by Faith Hunter
“Yes, sir,” the driver said. “Shall I go in and pick it up, sir?”
“Yes, please.”
“The Stanley?” I perked up.
That odd, heated look was still on Bruiser’s face, his eyes a warm brown like melting milk chocolate. “Yes.”
I breathed out, “Breaux Bridge Benedict?”
He nodded.
“Ohhh. Oh my. Creole breakfast potatoes?”
He nodded again and said, “Pecan-smoked bacon and eggs Stanley. A carafe of coffee for me and a carafe of tea for you. And pancakes with vanilla ice cream and all three side options.”
I closed my eyes, my mouth watering. And then, eyes still closed, my lips turned up. “You knew I was coming to your place, didn’t you?”
“I had very, very high hopes.”
The sound I made was helpless and laughing all at one. “We really should do it on the floor. At least once. Or twice.”
Bruiser’s arms slid around me and he pulled me to him across the seat.
* * *
We reached the restaurant before anything could progress to the floor, and then Bruiser’s apartment before anything could progress to the floor, and then, because I was beyond starving, we ate before anything could progress to the floor of the apartment. And then . . . I fell asleep.
Later, I felt Bruiser crawl in beside me and pull me close, spooning. The stubble of his beard was rough on my shoulder, and his chest was Onorio-hot against my back. His body smelled of Onorio, his new, spicy scent that I was still getting used to, and the faint, familiar citrus of his cologne. His breath smelled of pancakes and bacon. Bacon . . . Sleep took me again.
When I woke next, it wasn’t to be dragged to the floor, but to far more delightful pursuits on the mattress. Bruiser was right. His bed was much more comfortable than a bunk. Afterward, I panted against his shoulder, “We’re still . . . doing it . . . on the limo . . . floor someday.”
Gasping, he said, “God yes . . . Someday. Soon . . . When I can feel my feet again.”
* * *
An hour after nightfall, I walked out of my bedroom dressed in worn jeans tucked into old green Lucchese boots, and a men’s tailored white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I was wearing multiple leather armbands, each pressed with various logos: the company logo, Have Stakes—Will Travel, Yellowrock Securities, and my name. The one with my name was inset with tiny pieces of turquoise. I also wore my sterling-over-titanium gorget and my gold nugget necklace on its doubled gold chains.
Most important, every piece of my weaponry was visible, strapped outside my shirt and atop my jeans and in my boots, from the two matching-scarlet-gripped Walther PK .380s beneath each shoulder and the H&K nine-mils on each thigh rig, to the multiple vamp-killers in sheaths at my belt and on my thighs, to the stakes in multiple tiny sheaths and in my bun. The Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun rode in its spine rig, collapsible stock extended and sticking up behind the nape of my neck as protection from rear vamp attack. All of them in the brand spanking new Kydex holsters and the new weapons rigs.
Everyone in the living room stopped dead when I walked in, heels clomping. I let them look. And I grinned slowly, showing teeth. Kit-Kit spat at me, her hair standing out in fear. She spun and raced into the butler’s pantry, to safety.
The .380s were loaded with standard ammo. The nine-mils were loaded with silver. The Benelli was loaded with six rounds, each round hand-packed silver fléchettes, loaded for vamp. Half of the stakes were solid sterling silver. Half were wood. If a vamp was working with the witches, I was ready to take him down.
Angie Baby said, her voice a breath of sound, “Aunt Jaaane.” She was sitting in the small wingback chair she had chosen before, her Cherokee doll in her lap, her red-gold curls falling around her. “You look dangerous.”
Little Evan echoed, “Dang-er-sus.” Then he threw his arms into the air and shouted, “Gun! I wanna play guns!”
I glared at the toddler and said, “No. Do you understand me? No guns. Not now. Not ever.”
His lips quivered, blue eyes filling with tears. “You got guns.”
“Yes. And what am I?”
“Dang-er-sus?”
“Yes.” I leaned in, letting him see the threat that I was. He leaned back into his father’s chest and Big Evan put his arms around his son. “I am not a nice person,” I said. “I am dangerous. I kill bad people. You are not like me. You don’t need guns. You have magic. And that is way better than guns.”
