by Faith Hunter
Thema and Kojo, not knowing what to expect when the doors whooshed shut, tensed and crouched, hands on weapons. The scent of vamp, floral and herbal, rose from them on the air. Neither was breathing; neither was moving but for the flash of dark eyes. Not vamped out, but ready for anything.
I watched through the glass into the foyer, recognizing the security measures as Cowbird Protocol was carried out. Cowbird meant that we weren’t just worried about attackers from outside but were possibly in danger from bad guys already inside HQ, and I was bringing more unknowns in with me. Four security guys approached the airlock doors, forming a semicircle with small subguns drawn and pointed directly at the doors. Wrassler peered out from the secondary video and security control nook off the foyer and met my eyes, assessing not just expressions and weapons, but body language and those subtle indicators of trouble. I lifted a single finger to him, and he ducked back into the small room.
When he and the other guy watching the entrance on security cameras were satisfied that we were welcome, were present under our own wills and not compelled, the inner doors would open. If security wasn’t satisfied, we would be asked to remove all our weapons, empty out all pockets, lift our shirts, and remove our shoes. As it was, the doors swished open, and we were allowed to walk through high-tech metal detectors built into the walls. A silent alarm went off inside HQ, registering the total amassed weapons as we were each scanned.
Despite the alarm, Wrassler left the alcove, limping slightly on his prosthetic leg toward us. He was dressed in a dark charcoal suit and dress shoes, not the dove gray suit of Leo Pellissier’s blood-servants. He approached Thema and Kojo and said, “All guests wear trackers while in HQ.” He held out black silicone bands, each with a small crystal face. “Your left arms please.”
Someone must have warned them of the procedure because both of the guests extended left arms. Wrassler locked the tracking bands into place and moved back. Twelve feet away, he stopped and stood still as if waiting for something.
I started to move toward him, but Bruiser took my hand, stopping me. “Wait,” he whispered.
I took in the foyer, which was different now from before. There was still a lot of white and gray marble and ornate woodwork. But now, instead of the Pellissier crest inset in the gray marble floor, there was a simple six-foot-diameter brass circle with laurel leaves like my crown, an image of the Glob in quartz, a brown marble feather, and a puma fang in white marble. The emblems were the same as on my standard and said everything there was to know about me. My crown. My power. My city. Whoopie dang do.
The armed guards stepped backward into shadows. From all the open hallways in every direction, and down the curved stairway leading to the next floor, vamps and humans began to arrive, walking slowly in step, almost like some kind of dance. A dozen of them. More. And behind them even more. They gathered in the foyer, shuffling feet, clearing throats.
Vamp scent gathered with them, hanging on the air, spicy and hot like peppers and allspice and cloves mixed with the floral of funeral flowers. A top note of sex and blood rode above the scents, cloying yet bright and sharp. I saw my clan members, people I loved and trusted, and others I kept closer than friends because their trust was questionable. So many people, every single one in party gowns or tuxedoes or black suits, which made me clench up with something unexpected and unfamiliar—a sense of being woefully underdressed in my jeans.
Wearing dark red to match her hair was Shiloh Everhart Stone, a vampire witch and my BFF’s niece. Shiloh’s primo, Rachel, wore a matching shade. Jodi Richoux, Wrassler’s fiancée and her partner at NOPD, Sloan Rosen, wore NOPD dress uniforms and black dress clothes and stood beside Wrassler. Deon, Katie’s former cook, and now one of the Council Chambers chefs, wore a green spangled tux. He blew me a kiss when he entered. Katie’s former ladies from her vamp bordello entered: Christy, Tia, Ipsita, Rachel (with Shiloh), Indigo, Najla, and even Bliss—aka Ailis Rogan—who was learning how to be the witch she had always denied being. All of them were my scions, my clan members, and my friends to one extent or another. All of them were people I was sworn to protect.
Behind them pranced Gee DiMercy, my Enforcer, a less trusted confidant. He took a place at the far left. He was a glamoured Anzu, and he had Longfellow perched on his shoulder, the flying lizard’s striped tail wrapped around the man’s throat. Brute stood at Gee’s knee with a grindylow on his shoulder—Pea, or Bean, or maybe Sprout. They were impossible to tell apart.
