with directions."

"Will do. And Jane? Get this guy." His voice broke, and I realized he was grieving for his bloodsucking boss. I had a quick memory, snapshot sharp, of Troll held against the wall by the rogue's will. "Take him out," he said.

"Sure," I said, uncomfortable with his emotion. How did you grieve for a piece of meat? "I'll get him." I plugged in the cell to charge it up and took a look at my hair. The snarl would not do for a funeral. And how was I supposed to hide from a big group of vamps who could scent-search as well as Beast? Big question and no answer. Not yet.

I spent the next few hours doing the scut work of the security and investigating business-records search and paperwork. I started out studying the boilerplate of contracts with blood-servants and the security dossiers of the five missing vamps that came by scooter messenger. Leo was willing to let me have access after all, not that there was much in them. The files had been well scoured of anything interesting beyond name, date and country of birth, and vamp bloodlines back to an original vamp sire. It was interesting to see the interconnected and twisted relationships all the way back to AD 700 in one case, but little was really useful. So far as I could tell, there was nothing linking the five missing vamps. I was wasting time.

I called the twins, Brian and Brandon, asking about anything they might have heard, which turned out to be nothing. The five vamps had just vanished from their secret lairs. They did invite me over anytime, sounding quite interested in seeing me, which did a lot for my ego, and they tendered an invitation to a party for the city's security-specialist blood-servants, to take place at a shooting range that served beer and pizza. Networking in the city of vamps.

Online, I discovered where land deeds and real estate records were kept, and that New Orleans records were not all in one centralized place. They were in lots of different places and in various states of integrity. I could have called Rick, but there were some hands-on security tasks I couldn't delegate, especially to a guy who seemed to have his own agenda. Before leaving the house, I looked up criminal records of the missing vamps. Nada. Zilch. Their financial records were no better and no worse than the ordinary human's. Some lived on savings and investments, and some lived on credit; some had been wealthy, and some hadn't. They still had nothing in common.

Tia came over in the middle of my search with the address and map to the vamp cemetery. She was sleepy and looked drugged, but it was vamp I smelled on her, not chemicals.

I cranked up Bitsa and rode to the Orleans Parish Civil District Court, and then to the Notarial Archive Office on Poydras Street to check records and look for recent land purchases, building permits, and similar activities that involved vamps. The Notarial Archive Office had been recently painted but smelled like mold and stagnant water to my sensitive nose-maybe remnants of Hurricane Katrina. There were a lot of records to go through, all the way back to the early eighteen hundreds, and what I found didn't seem to have anything to do with my hunt.

Clan St. Martin had published a book on Mithrans, due to be released in twelve months. They had used the proceeds from the sale of a horse farm near Springhill to finance it.

Clan Arceneau was cashing in city and parish public works bonds and investing in land.

The mayor's wife, Anna, had recently purchased fourteen parcels of swampland south and west of New Orleans.

Clan Bouvier was hurting for cash, if the recent sales of their land was any indication.

Nothing jumped out at me and said, "Here's where the bodies are buried, who the rogue is, and where he hides." More wasted time.

I did stumble upon the original deed to Clan Pellissier land, made to one Leonard Eugene Zacharie Pellissier, Marquis. I also discovered a deed to a graveyard that changed hands; it was the same cemetery I needed to visit tonight, privately held land, unlike human cemeteries in the area that were owned by churches or by the city. The deed to the vamp graveyard had been signed over in 1902, by Leo, to one Sabina Delgado y Aguilera. Not a vamp name I recognized, and not something I really needed to know. Altogether, a total waste of time.

I was on my way out of the building, late afternoon sunlight hitting me hard, when I ran-almost literally-into Rick LaFleur, on his way inside.

If he was surprised to see me he didn't show it, and dang if he didn't look good in jeans, T-shirt, and the same old sandals he'd worn once before. He stopped two steps below me, one knee bent, and pushed his sungla.s.ses back on his head. "The vampire hunter," he said, a wry tone in his voice that I couldn't interpret.

"The Joe," I said, in the same tone. "You got that info I was looking for on land deeds?"

"Most of it. I'll bring it by. You had lunch?"

I squinted up at the sun, which was nearing the western horizon, and let a trace of amus.e.m.e.nt into my voice. "Several hours past."

He shrugged. "Hours of a musician. Come to the club tonight. I have a solo set." His lips turned up and his black eyes flashed in frank s.e.xual interest. "You can dance for me again."

