Faith’s Blog: Morning y’all – SKINWALKER
I was asked recently, “What part of Skinwalker is your favorite?
Faith – Oh, my. The beginning. There is something so creatively satisfying about starting a new project, especially one that might become a new series, which it did. It’s all fresh and new and the character might do anything, become anything, say anything, and surprises are the nature of the writing experience. It’s a lot like meeting the eye of a stranger, feeling that instant attraction, and knowing that anything – anything! – might happen next! When I started Skinwalker it was just like that – like falling in love! Jane Yellowrock was so different from any character I’d ever known, and it was like she was alive, right there on the page, or inside my head. She had opinions and life experience that she was ready to share with me, and she was a strong believer in justice and righting wrongs. She was gentle and tough, nonjudgmental (in her own unique way!) and she was open to new challenges. She became my new best friend!
And the fact that Jane Yellowrock was a shape changer, a shape-shifter, one who carried the soul of another intelligence inside her – her Beast – added so very much! I knew right away that Jane had to go to work for the very beings she hunts – vampires! That beginning was total fun! Here it is!
Skinwalker
Chapter One
I travel light
I wheeled my bike down Decatur Street and eased deeper into the French Quarter, the bike’s engine puttering. My shotgun was slung over my back, a Benelli M4 Super 90, loaded for vamp with hand-packed silver-flechette rounds. I carried a selection of silver crosses in my belt, hidden under my leather jacket, and stakes were secured in loops at my jeans-clad thighs. The saddle bags on my bike were filled with my meager travel belongings—clothes in one side, tools of the trade in the other. As a vamp killer for hire, I travel light.
I’d need to put the vamp hunting tools out of sight for my interview. My hostess might be offended. Not a good thing when said hostess held my next paycheck in her hands and possessed a set of fangs of her own.
A guy, a good-looking Joe, standing in a doorway, turned to follow my progress as I motored past. A dark-haired local, he wore leather boots, a jacket, and jeans, like me, though his hair was short and mine was down to my hips when not braided out of the way, tight to my head, for fighting. Without moving, he followed my progress down the street. A Kawasaki motorbike leaned on a stand nearby. I didn’t like his interest, but he wasn’t hunting. He didn’t prick my predatory or territorial instincts.
I maneuvered the bike down St. Louis and then onto Dauphine, weaving between nervous-looking shop workers heading home for the evening and a few early revelers out for fun. I spotted the address in the fading light. Katie’s Ladies was the oldest, continually operating whorehouse in the Quarter, in business since 1845, though at various locations, depending on hurricane, flood, the price of rents, and the agreeable nature of local law and enforcement officers. I parked, set the kickstand and unwound my long legs from the Hogg.
I needed work. My best bet, was a job killing off a rogue vampire hunting in the City of Jazz. It was taking down as many as three tourists a night and had left a squad of cops, drained and smiling, dead where it dropped them. Scuttlebutt was, that it held all the men in thrall while it feasted. All that suggested the rogue was an old, powerful, deadly, whacked-out vamp. The nutty ones were always the worst.
Just last week, Katherine “Katie” Fonteneau, the titular head lady of Katie’s Ladies had emailed me. According to my website, I had successfully taken down an entire blood-family in the mountains near Asheville. And I had. No lies on the website or in the media reports, not bald-faced ones anyway. Truth is, I’d nearly died, but I ’d done the job, made a rep for myself and then taken off a few months to spend and invest my legitimately gotten gains. Or to heal, but spin is everything. A lengthy vacation sounded better than the complete truth.
I took off my helmet and the clip that held my hair, pulling my braids out of my jacket-collar and letting them fall around me, beads clicking. I palmed a few tools of the trade and adjusted the braids, rearranging them to hang smoothly, no lumps and bulges. I used the motion and the time to assure my safety through the upcoming interview. To take in the city. And to try and relax. I was nervous and being nervous around a vamp was just plain dumb.
The sun was setting, casting a red glow on the horizon, limning the ancient buildings, shuttered windows, and wrought iron balconies in fuchsia. It was pretty in a purely human way. I opened my senses and let my beast taste the world. It liked the smells and wanted to prowl. Later I promised it. Soon. Predators usually growl when irritated. As it was, she sent mental claws into my soul, kneading. It was uncomfortable, but the claw pricks kept me alert, which I’d need for the interview. I had never met a civilized vamp, certainly never done business with one. So far as I knew, vamps and skinwalkers had never met. I was about to test that premise. This could get interesting.
Sunglasses went into my collar, lenses hanging out. Cool is good, but most vamps like it dark and I didn’t want to limit my senses. I glanced at the witchy-locks on my saddlebags and, satisfied, I walked to the narrow red door and pushed the buzzer. The man who answered was definitely human, but big enough to be something else. Professional wrestler or troll. Both, maybe. The thought made me smile. He blocked the door, standing with arms loose and ready. “Something funny?” he asked, voice like a horse-hoof rasp on stone.
“Not really. Tell Katie that Jane Yellowrock is here.” Tough always works best on first acquaintance. That my knees were knocking wasn’t a consideration.
“Card?” Troll asked. A man of few words. I liked him already. With two gloved fingers, I unzipped my leather jacket, fished a business card from an inside chest pocket, and extended it to him. It read, “Jane Yellowrock, Have Stakes Will Travel.” Vamp killing is a bloody business. I had discovered that a little humor went a long way to making it all bearable.
Troll took the card and closed the door in my face. I might have to teach my new pal a few manners. But that was nearly axiomatic for all the men of my acquaintance.
I heard a bike two blocks away, maybe a Kawasaki, like the bright red crotch-rocket I had seen earlier. I wasn’t surprised when it came into view and it was the Joe from Decatur Street. He pulled his bike up beside mine, powered down and sat there, eyes hidden behind glasses so much like mine we could have ordered them from the same online site. He had a toothpick in his mouth and it twitched once as he pulled the helmet off.
The Joe was a looker. A little taller than my six-feet-even, he had olive skin, black hair, black brows. Black jacket and jeans. Black boots. Bit of overkill with all the black, but he made it work, with muscular legs wrapped around the red bike.
**
I LOVED this! And I had no idea the fans woudl love it too! Thank you all so much!
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Faith