by Faith Hunter
“You understand about bloodlines among Mithrans?” Leo asked. We nodded. “Some blood-family lines produce certain traits more strongly than other lines. The Damours line produced a greater and longer-lasting devoveo, leaving its scions permanently insane. The Shaddock line produces a trait for a shorter and simpler devoveo.”
“Grégoire’s sire’s ancestor produced dog-teeth fangs,” I said, cutting to the chase.
Leo’s left eyebrow quirked up above his glass. He looked amused. “Indeed. Your Alex has been industrious.”
“He isn’t my Alex.”
“You are Clan Yellowrock. Of course he is yours, along with Eli. And Edmund.”
And there was the big issue. The big change in my life. The biggest change ever. I had a family now and it had grown more complicated when the vamp Edmund Hartley moved in with us. And became my primo. That was unprecedented. A nonvamp with a vamp main servant—a butler of sorts. A butler, bodyguard, secretary, personal healer, financial advisor, upholder of my honor, personal fighter, and hairstylist. In vamp eyes it gave me more power than most vampires ever had. I still didn’t know who had come up with the idea, Ed or Leo. Not that it mattered. I’d been backed into the position. I hadn’t seen it coming fast enough to avoid it. And I didn’t know what it meant, how to stop it, or how to protect myself and the Youngers from its ramifications.
I put down my glass and met Leo’s eyes, those amazing black-on-black eyes that sparkled with power and intelligence and amusement. He was teasing me, but this I couldn’t let go. “I own no one. No one owns me. That includes you.”
“Of course, ma chérie.” But his eyes said, Yes you do. And I own you.
“I’m. Not. Yours.”
Leo breathed out a laugh, that silk velvet sound he used to charm and mesmerize. He inclined his head, a regal gesture that made him look kingly. “Your Alex will know only bits and pieces. The Capetian bloodline was descended from the first sire of the line, Hugh Capet, who gave rise to a Naturaleza line of blood drinkers with caninelike fangs, upper and lower. The unappealing trait bred out. The Valois line, from which Grégoire was sired, did not have the lower fangs. Nor did the bloodline that followed Valois, the House of Bourbon.” Even more silky, Leo finished, “Nor did the house that followed Bourbon, the House of Orléans.”
“Orléans?” I sat up. “Wait. The French kings were mostly vamps. And they ended with the House of Orléans? So . . . some of the EuroVamps we’re expecting think they own New Orleans.”
Leo nodded and sipped, unperturbed. “Events seem to suggest that we have a visiting Capet or Valois who is raising these revenants. He or she has put out a call and they are responding to that call. But our people have not been able to determine who they are or how they reached our shores. There have been no unaccounted chartered jets from Europe, no known Mithrans presenting papers for entry, nor are there sailing ships at the Port of New Orleans.”
“Sailing ships?” I asked.
“My eyes among the European Mithrans had suggested that they would prefer sailing.”
My eyes meant his spy, the woman referred to as Madam Spy, as if that were a title of importance. “When they can have a cruise ship?” I asked.
Leo pursed his lips at that, as if rethinking.
“Five-star chefs, power when there’s no wind, lots of hunky humans, twenty-four-hour entertainment, swimming pools, gambling. And a speedy crossing. Maybe the vamps own their own line. How much faith do you have in your Madam Spy?”
“Perhaps too much,” he murmured, and sipped his bubbly stuff. He pulled the cord from his hair, releasing it from the queue; the long black strands had curled in the damp air. “She has been unreliable at times.”
“Cruise ships come and go all the time from the port,” I said. “No one would notice a cruise ship. But a sailing ship full of vamps? That would have hit social media immediately.”
“Hmmm.” He sipped, thinking more. “Cruise ships. And with the updated intermodal terminal, they could also come upriver aboard a cargo ship and debark at night with no one the wiser.”
“There would be security. Electronic monitoring of the docks?” Eli said, his tone making his explanation a question, the way a minor soldier might suggest something obvious to a superior officer. Eli continued to impress and surprise me with his social skills. “There are easier ways to get in.”
“If they are in my city, they are few,” Leo said. “I would know if the entire grouping of European Mithrans had all come ashore ahead of the parley, as some sort of”—his hand made a little rolling motion—“preemptive attack.”
Eli looked interested. “How would you know?”
“I am master of this city.” At our blank looks, Leo said, “I am master of the land, of the Mithrans, and of the humans in it. A few Mithrans or Naturaleza might enter without my knowledge—Peregrinus’ groups, for instance—slowly over time, but not in the number that the Europeans wish to bring.”
“And how many is that currently?” I asked. Because the negotiations were stalled again, this time on that all-important final number.
“Their current demand is for lodging, food, and entertainment for some fifty Mithrans and their one hundred fifty to two hundred humans.” He smiled and said wryly, “I would know.”
I accepted a second Coke from Eli, exchanging it for my glass of champagne, which he appreciated far more than I did. “And they expect you to pay for their lodging?”
“They do,” he said, his tone taking a decidedly subdued turn. “Their demands are based on progress.”
“Don’t sound like progress to me,” I said. “It sounds like extortion or protection money or something.”