Both kids stared at me for a few uncomfortable heartbeats and then turned to their parents.
“Listen to your aunt Jane,” Big Evan said, his face showing no emotion.
I nodded and looked to my partners. For once Eli had not read my mind. He was wearing a suit. And his mouth was hanging open. “I thought,” he said, “that we were attending the dress rehearsal for the security arrangements at the Elms tonight.”
“We are. So, shouldn’t you be in your fighting leathers?” I asked.
“I thought—” He stopped.
“You thought I’d refuse to wear my new leathers. You thought I’d go all fashion ball gown on them. Or wear one of Madame Melisende’s jackets and only a few weapons. You got it partly right, the part about me not ruining my new leathers, but you overthought it. We got multiple enemies. I’m dressing for enemies. Go get casual.”
I looked at the Kid in his new suit, the one he was expected to wear when he ran the security system that he had set up today while I slept and would give a test run on tonight. He’d ruin the suit if he had to climb around. I shook my head. “You too. Jeans and a shirt.” When neither of them moved, I clapped my hands once and said, “Make it snappy, boys.”
They both headed for the stairs at speed. Alex whispered, “I told you so.”
“Shut up,” Eli whispered back.
A heartbeat later I heard Edmund’s car shut off in the side yard, and he stepped inside. I had never seen Edmund in blue jeans and a white tailored shirt. With the sleeves rolled up. On some level it really bothered me that Edmund had read my mind better than Eli had, but I didn’t let it show on my face.
He glanced at me, took in my wardrobe choices, and said, “Copycat.” The accusation made me feel marginally better, which might have been his intention. He gave me a shallow bow and produced a small box. The kind jewelry once came in from high-end stores. Much more formally, he asked, “My mistress. May I present your goddaughter a gift?”
“What kind of gift?” I could help the suspicion in my tone. He was a vamp, after all, and Angie had marked her face with his blood when she swore to him.
“When I was human, I had a daughter. She passed of the bloody flux while I was in devoveo, and her belongings were kept by a Mithran friend. Little has survived the ages, but this one thing. I would offer it to Angelina in recognition and acknowledgment for her promise to me and proof that I will not allow the blood-oath she made to me to become effective until she is twenty-one. And as testimony and witness of my fealty to her, as proof that I will protect her for as long as she lives.” He held my eyes, his own full of entreaty. Edmund’s body smelled of purpose and resolve, like a sweet scent of distant jasmine, carried on a night wind, twined with the scent of copper. If integrity had a scent, this was it. Strangely the mixed scent of human blood from his early feedings didn’t detract from that.
I gestured to the box; the rotting velvet fell to ash as he lifted the top away. The scent of age, old walnut wood, ancient illness, and dried tears wafted out as the light fell inside. Two tarnished metal rings had been affixed to the wooden sides so long ago that verdigris marred the wood. New satin ribbons had been tied to each. The ribbons then passed through specially made loops in a velvet cushion, which was new also. The ribbons held the cushion in place and also secured a tiny gold ring, centered with a faceted peridot. The setting was made of tiny hands, holding the jewel. It was delicat
e and pretty.
It was petty of me, but I leaned in and sniffed. Then I put my hand on the ring. There was no tingle of magic that might have been meant to ensnare a young witch. This wasn’t a trick. I tilted my head and said, “Dang. You’re just being nice.”
He gave me a small, human smile. “It isn’t impossible for us.” But he sounded wry and cautious. And perhaps a bit sad. I considered the ring. His daughter’s ring. How difficult and momentous it must be to give away something so precious. “If her parents don’t mind, I’m good with it.”
Angie piped up, “Does this mean I have a boyfriend?”
“No.” The word was flat, icy, and powerful.
Edmund pivoted on one foot to face Molly, whom I had paid no attention to until now. She was sitting on the far end of the couch, her hands holding her belly, her face a mask of some emotion I couldn’t even name, something cold and hard and maybe even deadly. I felt the faint thrill of magics race along my skin, raising the hairs on my arms beneath my leather armbands. Death magics.
