Cold Reign (Jane Yellowrock #11)(116)
Back in the SUV, Le Batard’s disfigured head shoved into my cooler, Eli pulled away from the curb. Bruiser was riding shotgun; Edmund was in the backseat, passing my gear over to me. I was all the way in back with Louis, who still had a silver stake in his head and was bound in silver chains. He stank of poison and death, though he was marginally still undead.
With my feet, I shoved him against the overfull cooler to make room so I could strip and dress in my leathers, the formal ones Leo’d had made for my official presentation to the EuroVamps. I figured I had killed all the EVs I’d met except Louis and he wasn’t long for this world, but looking spiffy couldn’t hurt for the next meeting. Me in half-form and fancy leathers. I’d scare the devil himself. Go me.
I was more limber in this form and dressing wasn’t as difficult as it would be otherwise. I left off my boots in favor of paws and claws, and shrugged into my weapons rigs. I tightened some straps and loosened others—to better fit the rigs to my new shape—and I could feel water thudding onto the undercarriage as I worked. We rolled down St. Louis Street; the flooding was much worse, water up under the houses on raised foundations and stilts, inside others. We passed the green house with bathroom planters and the antique iron feet of the tub were underwater. The rainwater was rising.
We might have ended the curse that was keeping the storm systems in place, but they hadn’t dispersed on their own yet, though the air temps had risen. Rain had begun to fall again, melting the icy slush. I reinserted my earbud and mic, clipped the coms unit to my pants, and braided my hair, tying it off with a bit of string I found on the floor.
Over the vehicle’s coms, Alex said, “Patching Wrassler through.”
“Wrassler to the Enforcer,” a raspy voice said. “Do you copy?”
Dread filled me and I remembered the sound of splintering wood. “Wrassler? Copy. Go ahead.”
“Katie and Bethany are gone. They fought us. They took Leo.”
The scent of shock and fear filled the SUV. “Casualties?” Eli asked.
“Four . . . four wounded.” Wrassler cleared his throat and I realized he had to be injured. “We have them with masters. Two might make it.”
Gently, in a New Orleans’ cant, Eli said, “Are you one who will survive, my brother?”
“It was touch and go. But I should survive.”
“We’ll find them,” Eli said. “We’ll bring Leo back.” He was promising what he couldn’t. Until I realized he hadn’t said Leo would still have his head when we brought him back.
“Thank you,” Wrassler said. “Out.” The connection ended.
Over coms, Alex said, “I haven’t found the group of EVs or Leo, but I have a visual of Brute staring at a surveillance camera outside Pat O’Brien’s near the corner of St. Peter and Bourbon Streets.”
“Staring at the camera?” I asked as I climbed over the seat and shoved Edmund across the center, behind Eli, stealing his position behind Bruiser. Ed gave a long-suffering sigh that also sounded amused. I just grinned, my oversized canines pulling at my lips.
“Directly at it,” Alex said. “Wait. He moved. Okay, I got him again on a traffic cam, trotting down toward Royal Street, toward the river. Now staring at a camera near an antique shop. Water’s up to his ankles. The river is over its banks, flooding over the railroad tracks. The storm is stalled north of us, dropping more rain, and temps are rising, melting all the sleet, which means runoff is higher. The drainage system is diverting it, but not fast enough.”
“Best route?” Eli asked, punching in a street map and navigation of the city on the SUV’s computer system.
“Traffic is minimal with the rain. Recommend you stay on St. Louis, to Chartres, and right onto St. Peter. Brute is speeding up. Dead run through the water, up past Jax to the top of the levee. Lost him.”
Eli gunned the motor and the heavy vehicle shoved water out of the way as we sped downtown, river side. All of us checking weapons, silent but for the click and schnick and clack of guns. Edmund passed water to each of us and we hydrated. I pulled the Benelli and reloaded with silver fléchette rounds. Loaded the holder attached to the barrel.
Eli spun the wheel right and onto St. Peter Street. Muddy water from the river rushed down the street, flooding the lower level of buildings in the old Jax brewery. There were no lights in this part of town, the storm having unleashed its fury on the electrical grid. The night was thick and wet and threatening. Rain shattered through the darkness and pounded on the SUV like thousands of frenzied fists. We bumped over the railroad tracks and up across the grass to the top of the levee. Without waiting for the vehicle to stop, I shoved open the door and stepped into the rushing water, icy, above my ankles. My claws extended and pressed into the mushy, eroding soil. I pulled on Beast’s night vision and spotted Brute, downstream, fighting the debris-filled current. Someone in his jaws. Another form stood over him, a handgun extended, firing at him. The gunfire was muted in the roar of pounding rain, rushing water, screams. Even in the darkness, it was clear the werewolf was badly wounded.
Close in, the mud-brown water was white-capped and boiling. I caught sight of a tree, moving in the current, faster than I could run, only a few feet out. It was bigger around than a whiskey barrel, its limbs broken and sharp. I raced through the overflowing river, slipping twice, knowing that if I fell in, I might be swept away.