“Progress is the term for a king or emperor touring his country,” Leo said. “Land was always held in the name of the monarch, and when he or she wished to visit, it was the responsibility of the noble landowner to host the entire court. Such a progress could be considered a blessing or a punishment. A blessing if the monarch arrived and departed swiftly. A punishment should the monarch remain, draining finances and resources unto penury.”
“And your city belongs to them?” Eli said, emphasizing the pronouns.
“It isn’t my city, according to the United States government. When they bought the Louisiana territories, they bought the land here, but few of the Mithrans agreed with Napoleon’s right to make the sale, as Napoleon was human and not of the regal line of Mithran rulers. They have long disputed the transaction.” Leo relaxed in his seat, still sipping, his mood seeming to mellow. “Their most recent disputation was in the World Court. Acting as a displaced royal family, they accused the United States of theft of their territory and potential homeland. The International Court of Justice declined to hear the argument in 1962. They went silent then, until now, but I never assumed that they were satisfied.”
“So let me see if I got this right,” I said. “The EuroVamps are mad because Napoleon sold the Louisiana territory to the U.S. They sued and lost. They sent Peregrinus and his ménage a trois—or allowed them to come—to cause trouble and to see how easy it might be to take over. Maybe to test the waters and see how powerful you are. They also encouraged the Naturaleza vamps from Atlanta to try to take over. And now they’ve taken a new direction and plan to claim the land in person.”
Leo set his crystal glass down and actually clapped. “Excellent, mon chat.”
“Again. Not yours. Why didn’t you ever tell me all this?”
“As you say, you are not mine. When the binding did not take as planned, everything became—I believe you call it—‘need to know.’”
“But what if the Mithrans are here, in the States, but not in port. Maybe they came ashore in Mobile or Charleston or one of the Texas ports, and only a few came to NOLA. All the rest would need to get here is charter a bus, a jet, or a line of limos. They could get here overnight, easy peasy. So a few could be here, and any vamp
who has bloodlines or bloodkin here would be forced to offer them shelter, right? Like Grégoire?”
Leo’s expression underwent a series of complex changes. Stating that Grégoire was a potential danger to Leo was like throwing a boulder into a pond when we had just been skipping stones until now. “Grégoire is safe in the Council Chambers,” he said stiffly, all his feathers ruffled. Not that he had feathers. “But . . .” He took a slow breath, the fingers of one hand stroking the cuff at the other wrist, giving himself time to think. “I will move him to rooms adjoining mine. Just in case one of the Capetian line arrives at the Council Chambers unexpectedly.”
I knew who Leo feared the most. Grégoire’s Valois blood-sire. Le Bâtard was a bastard of royal blood, a pedophile like Berkins. Leo’s lover and Le Bâtard had a nasty, evil, and complicated relationship. Yeah. Things were coming together. “Would Grégoire know if Le Bâtard arrived in New Orleans? Would he tell you if Le Bâtard didn’t want him to? Could Le Bâtard use mind games to force Grégoire to help him get into vamp HQ?”
Leo shrugged, the gesture still elegant, though his face told of uncertainty in his own judgment and insecurity about his loved ones. “Grégoire and I drank from each other upon rising. I have asked Katie to join us for the duration. It would be far better if my home was ready for habitation.”
“Yeah. I know.” If I sounded sarcastic, it was because Leo’s Certificate of Occupancy had been requested and denied twice, each time for some minor offense after Leo had tried to bribe his way into getting the CO early. That bribery attempt had resulted in one complication after another. Now the house sat empty and Leo was stuck in HQ. Which meant that he’d have to put two hundred people up in some hotel. Royal progress as punishment. He’d be bankrupt in no time keeping them satisfied.
“Would they go through the proper channels?” Eli asked. “Would they have passports or visas? Or are they likely to sneak in?”
“They’re royalty,” I volunteered, thinking it through. “Modern law means nothing to them. Homeland Security, U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, trying to control Mithrans who ruled the world before the Western Hemisphere was ever discovered by Europeans? They’d blow raspberries at the idea of being forced to follow modern laws.”
“Raspberries?” Leo asked.
I blew a mouth fart. Leo laughed, looking delighted. “Excellent. Please tell me you will do that when the Europeans arrive.”
“To their faces,” I agreed.
“It is unlikely that they would feel obliged to follow laws of any kind,” Leo said. “See how far my Jane has come. She thinks in terms of royalty now. My Enforcer,” he amended before I could complain, lifting a palm in a gesture for peace.
Faker. “So if they sailed from France,” I said, “aboard an unknown boat, and got off at an unknown port, on an unknown date, then they could be anywhere.”
“But not in the city in any numbers,” Leo said.
“Right. I’ve got some maritime people I can talk to,” Eli said, “without going to the authorities. Yet.”
“And when it reaches the point where we need the authorities?” I asked.
“Homeland Security, U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, and multiple branches of the U.S. military can be at the dock on the Mississippi River in no time, to stop them from coming ashore,” Eli said, satisfaction edging his voice, as if he was looking forward to a battle: U.S. government lawyers, law enforcement officials in suits, and uniformed military with things that go bang, versus royal, self-important suckheads. Since Eli was more a boots-on-the-ground kinda warrior, I knew who he was rooting for in that contest. Guns blazing all the way.