“I never had a boyfriend,” Angie said.
“Mol,” Big Evan said, his tone gentle and warning all at once.
Edmund swiveled his head to me, turning too far. He clearly didn’t feel the trace of magic, didn’t know how great his danger, but he had heard the threat in her single word. I shook my head without looking at him but stepped to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder, ready to pull him behind me if needed.
“Molly,” Big Evan said again.
Angie Baby slid from the chair and walked calmly to her mother. She put both hands over her mother’s and squeezed. Molly closed her eyes and forced herself to take a breath. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t anything paranormal. It was mother and daughter and that connection I would never have and didn’t remember from my own youth. Wet heat prickled under my eyelids as Molly slid her hands free and wrapped herself around Angie, holding her close.
Edmund dropped away from my hand and landed on his knees, offering the box to Molly. “There is nothing here but my honor,” he said. “My honor is all I have left of who I was, and I would not sell it at any cost. But I would give it. I would promise it to you and to yours.”
“Why?” Molly asked. “That makes no sense for a fanghe—a Mithran.”
“The priestess Sabina has divined much about the state of the world and about our species. She has said that my life is wrapped inextricably with you and yours,” he said to Molly. “And with my mistress.”
That was news to me. “Did she get around to saying why?” I asked.
“All she said were nonsense syllables, perhaps in her mother tongue.”
“And they were?”
“Bubo-bubo,” he said. “Senseless.”
But it wasn’t senseless, nor was it in her mother tongue. It was the scientific name for the Eurasian eagle owl. I had flown in its shape once, for a chance to sit in a tree and listen in on a vamp gather.
Later Sabina had seen me in the tree and she spoke to that owl. It had been eerie enough to make me want to lift wings and fly far away. She said something like “I know not if you are real, or prophecy, or the mad imaginings of an old, old sinner.” My flight feathers shivered and my taloned feet danced on the limb. “If you are prophecy, if you are the breath of God on my stained and darkened soul, then know this, and take my words back with you to paradise. We still seek forgiveness. We still search for absolution.”
Much later even after that, she had said of the raptor, “It came to me, at a time of gathering and blood, when we put Katherine to earth to heal. It cried out its lonely call to me, a bird of the night, a bird of a different place and time. The owl has long been a harbinger of change, of danger, of loss. You are that beast of change and loss. That harbinger of bitter defeat. Of true-death.”
Go, me. I was part of a prophecy. My life was weirder and weirder. Molly was watching me as if reading my mind and I flashed her a grin and shrugged, hoping to throw her off my train of thoughts. But Edmund’s words were enough to make me believe him. I said to Molly. “He’d make a pretty watchdog.”
Edmund inhaled a breath that he hadn’t bothered with until now and said, “I am a far better protector than a dog. Or even a werewolf. And I have pledged you my honor.”
“Y’all are all angst and indecision and drama queens, worse than a bunch of old men on a street corner.” Pointing at Molly, I said, “You deal with this. Get yourself together and chill. And make nice-nice with the fanghead. I’ll be back later and I expect you to be one happy family.” I pointed at Angie. “You. No vamp boyfriends until you are at least twenty-one years old. He’s your protector, not your honey bunch.” Angie frowned mutinously and I frowned right back. “Don’t make me go all big-cat on you.” I pointed at Evan. “You are one cool dude. Keep things together and don’t let them kill each other or blow up my house once I leave.”
Evan might have smiled beneath his fried beard. The fire had burned off a lot, but he was still hairy enough that it was difficult to tell.
My business partners clattered back into the room, dressed in jeans. Or Alex clattered and Eli glided. He had been hanging around the corner with a weapon drawn. I said, “We have a lot to debrief before we all leave, so let’s stop this here.
“Any new thoughts on why Antoine kept Ming prisoner?” I asked my little group. “I mean originally, before his daughter took over.”
