by Faith Hunter
I evaluated the Ranger. He would have a harder time fitting through unless he could knock a shoulder out of joint. Some people could, but it hurt for a long time after. His clothes were tighter today, revealing broad shoulders and a tapering waist, narrow hips and sleek butt in jeans and army-beige tee. Likely six-pack abs if he took off his shirt. I shook my head and then chuckled at the thought of Leo’s face if I barged into his lair in the middle of the day. Or if I had survived his aborted attempt to burn me out by hiding in his own lair. The MOC would not have been amused.
Eli asked, “Something funny?” I shook my head but let my grin stay in place as I moved farther into the safe room to peer over his shoulder, licking egg off my fingers. Below the opening in the floor was damp earth covered with water-beaded plastic. “The passageway comes out in two places,” he said, “under the side porch, and at the back of the house. I’ve already been to Katie’s to check out the hidden room under her stairs and start renovating, but Tom suggested that I not work on it today. It might be inhabited.”
I nodded. Inhabited. Right. Multiple vamps had been at Katie’s and they would need a safe place to sleep by day.
“I’ll check it out tonight,” he said. “For now, I’ll finish off the wall repairs and buy a hinged bookcase. We can store the ordnance here. You got any books to put on the shelves?” I figured he meant something other than Tactical Weapons Magazine and Gun Digest, and shook my head again. “You don’t talk much, do you?” He was turned away, but I could hear the laughter in his voice when he added, “I like that in a woman.” Before I could think of a snarky reply he added, “I’ll pick up some books at a secondhand bookstore today.”
Since I had been identified as a woman of few words, I just shrugged and went back to the eggs. They were pretty good with salt. I put on tea, and was cracking and salting my fourth when Stinky-Boy said, “I got something.” He looked up, and when I didn’t look impressed, he grinned. “I got you a history, and I found it before Reach did.”
I dropped the shell into the garbage and leaned over his shoulder, reading the file as I chewed and swallowed the egg. “What is Greyson Labs?”
The kid grinned up at me. “It’s the company that paid the salary of Ramondo Pitri, the man you killed in Asheville.”
I stopped chewing, and said, “And you figured this out how?”
“I tracked down Pitri’s bank records and got a look at his pay stubs. Greyson designs cancer-fighting drugs.” He was grinning ear to ear and it was an amazing piece of detective work, but it wasn’t much on its own.
“So, is this laboratory tied in to the mob?” Pitri had known New York mob affiliations, with one of the major families there. “Or into the vamps in some way? And how did you . . . You didn’t hack into a bank, did you?”
Eli went nearly as still as a vamp. The kid just grinned, and I felt a rubbery dismay waggle down my neck. When he saw our reactions, he laughed. “No. I didn’t hack a bank. I could if I wanted to, but it was a lot easier than that.” Eli remembered to breathe and I shook my head. “Pitri had a few contacts on social media,” Alex said, “and I tracked him through them. I’m tracking Greyson on the international financial markets now, but it’s a little slippery. If we can find the top shareholder or owner of the company, we might have your big, bad disease-producing vamp.”
“I’ll need more than a possibility and a name to take to Leo, and way more than a possibility to act,” I said.
“I’ll get more and put all current info into a report for you. It’ll be ready by lunch and I’ll update it as I find new intel.” He looked at his brother. “There will be lunch, right? Not just eggs?”
“Protein,” Eli grunted. When he did, the iron-hard six-pack abs flexed, visible behind the sweaty tee. Wall dust filtered off him. I considered whether he’d end up with a nickname. Most people of my acquaintance got nicknames, but nothing fit yet. Alex was still in contention for Stinky-Boy, but Kid was slowly migrating to the top of the list.
“I’ll pick up steak,” I said.