Standing to the right of Gee were members of NOLA’s other clans, vamps and humans I knew. I totally had not expected this, whatever this was.
There was Bettina, the leader of Clan Laurent, a woman who exuded sexual attraction. With her were two of her scions and several humans. Innara and Jenna, the anamchara Blood Masters of Clan Bouvier, were present with Roland, their heir, two scions I vaguely knew, and six humans. Brandon and Brian Robere, the Onorio B-twins, both wearing black tuxedoes, looking like sex on sticks, were clearly standing in for Grégoire, the master of Clan Arceneau. Blondie was currently fighting duels in my name in Europe, but he’d be here soon. Entering last was Clan Master Ming Zhane, her black hair up in a braided ornate bun I could never hope to replicate, wearing a black-gold-and-scarlet robe. She was petite and delicate and beautiful. Ming had been declared true dead, had been found, rescued, and brought back to full health. Her clan had been reinstated by Leo and funded by me before I left. In vamp terms, that meant she owed me not just fealty but an ongoing boon, which in vamp terms meant anything I wanted or needed.
Behind the clan Blood Masters stood Ernestine—Raisin—who ran HQ finances. She shuffled in, looking irritated and sour as always. The ancient blood-servant was so wrinkled she looked a bit like a mummified Shar-Pei puppy. Behind her came the working staff that kept the chambers running: cooks and cleaning crew, security guards, IT guys, the eight remaining Tequila and Vodka Boys, Derek Lee’s security teams recruited directly from the military. There was Larry, Leo’s former valet, and Quesnel, Leo’s wine steward and sommelier. There were people from housekeeping, groundskeepers, kitchen help. Humans who had been sworn to Leo and who had stayed on here after he died, keeping the place running until the city had a new MOC who wanted to do business out of NOLA again.
Dozens of my people walked into the large foyer, slowly assembling. Thema and Kojo faded behind us off to the side. My first thought was that they were cowards. And then the energy of the crowd rose, biting and sizzling, sharp as frozen knives. My skin crawled and jumped, muscles quivering. I had felt this before. It was . . . Holy crap. This was a gather, and not one a Blood Master had created. I had no freaking idea what to do. Bruiser’s hand was the only thing that held me in place. The word coward wasn’t lost on me. I glanced at him, and his face was solemn, made more so by the dark beard.
Except for Wrassler and Bruiser (and Kojo and Thema edging to the back of the foyer) all the people crowded into the huge foyer looked at me. They bowed their heads and knelt, dropping in waves. Koun and Eli dropped the bloody body bag and knelt. Brute, the werewolf, stretched out on the cool marble. Gee gave an elaborate court bow, his head nearly at the floor. The sounds fell away, apart from the shush of fabric and the breath of humans. Silence spread through a space that had always felt too large and drafty and now felt entirely too small and claustrophobic. This was why the foyer was so dang big. It was also a greeting room. A gathering room.
When he was sure I wouldn’t bolt, Bruiser released my hand and accepted a small gobag from Eli. From it, Bruiser pulled out le breloque and placed it on my head. Instantly it did that snap-into-place thing, but this time it was so tight and hot against my skin that it was close to blistering me. Bruiser handed me the gobag, and inside I felt the energies of the Glob. He may not have expected this, or planned for this possibility, but he had my gear with him and he knew the proper protocols. He knelt at my side, and I pulled the magical weapon from the bag. It was vibrating in a way it never had before.
Inside me, B
east purred with delight at the gather.
Wrassler was still standing. He said, “Blood Master of the City of New Orleans, Dark Queen of the Mithrans. Welcome to the Mithran Council Chambers. We are yours to command.”
Crap in a bucket with toe jam.
All the confidence about me being able to do this fled. I thought I might hurl. My palms were sweating. And then Derek stepped out of the security nook. He didn’t kneel, and his face wore an expression that said he’d shoot me before he knelt to me. I didn’t blame him, not one bit. And that look helped to steady me.
I could try for vamp formal, but I’d fail. So I would be myself, probably breaking some long-standing vamp protocol. I was best at being a little offensive. “Holy moly, y’all. Stand up. Really. Stand up. I want us to see each other.”
