by Faith Hunter
But . . . it fit. It all fit.
“Who was the leader of your clan?” I asked, my words as soft as a speaker of The People.
“She goes by the name Hayalasti Sixmankiller.”
It was an interesting choice of names he fed me. Hayalasti was one of the Cherokee names for “knife.” If Hayalasti was the woman I knew so long ago, then I had been present for the deaths of two of the six men she killed.
“I just call her Uni Lisi,” he added and smiled. “She scared me to death when I was a child.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and placed it on the table between us. “Call her. She is still alive. She and a small group of her family and clan moved back to the Appalachian Mountains about seventy years ago.”
Still alive . . . Small group of her family and clan . . .
I smiled, a twitch of my lips. I took a breath that moved air over my tongue, through my nose, filled my parched lungs. He scented of the truth. Yet, though everything this man said could be truth, and would fulfill the deepest unrecognized longings of my heart, nothing—absolutely nothing—could be proven. What he thought was truth could be lies he believed. “My . . . our mother? Human or skinwalker?”
His face fell into a vision of dour grief, old but potent. “Our mother was skinwalker-born, though she lacked the ability to shift and therefore aged as a human. She died while I was in the West. She was seventy-five years old, in good health, but one morning she simply did not wake.” He seemed about to say more, but fell silent.
I looked at Eli and Alex, who were watching me. Kindness on their faces. Kindness that made tears prick my lids. I pushed away from the table without touching the cell. “Eat your cobbler. Leo will be up at dusk. Alex has sent an official request to bring a visitor. For now, I’m getting some sleep.” Looking at Eli, I communicated a lot of things in one glance before going to my room, where I stripped and fell onto my bed. I didn’t expect to sleep, but I did, dreams like a vortex of head pain and possibilities and half-recalled bloody memories.
My hand holding the crosshatched hilt of a knife. Bloody. Blood everywhere. Just like my entire life.
* * *
• • •
I laid out the slim black pants, black jacket, and white silk men’s-style dress shirt on the bed. Added a silk scarf and black dancing shoes. The straps over the instep gave me excellent balance in case of unexpected attack, and the heels gave me an extra three inches over my six feet in height. With my weapons, I’d look lean, mean, and scary. It was what Madame Melisende, Modiste du les Mithrans, my business and formal clothes designer, called dangerous business dressy, meaning it had slits, fake pockets, and loops, for weapons. I took a fast shower, pulled my hair up, and braided it into a fighting queue, so tight it made my head ache, but in a different way from the headache before my nap. I stuck silver and ash wood stakes into the braided topknot bun like a deadly crown. Satisfied that the hair was less of a weapon than it otherwise could be, I started dressing.
I strapped on a sleek harness around my waist, slightly to the right, inserting a tiny Walther PK .380 handgun into the soft leather holster. Kydex was nice, but not if I had to sit with the weapon cutting into me. The small gun would be easily available to me through the right pocket slit in my pants, and with a shirt that belled out around me slightly, and the scarf hanging to my hips, no one would ever know the gun was there. Scarves were dangerous in a fight and I didn’t wear them, but this one had caught my eye, gold and silver and copper silk. Onto the same waist harness, I strapped two blade sheaths and secured them to my upper thighs for right- and/or left-hand extraction. Into the sheaths, I secured short-bladed, silver-plated vamp-killers with six-inch blades. I pulled on and adjusted a brand-new tactical sports bra with built-in dual underarm holsters for the matching HK45s. I adjusted the cant of each weapon and made sure there were no rounds in the chambers, even at the expense of the time I’d use to ready the weapons in the event of a firefight. I might not start a small war, but I could finish one—unless I shot myself in the boob. That hadda hurt. So, safety first.
I pulled on the outer clothes and slid bare feet into my dancing shoes, securing the clasps. I looked like a businesswoman. No weapons visible. The men’s shirt appeared to have buttons but was closed with hidden snaps that I could rip through in a heartbeat to get to the H&Ks. Sometimes speed of draw is less of a factor than appearing to be unarmed.