Eli grunted approval, and I figured that grunts made up about seventy percent of the brothers’ communication skills. The Kid shook his head. “Pizza? Pasta? A can of Chef Boyardee ravioli?” he asked. When neither of us bit, he sighed and went back to his electronic search. Moments later the printer started. I left the house on my bastard Harley, Bitsa, and picked up groceries. Steak, salad stuff, oatmeal, beer, milk, picked out a national brand of coffee, and a couple of cans of ravioli for the Kid. If he took a shower without me asking again, he got a treat. I figured it might be a lot like training a dog, but I knew next to nothing about raising boys, and what scant knowledge I did have was gleaned from children’s home kids who thrived on rebellion, so maybe I was oversimplifying. I tucked the food into the saddlebags and bungee-corded the beer to the seat for the ride back to the house.
Riding slowly, I rested my bones and my mind, feeling the stress of the last few days in the tightness of my muscles and knowing the next few days might get worse. We had a company name that might—might—be connected to the attacks.
Which made me think of Bruiser. No one had called to tell me how he was. Worried about him, about his humanity, I dialed his number, and was shunted to voice mail. “Hey, uh, you know. Um. If you’re alive, uh, call me.” I looked at the screen and said, “It’s Jane.” I closed the phone, thinking, Lame. I am so lame.
* * *
It was four p.m. when I got back to the house, and upper-eighties, but it’s always hot in New Orleans. It was November and it still felt like summer. Though locals had assured me that it gets cold in the winter, I’d yet to see any season but hot, so I didn’t really believe it. Muggy, damp, and miserable, yes; cold, no. I kicked off my shoes and unpacked the groceries, to the happy sound of shower water running upstairs. When the water went off, I nuked a bowl of ravioli and met the Kid at the bottom of the stairs with the food and an ice-cold Coke. His hair was dripping, he smelled like fruity shampoo, and his clothes were clean. From the crushed-in wrinkles, I was sure they had been balled up in the bottom of a rucksack, not folded. Not ever. He took the bowl of tomatoey pasta with the kind of awe and half fear boys usually reserve for the latest video game or smuggled-in porn. He held the warm bowl in both hands, looking around for his brother, pure guilt on his face.
“Here’s the deal,” I said softly. “You take a shower every day, you get treats. I’ll deal with your bother on the fallout. But if you stink, I’ll call you Stinky-Boy to your face and let your brother feed you.”
“His welfare is my responsibility,” a voice said from upstairs.
I pulled a spoon from my pocket, shoved it into the ravioli, and jerked my head to the kitchen. The Kid took off like he’d been spanked and I looked up the stairs to the man at the top. Eli had showered too, and he was bare-chested. His scar went from his jaw, down his neck, across his collarbone in a starburst pattern that looked like it had shattered the bone, and down to his pec. He was wearing five-button jeans so worn that I could see the sheen of skin through the faded cloth. No shirt. He was ripped, arms like steel cables and a stomach I could have danced on. I managed to swallow, hid my appreciation, and leaned a hip against the banister to watch him. He watched back. But he didn’t like it that I didn’t talk much, so I let the silence build. When his jaw gave a frustrated twitch I said, “He’s eighteen.”
“He’s on probation. Under my supervision.”
I thought about that for a moment while he watched me. “My sensei’s dojo is a few streets over,” I said. “Let’s go. We’ll spar. Winner decides if the Kid gets ravioli and other treats for keeping clean.”
Eli laughed, an amused-at-the-little-woman, self-satisfied huff that said volumes. I let a smile lift one corner of my lips. He disappeared and was back in half a breath, pulling on a T-shirt and flip-flops. My clothes were loose enough, so I just grabbed sandals and led the way out into the heat while braiding my hair fighting tight, twisting it into a queue that would be hard to grab. Eli
watched my motions from the corner of his eye as I removed a handle he might have levered to bring me down.
My sensei was a hapkido black belt, second dan, with a black belt in tae kwon do and a third black belt in combat tai chi, though he hadn’t competed in years. He thought competition was for sissies and martial arts were for fighting and killing. His style was perfect for me, because I studied mixed disciplines and had never gone for any belt. I trained to stay alive, an aggressive amalgam of styles, geared to the fast and total annihilation of an attacker, and my style had best been described as dirty.