Edmund rose to his feet and said, “Antoine kidnapped Ming near the time that Immanuel, the Damours, Adrianna, and others were to make a play for Leo’s Blood Master status. I believe that is one reason why Adrianna and Rafael became Anamchara and allied with the Damours is that they intended to challenge him to a blood duel. Had they won that challenge, there would have been all-out war between the Mithrans and witches all across the colonies. Such a war would have played into the hands of the Europeans. Perhaps that very thing was part of their plan, and the shaman Antoine was being coerced or maneuvered by them.”
I said, “Yeah, yeah, we’ve been over and over this. He had Ming. He knew where the Damours were. He went to kill Immanuel and died instead.”
Edmund said, “You killed Immanuel, but you didn’t save Antoine. Or the other female witch. They may believe that you were responsible for Antoine’s death. And also that their fellow witches are fools for aligning with the Mithrans. They may wish to halt any such parley and drag us back into war. There is seldom only one reason for treachery, but many, interlaced and tangled.”
Eli said, “I get the vengeance angle. So they kept Ming alive but stoned, feeding her humans when they could, biding their time for revenge against Jane and the witches who ‘let it happen’”—his hands made little quotations around the phrase—“and the vamps who started it all.”
I said, “Our problem is the timeline. The women have had Ming for months. Why did they wait to hit me?”
“Changing someone into something vampish, but not a vamp, someone capable of beginning and possibly winning a war with vamps, might take time,” Eli said.
“No,” I said. “It happened to Bruiser in days.”
“But,” Edmund said, “they didn’t have a priestess to make it happen in the proper time.”
“And they might have had to wait on probate on Antoine’s estate to get the second brooch,” Alex said. “And the third and fourth brooches, which we haven’t added into the equation.”
I nodded. “Okay. We’re all on the same page, meaning we still don’t know enough. Next subject. Bruiser hasn’t sent a text or called about the girl smelling like Onorio.”
“And there’s nothing,” Alex said, “in the files or histories about female Onorios at all.”
“Fine. Molly, do you have the anti-DNA charms?” She nodded. “Good. I’ll have Leo’s CPA send you a check.” When her lips parted, I said, “What? You thought those were favors for me? Heck no. You made big bucks, baby.” Molly ducked her hea
d and blushed, delight glimmering in her eyes.
“We’re late,” I said to the Youngers, “and so are you,” I said to Edmund and Molly. “Lachish isn’t going to get well by tomorrow night on modern medicine alone. You need to get to Tulane to donate blood to Lachish and add your magics to her healing. We need to get the security set up at the Elms. We have a conclave to put together.” And with the new charms, we might just pull it off. “Let’s all get crackin’.”
* * *
In the SUV, the powerful engine rumbling under the hood, I said, “Update.”
Eli pulled away from the curb, the lights of New Orleans casting neon glares on the windows, a group of tourists walking down the street, laughing and smelling of alcohol. A motorbike roared past, a vibrant blue crotch rocket, the exhaust foul, as if it ran too rich. He said, “You are one scary chick. I like it.”
“Get a room,” Alex said, fingers beating hard on the tablet’s keyboard.
“Ewww. He’s like my brother.”
“Fine. Buy pompoms and do some calisthenics for each other, bur shut up and listen. About an hour ago, I found clear and current pics of the women, and the young one is hot. Hot and crazy. And you know what they say about crazy women.”
“No,” I purred. “Do tell. . . .”
He looked up at my tone and quickly back down, hiding a smile. “They make the best bosses.”
“Good save. Insulting, but a good save.”
“Sending pics to your phones,” he grouched.
“How goes the background checks on the Elms’ servers, cooks, delivery people, and all the others?”
Alex began telling me everything, about the staff. Eeeeverything. The rest of the drive was tedious and boring, but, in its own way, just as important as weapons practice and workouts.
* * *
Eli and the Kid were pure wizards with electronics. They had a system set up, refined, tested, rerefined, and powered down in minutes, all the while charming the ladies and a few of the men who made it a point to come around and watch or to ask questions. Amalie, however, was less than pleased with the results of our last visit, and seemed inclined to blame Yellowrock Securities for the damage to the gardens from the icon explosions.