I felt my blood warm at the possibilities in his gaze. "I'll think about it," I said, walking past him to where Bitsa sat patiently in the shade. Feeling the heat of his gaze on my b.u.t.t as I walked, my face warmed. "But I'm not much for being a notch on a guy's bedpost," I said over my shoulder. "I think a player like you has enough of those." I straddled my bike and helmeted up. "Let me know about the info." I cranked up Bitsa and motored off, Rick visible in the rearview until I was out of sight.

I had studied the map, committing it to memory, and by sundown, I was naked, in the back garden. And Beast was ticked. Skinwalkers have the magic of sinking into the genetic structure of animals, sinking deep and changing form, from human to another, to match, exactly, the body of the other animal from the genetic structure up, copied from genetic material stored in bones, teeth, and skin of the dead.

I had been making shifts for eleven years and Beast had always hated it when I chose any shape but hers. Now, since the dream/memory of the making of Beast, I too was suddenly unhappy with the process. Itchy-uncomfortable. Okay, maybe guilty. The dream of the thievery had proved how Beast came to reside inside me, a theory I had never investigated, which made me a coward. To save my own life, I had stolen the body and soul of a living being. I knew, deep down, it was black magic-accidental, but no less dark for the lack of intent.

We-Beast and I-had learned to live together, to share her form and mine, but I was pretty sure she never forgave me for my sin of stealing her. The alliance was never easy, and when I chose another form to shift into, another animal, my fractured, doubled soul didn't survive the transition intact. Beast was buried so deeply I couldn't find her then, which meant I walked alone. When I shifted back to human, Beast always made me pay the price.

The price was even higher when I took a form that required a change of ma.s.s into something smaller or larger than Beast, because ma.s.s has to go, or come from, somewhere. The law of conservation of ma.s.s/matter held true, especially in skinwalker magic, so there was always the fear that I'd permanently lose all or part of myself or Beast when I shifted into a smaller body with a smaller brain, leaving so much behind. She hated it and always found a way to punish me.

As the sun cast golden spears across the sky, I sat on the topmost stone. It was warm, the heat comforting on my bare bottom, soothing. I opened the zipper bag containing my animal fetishes and pulled out a necklace. I set one of feathers and talons around my neck, and placed the gold nugget necklace on the boulder. It was too large for the form I chose.

I touched a talon. Closed my eyes. Relaxed. Listened to the wind, the pull of the moon, larger than a sickle, growing toward fullness, on the horizon. I listened to the beat of my heart.

I slowed the functions of my body, letting my heart rate fall, my blood pressure drop, my muscles relax, as if I were going to sleep. Knees folded, arms at my sides in the humid air, I sat on the boulders. Nothing biological would work to steal ma.s.s from-even wood had its own RNA-but stone was clean, which was why I required it. Easy to steal ma.s.s from. Easy to deposit ma.s.s. When I was forced to risk it.

Mind slowing, I sank into the feathers and talons and beak strung on the necklace. Deep inside. My consciousness fell away, all but the location of this hunt. That I set into the lining of my skin, into the deepest parts of my brain, so I wouldn't lose it when I shifted, when I changed. I dropped lower. Deeper. Into the bottomless gray world within me. And began to chant, silently, Ma.s.s to ma.s.s, stone to stone . . . ma.s.s to ma.s.s, stone to stone . . .

The drums of memory beat a slow cadence. The smell of herbed woodsmoke came on the air. The night wind of The People's land brushed across my flesh. I sought the double helix of DNA, the inner snake lying inside the talons and feathers of the necklace. It was there, as always, deep in the cells, in the remains of soft tissue. I slipped into it, into the snake that rests in the depths of all beasts, the snake of DNA. I dropped within, like water flowing in a stream. Like snow falling, rolling down a mountainside. The gray place swarmed over me.

My breathing changed, heart rate sped. My last thought was of the animal I was to become. The Eurasian eagle owl, Bubo bubo. My bones slid, skin rippled. Ma.s.s shifted down, to the stone. To the rock beneath me with loud, cracking reports. Black motes of power danced along me, burning and p.r.i.c.king like arrows piercing deep. Ma.s.s to ma.s.s, stone to stone.

Pain like a knife slid between muscle and bone along my spine. Wings slid out along my shoulders, metamorphos ing from arms. Golden feathers, tawny, brown, sprouted. My nostrils narrowed, drawing deep, filling smaller lungs. My heart raced, a heart meant to power flight. My talons clawed across the stone.