The dojo was in the back room of a jewelry store on St. Louis, open to the public only after store hours, but I was one of a select few students Daniel would see during the day. I had my own key. The dojo wasn’t far and the jog got us both warmed up. I could smell the clean sweat on Eli as we turned down a narrow service alley, thirty inches wide, damp, and dim.
I keyed us in through the small door of the dojo and locked it, watching Eli check the place out. He scanned it like a combat veteran with close-quarters, urban training. The long room had hardwood floors, two white-painted walls, one mirrored wall, and one wall of French doors that looked out over a lush, enclosed garden planted with tropical and semitropical plants. Eli moved to the doors and scoped out the garden. The cats who usually sunned themselves there were gone today, their bowls empty, the large fountain shaped like a mountain stream splashing in one corner, the small pool at the bottom filled with plants. The garden was surrounded by two – and three-storied buildings and was overlooked by porches dripping with vines and flowering potted plants. Sensei lived upstairs in one of the apartments.
I punched the button that told Sensei he had a student, unrolled the practice mats, and started stretching. Five minutes later, he showed up, dropping into the garden from his apartment above. Most of his students weren’t able to tell when the man literally dropped in, but with Beast’s acute hearing and sense of smell, I always knew. The smell of Korean cabbage he loved so much was a dead giveaway. Eli knew too, which was impressive.
Daniel walked in, limbs loose and ready. He often leaped through the open doors and engaged me instantly, but today he seemed to sense something different. Silent, he walked around the room, bare feet solid, body balanced as a walking tree, looking Eli and me over, considering. Daniel was average height, had muscles like rolls of barbed wire, and a face no one would remember for two seconds. Mr. Average Man. To irritate him, I called him Danny Boy, but not today. Not taking my eyes off him, I gave a half bow. “Daniel, this man is a guest in my house. We have a disagreement and have agreed to settle it on the mats.”
“And you want me to referee?”
“No, Sensei.” I studied their reactions as I finished with “I want you to keep me from hurting him too much.” Daniel laughed, surprised. Eli’s brows went up. Even with Daniel, and all his training and speed, I held back a lot. If I let go with Beast-strength and speed, I could do some damage. But even I knew that the sparring over ravioli was just an excuse to prove who was the big dog in Eli’s and my relationship. He was . . . aware, maybe. Aware that I was something other than a tall, skinny girl with guns. When I didn’t laugh with my sensei, the room went silent. I could hear the fountain tinkling in the enclosed courtyard. I could hear the air through the air-conditioner vents. And I heard the slight hitch when Eli took a preparatory breath.
CHAPTER TEN
Worthy Prey. Will Not Hurt Him Too Bad
Eli’s right foot shot out, heel first, leg going level and straight, balance shifting as he moved, weight sliding. Faster than human, I stepped aside. With an almost uncanny awareness, he seemed to expect my body shift and followed the kick with a sweep of his leg. His heel impacted my side, but I was moving as fast as the kick. With an elbow, I clamped his foot against me and ducked under his leg, twisting, forcing him to follow or wrench his knee. In midair, he spun with me. Yanked his foot free and landed, cat-footed and sure. Eli bounced back from me.
Fun, Beast thought at me. Play with worthy prey.
I stood still, letting my little half smile and my silence work for me. I didn’t look at Daniel, but I could smell his surprise. Now he knew I’d been holding back. I wondered how that might affect our training and sparring sessions in the future. Eli stepped in, closer, studying my body language, which was almost lazy. He rolled his head on his shoulders, letting the action camouflage his next move. Just before he punched out, my knees bent; I leaped. His fists were a fast one-two-three, into the space where I had been. I was three feet back, my breathing slow and steady.
Something in his face shifted into a cool, neutral expression. The fighting man was no longer playing. I let my half smile spread and gave a little bring it on gesture with my left fingers. Eli moved left, placing each foot with precision, letting his balance shift and roll. I let him lead our little dance, following his movement.
Worthy prey. Will not hurt him too bad, Beast thought. I felt her eagerness rush through me, hot and sweet. Hunt, she thought.
