by Faith Hunter
“Poseidon, Pele, and Vulcan might think they’re being dissed.” Alex was grinning, teasing.
Too bad I couldn’t appreciate that. “Whatever. It needs to be destroyed.” Every magical implement used in black arts needed to be destroyed. The old saying about absolute power was totally true when it came to vamps. And witches. And humans. And probably skinwalkers, come to think of it.
“And what did you do with the other weapons of power?” Eli asked softly.
I turned to the former Ranger sitting across the rug from me, his legs stretched out, his fingers laced across his stomach. He looked deceptively relaxed, but I knew better. He could strike across the room almost as fast as a cobra, and he was always armed. Always. “Uncle Sam can’t have them,” I said flatly, my tone soft.
“So you’re the only person who has the right to them?”
It was an old argument, one we had been having for weeks, and we were stuck. “I’m the only person who won’t use them.”
“And if using one would save Angie Baby’s life?”
Angie Baby, Molly’s daughter, my godchild. I knew what he was doing. He was telling me that I would, eventually, find a need for the blood-magic. “Uncle Sam can’t have them,” I repeated. “Not now, not ever. We need to destroy them.”
“Stop it,” Alex said, his voice low.
Eli and I looked at him, but he was staring at his screens, his head down and his eyes hidden behind slitted lids. His lips curled up on one side, a smile so like one of his brother’s understated gestures that it shocked me. And then the half smile stretched into his own wry grin. “I don’t like it when Mommy and Daddy fight.”
I threw a line drive at his head. It would have been deadly had I used something other than a couch cushion. As it was, he did a good imitation of a bobblehead doll before he scooped the pillow off the floor and threw it back at me. And missed. Eli was grinning at our antics—actually showed a hint of his pearly whites. “Bro,” he said to his brother. “You throw like a girl. And, Jane, so do you.”
We both grinned back, Alex flipped him off, and on that happy family-time moment, I stood, stretched until something popped in my back, and said, “’Night.”
“What’s left of it,” the Kid griped.
• • •
I woke at eleven a.m. when a knock sounded on the front door, and I threw on a robe. When the guys moved in, I’d discovered that I needed a better robe, so I bought three, all matching, blocky-shaped, black terry-cloth robes, and gave them out at a Sunday breakfast. The guys had rolled their eyes, but they wore them when they came downstairs in the mornings. Most of the time. I tossed my hair over my shoulder and peeked out the window in the door, then looked back over my shoulder at Eli, poised on the top landing, a handgun in each hand. His robe hung unbelted, revealing the sculpted body of a warrior, and the pale scars that had nearly killed him. He had new scars on his throat and chest caused by a vamp eating on him. He didn’t remember much about the event but I did. He said it didn’t bother him, but it bothered me. A lot. I’d nearly gotten my partner killed.
Keeping the remembered horror of that night out of my voice, I said, “It’s Bruiser.”
Eli safetied both weapons, lifted one in acknowledgment, and trudged back to bed. Keeping vamp hours was hard on us all. I remembered the expression in Bruiser’s eyes from the night before and my shoulders drew up. Feeling stupid, or maybe uncertain, which was stupid come to think of it, I pulled my robe together, tightened the belt, and tossed my hip-length black braid out of the way before opening the door.
A peculiar mix of scents met my nose: cooked grease, sugar, tea, green things, citrusy something, and gun oil. Less intense was the smell of New Orleans: water, exhaust, food, coffee, old liquor, spices, and urine. I blinked at the combo, trying to take it all in. Bruiser was dressed in dark brown khakis and a light brown shirt, the sleeves rolled up, his muscled arms showing beneath the cuffs. He was holding the handle of a basket in one hand and flowers in the other. Flowers. Stems wrapped in lavender paper. Like . . . flowers. Like from a fancy florist. White calla lilies framing three bright red calla lilies with yellow stamens, all nonaromatic. And a wide frill of catnip in bloom, tiny white flowers with a scent so delectable Beast rolled over on her back and purred.
I just stared at the flowers. Feeling weird.
Bruiser had brought me flowers.
CHAPTER 4
An Offer to Dish
“Jane?”