The night came alive-everything new, intense. My ears were bombarded by sounds from everywhere. The mouse on the ground. Unaware of danger. The movement of tree leaves a hundred yards away. Chicks cheeping. Bird nest. Food. The house settling.

Eyes meant for the night took in everything, seeing as clearly as if the sun still shone. Light and shadow stung my vision, bright, acute. Ugly human light. I gathered myself, spread my wings, and leaped from the boulder, out over the garden. Beating the air with a five-foot wingspan, the wings of an animal that had never lived on this continent. It had been long since I flew, but the memory was stored in the snake of the bird. I wobbled, stretched into flight, caught a rising thermal, let it carry me up with less effort than beating wings alone.

I looked down, reaching into the night, finding the gold nugget on the boulder, its place in the world. Identifying it amid the grid of streets in my owl memory. My human consciousness merged with the owl's, dispersed into the cells of the Bubo bubo.

Hunger ripped my belly. Below, a form moved, silent in the night, four paws padding, gray striped with white. I folded my wings tight, and dove. Talons reaching, I slammed into the prey. My forward-curving talons gripped, held. My beak tore into the back of its neck, through the vertebrae. I took down the feral cat. Sitting in the shadows, I ate, ripping b.l.o.o.d.y flesh with talons and beak until my belly was full. It was always like this after the change. Hunger. There was little left of the cat when I was done. Feet, bones, skull.

The memory of myself, buried under my skin, began to stir. I like cats. . . . My human self grieved. Then memory moved. A map. Ahhh. The hunt. For one of them. I drew in the night, sounds of shouting and gunfire in the distance, foul human smells and sounds and filth of their world. Motors and engines. Cat blood. I leaped into the air. Thermals were confusing in the city, rising and falling over buildings, stirred by unexpected drafts from the river. The river.

I banked and found it, sparkling and whitecapped in a rising breeze. Rain soon. The knowledge of weather was part of a raptor's native genetic snake. I rose on the leftover heat of day, soaring high. Below me, I found the highway, a ribbon laced with moving lights crossing the river. I followed it, away from the city, along the map stored beneath my skin and in the human part of me. To the place where vampires lay their true-dead and find their healing.

CHAPTER 18.

We still search for absolution.

From a thousand feet up, the moon silvering the night, stars shining like a million lights, the ecstasy of flight filled me. My heart beat powerfully. My wings spread wide, soaring. Air currents ruffled my flight feathers as I cruised, my belly full, joy singing in my veins.

My attention was caught by a large rat emerging from a swampy place far below. Good eating if I was hungry-good for feeding chicks. Near the wet ground, I spotted a small, whitewashed building at the end of a crushed-sh.e.l.l street. Curious, I half folded my wings and dropped six hundred feet. Spread them again, to circle.

Distant memories stirred. I was searching for this place. The building had no cross, but its walls were tall, its roof was vaulted, and a spiked steeple speared the sky. Katie. Vampires. Remembering, I dropped lower.

Narrow, arched windows were pointed at the apex-chapel windows of stained gla.s.s. But unlit. Dark. Vampire dark. The white building was made of ancient cement mixed with sh.e.l.ls, and it glowed with the light of the moon though no lights lit the windows or the grounds.

The earth all around the chapel-that-was-not was studded with white marble crypts, family-sized mausoleums, shining in the moonlight. They studded the ground, little houses for the true-dead or the living undead. I circled down, seeing car lights drawing in from every direction. Yet here, in this ancient building, no lights burned.

I inspected it all with eyes built for the night and with hearing that missed nothing. As I dropped lower, soaring on the breeze, candlelight bloomed inside the nonchapel and brightened, shining, flickering through the arched windows, throwing muted hues of color onto the white sh.e.l.l walkway. The stained-gla.s.s windows were all in shades of blood-ruby, wine, burgundy, the pink of watered blood-b.l.o.o.d.y light spilling onto the ground.

A vampire stepped from the doorway, smoothing her dress. She was old. Her skin was the white of the full moon, her face grooved. She was dressed all in white, the toes of her shoes, her long dress, the nunlike wimple on her head, hiding her hair; her hands were pocketed beneath an ap.r.o.n like a vampire mother superior. A distant car purred. She stopped moving, the stillness of stone, a carved statue, fit for a graveyard. The sight of her brought me to myself.

She squared her shoulders and raised her chin as if she were going into battle, and I saw that she had black brows and a beaked nose. Mediterranean ethnicity, perhaps Greek. Not beautiful, but imposing and serene, as if she had made peace with herself and her world.