Eli swept out with his leg. I leaped, kicked with the heel of my foot, straight for his solar plexus, holding back enough to keep it from a killing strike. Too fast for his human reactions, my kick landed. He fell back, grunting with the aftershock. Reached for my leg. But it wasn’t there anymore as I landed, cat-footed. I circled him. He swiveled with me and punched with his right. And the fight was on.
Eli was faster than any human I’d ever fought. Had more muscle mass. Knew some dirty moves I wanted to learn, even as they landed and bruised and the breath huffed and hissed out of me. But I was faster and way stronger than I looked. Eli started to sweat one minute into the fight. At two minutes he was breathing hard. I was grinning. And Beast was landing some moves of her own, one a cat-clawing strike that I had seen alley cats do, right claw going for the face, body shooting back, and back claw spinning up and going for the abdominals. Nasty move.
I was no longer hiding that I wasn’t human, or at least not fully human, not pulling my punches and kicks, and I was faster and stronger with Beast participating. At twelve minutes, by the clock on the dojo wall, I had broken a sweat, but Eli was dripping, stinky, breathing hard, and his cockiness had disappeared. He had a few scratches, maybe a bruised rib or three.
I leaped back and let my hands drop slightly—only slightly—I wasn’t stupid. “Yield.” The word was a growl, low and snarled, and I could feel that my eyes were glowing faintly gold. Grudgingly, Eli nodded once, a downward jut of his chin. “Ravioli?” I asked.
The combo of Italian food and an animal growl must have tickled Eli’s funny bone because his mouth twitched down slightly and then up. He laughed, a soft huff. “One serving of pasta or one small pizza. Per shower.”
There was too much wiggle room in the statement. I clarified, “One fourteen – or fifteen-ounce can of Italian, pasta-based, prepackaged food, or one twelve-inch or smaller pizza from the restaurant or frozen brand of Alex’s choice, or one fast-food meal of his choice, not supersized, to be given for every shower he takes with soap and shampoo, but limited to one food item per day. And for every day he skips a shower, he misses two days’ worth of food.”
Eli thought about that, weighing fast food against his brother’s body odor. “Done.”
“Pizza? This was about pizza?” We both glanced to Daniel, standing with his arms loose and ready and an incredulous look on his face.
In unison, we said, “Yeah.”
Daniel shook his head, but he had a speculative look on his face that boded poorly for our next private sparring session. Daniel wanted to take on the fighter he had seen on the mats today, not the girl he had been working with for several months. Sensei might not want to compete, but that didn’t make him want to fight or win any less.
* * *
We walked back to my house, Eli ruminating silently, me enjoying the feel of the late afternoon sun beating down on my shoulders. I felt, more than heard, when he had his questions all in order. “No. I’m not. And
no. I won’t.”
He laughed again, that soft huffing breath that must have worked well in Ranger recon. “Say what?”
“No, I’m not human. No, I won’t tell you what I am. And while I’m at it, yes.” I let my half smile lift, feeling his eyes on me. “You were more fun than anyone I’ve sparred with in a long time. Even if I did have to hold back some.”
“Hold back?” His voice rose a hair in surprise.
I slanted my eyes at him. “You’re still alive.”
Eli cursed under his breath and put one hand to his solar plexus where my first kick had landed. “Hold back, my as—my backside.”
I just grinned.
Inside my house, the kitchen was clean, the dishes—including the ravioli bowl—were washed and left to dry on a towel by the sink, and Alex was hooking something up to the back of the television in the living room. Only it wasn’t my TV, but a large, flat screen that hadn’t been there before. It was perched on a drop-leaf table I vaguely remembered seeing upstairs, and electronics were scattered across its top: black, gray, and silver boxes, wires, an ergonomic keyboard, and squares of tightly folded paper instructions, which the Kid hadn’t needed to read.
“How much?” Eli demanded.
The Kid glanced up, just now seeing us. He had no security consciousness about him at all. We could have been two ninja attackers or even a couple of Angus steers, and I didn’t think he’d have noticed us enter. “Less than two grand.”
Eli took a breath to yell, I took one to laugh, and the Kid forestalled us both by adding, “I called George Dumas.” He went back to work, his attention on the spiderweb of cables he was constructing.
