by Faith Hunter
A blast of white smoke burst from her fingers and . . . the witches disappeared.
Just like that. In a vanishing act worthy of Las Vegas.
I shook my head.
Nothing made sense. And I hadn’t gotten a good look at them. Dang it.
CHAPTER 2
The Nose Doesn’t Lie
The cop in the car rushed out and over to the spot of the vanishing act, his gun in a two-hand grip at his side. He turned and saw me in the shadows, a weapon in each hand, and his service weapon tracked to me. I raised both hands and shouted, “I’m putting the weapons on the ground.”
“Down!” he yelled back, his weapon now centered on me. “Get on the ground. Get down!”
I bent and placed the weapons at my feet. Stepped back, both hands returning high in the air. I put both behind my head and laced my fingers, kneeling, then lying flat on the wet concrete, spread-eagled, my cheek on the wet sidewalk. The rain beat down on me. The cop sped over and dropped a knee into the small of my back. I grunted. That was gonna leave a bruise. He dragged my arms down and behind me and cuffed me while I struggled to breathe.
Eli called from the shadows, “That’s Jane Yellowrock, y’all.” The other cop whirled, his weapon trained on the sound of my partner’s voice. “I’m unarmed and alone,” Eli continued. “Coming out of the shadows hands raised. Don’t shoot. Sloan Rosen is putting a call through to you on your cells about us.”
Eli, still bare-chested, hands in the air, moved slowly out of the dark. He was barefoot again. Coward. I heard a cell vibrate, but the cop ignored the call. A moment later, he ignored his radio. So much for calling the woo-woo department for backup.
“Who are you? ID. What are you doing out here? Who were the women?” The cops talked over each other, the smell of anger and a thin thread of fear in their sweat, though both were as soaked as we were, the rain washing away scents and the tingle of magic.
Eli didn’t answer, just knelt near me and let the cops cuff him too. And then, because we had no ID and chose not to talk, we were shoved into separate units and driven to NOPD Eighth District on Royal Street. Our attorney was waiting for us there, which had to be Alex, doing his intel thing. I hoped he wasn’t still outside under an umbrella.
Brandon Robere was a lawyer, a graduate of Tulane Law, LLM, back in 1946, although he still looked like a man in his mid-thirties, a very self-assured man, currently oozing charisma, a confidence that was almost aggressive, and the kind of sensual magnetism that promised imaginative sexual escapades and the ability to handle anything or anyone. An alpha male at his finest.
The Onorio was lean, narrow-waisted, broad-shouldered, and former military, and was distinguishable from his identical twin by the small mole at his temple. It was the middle of the night, prime time for vamp business, and Brandon was dressed in a charcoal suit and tie, with lace-up Italian leather shoes that probably cost more than any pair in my closet. Brandon strode across the open space to us, and I watched as every female eye and most of the male eyes followed his passage.
Onorios were rare among vampire hierarchy, far above blood-slaves and blood-servants. They outranked secundos and primos. The couldn’t be blood-bound. They couldn’t be compelled. They needed vampire blood only occasionally. They lived for centuries. They had a magic that hadn’t been explained to me yet, but was clearly charismatic and compulsive. And maybe sexual. And probably a lot of other things. The fact that Leo Pellissier—the Master of the City of New Orleans and most of the Southeast U.S., and my boss—had three Onorios in his organization gave him power among the world’s vamps that I had yet to figure out.
From the front of the building, more help came. Moving with purpose in an unswerving line that took him direct to me was my sweetie pie. Not that I would ever call George Dumas, “Bruiser,” that. Not in a million years. We were still figuring out what kind of relationship we had, and sweetie pie did not begin to describe the man. Like Brandon, Bruiser was Onorio, another of New Orleans’s three. And he exuded power the way a billionaire politician did, wearing a suit and tie and his professional smile, his brown eyes finding me instantly.
Everyone in New Orleans recognized the former primo of the Master of the City, and the tension in the building changed and tightened, scenting of the kind of adrenaline that was hyperattentive and uneasy. Suddenly, for the cops, something wasn’t going according to protocol and the big room fell almost silent.
