by Faith Hunter
“Well. There is that.” Bruiser returned my smile and took my hand in his, running his fingers along my knuckles. The pad of his thumb was heated, slightly rough on the inner side where some weapon had calloused his skin. He held my gaze as he stroked, telling me things he’d rather be doing, very wonderful things. So very, very slowly. The rough area scraped gently across my flesh. Heat spread up my arm and into my body like a slow-moving flood of need. Goose bumps quivered over me. My breasts tightened. My belly warmed and grew heavy. My lips parted and swelled as if Bruiser had kissed me. My breath deepened. My bones liquefied.
Magic . . . I couldn’t see it. No sparkles. No Gray Between mist of energies. But the scent was all Onorio: spicy, a little citrus, more blood orange and lime than lemon. This time maybe a little smoke, the scent of sweetgrass charred into the glowing embers of a long-burning fire. He kissed me, his lips and tongue heated.
Mate, Beast thought. My mate . . .
The scent of smoke rose, aromatic with sweetgrass. Bruiser chuckled low, the way men do when they know the effect they’re having on you. At the sound, my body thrummed, a boneless, trembling, shuddering need. I couldn’t have stood without assistance, let alone fight. “Oh, woman. What you do to me.”
“Ditto,” I managed.
“We should perhaps save this,” he said softly, “for the limo ride.”
I blinked. Blinked again. “Limo?”
“Lee postponed our appointments. I thought you might like a ride”—his lips tilted up again, his voice dropping on the last word—“around the city tonight. There is a blanket, a spare pillow or two, and a bottle of chilled Champagne in the limo out front. I’d like to be doing this to other parts of you.”
“Oh,” I tried to say. It came out as a sigh.
“And I’d like my mouth on you.” His eyes dropped to my breasts and they tightened painfully. “I’d like to taste you. Everywhere.”
Magic caressed me, velvet and the feathers of hawk wings, the prickle of nettles and dried leaves. Soft and stinging all at once. Icy and heated together. I was breathing too fast. Holy crap. If Eli had been here he would have told us to get a room. “Only if I can taste you back.”
“I’m counting on that. It might be a very . . . very . . . long night.”
“I’m counting on that,” I repeated to him.
Not taking his eyes from mine, Bruiser held up his hand. The waitress approached from behind me. Bruiser gave her two crisp bills. “Keep the change.” He stood and pulled me up with him, against him. It was a dance step, and my left thigh pressed between both of his. Torso to torso, hip to hip. Bruiser was more than a little happy to see me. I might have moaned. He chuckled again and everything in my body quavered.
He stepped back. Taking me with him, half holding me up. His arm around me. And then we were outside, sweeping past the driver and quickly inside the limo. The limo. The one he’d first kissed me in. I slid along the seat, my eyes on him. Only him. The door closed. The privacy shield was up. The driver, whoever it was, was closed away, unable to see, unable to hear. Bruiser slid his hands along my body, his palms hot and raking. Closing on my cell, taking it and tucking it into the small refrigerator. Adding his. Closing the small door.
“Brilliant,” I murmured.
“I had the limo swept.”
I took his shoulders and pulled him back on the long seat. Yanked off his jacket and then his shirt, over his head, sending collar and sleeve buttons popping.
“No listening devices,” he said. “And the driver’s intercom is disabled. No one can listen in.” He shoved up my tunic and his mouth fell onto my breast, hot and wet, through my silk tee. My nails pressed into his shoulders in shock. He sucked hard.
Magic shot between us, scorching and frigid. Everything inside me clenched. I gasped.
Mate, Beast thought. Want mate. Want more.
“Yes,” I said. “Oh God yes.”
Bruiser bit harder. Just beyond the instant when pleasure turned to pain. Scalded and frozen, pleasure and pain whipped through me. “Come,” he whispered.
I came. Throwing back my head. Growling his name, gasping. Shudders raced through me. Electric and fiery and throbbing.
Mate . . .
I screamed. It was the beginning of a long, very long, night.
* * *
• • •
Dawn was lighting the eastern sky when Bruiser half carried me into my house and into my room. I fell into my bed, where I rolled, facefirst on the pillow, unable to move. He tucked the covers over me. “I love you, Jane.”
