by Faith Hunter
I don’t know what I was expecting from the woman. Maybe a sneer? Maybe tilting back her head so she could look down her aquiline nose at me? Instead she accepted the card with a smile, stepped back in welcome, and said, “I am Amalie. May I call you Jane and Eli?”
Eli said, “We’d be honored, Miz Amalie.”
And he put his hand on the small of my back to push me inside. The door enclosed us in a wonder from another time. I had thought I’d been prepared for the interior from the online tour we had taken, but the place blew me away. I suddenly understood why the owners had said no to everything we suggested by way of security updates. The word desecration came to mind, with sacrilege and defilement close behind. It was so visually amazing that I hardly noted the scents of lemon oil, food, coffee, and fine cigars.
The Grand Foyer was big enough to drive a car into, with marbled and burled wooden antiques and carved wooden moldings everywhere. Directly ahead was the extravagant, curving Grand Staircase, hand-carved wooden railing, and champagne-toned carpet up the steps.
“The staff at the Elms is delighted to be hosting the conclave and will do everything possible to see to the comfort and safety of our guests,” Amalie said. From the corner of my eye, I caught her giving Eli and his fighting leathers a once-over, her eyes lingering on his backside in the taut hide. She might be in her fifties, but she wasn’t dead yet. She said, “May I give you both a tour?”
“Why, we’d be delighted, Miz Amalie,” Eli said, his voice taking on a familiar, upscale, New Orleans accent. I lifted my eyebrows at him in surprise. He ignored me and gifted Amalie with a polished, friendly smile. One showing teeth. He never gave me that smile. “It’s truly a beautiful place,” he said as Amalie led us from room to room, describing the house’s grandeur.
I let them pull a little ahead, and managed not to gawk too badly. Growing up in a children’s home had done nothing to prepare me for this opulence of grace and old money. Every room was titled, Grand This or Grand Whatever, or was named after a king. And it looked like it. And every room’s name was capitalized, like the NOLA palace it was. Holy crap. But I said nothing as Amalie and Eli discussed each room, how the tables would be set up, where waitstaff would enter and depart, and which doors would be used for guest entrance and egress. I just watched them, the armored and leather-clad man and the woman in the unwrinkled linen pantsuit and dainty heels. They seemed to get along famously, while I was the duck out of water and knew it.
When we finally reached the Grand Ballroom, which was fifty-eight freaking feet long, Eli put his hands to his hips and studied the space. He said, “We at Yellowrock Securities understand why you would not want the windows replaced or cameras installed, Miz Amalie. But may I suggest cameras on blocks, unsecured, and resting atop the display cases along the walls?” He pointed to two locations that provided good coverage of the room. “And maybe in the Chaperone’s Alcove?” He indicated an oval seating area where chaperones had waited while their charges danced and courted in a bygone era. The alcove opened to the stairway area and to the kitchen/public toilets area. I had looked over the floor plan and it was a nightmare from a security standpoint. “We could brace them in place with blocks instead of screws and stretchers, keeping the integrity of the pieces protected. And perhaps beneath there.” He pointed to cover the office and the kitchen. “And then station a few smaller cameras at the back and side entrances.” Eli gave her a winning smile and finished with “All without damaging any woodwork, of course.”
“Hmmm,” Amalie said. “What about wiring? Electricity?”
“We can manage with battery-powered cameras for a few hours. All we’d need would be a secure, portable Wi-Fi console set up in a separate room. Perhaps on the second floor, somewhere discreet?”
I wanted to sock him in the biceps. Just for being so unexpectedly capable in the rarefied atmosphere. And then it occurred to me that he’d been in the army long enough to have stood security for embedded newspeople, traveling political types, maybe even diplomats. Huh. Eli had unexplored skills and abilities, and not just for making things blow up and go bang.
Looking from my partner to the area we’d be guarding, I was glad Leo had wanted to build a new clan home instead of trying to buy this place or some other old, fancy one. As the online tour and photos suggested, the Elms was remarkable, but impossible to totally secure for vamps. “Jane? What do you think?” Eli asked me, and gave me a look that said he knew I’d been woolgathering.
I tilted my head to our guide and drew on all the memories of the single etiquette class at the home. It was every bit of the meager manners at my disposal, but for once I didn’t sound tongue-tied or snarly or bored or overwhelmed. Even if I was all four. “Miz Amalie, I think your home is stunning. From a security standpoint it’s a challenge, but doable. We’ll need names of your staff for background checks, and whatever catering company will be providing tables, linens, and food. Waitstaff. Your own security. Anything and anyone who comes from off-site.”
“We’ll be handling everything on-site, Jane,” she said, “according to the contract drawn up by the New Orleans coven. The Elms Mansion and Gardens is a full-service venue with the capability to provide everything from flowers and sound system, to tables and linens, to catering and drinks, to cleanup, for as many as eight hundred people. The four hundred guests expected this weekend will be no challenge to our staff at all. I’ll send you the final list of our people, but please know that most have been with us for years and have proven completely trustworthy.” I nodded at her statement. Alex still needed to finish the background checks. “Do you also need to see the wine list and menus for the meals?” Amalie asked.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “We’ll be talking to Lachish, and with you, between now and the weekend. My partners will need to get in to set up and test the security system. I’ll leave it to Eli and you to find a mutually agreeable time.”
