by Faith Hunter
Leo’s tone was low, but every word was enunciated clearly, as if to drive it into the top of my skull like a nail. “If I die, there will be war among the Mithrans in New Orleans. All your friends will die. All the witches will die. Hundreds of humans will die in the immediate fallout. Within twenty-four hours. And after that bloodbath, the Europeans will walk in unopposed. At that time, thousands will die and the military will come in and destroy everything that registers on the psy-meter. Everything and everyone. It will be war and utter devastation.”
I knew all this. We all did.
Leo went on. “The United States military has laid plans for this. They are called contingency plans.” He flicked that stabbing gaze up at Eli. “You will tell me that you have heard of such things.”
Eli was silent for the space of several breaths, and without looking up at him, I knew he was weighing loyalties between Uncle Sam and family. When he spoke, however, his voice was sure and certain. “Yes, sir. I have.”
Leo pulled his eyes back to me. “Therefore, you will keep me alive, for I am all that stands between all that you hold dear and a horror and ethnic cleansing that has not been seen in this hemisphere since the native tribal peoples were decimated and the population of the Amazon River disappeared in blood and disease and horror.”
Copying my partner, I said, “Yes, sir.”
Leo said, “The people I assign shall be yours to command. You will keep the peace. You will keep us all alive. It is your job.” I nodded and he said, “Make it so.”
With that pithy Star Trek order, Leo left the room. I stood up fast and shook off the effects of the magical demands. In the hallway, Larry met Leo, trailing after, talking about the benefits of scarlet silks versus total black.
Derek Lee wandered over and I turned my attention to him. “You got one day,” I said. “I want Ming of Mearkanis fed and dressed in finery. Get her jeweled up and her hair done. Make sure she’s not just presentable but a hundred ten percent. Not saying we’ll need her, but if Tau shows up, Ming could be the weapon we need to bring her down.”
“Why do you think that?” Derek asked.
“She isn’t pinned anymore. If she’s fed as well as Leo, has fed on Leo’s blood, they’ll have a link, which might benefit us in case of a fight. And she might recognize the witch magic faster than anyone else.”
Derek gave a head-tilt shrug, not agreeing or disagreeing with my reasoning, but accepting the order.
“Find Katie a safe place, not at her house, and make sure there are plenty of humans and loyal vamps to protect her and the kids. Set it up like a presidential security team, with observers and shooters in the high points all around. Protocol Stupid Move.” I had named it that because it was used only when we were backed into a corner so deep that any move at all was likely to kill us all.
“As to the conclave, make sure Grégoire is armed but pretty. He’ll be our final backup on-site.
“Make sure this place is locked down. I don’t want an ant to crawl along the street without you knowing about it and it being made dead.”
“Yes, ma’am, Legs.” Derek saluted, which I didn’t think he had ever done. If there was a slight trace of snide in Derek’s tone or gesture, letting me know he had seen my reaction to Leo’s naked chest, I ignored it. A girl was allowed to admire. And then feel stupid for it.
Before I left, I made three calls to specific members of the HQ security team, with additional orders I told no one else. Anything Leo was involved with had a way going FUBARed, and I wanted a net to catch us, just in case. They would be inside the ward, on the grounds, and would make sure there were no magical icons buried in the ground. They would also be there, ready to follow orders at a moment’s notice.
* * *
Beyond drained, depleted, and worn slap-out, I slept at Bruiser’s, beneath the framed bacon shirt, held in Bruiser’s arms, and woke up around noon, alone in the bed. I stretched like a big-cat, arms and legs moving in a long sinuous curve of muscle and tendon, and, silently, I slipped into the bath for a hot shower. Afterward, I pulled on the T-shirt he had worn while we ate a late dinner on the gallery, watching the world pass by. It had ended up between me and the burned persimmon couch in his living room, when we made love. The first time. The knit now smelled of his cologne, vaguely of Creole-Cajun fusion spices, and of him, heated and hungry for things other than food. I held the cloth to my nose and breathed in, holding his scent close. His odor was still changing, though by increments now, instead of by leaps and bounds as it did after he was changed from blood-servant to Onorio.