Totally confused, they stood. Wrassler looked across the gathered, and I realized he had probably been making them practice the etiquette of the gather for weeks, knowing I was coming back. As usual, I had messed up the planning committee’s arrangements. Ming of Mearkanis lifted a black, well-shaped eyebrow as she stood. Beneath the white face paint, she might have been smiling ever so slightly.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” I said. “Grégoire or Katie or Edmund Hartley should have been your MOC. One of them would be if this hadn’t happened so fast, if there hadn’t been war in Europe, if EuroVamps hadn’t come here to fight, and if Katie hadn’t been sent to rule Atlanta. So you’re stuck with me until Eddie, the emperor of Europe, makes up his mind about being the ruler of NOLA as well as emperor. Between now and then, I’m honored to be the DQ and the MOC. But”—I took a deep breath, feeling oxygen deprived—“as you know, I got no idea what I’m doing.”
Everyone laughed as if in agreement. My reputation of hitting first and talking later was well known. With the laughter, the energies rose and the Glob was suddenly so hot I had to shift it to my other hand, back and forth.
“I’m just Jane Yellowrock. The same person I’ve always been. I’ll be depending on each of you to do your best job and to handle problems according to procedures already established. If you have problems, you know who to take them to. If you need something, you know who to ask. So just go on like you always have. I . . .” I stopped and looked around at the earnest faces, male and female, all races, and all united by blood that I couldn’t share with them. Of them all, I was the outsider. And then Ming smiled, a human smile, small and . . . holy crap. Kind. Tears pricked at my eyes. “I thank you for the energy, the power you have shared tonight. I am energized and full of hope. I honor your faith in me. I honor each of you and the job you do keeping NOLA up and running and vamp central open and safe.”
Someone snickered. I had said vamp central, not the proper title. And meanwhile, the Glob was even hotter, absorbing the energy in the room. Bruiser held up the hanky he always carried, and I wrapped the Glob into it like a potholder.
I had a rep to uphold. I should get back to that one.
“We all have jobs to do until Edmund and Grégoire get back home for the coronation. Until some vamp becomes the new fanghead MOC.” I grinned at them and said, “Until then, if anyone needs their butts beat, we’ll be sparring in the gym at some point in the near future. I may not be a vamp, but I’m fast, I’m sneaky, and I’m powerful. And I always win.” I let them think on that one for a while as I met eyes and watched people react.
“Wrassler,” I said, “we need a quick security meeting ASAP. Extra guards on the grounds. Deon, if it’s your shift in the kitchen, I am dying for a real New Orleans fried shrimp po’boy and a good local beer.”
“You got it, Queenie,” Deon said, his island accent deliberately stronger. “One of the best po’boys ever made will be delivered to wherever you are in twenty minutes.” He looked around and put a hand on a hip. “And heavy hors d’oeuvres will follow for everyone else. We have been cooking . . . food . . . alllll day. Bismark and Coco? To the kitchens, ladies.” He snapped his fingers, both hands, the sounds sharp as blades clicking. “We have a feast to get out.”
I smiled when Deon winked at me and sashayed away. Two men followed him, and I had a feeling that Deon was making new friends. That was good.
“That’s all, folks,” I said. “Ummm. As you were? And all that stuff? And maybe someone should open the bar? I see you got all dressed up for this, sooo . . . let’s have a party?” That felt right. I raised my voice, “Laissez les bon temps rouler, people. Turn up the music and let’s dance!”
And with that, the energies fell. The gather released its hold on all of us.
I tucked the Glob into the gobag and turned to Koun. “Toss the body into a cage in the scion room, quick update and debrief in the security room.” I pointed at the mess on the floor below her body bag. “You might want to call housekeeping for a cleanup. She’s leaking. Then let’s join the party.”
Koun had a strange spark in his eyes, something I hadn’t seen before. Softly, he said, “As My Queen commands.” It was an unusual emphasis on the words, but not something that seemed to matter to anyone but him.
