by Faith Hunter
He was holding the knife over me. Pointed at my neck. So close to my carotid I wouldn’t have time to react should he decide to bring it down. Beast, however, wasn’t concerned. She watched Bruiser through my eyes. Despite the scent of vamp he carried, she liked what she saw.
Bruiser reversed the knife and set it on the leather seat. When he brought his hand down again, it held a bit of white. Before I could react, he wiped the blood scent along my neck and down across my exposed breast.
Scent-marking me. With the smell of a different mate. I hissed again. Caught his hand. But it was too late. I could see the angry amusement glinting in his eyes. “Son of a bitch,” I whispered fiercely, holding the offending cloth off me.
He chuckled softly but there was no humor in it. The sound was cold and rigid and full of self-mockery. “Actually, Mama was an impoverished English lady.” He tossed the cloth and slowly pushed up from the floor to the seat, accidentally—or maybe not so accidentally—dragging himself against my center, a cruel reminder of what had just nearly happened. He held out a hand to lift me back to the seat.
I fought embarrassment and a need to refuse the gesture. It would have been childish and would only make things worse. I slid my dress back over my breast and took his hand, allowing him to lift me back to the seat, leather cold through my dress. I smoothed the skirt into place over my legs.
Bruiser took the blade and held out his other hand, patient but demanding. I flipped back the skirt again and undid the knife sheath. He stared at my legs and the shadowed V above them, his eyes like a heated caress from ankles to the top of the dress split, only inches from where he had been planning to go. And where I had been planning to let him go. I shifted, dragging the skirt open wider. Okay, it was mean, but Beast wasn’t happy at being thwarted or declawed. And neither was I. I placed the sheath in his hand.
“Any other weapons?” he asked, desire making his voice rough.
His question made me want to raise a hand to my hair and the hidden implements there, but that would have been stupid. “Yeah,” I said. “Killer legs.”
Bruiser met my eyes. Unexpectedly he grinned and the fight went out of him. He leaned across, slid an arm behind me, and pulled me close, one hand finding my inner thigh. I rested both hands on his shoulders, lips parted. Holding my gaze, he slid his hand up along my leg until the tip of his finger touched the body smoother. “Damn,” he whispered.
I stuttered a laugh and he kissed me thoroughly. And I responded, not sure where this was going now, but pretty sure it wasn’t heading to any kind of sexual satisfaction. I was right. But when he pulled away, it was with obvious reluctance. His thumb feathered over my sensitive flesh and I fought a shiver. “Killer legs, eh? You do indeed.” He skimmed his hand down my leg and back up, to pause just out of reach of any kind of satisfaction. “When this is over, I’m taking you to my place and keeping you there for a week.”
I flushed hotly and Beast purred happily deep inside me. I wasn’t sure what “this” was, but I nodded and said, “Two.”
His eyes went hot and dark. His voice dropped to a burr. “Two.”
I sat, his hand on my thigh, and tried to figure out what to do next. The silence stretched, and I was pretty sure he was waiting for me say something else. Desperate, choosing a subject at random, I said, “Why did Madame Melisende lose her clientele?”
One side of Bruiser’s mouth quirked and he eased me away. I wasn’t sure the extra space made me happy, but I wasn’t sure it made me unhappy either. “Melisende picked the wrong party in the last vampire war, and her more wealthy clients went elsewhere.”
My instincts perked up. Leo’s scions had mentioned war, as had the list of anomalies. “Vampire war?” I was suddenly aware that the limo was icy cold from the AC and my skin pebbled. I pulled my dress over my legs.
Bruiser glanced away from me and outside the limo. “We’re almost there. No time for a history lesson.” He looked at a brass—or maybe gold—bucket attached to the limo wall, filled with ice and an open bottle of champagne. Glasses were in holders to the side. I hadn’t noticed it until now. “No time for champagne either, not with the time we spent . . . frolicking.”
“Why did you agree to take me to this party? I figured I’d have to break your arm.”
“Twist my arm?”
“No.” I smiled and looked at him under my lashes. “Break. Definitely break.”
Bruiser laughed but his face quickly reset itself into serious lines. “My master has a favor to ask of the Rogue Hunter.”