Feeling content, I checked the time and my messages. Everything was going according to plan, the Witch Conclave was going perfectly, the Youngers had everything in hand, everyone was doing his and her jobs, and I had some time to relax. Ducky. It paid to have minions. Not that I’d ever call the Youngers or Derek Lee that. I’m not stupid all the time.
I combed out my hair, leaving it to dry down my back before braiding it. I had learned my lesson about putting my hair up wet. In the Louisiana humidity, hair could stay wet all day, all night, and all the next day, if not allowed to air. I also brushed my teeth and left my toothbrush next to his. It was weird to see it there, next to my comb, my body oil, my face cream, which he had bought for me, and my lipstick. All in his apartment. Just weird.
I left the bath to catch the scent of shrimp and grits from Café Amelie and beignets with chicory coffee from Café du Monde. And tea made by Bruiser. He made great tea, especially for breakfast, strong enough to kick-start a mule. I liked a good strong tea, but Bruiser’s idea of breakfast tea was way more British than mine, which is to say, way more strong.
I heard him moving in the kitchen nook and followed him there, to climb up on one of the three white bar chairs. I rested one elbow on the bar and my head on my lower arm as I thumbed through the texts awaiting me. Again, nothing urgent. I put away the cell and looked up at my sorta boyfriend. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing my favorite thin linen-weave pants that hung low on his hips. “Can I hire you as my full-time chef?” I thought for a moment and added, “And lover?”
“You want me for a gigolo?” He placed a ladylike cup of tea beside my elbow and shared a half smile with me.
I let him see the satisfaction in my eyes. “You are uniquely qualified for the position.”
“Which position?” he inquired, his eyes heating as if he remembered several from last night.
I picked up my teacup in both hands and brought it to my mouth. The steam curled around my face, warm and soothing. “All of them?”
He pulled a serving spoon from a round utensil holder and opened a food-delivery container. As he dished up a late breakfast, he gestured to his shirt on me. “Is it a theme for us? Bacon?” he asked. I pulled out the tee and read it upside down. It was a tee I had bought for him at the touristy shop after seeing it hanging in the store window. It had a big raindrop on it and garish letters reading, I LOVE NOLA RAIN. IT SOUNDS LIKE BACON FRYING.
“Could be worse,” I said. “It could read Life Without Bacon.”
“True.” He dished up shrimp and grits into a china pasta bowl and set a plate of beignets between us. He leaned on the bar and dipped a spoon into his own bowl of spiced breakfast, and we ate several bites in companionable silence. “Shall I have that shirt framed too?” he asked.
“Eh.” I swallowed peppery grits and sipped my tea, which was a breakfast blend strong enough to bend iron bars and leap a locomotive, perfect for the spices. “Too much bacon might spoil the décor.”
He laughed and leaned farther across the bar to cup my head in his hand and claim my mouth as his own. An hour later, I went home to a nearly empty house. Molly and Evan were at the conclave, talking and voting, along with every other witch in town. Eli and Alex were at the conclave monitoring the witches’ security arrangements. The kids were in the safe house where Katie was sleeping, guarded by De
rek’s most experienced men, the last members of Team Vodka. And by Brute. How weird was my life when I was grateful to have a werewolf guarding my godchildren?
Edmund was sleeping somewhere. Bruiser was at HQ making sure everything was okay there. I hadn’t been alone in the house in months, and the silence that had once been peaceful was unnerving. So I pulled out all three of my new fighting leathers and tried them on to decide which one to wear. Based on color. On style. Tried out all the color-coded custom Kydex holsters on the new weapons rigs. Badass. Totally badass.
And then I braided my hair and went through my meager collection of makeup to choose what I would wear with my ensemble. I am such a girl.
* * *
Two hours before dusk, I received the call from Molly and Big Evan. It should have come before I left Bruiser’s and I had been pacing the floors waiting. “We have approval,” Molly said.
“You sound less than excited,” I said.