CHAPTER 7
Leo Had Been Playing the Long Game
The music pumped through HQ’s speakers, starting off with NOLA favorites, the Neville Brothers, homegrown musical heroes. It was good music, even when Eli turned the volume down for the quick security briefing. He gave an update on what we were facing and the security changes expected for the upcoming wedding. I got a chance to hug Wrassler in congratulations of his nuptials, and though I wasn’t a good hugger, he was. Bone-cracking good.
When the meeting was over, I let Eli help me off with my weapons—because a queen never did that sort of thing alone—and I was ready, way more ready than I even knew, to party.
While I was still being deweaponed, Deon entered with a wooden tray covered with newspaper and brown paper napkins. As if it was an offering to a queen, I sat and accepted the po’boy and a beer. I bit in. Flavor flooded my mouth, spicy, greasy, shrimpy, the best spicy mayo, and—oh my gosh—Louisiana had the best food ever. I was in love. I chewed and swallowed and ate some more. After months of worry and uncertainty, I began to relax. Eli turned up the volume, the music going louder, thrumming through me as I ate the entire po’boy and finished off the beer before wiping my hands on the warm damp towel Deon offered me. I stood, grabbed Deon, and kissed the top of his head. “Dude, that was a tiny bit of heaven.”
“I live to make you food,” he said, his face soft and full of joy. “I’ll make you another. You’re too skinny.” He started to leave, and Joe Bonamassa riffs slammed through the speakers so loud that they vibrated the walls. Deon stopped and looked back at me. “Wanna dance?” His hips shot to the left and he spun, one hand out.
Without looking back at Eli and Bruiser, I said, “I always wanna dance.” I took his hand and thrust my hip forward, dropping it twice, belly dance moves I had practiced often while trying to control my shifting, hoping that physical activity would help my lack of control. It hadn’t. Dance was just for fun, it seemed. I danced after him, letting him lead me out of security and down the hallway, toward the party, and also toward the kitchens, where he left me with a kiss on the back of my hand before wrapping my fingers around a fresh beer.
I drank the beer and wandered into the crowd in the ballroom. Alcohol did nothing to or for me, most of it cleared out of my system by skinwalker energies, but dancing? Dancing did what beer never could. Dancing freed me.
I moved, my whole body like a snake on steroids. I had missed this, the roar of voices, the smells of food and party. I was dressed for travel, not dancing, and at some point in the next few hours, I removed and lost my denim jacket and my boots. I ate another sandwich. Or three. I drank another beer or three. I danced until the misery was gone, boogying to Roddy Rockwell, gliding to the raw tones of Joe B. and Beth Hart. People were dancing in the hallways, the foyer, the reception rooms, the gym, everywhere I went. I danced with multiple partners in small groups, in big groups, with Ming and then with Bet
tina, with Wrassler and Jodi; the man had eyes only for the woman he loved, and Jodi was glowing. I even danced with Derek, mostly by yanking him into a Latin beat—and that man could move. And I danced alone.
Mostly, I danced.
I caught sight of Eli and Bruiser from time to time, checking to see that I was safe. Other times, a security guy would wander past, smiling and nodding, keeping an eye on Queenie. It was cute, since in half-form, I was pretty sure I could take them all. Of course, in human form I was too tall, too skinny, and had too few muscles to fight fairly and probably would have to resort to sneak attacks.
Arms over my head, doing chest lifts and hip figure eights, I danced into the scion room to check on the dead body of Monique Giovanni on the floor of the silver cage. Dead. Deader than dead. I danced into Leo’s office, which was empty. Not something I needed or wanted to see or think about. I danced into the reception room and ate some smoked salmon on toast points. When I was sweaty and tired, my legs quivering with fatigue, my muscles loose and exhausted, I danced back into the security room and up to Bruiser, my arms up, my hips popping and swirling, my spine and belly a continuous roll up and down. He was sitting in a swivel chair, his beautiful hands curled on the arms. I took his left hand and pulled him upright and close.
“Dance with me, Consort,” I murmured into his ear.
His arms went around me, pulling my own hands back behind me in a move from a tango.
“As My Queen commands. As my only love demands.” He drew me close, and his free hand splayed across my spine, pulling me against his hips. He was aroused, pressing into my belly.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Together we danced out the door. My eyes closed, feeling the beat of the music, the demand of the rhythm. Bruiser’s lips touched mine. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him tight to me.