“I uv ou oo,” I managed.
“I’ll pick you up at ten for the visit with the broadcasters.”
I grunted. And fell deeply asleep.
* * *
• • •
I was still boneless but full of energy and feeling pretty spiffy when Bruiser pulled up in front of the house at ten. The workers were banging and hammering and shouting in Spanish on the third floor. I was dressed in slim pants and a fresh silk T-shirt with a black cowl-neck tunic sweater over it, constructed for access to my tactical holster sports bra/T-shirt for easy access to the weapons harness and holsters near the outsides of my boobs. Jacket. Scarlet lipstick. I wore my hair straight, long, down to my butt. I never wore it like this, but at some point in the long night, Bruiser had told me I had the most beautiful hair he had ever seen. So . . . Down. Long. A straight fall of shimmering black hair.
It wouldn’t be practical if I was fighting. But a business meeting was a different kettle of fish.
Hunt fishes? Beast asked.
Not today. Today we hunt businessmen across a conference table.
Eat businessmen?
Only if they attack us.
Without looking at Bruiser, I slid into the passenger seat. I could feel the heat on my face as I closed the door. He didn’t pull away. I knew he was staring at me. Waiting for me to say something. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, hoping something intelligent would fall out. Instead I said, almost casually, “Last night was fun.”
I could hear the laughter in his voice when he said, “The best part was when you shoved me to the floor. And climbed on top.”
“Ummm.”
“Or maybe when you screamed yourself hoarse. That was good too.”
“Ummm. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Finally he took mercy on me and pulled the SUV into the traffic. “Although the part where you took me in your mouth . . . I was quite keen on that part as well.”
My breath hitched, remembering that part. “You are an evil, evil man.”
“I am. You seemed to like it.”
“Oh, I liked it.” I let a small smile play across my mouth. “Can we do all that again soon?”
“God in heaven, I hope so.”
I laughed.
CHAPTER 6
“The Shoes,” I Whispered
Thanks to the little contretemps in sub-five, the meeting with the broadcasters and the camera crew was being held in an office in the Warehouse District on Tchoupitoulas Street instead of at HQ. Because, to cement paranormal relationships, Leo had hired the Bighorn Pack for the job. While Leo often kept his enemies closer than his friends, this time he wanted his Enforcers to check out the company firsthand.
Leo owned the entire block of three-story red brick buildings with tall windows, sun-faded green shutters, and tiny gallery porches. When we pulled up, Wrassler and Derek were standing out front, the big guy in a short windbreaker-type jacket and Derek in a long trench coat, both open to reveal suits and ties in the Pellissier colors of charcoal and dove gray. We parked and exchanged nods, Bruiser and me following them inside. It was too warm and we all tossed coats and jackets, which revealed that Leo’s part-time Enforcer and his head of security were both heavily armed. Good. So was I. I looked around, finding the unisex bathroom, stairs that led up
, and a hallway leading to the back exit.
The ground floor was tile throughout in a neutral tone and there was a large conference room to the left of the entrance with a simple rectangular table and wood-framed chairs with fake-leather upholstered seats. The room was set up for PowerPoint and not much else. Bare-bones, very un-Leo-like. Also un-Leo-like was our little group, what might—in a business situation—be called power players. Enforcer, part-time Enforcer, head of security, and former primo were all in one meeting with Del, Eli, the Tequila boys, and the Vodka boys keeping watch over HQ. It was Operation Shutdown, a plan I had devised to cover any situation where the top security brass were all silent or inactive (meaning dead) and the second-level ops people were in charge. They were practicing, while we were dealing with contagious tail-waggers who might have a traitor on board.
There was a coffee bar near the entry, and Derek started coffee. There were certain requirements in Louisiana business and society, and coffee was always near the top. As he worked, he filled us in. “The meeting is expected to last three hours, to include four wolves, discussions of up-front money, advertising, ease of public access, broadcast requirements, and parental controls. The Roberes will be here,” Derek said, “to sketch out the contracts and handle negotiations.”
