Sweet Ruin(10)
Orion raised his flattened palm. The projections slowed, then stopped on an image of a crimson planet. He tilted his head, perceiving things no one else could.
Weaknesses.
He could see vulnerabilities in a man, a castle, an army. An entire world.
The Undoing slowly curled his fingers to make a fist. The planet began to lose shape, crumbling, as if he wadded up parchment.
Was Orion mimicking the destruction? Or causing it?
The world dwindled and dwindled, until it . . . disappeared. A whole realm—gone. The inhabitants dead.
Orion turned to face the others. His expression was contemplative, but his eyes . . . dark and chilling, like the abyss Sian hailed from. His fathomless gaze fell on Rune. “Bring me the head of the Valkyrie, archer.”
No enlistment. Just death. Why not attempt to sway Nïx? Two seats remained at the table, and a soothsayer was always an asset. Lore held that she was one of the most powerful oracles ever to live.
Too bad she couldn’t see her own future.
Rune shrugged off his curiosity. He had no love for Valkyries anyway. They were staunch allies to the fey, a colonizing species of slavers and rapists.
Judged by the company you keep, Nïx.
Rune knew she prowled the streets of a specific mortal city—a place of ready sin—from sundown to sunup. There was a large covey of water nymphs nearby. Tree nymphs as well.
They had eyes and ears in every pond, oak, and puddle.
In the name of duty, I’ll pump them for information. As Rune had answered so many times over the millennia: “It is done, my liege.”
FOUR
New Orleans
PRESENT DAY
Oh, gods, Rune, so close! Pleasepleasepleaseohgods, yes, yes, YESSSSSS!”
When Jo’s super-hearing picked up a third woman screaming her way to ecstasy—from the same location—her curiosity got piqued.
Time to finish up with the guy she was strangling.
She’d pinned him up against a brick wall, unmoved as he squirmed. He’d come into her territory, carrying a pimp cane?
In Jo’s mind, pimp cane signaled open season. Then the fucker had used it on a prostitute, a girl younger than Jo. The chick huddled on the curb, cheek swelling as she watched Jo delivering punishment.
“You gonna come back here?” Jo asked, though he couldn’t answer. She squeezed till things broke; this guy’s windpipe was crushed. “Huh?”
Staring at her eyes, he tried to shake his head.
“You do. You die. Get me?” He attempted a nod. “And if you ever hit a woman again, I’ll come for you. You’ll wake up with me hovering over you in your bed, your very own nightmare.” She flashed her fangs and hissed.
He started to urinate—occupational hazard—so she tossed him across the adjoining parking lot.
The girl gazed up at Jo. “Thanks, Lady Shady.”
My moniker. Somehow Jo’s alter ego had morphed into some weird-ass villain protector of prostitutes. Could be worse. “Yeah. S’cool.”
As Jo dusted off her hands, she heard another scream. “Rune! Rune! YES!”
All three ecstatic women had called out that Rune guy’s name. This I gotta see.
Though the girl was watching her, Jo went into ghost-mode. Invisible and intangible, she headed down Bourbon Street toward the screams, her feet never touching the ground.
Since she’d arrived in the city a few months ago, she’d been doing a lot of spying. The uncanny things—and beings—she’d witnessed here had lit a hope in her she hadn’t felt in years.
No longer did she gaze at the stars, losing herself in dreams of having her brother back with her. No longer did she pass endless days and nights¸ zoning out with comics or TV.
Jo was zoning in.
A wasted pedestrian stumbled through her, and shuddered. So did she. Tourists were rank. They sweated like crazy, gorged on mudbugs and garlic bread, and boozed to kingdom come, like pre-detonated puke grenades.
Would she puke if she drank from them?
She’d never bitten anybody. The smell—of whatever the guy had eaten for dinner, or the starch from his collar, or the slobbery pets he’d cuddled—warded her off. Or worse, he’d reek of cologne.
Axe cologne.
How could she put her tongue on skin saturated with that crap? Until someone invented a fang condom, she’d continue stealing from the blood bank.
A few blocks off Bourbon, she came upon a high-walled courtyard. A water fountain splashed within. The woman was screaming even louder; the sound of slapping skin quickened.
Hmm. Maybe Jo could possess one of the participants, live vicariously through her. Aside from an initial shudder, the “shells” never knew she was inside.
Or Jo could pick their pockets. Her rent-by-the-week motel room was filled with loot. She pretended each stolen prize was a gift to her—a bridge to get to know someone better—just as she pretended each possession was a visit.