I started, realizing I had been standing, without greeting him, my eyes on the flowers. “Ummm.” Moving woodenly, I opened the door and stood aside to let him in.
Wearing a faint, quizzical smile that would have done my Ranger partner proud, he said, “You act like no one ever brought you flowers before.”
“Yeah. Once.” Rick. Rick had brought me daisies and sunflowers. But I didn’t say that. “What do I do with them?”
Bruiser’s face changed, and I had no idea what the new expression meant. I didn’t take my eyes from the flowers to get a better look. His voice soft, he said, “They go in a vase. On the nightstand by your bed. Or on the kitchen table. Or on the coffee table in the living room. They go where you can see them most often, and, seeing them, remember that you deserve flowers.” When I still just stood there, he said, “I’ll get a vase from the kitchen. I’m sure Katie left some here. Why don’t you get dressed. And then we can have breakfast. I brought beignets from Café du Monde, and tea.”
“Yeah. I’ll go get dressed.” I could tell my voice sounded weird, but I turned and went to my room, shutting myself in. I stood there, my back to the paneled door, staring stupidly. Flowers? I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and braided my hair, debating on makeup. I finally put a touch of lipstick on my bottom lip and smeared my lips together to mush the color around until there was just a tint left. And found myself staring at my reflection in the mirror, my amber eyes catching the light. Rick had brought me flowers. Rick had deserted me. Now Bruiser had brought me flowers.
Flowers. With catnip.
My Beast was silent but excited, alert, and curious, ears flicking, eyes intent.
I walked back into the living room and followed the smells of beignets and flowers to the kitchen. Bruiser was facing the window, drying his hands, backlit by the window light, so I could see only a profile, his brown hair darkened by glare, his nose a tad too strong for classical beauty, yet well formed. It was a totally sexy nose. He was tall, strong-looking, capable. His stance said he could handle anything, protect anyone, or die trying. Something tightened in my middle.
Behind him, on the table, was a cut crystal vase that had been in the butler’s pantry, the bouquet inside it, the blooms fluffed. Short snips of stems lay in a small pile, where he’d trimmed them. I vaguely remembered that the stems of cut flowers had to be trimmed every few days.
Beignets were on china plates from the top cabinet. Tea had been poured into matching china cups. They were sitting on saucers, with tiny little napkins beside each. There was real cream in a tiny pitcher I had seen somewhere on a shelf and a matching sugar-holder thingy. And polished silver spoons. And the flowers. In a vase.
Beast was peering out through my eyes, staring at my bouquet. She sniffed and filled our/my head with the scent. Catnip? she asked. For Beast?
Yeah. Catnip. The fancy flowers were bad enough. The catnip was something much worse. The aroma expanded as if trying to fill the house.
Bruiser had moved in here not that long ago, a temporary arrangement, he’d called it. Then he had moved back out, and back into vamp HQ, to help with the transition of the old primo—him—to the new primo—Adelaide. Now he wasn’t even a full-time blood-servant, or at least, that was the way I had interpreted the meeting earlier. I didn’t know what he was to Leo. And I didn’t know what he was to me. We had danced. We had killed rogue vamps together in Natchez. We had shared a few intense physical moments br
ought on by mutual attraction and once by magic. But I had no idea what any of it meant or where I wanted us to go.
Bruiser seemed to sense me behind him and turned. I stuck my hands in my pockets and frowned. His face emotionless, he moved around the table and pulled out a chair. I knew how to do this. I’d been taught proper Southern manners in the children’s home. But I hadn’t practiced in more than a decade. Shoulders hunched, I took my seat and lifted my weight in the ungainly half crouch that allowed him to push my chair in the requisite few inches.
Bruiser handed me a napkin, which I placed over a thigh. He moved my teacup and the sugar and creamer closer. I added both to my tea as he took his seat at the corner, ninety degrees, and only inches, away from me. The house was mostly silent, one of the boys upstairs snoring softly. My palms were slightly moist and my heart was beating fast. The air conditioner came on. It was May, and already hot in the Deep South.