“Crap.” I dragged out the word, not liking the sound of this at all. “A favor? Last time I checked, the only thing he wanted was for me to get the hell out of town, under threat of a death by slow roasting or getting turned. Has something changed?”
“Yes. Well. There have been rumors of a realignment in the clans. Such a realignment is what began the last vampire war. Leo is asking—I am asking—for your help to stop it. Please.”
I laughed once, a harsh bark of sound. “Leo came to burn me out, to burn me alive.” Bruiser flinched slightly. “And now he wants me to help solidify Clan Pellissier’s power base? You gotta be kidding.”
“Leo is not the most dangerous creature in this city.” His voice was low and certain, the tone of a man who has seen and survived too much. “It is his power that has kept the peace for so long, between beings that have few morals, and often no compunction about killing humans. He is simply not himself, lost in his grief.” Bruiser’s face went intense, his eyes holding mine. “I know that solving the internal conflicts between Mithran clans isn’t within the parameters of your contract, but keeping humans alive is. And if there is war, it won’t be contained to the vampires.”
I pursed my lips, not looking at him. “I lived through the last war in 1915. It was bloody horrific,” he said softly. “The violence was as undercover as they could keep it, but believe me, if you’d known where to look . . .”
I blinked. Blood-servants lived a long time, but it was still a shocker whenever I heard confirmation of that. Nineteen fifteen. Criminy. But still . . . I drew down my brows and crossed my arms, knowing it made me look defensive. I so did not want to help Leo Pellissier. Not in any way. “I did not kill Leo’s son,” I said, hearing the mulish tone in my voice. “I killed his son’s killer. His son had been dead for decades.”
“I accept that. Leo will eventually accept it as truth. Until then I’ll . . . do what I can to keep him away from you. Will you help? For the city’s safety?”
I shook my head, but it wasn’t a no, it was frustration. “What do you want me to do?”
“Simply listen at the party, and if you hear anything unusual, tell me.” That wry smile twisted his features again, this time seeming contrite. “Because of Leo’s scent, you’ll be free and safe to go anywhere you wish.” I glared at him and he had the grace to grin in apology, which transformed his face, making him look younger. “And because you aren’t me, and because you smell like dessert underneath Leo’s scent, they may speak freely. You might hear something that could avert this war.” When I didn’t reply, he insisted, “If there is war, humans, many humans, will die.”
Crap. He played the human card. I sighed. “Yeah, sure. If I hear anything, I’ll share. Why not?” I glared at Bruiser. “But you keep that blood-sucking vamp away from my house.”
“Katie’s house,” Bruiser said softly.
I blew out a breath. “Well, that put me in my place, didn’t it?”
The Warehouse District was just what it sounded like, the place where, once upon a time, boat captains off-loaded merchandise and took on fresh wares for the next port, and where masters of industry and commerce stored it, sold it, and made their fortunes. But the formerly utilitarian buildings had been redone into artsy and expensive apartments, lofts, restaurants, and galleries.
The street in front of the Old Nunnery was packed on both sides with parked cars, each with a driver waiting inside, in the dark, or standing beside it, watching t
he night. Each man had the look of ex-military, wore an earpiece, and had well-toned and deadly brawn. I was betting they wore enough weapons to start Bruiser’s war too. We pulled through the narrow roadway between the vehicles and up to the old building.
I leaned toward the blackened limo window and stared. The Nunnery was a three-story, old-brick warehouse with Spanish-style windows, a wraparound porch on the bottom floor with wide-arched openings big enough to drive a wagon and draft horses through. Wrought iron protected the porch above it on the second floor, and sculpted grounds were planted with magnolias, palms, blooming flowers and shrubs, and heavy-limbed live oaks old enough to have seen Jean Lafitte himself saunter through. The entire property was ablaze with light that flickered like real flame through the warehouse windows; the images within seemed to waver, blown glass giving a surreal aspect to it.
The grounds and building were packed full of formally attired and coiffed blood-servants, blood-slaves, and the rich and fangy. It swarmed like a fire-ant mound, deadly to anything that stayed nearby for too long, lethal to an enemy. And just by walking in, I was getting ready to stir it with a metaphorical stick. My palms started to sweat. “This doesn’t look like a convent.”
“The Nunnery is named after Samuel Nunnery, a businessman and ship owner from the seventeen hundreds. This was one of his warehouses.”