George Dumas took the words self-assured to new depths. I felt my face warm at the sight at him. His mouth fought a grin as he took me in, in my wet PJs, barefoot, dirty from being on the sidewalk, scuffed from being picked up from said sidewalk by my bound arms, and not wearing a bra. My hair had come loose from its braid at some point and hung, kinked from the wet, down the middle of my back and over my face. I stood as straight as I could at the sight of my rescuers, and lifted my head. It’s hard to look badass in your jammies, with your arms bound behind you, but I’d give it a go.
No one tried to stop him as Bruiser reached our small grouping and leaned in toward me. He pushed back my hair, exposing my cheek. It had been ground into the concrete when I was cuffed. The abrasion stung, but I’d had lots worse.
Unfortunately Bruiser was old school, the kind of gentleman born and bred in England over a century ago, and he didn’t like seeing me abused. It set off his manly protective instincts and I smelled his anger. Which was just so cute.
Before Bruiser could say anything embarrassing, Brandon addressed me loudly, saying, “Enforcer.” The single word had two effects. It brought Bruiser back to himself and his position, and reminded him that I had a rep to uphold. It also alerted everyone within hearing whom they had in custody. Bruiser’s hand fell away, and he buried whatever he was feeling beneath the professional élan he wore so well.
The cop who had brought me in mouthed the word Enforcer, suddenly realizing that he had possibly miscalculated.
Brandon glanced at Eli and said, “Mr. Younger.”
Eli nodded, his gaze hooded, his body far too still for my liking. This was the way he stood when he was getting ready to put a hurting on someone who had been overly rough with him. And I smelled blood. His. The cop transporting him had hurt him. I frowned, looking for the injury, seeing nothing, but the nose doesn’t lie. Eli was hurt.
Brandon said, “Are you injured, Mr. Younger?” Onorios had excellent noses too, far better than humans.
“Nothing a Band-Aid won’t fix.”
“And did this injury take place after you were in custody?”
Eli nodded once. Very slightly. Eli was ticked off.
Brandon asked me, “Have they charged you with something? Read you your rights?”
“No, on the charges. Yes, on the rights.”
He looked to Eli, who acknowledged my statements with another slight nod.
“Did you identify yourselves to the arresting officers?”
“Eli told them my name.”
“I see. And they didn’t allow that name to temper their actions. Interesting. Enforcer, could you remove the cuffs, if you so wanted?”
Now I knew where we were going with this. I was supposed to be the reasonable one. Bad casting, but, again, I could go with this. I nodded once. “Yes, but they’d be in pieces.”
“And yet, although you could have stopped them at any time, you allowed yourself to be taken in.”
I shook my hair back from my face. “All in the name of good relations with the local police. They had weapons drawn. They had just been in the presence of a witch working, and as humans, they were—” Not scared. Not about to pee their pants. Right. “—unnerved. I didn’t want anyone to start shooting, which might have injured any possible bystanders, tourists, or people looking out their bedroom windows at the scuffle. I figured things would be worked out easily later, when the officers heard the whole story. And then they’d apologize to us for being a ta
d too rough.” I let a small smile find my mouth. “But then someone called you guys, and I never got a chance.” The Kid was getting smarter by the day.
Brandon turned on one heel and lifted his chin, saying to the cops who had brought us in, “Commander Walker will be contacting you momentarily, alerted to the situation by Sloan Rosen—who you chose to ignore—and the office of the vampire Master of the City. It is my sincere hope that when the commander does communicate with you, the Enforcer to the Master of the City and her partner, Eli Younger, are no longer in restraints.”
The cuffs came off so fast the cop nearly dropped the pair on me. “I didn’t know who you were, Miz Yellowrock,” the officer said.
I rubbed my wrists and pushed back my hair, glancing a warning to Bruiser to show I was fine and would handle this myself. “Not a problem, Officer . . . ” I glanced at his name badge. “. . . Cormier. It was night, raining, bad lighting. You took care of a potential problem. And I’ll heal. Kudos to the local police.