I expected Bruiser to put food on my plate and make me eat it with a silver fork. But he didn’t pass the beignets. Instead he lifted a box from the basket and set it in front of me, to the side of my dainty cup.
The box was maybe twelve inches by fourteen, wrapped in shiny gold paper with a darker gold bow, the ties all long and curly. From the way he handled it, the box was too heavy for jewelry, which was my first panicked thought. Just from looking at the box, I could tell that whatever it held was expensive. Even the paper looked like it cost a small fortune. I stared at it. I was doing a lot of staring. I was pretty sure I wasn’t breathing.
I dragged in a breath, scrubbed my sweaty hands dry on my jeans, and reached for the bow, pulling the ties until the ribbon fell away, My fingers were stiff and clumsy, but I got the paper open without tearing it. It seemed a crime to tear that paper. I set the stiff wrapping to the side and opened the plain white box. Inside was a second box, this one of carved wood, put together with wooden pegs. The wood felt old when I touched it, but well-oiled. I lifted the lid. Nesting within, on a swath of red velvet, was a knife, secured in a scabbard.
My mouth went parched, my hands icy and dry. A faint tremor ran along my fingers and vibrated through my core. I felt a small smile tug at my mouth, and I shook my head, feeling like there wasn’t enough air.
Bruiser said, “It’s a Mughal Empire, watered-steel dagger from India.” When I didn’t say anything or lift my eyes from the wondrous scabbard, he went on. “The knife was made in the seventeen hundreds, and has a slightly curved blade with a central ridge and double grooves. It has a gold-overlaid palmette and cartouche at forte, with a gem-set, jade-hilted handle.”
Still smiling slightly, breathing deeply to catch up on lost air, I lifted the scabbarded dagger and pulled the blade free, holding it to the side so the window light fell on it. The steel was beautiful, with a blued sheen that spoke of careful work with forge and hammer. There were nicks in the blade, but Bruiser hadn’t honed them out, and I was glad. They had history, each nick and scratch.
Bruiser, his voice the caressing lilt of a weapons lover, said, “The jade hilt has hand-carved scroll quillons centered with a carved stylized lotus leaf, and the pommel is in the form of an African lion’s head with gold inlay and set with golden topaz for the eyes.”
He didn’t have to add that the stones were the same shade as my own human eyes. I ducked my head, feeling the weight of the knife and its history in my hands.
“The scabbard,” he said, “is velvet-covered wood, jade-mounted, nineteenth century, with a carved jade chape and lock. A certain wily salesman suggested that the blade is charged with a spell of life force, to give the wielder the ability to block any opponent’s death cut. Pure balderdash, but it makes a nice tale.”
Silence fell between us, and I sheathed the blade, sliding it into the scabbard that had been shaped and carved just for it. The chape of the scabbard and the quillons met, the carved lotus flowers snapping together perfectly, with a small tap of jade on jade. “Why?” I asked, gesturing to the table with the dagger and scabbard, and then to the knife with my free hand. “Why this combination of . . . stuff?” Why flowers and catnip? But I didn’t ask that part.
Bruiser reached forward and took the blade, placing it in the nest of scarlet velvet. He took my hand. His palm was heated, the skin callused, and his fingers closed over mine. Deep inside me, something that was raw and ugly and bleeding stopped aching. Just . . . stopped.
“I thought for a long time about how to approach you. I thought about jewelry, or a Harley. I have a beautiful, fully restored Indian I thought you might like. I thought about a piece of Cherokee pottery I have somewhere, packed away. But each of those things touches on only a part of you.”
I tilted my head, watching our hands, not his face. His hands were well formed, fingers slender and strong.
Not reacting to my silence, Bruiser went on. “I chose these things because they seemed to speak to the heart of you. To the deep darkness that is part of you. That still, lightless, solemn place where, I think, no one has ever gone.”
My hand tightened, ever so slightly, when he described me, the hidden me, the soul home where all that I was, and all that I am, and all that I might someday become, lived. My soul home, in the tribal fashion, was a cave, an empty cave, with water-smoothed rock walls, and a fire pit in the center.