“You try to get agreement between a couple hundred witches on anything and see how excited you are afterward. It took an hour before they could decide to update the rules on the national council—which hadn’t been updated in over a hundred years, about the time the first telephone lines crossed the nation. Then there were another several hours of wrangling on the need to update the rules on witch behavior and mores, and another hour on who was to enforce those rules and—” I could almost see Molly rubbing her forehead. “All that was before lunch, which was served late because the Seattle coven insisted on a thorough cleansing of the kitchen, in a spiritual sense, not with Comet and elbow grease, though that might have been considered too at some point. And then they had to purify all the copper pots the food was prepared in. And let me tell you, the stink of frankincense, yarrow, and white sage is awful on the air.”
“And?”
“And then, about three p.m., we began to discuss the fanghead situation. And we just got the vote. Leo’s in. His proposal for rapprochement has been approved without any substantive changes to the wording or the reparations. The mayor and the governor have been notified and will be here for a live, remote, glad-handing photo shoot for the late-evening news.
“Leo will need to be here in time for his speech at seven thirty, to be followed by more speechifying, and a late supper at eight thirty or nine. Can you make it happen?”
“Piece a’ cake,” I said. And crossed my fingers.
* * *
I notified everyone about the arrangements by phone call, not text. No way was I leaving anything in the hands of electronics. When everyone was notified, I decided on the new scarlet leathers. Seemed all I needed to get out of my unexpected girly mood and into action was a definite time and date for the vamp festivities. My last line in each call was “Wear the anti-DNA charms I had messengered over. Do not forget.”
I powdered up, because the weather was muggy and leather meant sweating no matter what. Over the unscented body powder I pulled on a stretchy knit cami top and undies, and then matching stretchy knit socks. My former combat socks didn’t work anymore. If I had to shift into a half form, I needed room for my feet to grow in width, room for my claws. I slid into the leather pants and snugged up the clasps and ties to get them tight, but not so fitted I couldn’t move when needed. Then the jacket, the rich, scarlet leather so gorgeous I wanted to pet it. They still smelled strong, but I wasn’t a walking, talking olfactory ad for cow skin. And I looked freaking fantastic.
My cell made a burbling sound and I bent to pick it up. The leathers squeaked, which wasn’t good. Vamps had very good ears. Something to remember if I needed to go silent. I opened the cell and read a text from Alex. He had found a witch whose child owned a crotch rocket. A blue Kawasaki. Worse, the teenager was a budding witch too.
I pulled the guest list, and the young witch’s name wasn’t on the list. But . . . Yeah, but. Tau might have killed her to get the bike. Might have allied with the witch or her mom. Too many mights and might nots. But before I could worry too much, Alex sent another text—the young witch safe at home.
I sent a quick text back, putting together the idea of a witch on a motorbike. There were dozens of places a witchy attack might be made upon Leo in the next few hours, but only one place where an attack might take place on the witches and Leo too. I weaponed up and strapped on my silver-plated titanium chain-mail gorget to protect my throat, and layered on the fancy gold-and-citrine gorget over it. When the horn tooted outside, I left the house, looking like a demon from hell. A well-armed demon from hell.
I climbed into the SUV that was my ride and greeted the driver. Wrassler said, “Looking good, Legs. Looking good.” I buckled in and he proceeded to update me on the security measures at HQ. Which gave me time to think.
* * *
At HQ things were going according to plan. Between them, Wrassler and Derek had every possible means of attack buttoned up at the vamp council chambers. The building across the street, from which an easy armed attack had once taken place, had been commandeered, and armed personnel walked the halls. Men and women with bullet-resistant shields lined the porte cochere, the shields overlapped to protect Leo’s passage from doorway to the limo. The three limos each had mapped out differing routes to take. Motorcycle escort was in place. NOPD had been notified of the passage of the MOC and the potential for problems.
I scanned the bikes as I waited under the porte cochere, and not one was brilliant blue. They were all white, and the riders wore white riding leathers, so we could keep track of them as Leo’s security. I sought out the three bikes whose riders wore red helmets and black riding leathers. One at a time, they lifted a hand to me. I nodded back. They were my backup plan if it all FUBARed as spectacularly as I feared.