Miz Amalie passed Eli a business card, a fancy one made of paper so heavy you could have used it to shingle a roof, and we made our way outside, down the walk, to the curb. There was something about old money and deep-rooted refinement, elegance, and pure style that left me knowing I was outclassed in every area.
* * *
Once we were in the SUV, I asked, “So. Who taught you to be all classy-fied?”
“Classified?” Eli chortled at my play on words, the sound deep in his throat, a sly look on his face as he started the engine. “Uncle Sam’s Army Rangers, ma’am.”
“That’s what I figured. That’s a good education, as long as no one’s shooting at you or blowing you up with bombs.” I glanced at his collar where the scars that had gotten him discharged from the army were hidden beneath the leathers.
“True,” he said mildly. “And no.”
“No, what?”
“No, I won’t be sharing about the scars.”
“Is that classified too?”
“Matter of fact, yes.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Indeed I am.”
* * *
We passed a touristy shop and a few things caught my eye; I made Eli stop and did a little fast shopping. Treats for my peeps. I came back out with them rolled up in a paper bag and pretended to ignore Eli as I stuffed the bag beneath my seat. A girl needs some secrets.
Day was wearing away fast when we reached vamp HQ, the Mithran Council Chambers in the French Quarter. The place was lit up like a high-security prison, and discreetly armed humans walked the grounds with guard dogs at their sides. After dark, the humans would be switched with vamps, who tended to live longer in battle than the mortals who fed them and many of whom had mad fighting skills acquired over centuries.
We went through security measures just like normal, but this time without the trackers being dropped on us, and ended up back in the windowless conference room. Leo stood in the center of the room, booted feet spread, arms crossed, head bac
k, his hair a black gloss in a queue. He was powerful and cold and in control, every bit the Master of the City of New Orleans. I could feel the sting of his power in the air and across my skin beneath my clothing. It hurt, like the prickle of sparklers and the rough scrape of acanthus thorns. The sensation told me that although he hadn’t slept, he had fed well.
“Ming Zoya of Mearkanis is in a pit,” he said, without turning. His voice was icy, laced with fury. “The Onorios will remove her at dark and bring her here. We have prepared a safe lair for her.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, stepping up beside him. On the camera, I could see Bruiser and his fellow Onorios, the creatures who were no longer human, but who hadn’t been turned either. Changed into something else, something so rare there was nothing—nothing at all—in the histories, vamp or human, about them except the name.
On the screen, Bruiser was knee deep in swamp mud, his body braced and his back torqued as he guided a large rectangular box to the ground from above. I could hear the roar of the helo and the calls of the humans around him. The box was oddly shaped, tapered on one end, like a coffin. Wisely I kept that image to myself, and asked instead, “Is she struggling in the hole? Aggressive?” Meaning is she sane, but not saying it.
“No,” Leo said. “Ming is compliant, so long as George stays close to her. We think it is due to the magics on the brooch he carries.” Leo made an abrupt motion and the volume was muted, leaving the room silent but for the air-conditioning. He tilted his head, his braid gleaming under the lights. “The brooch you were attacked with. Are you well, my Jane?”
“I’m just ducky.”
“You have not slept.”
“You neither.”
He have a modified shrug that tilted one shoulder forward, unconcerned.
“We went to the Elms to see to your safety,” I said, my eyes on the screen overhead, “so I haven’t had time to sleep.” I changed the subject. “The pit’s in the middle of nowhere and whoever put Ming of Mearkanis there had to know the location in the first place. Is it on any map?”
Leo’s scent altered from the peppery tang of anger to the softer scent of papyrus. He breathed, the sound alien and out of place, and his tone mutated to amusement. “I had hoped it was possibly an old pirate treasure pit,” he said, “though I fear that the pit is not nearly so ancient and that what is at the bottom is not gold bullion.” A faint smile twisted his lips up. “However, if I am wrong, I shall have George bring you a doubloon to wire and wear on your necklace along with your gold nugget.” He glanced at my chest where the nugget rested on my shirt. If he thought it odd I was wearing it again, he didn’t say so.
On the screen, Brandon and Brian, the other two Onorios, identical twins, were stripped to the waist and covered in mud. The three men looked as though they should have been on TV, in an action series, saving the world, muscles ripped and sweaty. From his scent I knew Leo was enjoying the show. The boys were pretty, and it occurred to me that I might be able to do something to help the last of Leo’s ire dissipate. It wasn’t something I had ever tried, but if it helped, it might be a new weapon in my vamp-fighting arsenal. Wondering if my scent would work to mute Leo’s anger all the way to calm, I let my own appreciation of Bruiser’s sweaty, mud-crusted body free, knowing that vamps can detect scent change.
Leo’s shoulders relaxed and his lips lifted with amusement. He slanted a glance my way. “A girl can look,” I said coolly. Eli slanted an enigmatic glance at us.
