Blood Trade: A Jane Yellowrock Novel by Faith Hunter

typed pages. There were twenty, the content in outline form. The first pages had HISTORY , broken down into CREATION, MITHRANS, NATURALEZA, THE DIASPORA, EUROPEAN COUNCIL, NEW WORLD MITHRANS, and MISCELLANEOUS , with even more subcategories and suggestions and explanations beneath. The next section had POLITICAL HIERARCHY , with MASTERS OF THE CITY, HEIRS, SCIONS, PRIMOS, SECONDOS, BLOOD-SERVANTS, and BLOOD-SLAVES . “This is your outline for the book?” I clarified.
    Misha nodded, sipping her coffee, hiding her lower face behind the cup. I remembered her doing that when we were kids, only back then it was orange juice or iced tea she hid behind. I flipped through the pages. There was one labeled HOW TO KILL MITHRANS—HUNTER METHODOLOGY . Another was labeled WHAT SCIENCE HOPES , and beneath that was a list of researchers’ names and the higher-learning institutes that paid them to think. One read MITHRANS AND MAGIC , another was labeled MITHRAN BLOOD AND MODERN PRESERVATION . There was MITHRANS AND WITCHES , and I flipped on through, not liking this. The vamps I knew were not going to like this, either. Leo was going to have kittens. And maybe kill me for being part of it in any way.
    And then I found it. Near the back there was a section on VAMP HUNTERS . My name was at the top. The chill I’d been holding down shocked its way through me.
    I had never hidden what I did for a living—killing vamps was my main source of financial income. I had a Web site dedicated to advertising my skills, with a headshot of me in vamp-hunting gear, a bio (mostly candid), and a list of kills. I hadn’t updated it recently, but clients could reach me through the contact link. No, I didn’t hide who I was or what I did, but I didn’t put it out there for the whole world to see either, especially in what could become a best seller.
    I closed the pages and set them on the table between us. The anger I had kept from my face vibrated through my voice when I said, “You’re making me a target. And you want me to help you?” I stood and pivoted on my heel, heading for the door. Somehow Misha reached it before me.
    “Not outing you,” she stated. “Not going to say anything you don’t want said.”
    I let a small smile pull up one side of my mouth. “Oh yeah? You gonna let me have the right to edit out anything I don’t like?” Misha’s face fell. “I figured not.” I reached around her for the doorknob.
    “Okay,” she said. I stopped. “I’ll let you read over anything I write about you, and if it’s wrong or untruthful I’ll take it out.”
    Which wasn’t a huge help. The truth was bad enough, and I wanted to keep the few secrets I had left to myself. But if I left the hotel room, even the right to take out the lies would be off the table. I was smart enough to know that much. Reach would tell her anything she wanted if the price was right. If I stayed, I might be able to bargain for my privacy and secrets. My fists clenched and opened as I hesitated. “What do you want from me?”
    “I need an intro to Hieronymus here in Natchez and to Leo Pellissier in New Orleans. I’ve tried but they won’t talk to me. I need someone to give me that extra edge.”
    I stepped back and stared at her, waiting, giving Misha a chance to make her case.
    “My book deal is structured so I get the biggest payout on delivery of the manuscript. I need the money.”
    “We all need something.”
    She ignored my derision. “So far, all I have is a contact with a primo blood-servant of a minor clan here in Natchez, a human I talked to ten days ago named Bryson Ryder.” She was watching my face, and hers fell. “You’ve never heard of him?”
    I shook my head. I didn’t remember that name from my quick perusal of the Natchez files, and the first thing I had looked at was clan names, their blood-master’s heirs, and primos to get a handle on Natchez’s organizational structure. “Clan name?” I asked.
    “Clan Petitpas.”
    I shook my