by Faith Hunter
The cat padded away from me, showing me her back, a sign of insult. Dang cat.
The helo shuddered hard and banked. Alex, sitting beside me, gagged. The Kid looked green and sweaty in the dull lights. I handed him one of the specially made puke bags. He took it with shaking fingers.
Spitfire Island was a spit of land with a house that didn’t seem to be on any map. It was hidden behind and to the west of Last Island on the barrier islands, and it was a lot bigger than I expected, for a name that had spit and fire in it. I had been expecting an island small enough to spit across or one small enough to raze with a single campfire. Instead, in the landing lights of the helo, I saw low-growing, wind-twisted trees, sawgrass waving in the rotor wash, and palmetto palms. Birds flew into the night in fear or guarded nests beneath the trees. What looked like an alligator—usually a freshwater critter—slid into the salty water of the Gulf of Mexico. And I saw the house.
Holy crap. The house.
I had envisioned a cottage with four bedrooms. I saw a green-painted three-story house perched on dozens of massive poles driven into the sandy land, with a staircase that rose twelve or fifteen feet from sand to a front porch. There were working metal shutters painted dark green lashed back to reveal white-painted windows that were open to the night air, with light blasting into the night. The house—mansion—had a simple hip roof atop the third floor with some kind of metal grating over it that was tied into the ground with long metal rods. Solar panels were built into the mesh, and I wondered if it would power all the lights glaring into the night.
There was no grass on the grounds, but the sand was pristine and sparkled in the landing lights of Leo’s helicopter. Low trees caught the bobbling landing lights, twisted scrub, and sword plants, which seemed appropriate. And there were people everywhere, three with flashes directing the helo to the sandy landing zone, marked out by shells in lines. No independent landing lights. No protection against the erratic winds, the helo taking the buffeting back and forth as it descended.
The touchdown was jarring and Alex fell out onto the sand, throwing up everything in his stomach, which was mostly pizza and garlic and cheese. I did better than expected, especially considering Beast’s catty annoyance. I might get seasick, but I did okay on the sashaying winds for the short flight. My stomach warned it would not be so sanguine on a longer flight. I stepped onto the sand, Eli beside me. We helped Alex to his feet and I slung the heavy gobags over a shoulder as we raced to the men and women waiting at the edge of the flashlights that illuminated everything in bright flickers of still life.
I recognized none of the construction types, who had stopped work to oversee our landing, some pointing. Some had beer bellies and were wearing boots and dirty layers. One grizzled woman stood scratching her stomach, a hard hat in her other hand. One guy looked like he’d stepped off a magazine cover—tall, dark, and handsome, with a carefully groomed scruff, a mustache, and jeans that rode low on his hips. I could see him in a tweed jacket, teaching on a university campus. Four looked like bodybuilders, all muscles and shape and form. One of them was a woman and she had shoulders to die for, like a power lifter, muscles you could still use. Her hair was pulled back in a tail.
Derek and some of his guys stood between the landing site and the house. Beast took over for a moment and, before I could stop her, she tossed my gobag at Derek. He caught it by instinct. Irritation flashed through his eyes. Beast chuffed. I could see the gold of my/our eyes reflected in Derek’s. I had a feeling that my co-Enforcer disliked my Beast as much as he did me. I grinned at him, showing too many all-too-human teeth, and said, “Thanks.”
He tossed it over his shoulder and then took my weapons bag and Eli’s two bags too. Dude had been drinking vamp blood, and a lot of it, to be so strong. There was a time when Leo’s other Enforcer would have hidden his extra-strong, vamp-blood-enhanced physique. Not now. And then I remembered the list of fights and wondered how many Derek was lined up for. He led the way up the steps and out of the wind and prop noise, his feet light, unhindered by the extra weight. Yeah. He had been drinking lots of vamp blood. As much as his humanish system could process. Not that I blamed him. He wouldn’t heal as fast as I would, if he took a lethal wound. He’d be much more likely to die. Like Eli.
Even with skinwalker healing, which was faster than normal even if I didn’t shift, I was still sore from my beating. Having someone else carry my gear was helpful, though I’d never tell Derek that. We followed Derek and I felt Beast prowl through my brain and out through my nerves, edgy, uneasy, spitting in frustration. Want to kill vampires. Want to eat vampires. Want to drink vampire blood.