“You have honor,” Bruiser said. “That is a rare quality in this world.” He lifted my hand and pressed my knuckles to his mouth. His lips were hot and firm on my icy flesh.
I was now breathing too fast and shallow and I felt the cold prickles of hyperventilation.
“Men don’t think to give you flowers,” he murmured, his lips moving on my skin before he let our hands drop, still clasped, “because you have the heart of a warrior. The soul of a priestess. The heat of a long-burning fire. But we should give you flowers, all of us, if for nothing but to share their wonderful fragrance and beauty.” He smiled slightly, his lips moving in my peripheral vision. His thumb stroked the skin on the back of my hand, once, twice, slowly. “That is why the flowers. The catnip, that quiet, delightful scent, is for your beast, the cat I saw you become, one night.”
I pulled in a slow, nearly painful breath. Smelling the catnip. Inside, Beast rolled over, paws in the air, and purred.
“The dagger? Because you are a weapon, from the soul out. And because I have been such a weapon, and shall be one again, if you agree. The china and crystal, the linen napkin and silver spoons,” Bruiser said, “are more for me than for you. Because I have been all those things, once, long ago, and I would share that world with you, if you will let me. If you will let me stay with you.”
I pulled in another breath, feeling light-headed again. The scents of catnip, tea, and steel filled me like a mist fills the night.
“For a reason or a season,” he said. “For a year or a lifetime. For a poem or a song. For a victorious battle or a bloody death. For honor. I would stand by you for as long as I might live.”
Questions filled my head, bouncing like balls in a box. I looked up from our clasped hands, into his brown eyes, afraid of what he might be asking me. His eyes had golden flecks. Had I noticed that before? And his nose. I found his nose so captivating. It was bony and commanding all at once. His hair, the color sable in this light, fell over half of his forehead and down into one eye, tangling with his lashes. Through the falling strands of hair, I could see, barely, his widow’s peak and the tiny mole that rarely showed at his hairline.
As if he knew my questions before I thought them, he said, “If we survive this coming war, you and I, we may live three or four human lifetimes, far longer than any human has lived since the flood, since Methuselah walked the Earth. Jane Yellowrock, I want you to be part of that life, in whatever form or capacity you may choose. I won’t push; I won’t demand. But I wish to be with you, if you will allow me to do so.”
“And if Rick comes back?” I hadn’t expected to say the words. Had no
idea where they had come from.
“You deserve someone who will honor you first and last. And if you choose a man who dishonors you, then you are not the woman I believe you to be.”
I smiled at that, because that was how I felt, but hadn’t had the words to frame the thought. “Touché. And if Leo objects?”
“I was quite careful of the legality of my wording this morning,” he said. “Leo may not like that I court you, but he will have no choice.”
Court? I pulled my hand from his, unsettled. “I don’t know how to talk about relationship stuff. You need to know that. I have no idea.”
“I, however, have decades of practice,” he said, with an amused, almost lofty tone. “Later, when you’ve had time to think, we’ll talk. Now we need to eat,” he said. “And drink this lovely tea. It’s a special, finest, tippy, golden, flowery orange pekoe from Ceylon, a first flush tea that I brought with me from the council house.”
“You stole Something Far Too Good for Ordinary People?” I asked.
Bruiser grinned at the old tea lover’s joke and indicated that I should taste the tea. I did. And it was indeed SFTGFOP, and by far the best tea I had ever tasted. I sighed and closed my eyes as the flavors moved along my throat. When I opened my eyes, Bruiser had placed a beignet on a plate and put it by my tea saucer. He could have used the silver tongs I hadn’t noticed until now, but he didn’t. He set the beignet on the china plate with his bare fingers, white powdered sugar on them. He lifted his hand . . . and licked his fingers.
He licked his fingers . . . The sight went through me like the antique weapon might through silk gauze. This man, this Onorio . . . He was way more than silver and fancy manners. He was Bruiser. I smiled and picked up the pastry. Bit into the cooling beignet. I set the beignet on the plate and sipped the tea. In silence, we ate the picnic breakfast, me coming to understand that Bruiser wanted me. Me. When he could have any sexy blood-servant or vamp he wanted. And . . .