“Excellent,” Leo said, drawing conclusions even faster than Eli and I. “Should that occurrence appear to become likely, I’ll see that the lovely Carolyne has prior notice.”
“Carolyne?” I asked.
“The reporter from the news channel. I found her delightful.”
I sighed. Leo’s sex drive was over the moon, but then, all vamps had supercharged libidos. “I have one more question,” I said. “The vamps who rose as revenants. How did they get from Europe to New Orleans originally, during their undead unlives?”
“They escaped the French court and came to the Americas, where they swore to Amaury Pellissier. My uncle.”
“That same uncle who pinned the Son of Darkness to the basement wall? The Son of Darkness who turned Hugh Capet and the dynasty that included Louis le Jeune and Le Bâtard? In the French court?” I clarified.
“Indeed,” Leo said, pouring himself more champagne. “It is a complicated situation. Tiresome in the extreme.”
“Tiresome. Yeah. That’s the word I’d have used too,” I said, thinking of the dead sailors.
Leo totally missed the sarcasm. “With my people, there is always a threat of armed conflict, of battle in the streets,” he said, unperturbed. “You will prepare for that eventuality. I shall address the political aspect. And we shall meet again to discuss potentialities.”
The rain hit like a thousand fire hoses as we turned onto my street, and I muttered, “Just in time. It’s like I have a rain djinn.” New Orleans in early winter was an evil creature, usually warm, with highs in the sixties and low seventies. But when storm fronts came through, the temps and rain and wind could change instantly. Like this storm. And me without an umbrella.
The limo stopped in front of the house, and my partner and I dashed from the car to the front porch, where we huddled under the front gallery for another half second while the Kid opened the door for us. The air inside was warm and dry and wonderful. We had been unprotected for less than three seconds and were wet to the skin.
This storm was the worst I had ever experienced in New Orleans: colder, lashing, and it was almost angry feeling, though that was anthropomorphizing the weather patterns. I had enough problems without a sentient climate.
As the Kid closed the door on the squall, lightning shattered through the air. Thunder boomed close by. I had yet to get over being hit by lightning. I faked it pretty good, but that ozone smell in the air and the prickles of electricity that meant a big storm still got to me. “I’ll be in a hot shower,” I said, disappearing into my room.
CHAPTER 3
You Offer Me Your Blood? Freely?
I dropped my gear bag and gobag on the small rug at the foot of the bed and my soaked clothes on the bathroom floor. The shower in the attached bath—what my honeybunch called an en suite—wasn’t huge, but the hot water was plentiful and the water pressure was glorious. One great thing about New Orleans was the water. It was everywhere, surrounding the city, wrapping around it, trailing through it. There was no shortage that ever meant conserving what was a precious commodity in most parts of the world. Well, except after hurricanes, when water surged in from the Gulf of Mexico and the city’s supply was contaminated. During and after Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, potable water had been in short supply and shower water had been nonexistent for weeks. Months in some parts of the surrounding area.
I laid my forehead against the shower wall, the tile cold under my forearms, and let the water beat down on my head and back. Looking down. Studying myself. I was too skinny again, legs more sticklike, belly too flat, no hips. Not much in the boob area. Muscles too defined to be truly healthy. Females needed more body fat than males to keep our estrogen cycle steady. Or so said Aggie One Feather when I last visited her. Aggie was the Tsalagi—Cherokee—elder I visited for advice, information, and spiritual healing. Aggie knew me well enough to notice things like weight loss and had become mother-hen bossy. I had lost a few pounds since the lightning event. I had developed new scars, traceries of lightning that weren’t visible unless water was pouring down me, like now. Then I could see the old burns. No one else had been in a position to see them but me. I’d kept Bruiser out of my shower since I first saw them. Eventually, after I shifted shapes enough, my skinwalker magics would h
eal me. If everything went as usual. I wasn’t sure how big an if that was, yet.
I flexed my hands and relaxed them. They worked great. No residual problems from the strike that had fused the flesh together, trapping foreign objects in the scorched tissue. No problems at all except the ones that were left in my brain. And I was dealing with that situation. Mostly.
Eli had recognized that I had a problem when he caught me flexing my hands over and over. He had quietly asked what other symptoms of delayed-onset PTSD I was experiencing. Post-traumatic stress disorder. We had been sitting at the dinner table eating steak and potatoes when he broached the subject, and all sorts of things had come tumbling out of my mouth. Things I hadn’t even known I was feeling. Eli had made me talk about what had happened, the night I was struck by lightning, talk about every single detail. Over and over. He shoulda been a shrink. Maybe I’d buy him a couch for his birthday and see how long it took him to get the joke.
However, all jokes aside, it had helped to know that what I was experiencing not only had a name but was suffered by others. Including him. The condition had a lot of symptoms, a lot of variables. Learning that had been helpful. And he hadn’t told Bruiser yet, though I knew he wouldn’t keep my secret much longer. Secrets were dangerous to mental health. He had assured me of that, which was odd considering how many secrets the former Ranger was keeping, like the source event of his own PTSD.