On the screen, the Onorios and humans were now working with a small pile driver, one with four wide tires and a tall central tower, the cage a safe place for the human operator to sit, a sudden hard rain sluicing off him. Beneath the dark brown swamp mud, the machine was orange, the driver mechanism working up and down, the sound a basso thumping over the speakers, shoring up the ground around the pit with new pilings. It was messy, filthy work. And when night came, things would get a lot more treacherous.
With Leo calmer and me exhausted, I said, “We’ll be back after dark.”
Leo didn’t look my way, his Frenchy-black eyes on the screen. “For now, get some rest. You were grievously wounded earlier today and I would not have my Jane weak or in peril.”
* * *
Back home, I again changed clothes, this time into a stained loose T-shirt and stretchy pants for meditation, so if I decided I could shift, I wouldn’t ruin my clothes. Even in mountain lion form I could get out of the shoddy duds.
Outside, on the back corner of the porch, I curled on the wooden floor, legs in guru position, my spine against the post holding up the porch. Mosquitoes buzzed around me, annoying. In the mountains they would have been mostly dormant by now, the early frost in Asheville killing them off, but here, they were a year-round nuisance.
I blew out a breath that didn’t hurt and relaxed against the post. Though I would rather be sitting on the pile of busted boulders in the back, the rain was falling faster, the storm still coming off the Gulf of Mexico, with lightning flashing across the sky and the roll of thunder. The Truebloods were driving through this and would be here by morning, if not sooner. Neither Molly nor Evan was a water witch, and it would make sense for them to drive straight on through instead of stopping for the night. Though Molly, newly and unexpectedly—to me—pregnant, might need to stop and rest. Selfishly I’d like them to be here as soon as possible, and not just for the company of friends I missed. I could use their opinion on the scan of the house and the magical thingamabob eye on my palm.
Flash floods weren’t uncommon in the flatland of Louisiana, but I knew that Big Evan, Molly’s husband, could handle most anything that happened around him, in the real world and in the metaphysical world of magic. They would be fine. I shouldn’t be worrying about the big bad magical witches who could take care of themselves better than I could.
Lightning slashed the sky open again, striking close. The ground shook, and all around me lights flickered. A shiver raced through me, reaction to the electric energy of nature, and if I was honest, a leftover reaction to being struck by lightning. I took a calming breath and exhaled. No way was I giving in to fear over a little storm. Or a little almost-died-but-didn’t experience. I’d had too many to let them bother me now.
I had more important worries about the scar and the inability to shift when I was in danger and an odd feeling of exhaustion that tugged at my consciousness. But I was having trouble dragging my thoughts back into meditation, seeing the Trueblood’s soccer-mom van sliding into an overflowing bayou, two witches with green merged magic working against them.
I blew out another breath and opened my left hand. It was plain, unmarked, but it was my real source of worry. The memory of the green eye in my palm. An eye similar to the magical impression of the Mercy Blade’s watching blue eye, the eye he had marked me with when we first met and he healed me from a werewolf attack.
Old magic was dangerous. Traces of it were even more so, as time dulled the importance of old spells and the mind forgot the opening into the soul that could be left. The misericord had deliberately marked me long ago. Now he had harmed me, probably partly as a result of his own magic. And I hadn’t shifted. That. Yeah, that was the problem.
Holding the old image of the blue eye in my mind, I finally let myself drop away into the place that was the home of my soul, the place I remembered from long and long ago, when I had been a child of five and my father and grandmother—edoda and elisi—had coaxed and forced me into my first change, into wesa—bobcat. That cavern in the Appalachian Mountains that had taken on such importance in my regular, ordinary life, a place that was all memory and healing, a place in my mind and my spirit, and in reality, though the location had been lost to me for going on two centuries. The place that told me what was happening in my own mind and heart, that showed me when I was under attack. The place I went to for spiritual healing.
The place Gee DiMercy had marked with his power over me.
I had been forced to cleanse my soul home with fire and spirit.
I remembered. And I slid down into the memory, like cooling smoke sliding down cave walls.
“Hands,” I had whispered. “Hands on the roof of the world.” My thoughts of that time in my soul home came clear to me.
My own memory of my own words, as I saw the hands marked all over the cave walls all around, and even up to the roof of the dome overhead. They had been blue hands in circles of white, and white-toned hands in circles of blue, pigments applied like signs of ownership fixed to the walls of my soul house.
Each kind of handprint had been made in a different way. I knew this even without acquiring the learning, as if it was part of me. For the blue handprints, the white pigment had been blown through a hollow reed onto the walls in a circular or oval pattern, and then pigments had been crushed and mixed with fat or spit. This paste had been applied to Gee’s hands and the blue prints pressed against the walls. For the white handprints in circles of blue, the procedure had been different, possibly because of the nature of the pigments themselves. I never bothered to discover why the different methods had been employed. The blue pigments had been crushed and sucked up into a reed. A hand had been placed on the cave wall, and the pigments had been blown over it, leaving the unpigmented print in the whitish gray of the cavern rock.