The car crunched down the sh.e.l.l-gravel lane. The smell of vampire rose on the air. I canted my flight feathers and dropped lower, silent on the wind, wings making no sound at all as I chose a tree to land. Tall. Dead. Branches white and stripped of bark. Close to the land where the vampires went to earth. Close enough for my owl ears to hear them speak. I stretched my wings full, spread my flight feathers, and raised my breast. Reached out with legs and talons. Back-winged to break my forward movement. Gripped the barkless branch. I was down. I shrugged my raptor shoulders and fluttered my flight feathers as balance and gravity took over. I settled on the deadwood, my wings folding tight against me.

The woman vampire turned as I landed, seeing me in the tree. I called, owl sound, lonely in the night. Not an owl of this place, but she wouldn't know the difference. After a moment, she turned away to the first limousine, watching as it rocked near and its tires ground to a halt.

Vampires slid from the long car, seven of them, all moving fast, at full vamp speed, all well fed, the smell of fresh blood on them. All wore black, somber suits and tailored gowns in summer wool or silk, shimmering in the night. They were dressed as if for a funeral or a party.

More cars moved up the drive as the first circled and headed out, lights pa.s.sing, like birds in flight. Like a dance. Dozens of cars approached, some depositing one occupant, some many, until there were nearly a hundred vamps gathered under the young moon. Lastly came a hea.r.s.e, white, gleaming pearlescent in the night. It b.u.mped to a stop in the midst of the vampires.

Two males jumped out and raced to the rear of the hea.r.s.e. They were human, ungraceful, slow moving, and one carried a roll of fat around his middle. No vampire ever managed extra weight, most living at near starvation, gaunt as a winter hunt. The vampires moved subtly closer, tightening a circle around the hea.r.s.e. The humans' fear grew as they unloaded a white coffin. Near panic leached from their pores and tainted the night wind.

"You sure you can bury her without . . . ? Never mind," one said.

One of the vampires laughed, the sound sly and cruel, enjoying the terror that increased tenfold on its echo. The two humans rushed back and slammed the hea.r.s.e doors. The locks clicked, though mechanical locks and gla.s.s windows gave them no protection at all. The mocking vampire laughed again. I saw him lick his lips, heard the smack of dead flesh.

The hea.r.s.e roared and spat loose sh.e.l.l like gunshots as it pulled away. It fishtailed at the entry to the graveyard, tires shrieking as they caught on the pavement. The hea.r.s.e roared all the way down the road. When it was gone, the old vampire, the one in the nun's wimple who had lit candles in the nonchapel, moved to the coffin and placed her hand atop it.

"Gather," she said, soft and compelling. I leaned from my branch, coercion pulling on my flesh and bones, urging me to come. It was a kind of vamp calling, full of enticement. "Gather and give the gift of blood," she said, "that our sister might be healed." Her words rose above the crowd, dancing on the air, full of beauty. Age made her voice potent, mellow. Her words chimed and rang inside my head, commanding and demanding. My talons danced on the old wood. Dark sparks of energy and magic soared through me. I spread my wings to fly to her.

"I challenge the right to blood ceremony," a man said.

Startled, I snapped my wings tight to my side.

The crowd shifted and sighed, as if expectation was satisfied. Those closest stepped away from the new speaker until he stood apart, opening a path from him to the pale coffin. He seemed amused at the way his kindred moved. The vamp was slender and willowy, even by vamp standards. Dark, delicate, but not effete, he walked through the s.p.a.ce in the gathering the way a fencer might, feet placed with care and with a thought to balance. When he stood in front of the old woman he said, "Rafael Torrez, heir of Clan Mearkanis. Challenger."

"Sabina Delgado y Aguilera," the old vamp said, and I started. I had seen that name today. "Priestess of the sacred ground. You may speak to the challenge."

A dandy, he flicked at his cuff, a bit of lace gleaming silken in the night. "There is no requirement for any to offer blood. The injured was either foolish or weak. She offered her neck to an attacker. Prey should be allowed to die. Thus has always been our way."

There was a rustling in the crowd, murmurs of agreement. "I champion the fallen," a voice said. Leo moved through the crowd, equally graceful-who among them wasn't?-but with the grace of the bullfighter, strong and determined. I fluttered my long feathers in the still air, shaking off the last of the compulsion to gather.