However, my face still looked crappy. I put on makeup, that thick, pasty stuff that makes sleepless and pained under-eye bruises less noticeable. Then powder, blush, and mascara. A dab of gold shadow at the corners of my eyes. I still wasn’t good at putting on makeup, but I had learned a little.
On the outside of my clothes, I strapped on the Mughal blade my sweetcheeks had given me. It was ancient curved Damascene steel, fancy and decorative and sharp as death. And its scarlet-velvet-covered wooden sheath would draw attention from any bulges or other evidence of the real weapons. I wrapped the pretty scarf around my neck and adjusted the ends for more concealment. Rethought the scarf, which could be used as a handle to yank me around. Re-rethought it. Left it.
And . . . I was still wasting time.
I looked at the stack of protocol books on the table. There was one for each species, one for each social situation, one for dancing, and four that detailed different kinds of introductions. While the Sangre Duello used little that was contained in them, I knew I should use the exact wording and proper protocol to introduce Ayatas to Leo. But—nah. Crass was almost always better. I dialed the Mithran Council Chambers and got Scrappy. “Lee Williams Watts, Mr. Pellissier’s personal assistant. How may I help you? Oh. Sorry, Jane. I didn’t look at the screen. What’s up?”
“Hey, Scrappy. How’s the boss?”
“Pretty good. Though I have to say that taking dictation in his bathroom is new.”
I breathed out a laugh. “His bathroom?”
“He and Katie and Alesha Fonteneau were all in the tub together, making up and making out. Lots of bloody bubbles, thank God.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Picking up my jacket with a finger in the collar loop, I opened my bedroom door and entered the house proper. I dropped a shoulder against the wide cased opening into the living room, talking, listening, smelling, and watching. There were four men and a pudgy kid in the room, and three of the group looked distinctly uncomfortable, as if I’d walked into the middle of something that was about to be unpleasant. Eli was scowling, a partially unsheathed blade in one hand. Bruiser was standing angled to the other two as if he might be about to launch into some martial art move. Ayatas’s face wore an expression I’d call cop face—ready for anything. Clearly someone had done something to someone else and things had escalated.
I frowned at them, my expression saying, Really? Now?
Beast leaped to the forefront of my mind, peering out at the tableau. Littermates have steel claws. Littermates play-battle. Beast wants to play.
But Lee was still talking. “Right? There was lots of giggling and the presence of the bloody bubbles tells me they were having a good time. Way too good a time for a lowly human like me to want to be there for long.”
Alesha and Katie Fonteneau were sisters, and Katie had been—until very recently—Leo’s heir, while Alesha had been his Madam Spy and a traitor. Last I heard, they were both in the scion prison together, locked up for betraying Leo. Things in the vamp world changed at a glacial rate, one they called the long view. Until they changed fast. Then help the poor human or skinwalker who couldn’t keep up. As a joke, Alex had e-mailed me a flowchart. I’d kept it and used it.
“I don’t blame you,” I said.
“Anyway, what can I do for you?” Scrappy asked.
“Alex send you a message?”
Scrappy said, “A personal message. Yes.”
That said a world of important things in vamp hierarchy. “A nonhuman PsyLE
D agent named Ayatas FireWind wishes to parley with Leo. The Enforcer would like you to arrange a casual little tea with him, Grégoire, Katie, Bruiser, and my people. Tonight, early.”
After a silence that lasted a beat too long, Lee said, “Enforcer,” using my title. Making it formal. “We have an opening between seven thirty and eight.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Interesting mix of guests. Especially since Mr. Pellissier turned down a meeting with PsyLED multiple times this week.”
She was fishing for info. I let a small smile cross my face. “I think so too.”
Scrappy said, “Okay then. Do you need a car sent for you or your guest?”
“No. He’ll be riding over with us. However, he’ll need a place to stay. Would you make an arrangement with the Hotel Monteleone? One of the executive suites would do. Put it on Leo’s tab.”
“Consider it done. If that’s all, I’ll see the Enforcer and her guests in a bit.”
“Thank you, Lee.”