Wrassler pulled out chairs in the conference room and we all sat as the coffee started to trickle through the grounds. He dropped down with a grunt and a sigh, as if his prosthetic leg was causing him more discomfort than usual. He said, “Leo approved of them, but Bighorn Pack has references from jobs in Mexico City and Guadalajara. They offered a bundled project with an offshore gambling organization.”
I leaned in, finger tracing the pack’s timeline across a tablet screen, through the last few weeks and months. “Mexico references might intersect with known enemies and hazards. Bighorn Pack split after the gigs there. Is it possible that one pack or the other has been working with a new MOC of Mexico?” The previous MOC had been Jack Shoffru, of the tail-biting lizard emblem. There had been a huge power vacuum when Jack died true-dead and the resultant internal war had been bloody. So far as I knew, no victor had been confirmed. “If the wolves had been there and if they worked with the Mexican fangheads, is that a red flag of some sort?”
Wrassler rubbed his palm over his pinkish bald scalp. “I don’t know. But gambling and Mithrans fighting to the death? Perfect for any MOC who might be looking to move into a vacancy created by the Sangre Duello. Or take out the winner. Maybe the wolves are part of a plan to infiltrate. That’s why the meet and greet here instead of HQ. We make a nice target to draw in, ID, and terminate potential enemies.”
“Oh,” I said. We were bait. Nothing new there. I looked around the area. “No security cameras. We got anything here? Something I’m not seeing?”
“No,” Wrassler said shortly. “Not a damn thing.” The fact that he used language in front of me suggested that he was significantly upset about the lack of security measures.
I took another look around. The furnishings were bare-bones—the kind of slick surfaces that were easy to do a forensic cleanup in case of blood spatter. “Sooo . . . What are we doing here?”
Derek brought in coffee and I took a cup of dark roast since tea wasn’t offered. He said, “As we’ve said, Leo wants us to take their measure before he signs anything.” Right. The official stance. But his eyes were worried.
The Robere twins entered and took places at the table, greeting everyone by name, getting out paper and pens, and adjusting suit coats. Both Brian and Brandon—the B-twins, as I called them—were armed, their Onorio scents like caramel and their NOLA accents even thicker. Wrassler turned on the PowerPoint. “Let’s take a look at our research into the Bighorn Pack.” He hit a button and Del appeared on-screen, elegant and severe, her blond hair upswept in a smooth French twist.
“Good morning, everyone. I’m sorry I can’t be there in person. Let’s get started, shall we? First order of business. As you know, the broadcast company that offered the highest bid for filming and distribution rights is owned by the Bighorn Pack. Here’s what we know about them and their internal power structure.” A graph appeared on the screen. I leaned in and listened, but also opened a file on my cell that was tied directly into Yellowrock Security’s databases for a deeper read.
The highest bidder for the televised Sangre Duello was possibly the same bunch who had me in their target sights. The same group who had entered HQ with the werecats and Dominique, the traitor.
Del had dossiers on every one of the Bighorn Pack, but they were slim reading, not much more than age, DOB, ancient driver’s licenses, faded passports, and job specs. And there were no current photos at all. Someone had wiped the web of all social media presence, someone very good at that job. Even Alex didn’t have anything better.
So I actually listened to every word Del said. Not that I’d be running the business end of this meeting. I was here for effect. Leo’s badass Enforcer. While she talked, I braided my hair into a long tail and made sure I was satisfied with my weapons’ placement. Del ended the briefing with the words, “Leo saw the leader of the Bighorn Pack after the event in sub-five. Alone. I do not know what transpired.”
* * *
• • •
The broadcaster / camera team arrived early, two convertible sporty cars, tops down, pulling up out front. They were young, looking no more than their early thirties, male, fit, and energetic. There was a blond, two gingers, the African Brit with ringlets, from sub-five, and two vaguely mixed-race guys with black hair, and the drivers, who stayed behind the wheel. They had a collective surfer-dude vibe, or a whitewater-paddler vibe, from home. The men had perfect skin, wind-tousled hair, and they were laughing as they leaped over the car doors to the street and sidewalk. I happened to be standing at the door as they landed, holding a bag of trash. I got a good view of them all. They each had a laptop. Thicker than usual. Old models. The top-down cars pulled quickly back into traffic. One of the men turned in a circle, watching the perimeter.