"Leonard Eugene Zacharie Pellissier," he said. I figured they all knew who was who, so the speaking was formulaic, like a legal process, with proper names and t.i.tles required. "Blood-master of the city, blood-master of Clan Pellissier, these seven hundred years." Seven-hundred-year-old vamps were rare, to the best of my knowledge, and the priestess had to be older. A lot older. I hadn't seen her lineage in the hall of records.

He stopped in front of the priestess, Sabina. "The old ways are dead and gone. When the humans found us, revealed us, proved the ancient myths were true and blood hunters were among them, the old ways changed. The old ways died.

"We may no longer build blood-families as we did in the past, not and survive in the human world. And we are not so numerous today that we can allow the oldest among us to die true-death. As the world has moved on, so must the Mithrans evolve to survive."

"Pretty words. But my clan has suffered the death of our leader. As eldest, my blood is precious to my line," Rafael said, "and needful to cement my rule. Why should I give of my own blood to save a scion belonging to my enemy? Why should I help you?" The air crackled with animosity, and I half expected Rafael to bare fangs or draw a sword and attack.

"We must stand together to defeat the rogue," Leo said. "We may be enemies, Rafael, but the enemy of my enemy is my friend. We stand together against the humans who would destroy us. That part of the ancient ways must remain unchanged." Softly he added, "I would give my blood for you, if you were attacked by the rogue." The crowd breathed out, surprised.

"And because if we do not help," Sabina said, "it is possible Katherine Louisa Dupre, who is not yet true-dead, may heal on her own, and rise as a rogue herself. And may then infect others of us, as the old tales say." The congregation of vamps shifted position in what could have been a slow, complicated dance. Indecision was evident in their collective stance.

"That a rogue might infect another Mithran is a tale of old women and fools," Rafael scoffed. "It was myth before I was turned." He looked at a woman in a black silk evening dress, and she looked away. I c.o.c.ked my head and gave a soft, twittering coo of surprise. Dominique, I remembered.

Sabina said, "I was myth before you were turned, Rafael. I have seen myth made reality. Now, in this time when light is thrown upon our dark and tainted past, an old rogue haunts the streets of our city, maddened in his sin." Her words slid away on a softly released breath.

"Taint," one of the gathered said.

"Sin," said another.

I wasn't sure what the words meant to them, but the tone was sorrowful, like the call of lonely birds in the night. I twittered again, and the priestess looked over at the tree where I sat. I stilled my voice and gripped the limb with my talons to still my movement.

Sabina turned back to the vamps and said, "As with other races who, at different times and places, sought to steal from G.o.d, our sin has cost us much. We must not allow it to destroy us before redemption comes." Again the crowd murmured. Steal from G.o.d? I thought. How does a vamp steal from G.o.d? "Rafael Torrez," Sabina said, "does your clan withdraw its challenge? Will you share blood with the dead?"

"Clan Mearkanis withdraws our challenge," he said, with ill grace. "But we will not soon again accept the call to gather."

"Are there other challengers?" When no one spoke up, the priestess said, "Acceptance is given. Open the casket."

The vamps moved in, closing slowly around the white coffin in a tight circle, obscuring my view, even from the height of the dead tree. The coffin hinges toned faintly, slowly. I heard a blade pulled from a sheath, saw a glint of steel in Sabina's hand, and smelled vamp blood, pungent and tart upon the downstroke. She said, "As eldest and priestess, I offer first blood to our fallen sister," and held her arm over the casket, blood flowing fast, dripping inside with a soft patter. The smell of vamp blood intensified. After a long moment, she held a cloth to her arm. A woman beside her tied a strip around the bandage to hold it in place. Taking up the blade again, she wiped it on a second cloth and looked at the gathering, waiting.

Leo rolled his sleeve to his elbow, his forearm out. "As blood-master to our fallen sister, I offer second blood." He accepted the slice of Sabina's blade. He stood over the coffin, letting his blood flow like an offering, but there was a challenge in his stance, and his eyes were on Rafael. Long minutes pa.s.sed as he clenched and unclenched his fist, encouraging the blood flow. A human would have pa.s.sed out cold. Only when the blood stopped flowing on its own did he accept a clean cloth from the priestess and step away.

"To show mercy, Clan Mearkanis offers blood to the fallen." Rafael took the blade from Sabina and sliced his own flesh. From the vamps' reactions, I gathered that the gesture was rude, but Sabina said nothing, letting him have his way. He returned the b.l.o.o.d.y blade and held his arm over the open coffin, his blood flowing. His blood ran nearly as long as Leo's had, and when his wound finally clotted over, he was reeling.