“Do you need me to give a statement? If so, I’m happy to oblige, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home and change clothes. Get my partner his bandage.” I put a tiny emphasis on the word. “And come back. Would an hour work?”
“Miss Yellowrock and Mr. Younger may come back at their convenience,” a voice stated from the back. Commander Walker strode into the room, a frown so firmly etched on his dark-skinned face that it looked as if iron had been melted, poured into a mold, and hardened there. “We’re sorry for the trouble, Miss Yellowrock. My men and I appreciate your willingness to offer a statement. We’ll all be waiting here when you get back. And an hour would be most helpful.” He looked at his men and said, “Make sure they have their possessions. Now would be a good time.”
My gun and the vamp-killer appeared on the desk nearest, still damp from the rain. Commander Walker’s eyes went up at the sight of the blade, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he reached out and shook my hand, then Bruiser’s, Brandon’s, and last Eli’s. To my partner, he said, “I appreciate your service, soldier, even it was with the piss-ass army and not the air force.”
“Never liked flying, sir,” Eli said, relaxing in the presence of a military man who had clearly done his research into our backgrounds. “Much prefer jumping out of planes than flying them. We’ll be back ASAP.”
And just that easily, we were outside in a limo, where Bruiser offered us towels, unopened packages of men’s T-shirts, and anything we wanted from the limo’s liquor cabinet. I took the first two and pulled the tee over my wet shirt. Eli accepted all three, the last being a glass of single-malt scotch, forty-year-old Laphroaig, which I figured was expensive, both by the delight with which Eli sipped it and the amusement with which Bruiser watched.
“Tell me what happened?” he asked, handing me a beer, a Guinness, which brought a smile to my face. Once upon a time, beer had little effect on me, but things had changed somewhat since I was hit by lightning and nearly died. Now my appreciation had increased and so had my reaction to it. A tiny buzz had begun to stalk me from time to time, mostly when I was tired or stressed, and tonight was no exception.
I sipped and explained, walking Bruiser—my . . . whatever he was to me—through the last hour. At one point he took my left hand and sniffed my palm, which I thought was odd. I sniffed it too, but with the rain and fighting, there was nothing detectable, and I have a better than human sense of smell even in human form. I wrinkled my brow when I was done, thinking. “There seems like there’s something else, but whatever I’m forgetting, I lost it waking up.”
Bruiser released my hand. “And you never saw their faces?” he asked.
“Nope. Not once.” I drained the beer and smacked my lips. “But I have a very important question. I want to know how you got the limo on such short notice.”
Bruiser smiled, his eyes on my mouth, which made my own eyes fall to his. An unsettled warmth blossomed in my middle. “I was with Leo and Del,” he said, “when the primo received a call from Alex Younger. Leo insisted I take the limo. He also insists on a report from you once things are settled with the police. In person.”
I sighed and passed him the empty, accepting another from him when the driver pulled up to the house. “You’re coming in?” I asked hopefully.
“Yes,” he said, opening the door for me. “I’ll walk the house and grounds and along where the attack took place, in case I can pick up some traces of magic. And then I’ll take you back to the Eighth.”
I slanted a look at my partner. “You going out into the rain after your weapons and your pretty flip-flops?” I tilted my gaze to Bruiser. “You should see the flops. Purple with pink flowers and bling. Eli looked so pretty in them.”
Eli gave me a long-suffering sigh and stepped out, disappearing into the rain.
“Thongs?” Bruiser asked me.
“Yep. Deon made them for me. Eli was wearing them when the cops came up.”
“Oh. Dear God.”
* * *
Bruiser walked the house, starting in the living room with Alex, while I showered and dressed and put on some lipstick. Since I had looked so bedraggled before, I went for classic style and dance shoes, in all black. Black undies, black sheath on my thigh with a short-bladed vamp-killer, black shirt, black jacket, and black dress slacks with false pockets where I could get to my blades. Some of the new stakes went into my bun, the ones with the stylized feather and the initials YS burned into the handle. According to Alex, we were getting famous within a subculture of vamp fans, and owning an authentic vampire-hunting stake from us was becoming the height of fashion among them. So the Kid had designed one, had had them made, and posted them on yellowrocksecurities.com for sale. People were buying them, which was just strange.