She hesitated at the use of her proper name and then said, “Thank you, Enforcer.” Enforcer. Not Jane. Making sure we were still not personal when doing vamp business. Got it.
She ended the call and I tucked the cell into my jacket pocket, slung it over my shoulder, and slouched some more, one hand in a faux pocket that was really a weapon slit. The men were still in precombat positions, ready to fight. Stupid men.
Beast wants to play with stupid men.
“I don’t see any blood yet,” I said. “Didn’t hear any shots fired. You want to tell me why my boyfriend, one of my partners, and my uninvited houseguest are looking like you’re about to rumble?”
“A misunderstanding,” Ayatas said.
“No misunderstanding.” In his best, most ticked-off British accent, Bruiser said, “One week ago, Special Agent Ayatas FireWind called me for an introduction to Leo. I refused. Now he’s in your home, claiming to be your long-lost baby brother, and he bloody well has not only an introduction but a casual little tea? That is, if I heard correctly the conversation that just ended.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Yeah. He says he’s my brother.”
Bruiser shot me a look. “FireWind didn’t mention that he might be related to you.” He looked back at Ayatas. “However, yellow eyes and golden-copper skin are not a common combination. There is a familial resemblance.” Bruiser eased back a step, relaxing from attack mode into something more like high alert. My honeybunch was wearing black tonight: black suit, black silk shirt, no tie, his hair slicked back with something that held it in place and also made it look darker. He looked scrumptious, especially with all his feathers ruffled in a “protect the little woman” attitude, instincts left over from his upbringing in England back a century or so ago. It was a cute instinct but unnecessary.
Eli was in black too, but black jeans and a T-shirt with a jacket. He fully sheathed his blade but left his battle face on.
That left my supposed brother, who had pulled a weapon once today, and currently one hand was positioned to go for his service weapon. All very odd for a cop, with their proscribed grounds for anything involving a weapon. His expression was tight and cold, body bladed to the others, knees slightly bent in defensive position against multiple possible attackers. This man had seen combat, no doubt about it. Maybe not this century, but recently enough for the reflexes to still be honed. I said, “If you draw a weapon in my house again, you better be using it to save my people. Otherwise I’ll be shoving it up your ass and emptying the chamber.”
“She said ass,” the pasty-skinned kid said to Alex. “I thought Jane didn’t cuss.”
“Ass isn’t cussing, Bodat. Sit down,” Alex said, yanking his friend from behind the couch where he had been half-hiding.
A few seconds too many passed before Ayatas dropped his hand and relaxed.
“Any reason why you didn’t tell George Dumas that you’re my brother?” I asked Ayatas.
“I had planned that private, intimate moment with you,” he said, sounding grumpy. It was a tone I had heard from my mouth often enough that it rang with familiarity. “None of my plans or actions have gone well since I got to New Orleans.”
“You got into my home without getting killed first. Told me a lovely story about your past and mine with just enough details to not get you shot. Yet. And you got a meeting with Leo out of the deal. What’s gone wrong?”
There must have been something sensible in my tone because both Eli and Bruiser slid gazes to me and to each other. Ayatas’s expression shifted into wary-neutral. Progress.
“You’re wily as elaqua,” I said, “but without the rattles to tell me you’re about to strike. I find nothing to like about you.” I saw the skin beside Eli’s eye relax, not something anyone else would have noticed. He was relieved that I hadn’t been blinded, by hope and desire for a past, to the man’s serious flaws. Ayatas, on the other hand, gave away nothing I could interpret. His black brows drew down slightly. That was it. Coulda meant anything.
I continued, “Except for your height, hair, and nose, we have nothing in common.” And his fingers. His jaw. His attitude. All familiar. Not saying that. “Too much planning here, things that look like coincidence but aren’t.” I decided to jab and see how he took it. “I’m not sure if you have any honor at all.” Ayatas’s back stiffened just the tiniest bit and some small sadistic part of me found pleasure in the insult I had delivered and his reaction.
“A woman who sleeps with the Master of the City has honor?”