It looked to me like a vamp version of a p.i.s.sing contest. Men will be boys.

A female offered Rafael a shoulder to support him. Beside him, a woman stepped up. She was elegant, but thin, almost emaciated. "As acting head of Clan Arceneau, I offer blood." She accepted the downstroke, drawing in a breath at the pain. She let her blood fall, only half the time Leo had bled, yet she was wavering on her feet. To my bird eyes, Dominique looked odd. Not quite certain how, but just . . . not quite normal, even for a vamp. She moved with less grace, perhaps. I watched as she was led to a bench on the grounds. And then I got it. She had already been bled tonight, probably by a vamp, one to whom she owed blood debt.

Blood-master of Clan St. Martin bled next, offering only a token splatter. His eyes swept the a.s.sembled as if daring them to comment on his paltry gift. Bad blood between St. Martin and Pellissier. Birds can't grin, but I felt the urge. After that, the heads of the other clans offered blood, some playing the vamp version of "keep up with the Joneses" by nearly draining themselves, others offering a more modest amount. I worked to recall the clan names and the order of importance, though such memory wasn't easy for my current brain.

Pellissier, Mearkanis, Arceneau, Rousseau, Desmarais, Laurent, St. Martin, Bouvier, some enemies, some not. The "saint" part of St. Martin was still a surprise, but then, what I knew about nonrogue vamps had just been trebled again. Maybe quadrupled.

After the clan heads declared themselves and bled, the lesser members approached the coffin, still according to clan as best I could tell, but the drama was over and the rest of the bloodletting was without theatrics. I figured Katie was likely swimming in blood. Ick. I looked at the moon and judged that the bloodletting took over two hours before Sabina called a halt by saying words I didn't understand, in French, or Latin, or Mandarin for all I knew.

The vampires closed around the open casket, standing shoulder to shoulder. And they started to hum, a fluctuating harmony that sounded like a funeral dirge without words. After several bars, the priestess sang out and the congregation fell silent. "lili lama vaqtani."

Startled, I tilted forward, neck out, and nearly tottered from the limb. I fluttered my wings and danced back, my talons sc.r.a.ping on the loose bark. "Eli eli lama vaqtani," she intoned again. The entire crowd sang back in minor-key harmony, "Eli eli lama vaqtani. Eli eli lama vaqtani." I stared, feeling cold in my bones, placing the words in my memory. The phrase was among the last words I would have expected to hear from a bunch of vampires. And they didn't go up in flames. Needing warmth, I fluffed and fluttered my feathers, twittering in fear.

I had heard the words at every Easter pa.s.sion play from the time I was twelve to the time I left the children's home. I was pretty sure the phrase was among the last words uttered by Jesus on the cross, Aramaic for "My G.o.d, my G.o.d, why have you forsaken me?"

The vampires fell silent.

I stayed in my tree as the vamps interred Katie, shoving her coffin into an empty slot in a Clan Pellissier mausoleum. The harsh sound of metal on stone was grinding, and the thunk of the coffin settling in its niche echoed across the grounds. As the door to the crypt was closed, its iron grating sealed and locked, they seemed to take a collective breath, as if to free themselves from the vestiges of a trance. The formalities were clearly over.

Some of the vamps formed into smaller groups, to chat or plot or whatever vamps did at undead nonfunerals. Oddly, they talked about the stock market and the latest flare-up in the Middle East, like any well-educated group of humans. It was almost as disorienting as hearing them quote Jesus. Then, one by one, they called for their rides on cell phones, and the limo and fancy car procession reversed itself. First to arrive were last to leave. That p.i.s.sing contest again.

When all the vamps were gone, I was ready to take wing back to my garden and shift into something with arms. But Sabina still stood, head down, white skirts fluttering in the breeze. She spoke without raising her voice, her tones heavy now with an accent I didn't recognize. "It has been many years since I heard the call of the Bubo bubo," she said. She looked up at the tree, her face bright in the scant moonlight. "I know not if you are real, or prophecy, or the mad imaginings of an old, old sinner." She shook her head slowly, her predator eyes on me. Though I was raptor, and afraid of little, I wanted to lift wings and fly far away. My flight feathers shivered and my taloned feet danced on the limb. "If you are prophecy, if you are the breath of G.o.d on my stained and darkened soul, then know this, and take my words back with you to paradise. We still seek forgiveness. We still search for absolution."