The car pulled to a stop at the apex of a circular drive and Bruiser lowered the privacy window an inch. “I’ll take care of us from here, Simon.” The driver, silhouetted by the outside lights through the darkly tinted, bulletproof glass, gave a small two-finger salute. Bruiser helped me out into the muggy air, his hand on mine firm. I used the moment to smooth my hair, retucking the ends of several braids and checking the position of the weapons in them. The wrestling-match-slash-almost-sex on the floor hadn’t dislodged anything. He shut the door, placed my hand in the crook of his arm, and started up the walk to the door. He leaned in, placed his lips at my ear, murmuring, “Play nice.”
I adjusted my little purse on its extra-long strap and let one corner of my mouth curl up. “I’d like to keep my skin intact and my blood in my veins. I promise not to do anything really stupid.”
“I promise to do nothing stupid,” he corrected, a glint in his eye.
“Bully for you.” He chuckled as we took five steps up to the massive front door, and I added, “Good English and grammar are easy for old geezers.” He harrumphed, adjusted his jacket, and squeezed my arm. Glancing down, I was happy to see that neither his tux nor my dress was overly wrinkled, despite the tussle on the floor.
I also spotted long, narrow, horizontal windows below the entry porch, running along the length of the building, behind low shrubbery—windows dark but clean. Each had bars over it. This building was one of a very few in this part of the world with a basement or root cellar. Or maybe coal cellar. Maybe dungeon. With the high water table, most such depressions filled in with water and contributed to black mold. If the space was well kept and dry, then it was likely witch-spelled to keep out water.
Witches and vamps. Working together. It wasn’t supposed to happen. The two species were supposed to hate each other. My nosy instincts went into overdrive. Why did a huge warehouse need a basement? Had it once been a holding cell for contraband? Or far worse, imported slaves?
Inside the door, cold, dry air flooded from overhead vents. And the smell of vamp hit me like a closed fist. Son of a sea lion, there must be hundreds of them here. I closed down around myself fast, erecting barriers in my mind, barriers that Molly was helping me to strengthen, using meditation techniques. It was working, but not as well as she wanted. The vamp stink was potent, aggressive, as if they had been fighting among themselves, and it made my hackles rise. Beast peeled back her lips and showed me her teeth, hissing softly; I held her off with a mental command. Beast didn’t like walking onto another predator’s territory. She also didn’t like it when I barricaded her off, so she sat back, allowing me the alpha position. For now.
Bruiser paused and removed two white envelopes from his jacket pocket, handing them to a security type, a tuxedoed guy with an ear wire and a tiny mouthpiece, a significant bulge beneath one arm. But he wasn’t muscled and burly; he was slight, black, and had very hard, very cold eyes. He studied, memorized, categorized, and set me aside as unimportant. I could have been insulted, but being discounted might keep me safe. “George Dumas and guest,” Security Dude said, checking off the name on a clipboard.
George nodded and said, “Jane Yellowrock, Rogue Hunter.” I saw the man’s eyes flick my way, and I was pretty sure I was being recategorized from date to dangerous. I sighed. I’d have security watching me all evening.
“Armed?” SD asked.
“She was,” Bruiser drawled, giving the impression that he had declawed me himself. Which he had, actually. I frowned. SD glanced back at me and nodded as if amused at the little lady. I narrowed my eyes at Bruiser and moved inside, into a reception line.
CHAPTER 8
I am not prey!
I studied our hostess, Bettina, Blood Master of Clan Rousseau. Rousseau was a beautiful woman of mixed race heritage, mostly African and European, and I had learned early on that she had entered this country as a slave. Perhaps through this warehouse, where she now was hostess. It seemed the kind of ironic situation that would appeal to a vamp.
Vamp lore said that Bettina had pleased her master, who had later turned her, freed her, and made her his second in command. When he died in 1915—crap. Wasn’t that the year Bruiser mentioned being the last vamp war?—Bettina had moved into his position of power. Of course, I’d heard other stories too, but I hadn’t found anything in the woo-woo files to verify any of them.
Bettina stood five-four or five-five in heels, had more curves and cleavage than a Playboy bunny, and oozed seduction. She had tried it on me once, asking me to her bed. I was so not going there. Clan Rousseau’s blood-master took Bruiser’s hand as if to shake, but pulled him close. “George,” she said, pressing her cheek to his, her accent exquisite even in the single word.