My honeybunch came up behind me. “What?” he asked.
“The black guy is a Brit. He was definitely one of the wolves from sub-five, in HQ to rescue Brute. What do you think?”
“Their suits are inexpensive,” Bruiser said. “Brand-new Brooks Brothers, the Golden Fleece collection, perhaps three thousand each.”
I gulped. Three K did not sound cheap to me.
“Nicely tailored. I think I recognize the hand of Mr. Lee’s alterations in the drape of the suit pants.”
Mr. Lee was a local guy and he handled the alterations of off-the-rack suits for many local businessmen. It was kinda weird that I knew this. I had been in New Orleans for too long.
“English-cut, slim-fit, two-button, dual-vent jackets. No cuffs on the pants. No bulges indicating weapons.”
“But . . .” I stopped. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen a werewolf in a suit. “They bought suits here. Why? They’re from up north.” I sucked a breath as it hit me. “The shoes,” I whispered. “Suits and Timberland hiking boots.”
The smell of his shock hit the air. “The soles are for traction. For an attack.” Bruiser leaped back into the conference room, shouting for Wrassler and Derek to take cover. As he hurdled the depth of the room in a single bound, I tossed the trash bag to the corner and drew a nine-mil, racked a round into the chamber. Drew the other and racked the slide.
“Jane! Get back here,” Bruiser said.
“No.” Back there wasn’t my job. I focused on the hands of the blond man who reached for the door handle. Hairy. Hairy hands. Hairy backs of his fingers. Thick blunt nails.
Werewolf. Pack hunter. Beast flooded strength into me.
The wolf opened the door and I shoved one muzzle into his face, the other to his side to cover the body directly behind him. If he had reacted, he could have trapped one arm and batted aside the other. He could have grabbed my hair braid and sna
tched me away—stupid, stupid, to have left it down—but he hesitated. Too late. He froze in indecision. The scent of werewolf filled my nostrils. The wolf’s pupils went wide and hard as he breathed in my own scent. I recognized another wolf who had been in sub-five, looking over the Son of Darkness. “Howdy, puppies,” I whispered. “Why don’t you set down the laptops, strip off the jackets, and step inside, slowly. Then you can assume the position. Or I can shoot you and let you shift to heal in front of all the security cameras on Tchoupitoulas Street. Up to you.”
The one with the gun barrel pressed to his head growled. “What the fuck you doing, bitch?”
“Bitch might be polite in your world, but it isn’t in mine. And foul language is definitely not allowed in my sandbox, puppy. Put. Down. The laptops. Take off your suit coats. Drop your cell phones. Now. Or bleed. You’ll be Internet sensations.”
The guy close enough to kiss started to say one of the verboten words and I tapped him with the muzzle. Maybe a little too hard to be polite. “Uh-uh-uh,” I said.
From the back, the voice with the British accent asked, “May I ask why the Enforcer to the Master of the City of New Orleans has drawn weapons on our pack?”
“Two reasons. Three wolves visited the HQ of the Master of the City of New Orleans, intending to steal Brute, a white werewolf in my employ. Then two of you visited with Leo, or so I hear. But somewhere in my recent timeline, a ginger wolf and some local gangbangers attacked me. The gangbangers are dead. The wolf is not, and is in the hands of PsyLED.”
“Jax. It must be,” the same voice said on a sigh. It was the tone of a parent over a defiant and foolish child. “May Artemis strike him dead.” He looked at his group. “All of you. Do as the Enforcer says.”
Glaring, bending his knees, the wolf in my sights set his laptop on the sidewalk at his feet and peeled out of his jacket. He wasn’t wearing a T-shirt under his dress shirt, and ripped muscles and a six-pack were clearly visible. I might have a sweetpea of my own, but I could still appreciate a well-made man. And the fact that he was unarmed. The others followed his lead and I stepped back, into the office building, motioning them after me and into a clump where we could see them all at once. I stopped the last one, the security guy. He was beefier than the others. Hairier too. “You get to stay outside with the coats and stuff.” I let the door close and pretended not to hear his rumbling growl.