“When black magic is the cause,” Aggie said, “only wisdom and self-knowledge can provide the healing.” She indicated my hands. “You have accomplished much, as you see. But it has not been enough. The red lines are still there, barely visible beneath the skin. I do not know what knowledge is needed to complete your healing, so I cannot guide you.”

“Ah.” I pushed myself to my knees and to my feet. My stomach growled and my limbs felt weak, like my knees would buckle and I’d fall over if a stiff wind hit me. Heck. I’d fall over if a slight breeze hit me. “Where’s Eli and Alex? I have a hazy memory of them being here.”

“They are visiting with my mother. She has decided that their mother was part Coushatta. She is tracing their lineage.”

I started laughing and stumbled, catching myself against the doorjamb like a weeklong drunk. “Uni lisi is a dangerous woman.”

“Yes,” Aggie agreed, sourly. She took my elbow to help me from the smokehouse and into the early afternoon sun. It didn’t hurt where she gripped, not like a bruise, but I was aware of the flesh, a distant ache. Yeah. Not totally healed. And not good. But better than dying, which I had a feeling I had been. I blinked into the brightness, the world sharp and distinct, yet with full-spectrum color—Beast-vision still with me, tied into my own.

Behind the sweathouse, out of sight of the road and lisi’s house, I showered in the cool well water and dressed in the clothes the guys had brought me—jeans and the fuzzy purple dragon T-shirt, which felt wonderful against my skin. After pulling my hair, which had come loose at some point of my partial change, into a knot, I slipped my feet into flip-flops and walked to the house. From it came wonderful smells of grease and pork and spices, like boudin balls and Cajun peppers and all good things to eat.

It was two p.m. by the time we finished with the appropriate and required visit (which meant the lunch that had been picked up from a Cajun fast-food joint by Eli) and said our good-byes. I fell asleep as soon as the SUV pulled out of the drive. The last thing I heard was Alex saying, “Are we gonna tell her she snores?”

CHAPTER 9

A Lot of Blood and Some Magical Mojo

The power nap did me good, and by the time we reached the French Quarter / Central Business District area, I was awake and pointing the way to the bank where all the magical goodies were kept. We were exhausted and it was probably selfish of me to make the stop, but I had to know if the half-remembered glimpse of a gold bracelet was reality or a dark dream. Grabbing an empty gobag, I entered the bank.

No one looked twice at the dragon shirt, even in the heat wave, but they did look at me, too tall, too lanky, and too recently on TV. Go, me. As I was led out of the lobby and into the long, narrow hallway where private storage was offered to the patrons, I heard whispering and muttering behind me. I gathered that the bank patrons, and probably some of the staff, identified me from the news and replays of the press conference. But nothing totally unexpected or negative happened, and no one tried to shoot me, which was always a plus, and something I thought of often lately.

Unfortunately, I did feel the instant attraction of magic as I entered the safe-deposit box room. My skin started to tingle and burn, and the red lines on my hand brightened, the closer I got to the safe-deposit box that held the most dangerous of the magical trinkets I had collected. I spread my fingers, seeing the red lines brighten, the flesh of the digits looking soft and delicate, like they were trying to swell. I tucked the hand into a jeans pocket and keyed open the three boxes I rented, before following the teller into one of the small, private viewing rooms.

As soon as she left, I held my hand over each box in turn, and even blindfolded I’d have known which box contained the blood diamond, as my injured hand practically sizzled with heat, and the red lines glowed brighter as I held it over the one box. With my left hand, I lifted the safe-deposit box lid that called to me, and the burning of my right hand increased tenfold. But now Beast pressed down on my brain, her claws extended, and pushed the pain away, kneading, just as she had done in the healing ceremony. “Thanks,” I muttered aloud to her, not taking my eyes off the box.

Inside, in its black velvet jewelry bag, was the blood diamond.

With my good left hand, I opened the drawstring and eased the gem to the lip of the bag, holding the blood diamond in the velvet with the tips of my fingers, careful not to let it touch me. The stone, when not in use in a magical ceremony¸ usually looked like a pink diamond or a washed-out, pale ruby, the size of the end of my thumb. It was faceted all over in large, chunky planes, which I had figured out were its natural crystal shape. It was hanging on a heavy gold chain, the gem encased in a thick focal setting shaped like horns and claws—just like the setting on the gold bracelet I’d glimpsed worn by Joses Bar-Judas, aka Joseph Santana.

I stared into its depths as the gem sparkled and danced with lights, the internal lights of black-magic power. It was beautiful and ugly and probably the most powerful thing I would ever see, having been fed with the soul energy and life force of witch children sacrificed over centuries. It had belonged to the Damours, and I had no doubt that Santana would want it.

I also had no doubt that whatever Santana had done to me, I now was susceptible to the lure of the gem. My flesh wanted the diamond, wanted to cup it in my hands, to press it to my heart. My breath sped and my heart rate doubled. “Yeah. That totally sucks,” I said aloud.

I forced my fingers to open, let the gem fall to the bottom of the heavy velvet bag, and I drew the drawstring shut. I had a lead-lined pouch that I sometimes stuck silver crosses in so the light from vamp-glow wouldn’t advertise that I carried a weapon against them. I’d carry the gem in that, just in case the lure of it got too bad. I set the velvet bag on the table. From the box beside it, I pulled out the iron discs created from the spike of Calvary, and the pocket watches that contained more of the iron, and set them on the table. They felt different too, warm to the touch of my fingers. Well, ducky. Black-magic stuff seems to recognize me now. Glowering at the discs, I debated taking everything in the boxes, but if we lost the battle with the Son of Darkness and he killed us all, then Santana would own everything. As a witch and a vamp himself, one of the oldest undead on the planet, he would likely be able to use it all, just as the Damours had done. I put the biggest slab of iron discs and the black velvet bag holding the blood diamond into the empty gobag, closed up the boxes, and got the teller to help me return them to the long slots. Tired, scared, and unhappy with the direction of my thoughts, I left the bank and strode into the afternoon sun.