I stuck four stakes in my hair and let them fan out like decorative hair thingies that geishas might have worn. As I dressed, I replayed the last hours in my mind, the witches, the magics, the smells, the rain . . . There was something in all the events that tied them together. Something familiar that I was missing. I needed to figure out who the witches were, what they wanted, and . . .
And I didn’t have time for all this. The Witch Conclave was this coming weekend, and as Leo’s Enforcer, I had vamp security measures to attend to. Yellowrock Securities was responsible for other security measures—the ones at the conclave site itself, the Elms Mansion and Gardens. Unless the conclave was what the attacking witches were trying to prevent or disrupt, they understood that taking me out would put a hitch in the security for the event. Or maybe they thought that the Everhart-Truebloods were at the house. My friends weren’t arriving until later, and once they got here, the house would be warded.
So maybe the witches were getting the lay of the land, so to speak, for a future attack against the Truebloods. There was a known faction of witches who wanted the Witch Conclave to go away, so maybe that was it. Though so far, the small groups of dissatisfied witches hadn’t caused any problems except heavy rhetoric in the news media and on social media—and among hate groups, of course.
I heard the shower come on upstairs, Eli’s usual minute and a half of luxury. I stepped into dancing shoes and buckled the straps, ready for the cops. Moments later, we were bundled back into the limo and comparing stories. Not that we needed to make up anything or had anything to hide, but it was wise to make sure we both had seen the same things. It kept questions and suspicion to a minimum.
While we talked, Bruiser stared out the windows, not adding to the conversation. It didn’t take a genius to realize he had discovered something in my house. Or on the grounds. Or on the street. When we pulled up to the Eighth, I said, “Are you going to tell us what you found?”
“Yes,” he said, sounding somber and distant. “After. I’ll be waiting out here. Brandon is inside. He’ll take care of you.”
I wanted to argue, but it was late—or early, rather—and if Bruiser was withholding info, h
e had reasons that might have something to do with deniability. I opened the limo door and went back into cop Eighth.
* * *
It took remarkably little time to straighten everything out in the Eighth. Eli and I were both very agreeable to share everything that had happened and that we had done, which helped. Having a high-powered lawyer there to assist didn’t hurt, but the real reason it went so easy was the presence of a sleepy, irritated commander, who was still on the premises. We made nice-nice with the local po-po and were out in less than an hour. Back in the limo, which had parked around the corner, Bruiser said, “Debrief, if you please.” He still had that distant, worried look on his face.
We pulled away from the curb as Eli and I filled him in, and he studied the still shots of the witches Alex had sent to our cells—and which we had offered the cops. Bruiser shook his head. “There isn’t enough for me to ID them. The ward magics are too intense. Perhaps Lachish Dutillet or Jodi Richoux might be able to recognize them through the wards, though I doubt it.”
Lachish was the New Orleans coven leader. Jodi ran the woo-woo department, with Sloan Rosen as her second. “I’ll get Alex to send them,” I said. “And to the Everhart-Trueblood clan. Heck, I’d post them on the Web site if I thought it would help stop whatever they’re up to.
“So,” I said, taking charge of the subject. “Your turn. Why are you so wonky?”
Bruiser smiled, his eyes regaining some of the warmth they had lost. He was opening a bottle of champagne, his hands working as if from muscle memory, his eyes on me. “Wonky?”
“Distant, dismal, dreary, detached, drab . . . worried, apprehensive, and anxious.”
“Ran out of words starting with D?” he asked. He poured me a glass and handed it over. I had to wonder if he was trying to get me drunk. And then lots of lovely reasons why he might want to do that leaped into my brain and I went breathless. I smiled at him, waiting. Bruiser smiled back, as if he could read my mind, his expression warm. Heated even.