“Lovely lady,” he murmured, pressing his cheeks to both of hers in a manner that seemed Old World and LA current at the same time.
Bettina turned to me. “Our brave hunter,” she said.
When I offered her my hand, Bettina gathered up both of mine instead, holding them between us as she stepped close, way inside my personal space, her hands and mine bumping our bodies. Unlike most vamps, who wore minimal perfume, Bettina was drenched in it. Beast retreated from the stench and I tried not to breathe. There was no avoiding her gaze, however, when she looked up.
Liquid dark eyes pulled at me. Vamp pheromones, hunting pheromones, crap, seduction pheromones spiked on the air. I could smell them even buried beneath the bottled fragrance. She leaned in closer, up and against me, our hands trapped and brushing our chests, her mouth at my dress’s low neckline. Ick. Bettina leaned in, pulling me down for a little cheek dusting the way she had given Bruiser. Or a blood kiss.
I am not prey! Beast warned. I tensed. No way was Beast letting me back away. She bared her teeth and claws. Flooded my system with adrenaline. Prepared to attack.
But Bettina didn’t try to bite me, nor did she do the cheek-to-cheek thing; she sniffed me. As if I were food. I held my two selves still and fought down anger and insult. Bettina blew out a breath that went down my dress front, cold, dead air, and stepped back. She said, “The Rogue Hunter is welcome tonight, as a guest of Pellissier’s blood-servant, and as one claimed by the Blood Master of the City. My home is honored.”
Claimed? I blushed hotly. Leo’s blood scent claimed me for him, and I had a feeling it would be stupid and dangerous to deny that status. Could others try to claim me if I declared myself free? Was there something I was missing here? Maybe I should be less ticked off with Bruiser. Or maybe I should hurt him in retaliation.
Bettina stepped back and I figured we were done, but she smiled and squeezed my fingers. She had dimples. How cre
epy was that? “I asked that the Rogue Hunter call upon me when the unpleasantness of the old rogue hunting my kind had been settled.” She held my gaze, and when she spoke again, it was haltingly, choosing her words with care. “Yet, though you defeated him, I have not received such a call. I am disappointed. You will call upon me?”
I had a feeling she was trying to convey something more than her words themselves, but I had no idea what. As if she sensed that, her grip loosened and her tone returned to coy persuasion.
“I still wish to know you better, who you are, what you are. Should you tire of Leo and desire . . . employment . . . when your current contract is concluded, you will call upon me. An accommodation can be agreed upon, I am certain.”
Accommodation in her bed and as her dinner. As a fangy toy. Not gonna happen. Before I could say it, she stepped back again, into her place in the one-vamp receiving line, and released my hands. Bruiser retook my arm and we moved on. “Well, well,” he murmured. “Leo did say you smell like dessert.”
Beast is not food! “That was seriously freaky,” I murmured back.
“So what are you?” he asked. “Why do you smell so tasty to them?”
“A blood meal with killer legs?” I said, hoping to deflect his curiosity.
“Yes, but you smell like sex, blood, violence, and challenge, according to Leo. Which, for a vampire, would be dessert with killer legs.”
“Mmmm.” I wasn’t going to respond to that one. I smoothed my hair back again and stopped, my hand at my face. Beneath the reek of Bettina’s perfume, I caught a whiff of the rogue maker from her palm. I looked back at Bettina. She had shaken his hand. He? Yes. I was pretty sure. And that meant he was here. I whirled back to Bettina. She was staring at me. And she inclined her head as if to agree with something, but what? I sniffed. The odors were rich and intermingled, the smell of gaslight and smoke riding over it all. No scent of the rogue maker lingered on the air.
I scanned the central area of the warehouse and breathed in the mingled scents. The front half of the building was one huge open area with three-feet-thick, old-brick walls, a slate floor, and thirty-inch-diameter brick pillars holding up the second floor, which was fifteen feet overhead. Gas flames lit the area, flickering in the air-conditioned, artificial breeze. Whatever its use in the past, the entry floor was now set up for entertaining, with a serving area to the right big enough to seat a hundred at the long table, which was currently pushed against the wall. Scores of chairs lined the room’s walls. I could see no one who might match the faint scent on my hand.