The three Onorios stepped out of the doorway, heads swiveling, checking for danger. They were decked out in fighting leathers like mine, but all in black. None of them were weaponed up, at least not that I could see, though I was quite sure they wore enough blades on them to start a good-sized butcher shop.
Leo followed the Onorios, dressed in evening wear. He and Larry had decided to go with a solid black-and-white color scheme, the tux, cummerbund, tie, and lapel silk all in black. The shirt was the trim white one he had tossed at the valet. He ducked into the armored limo and sat, his eyes on me.
Ming Zoya, formerly of Mearkanis, came next out the door, wearing finery that could only have been put together by Madame Melisende, a blend of elegance and class that was uniquely Ming. The outfit had to be something left over from her time as clan Blood Master. She wore yards of scarlet silk to her ankles, embroidered with peonies and brightly colored birds. Feathers, dyed to match the dress, trailed below her waist and around her body, in a train of some sort down her back. She wore black shoes, like flip-flops but not made of plastic or foam, rather made of something with no flex. Her long black hair was up in magnificent braids and coils and curls, her lips and talons painted to match the silk. She smelled of blood. A lot of blood. And she looked young and beautiful and powerful, as unlike the thing that had come up from the water of the pit as it was possible to look. A different being entirely. Ming of Mearkanis was here under the slim possibility that she might recognize the witches’ magic before anyone else. She was our canary in the mine. If she started acting weird, compliant, anything at all out of whatever was ordinary for her, then the Nicauds might be near. Ming made it to her limo without incident.
Girrard DiMercy and Grégoire slid into the last limo in line before I could get a good look at them. One Onorio stepped into each limo.
Everyone was perfect and everything had been done according to plan. There was no reason to feel a sense of impending doom. No one could see under the roofed porte cochere without a drone. At this point we were all safe. Of course, we were about to hit the streets and that safety level was about to change totally. My heart raced. Everything from the moment Leo left the building made us a target.
I caught a
familiar scent. I stopped, one hand raised to do . . . something. I turned, following the scent with my nose. An odor that I had last smelled when I was dying on the floor of the sparring room/gym. Here. At vamp central. I pivoted slowly and followed the scent. It led back into vamp HQ, from inside. I held up a finger, telling Bruiser to close up the limos and wait. I pulled a nine-mil and a vamp-killer and strode through the phalanx of confused security personnel, into the chambers. I got a glimpse of a female in the gray uniform of housekeeping. She tucked her head and ran for the elevator.
Beast shoved her speed into me. I raced across the small space and inserted a hand into the crack as the door tried to close. The woman backed into the corner of the small trap and curled into herself. Her arms crossed her body and she slowly sank to the floor. Beast and I analyzed her together. She was pretty, in a blond, blue-eyed, victim-prey kind of way. I had seen her in the gym footage, mopping my blood off the floor of the gym when Gee stabbed me. I had my traitor, the person who had given enemies my blood or hair or tissues to use in spells against me. And it wasn’t the outclan priestess who had bitten me when I first arrived here. It was a human.
“Why?” I asked, seeing my eyes glowing bright yellow in the metal of the trap.
She risked a look up at me and then back down. She shook her head. “I was stupid.”
And I couldn’t disagree. She was dumb enough to bring her scent where she knew I’d be. She should have run. “Stupid how?” I asked.
“In every way a girl can be.”
Which sounded as though it was going to be a long story, one best told to a vamp, with blood and compulsion and all that stuff. “Never mind.” I put away my weapons and fisted my hands. I walked into the elevator, letting my boots clomp in the small space. Behind me men and women gathered, watching. Behind me, someone held open the doors.
“What do they have planned?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said, sounding miserable. “They didn’t tell me.” She risked a glance up at me, her pretty eyes full of tears. “Just that he would die. And I wouldn’t have to pass him in the hallways like he’s some kind of king and not even see me. After what we did together.” She caved in on herself and added, “I gave up everything for him. Everything.” And the weeping became a waterfall.