I laughed. He could hit below the belt too. Maybe it was a family trait. “I thought you had done your research. As a favor to Soul, I’ll introduce you to Leo. You’re on your own after that.”
I glanced at the long doors on the side wall. It was dusk. But my primo’s shelving unit was still shut. On purpose. Punishment for making him try to roll Ayatas. I deserved it. I was scum.
In for a penny, in for a pounding.
To Bruiser and Eli, I said, “Cuff him and throw him in the back of the SUV.”
CHAPTER 3
My Life Was a Soap Opera with Fangs and Fur
Ayatas didn’t resist, and when he was deposited on the parking area of the drive at vamp central, with his cell, his badge, and his weapon, he managed to still look like a fashion plate. He was wearing a suit, black, but with shimmering midnight blue tints when the light hit the fabric just right. His shirt matched the blue tints and his tie was a glistening black that perfectly matched his long black hair. Leo would get one whiff of him and want the man in his bed.
As Eli removed the agent’s cuffs, Bruiser leaned to me and murmured, “You are wearing the blade I gave you, love. You look beautiful and deadly.”
This man knew just what to say. I leaned my temple against his, watching my partner but stealing a quiet moment. With the shoes, I was right at Bruiser’s height, and his skin was heated, a peaceful warmth. His Onorio scent filled my nostrils and I blew out the breath, more calm than I had been since my brother tried to kill me. No. Not my brother. Not proven yet. FireWind. Since FireWind tried to kill me. But the thought let me know just how much I wanted it to be true. Him. His stories. A past I might learn of, and might remember someday. Questions he might answer about who and what I was.
“You look amazing too,” I said. “Can we just skip all this and go to your place?”
Bruiser chuckled and encircled my waist, pulling me closer. He had to feel the other weapons against his body, but he said nothing about them. We had come a long way since the time he kissed me on a limo floor and found a weapon strapped to my thigh. “Be safe, my love,” he said. “Be wise.”
“Ditto to you.” I stood straight as he kissed me on the temple and I stepped out of his embrace to climb the steps after Eli and our prisoner guest. As Enforcer, I had a defined place among my people, but no way was I letting Ayatas FireWind behind me. We went through the front door, between t
he metal detectors, and directly into the bullet-resistant glass cage. The others started to remove weapons as part of the security measures, but I leaned into the mic on the wall and said, “Operation Wise Guy, by orders of the Enforcer.”
Wrassler appeared at the front of the inner doors as they whooshed open, blowing in the scent of vamps and sex and something tasty like roast venison. Derek Lee stepped out from the area near the elevator. Both men wore charcoal suits and dove gray shirts with slightly darker dove-ish ties. The grays were Clan Pellissier colors, the livery of the clan for hundreds of years. It was disconcerting to see them in the clothing, though the special-order, thin, cut-resistant Kevlar-Dyneema-based body armor vests they wore beneath their clothes made me happy. I glanced around to see all the security types in similar suits and shirts, armored vests peeking out beneath. Derek stopped several feet back and waited, hands at his sides, less than inches from his weapons.
“Enforcer,” Wrassler said.
I glanced at Ayatas and caught him sniffing the air, nostrils widening and contracting. Yeah. HQ was a full olfactory onslaught. I led the way out into the foyer. “Senior Special Agent Ayatas FireWind, of PsyLED, to see the Master of the City of New Orleans and the Greater Southeast United States. We have been scheduled in for tea, though we’re early. We can wait in the green room.” The green room was a decorative little sitting room with couches and a kitchenette with snacks, colas, coffee, and a variety of teas. It was also a room that could be secured from outside.
“His weapon?” Derek asked.
“Empty of ammo,” Eli said. Ayatas gave a micro flinch and I smiled. The skilled PsyLED agent hadn’t noticed the weight difference. He might look all smooth and calm and sophisticated, but his emotions had overwhelmed his instincts and training. It might be silly, but that made me like him a little.
“Mr. Pellissier is running a bit late,” Wrassler said. “May I suggest a visit to the gym. He’s integrating the Mithrans visiting from Canada. Our guest might find it instructional.”