As I took the stairway to the front porch entry, the construction types behind me offloaded supplies while people who were headed back to shore for the rest of the night climbed aboard. The roar changed and the helo took off again. I could feel the wood stairs strain beneath the weight of the men and women following me.
Between the open risers, I spotted summer ocean gear lashed to the pilings beneath the house, lit by security lights. Behind chain-link fencing attached to the pilings were brand-new lounges, kayaks, paddles, paddleboards, a midsized johnboat with a new-looking motor. All the stuff needed for a long weekend in the sun. In the center beneath the house was an open space where the workers had piled supplies, slung hammocks, and set up a table for meals.
To the side of the summer stuff were boxes and crates piled on wood pallets. Near the unopened boxes was a pile of flattened cardboard and shaped foam packing material, plastic straps, and the glint of staples. At the back was wallboard, enough two-by-fours and two-by-sixes to build another mansion, strips of unpainted molding, stacks of five-gallon buckets, and various other construction materials. We climbed the steps.
The porch on the first floor was screened and appeared to wrap around the entire house. It had its own roof system, plank floors, and hammocks, tables, and lounge chairs were scattered around.
Inside, the smells of salt water, sawdust, glue, beer, cigarette smoke, and paint were heavy on the air, though the windows were all open and the salty gulf wind blew through. I stepped to the side of the entrance and propped Alex against the wall. Eli looked around and his nose crinkled just a bit. The workers crowded in behind us.
I raised my hands to my mouth and shouted, “People! Heads up! Gather in the entry!” I wished I had a megaphone. The acoustics were horrible.
The bodybuilder woman stepped in front of me and cupped her hands around her mouth. In the better light I could see she wore no makeup, but heavy sunscreen had caked in the folds of her ears. She was sweaty and tanned and had highlighted brown hair. “Yo! Yellowrock is here. Getchur asses to first floor!” Her words echoed off the walls and ceiling and my eyebrows went up high. She had lungs and a gift for projection.
She stuck out a hand. “I’m Bambi. They call me Mike, for Microphone. And because I hate the dead deer/pole dancer image of Bambi.”
“I can see why.”
“The guys all been wanting to meet you. Some of them think you need a good beer. Others think they have a chance to get you in the sack.” She ran a loose strand of hair behind her ear and her brown eyes took me in from toes to bun. “I told them you date the former primo. Showed them a pic of him on my cell. In a tux. Dude is hot.”
“Oh,” I said, not quite sure how to handle her spiel.
“They backed off. But if you happen to have the bad taste to dump the man, swing him my way. I just broke up with my boyfriend.”
“Uhhh.”
Without waiting for my answer she moved to the side and squatted down.
“Babe,” Eli said. “Close your mouth.”
“My boyfriend just got hit on.”
“She’s forthright,” he said, with that micro smile that meant he was teasing me. “That makes her interesting.”
“Then you date her.”
Eli looked at Bambi/Mike, spec
ulation in his eyes. He hadn’t been with anyone since he and Syl had stopped calling. He’d be happier if he and a willing female partnered up for a night. Or more. “Hmmm,” he said.
I glanced back at Bambi and then at Eli and gave her a thumb up, concealed at my side. Bambi checked Eli out and I could practically feel the sexual tension in the air when their eyes met. I had a feeling my second would be spending the night with a girl named Mike.
On the heels of that thought the front room and entry filled with workers from the upper stories and the rest from outside. Voices and work boots against wood floors filled the room, along with the stink of testosterone and Italian food. No one seemed inclined to be quiet. So I stepped out into the middle of the room and stood, feet braced shoulder width apart, and hands at my sides. Eli and Alex stepped behind and beside me, one to either side. It was like having a support team. Not that I needed a team, but it would speed things along faster than having to prove to the men that I was worth listening to. If I had to break bones to get their attention, that might slow up the work on the house.
Bambi/Mike shouted, “Shut up!” And then she added some colorful language about how their mothers were all sluts and whores and their daddies dated werewolves. There was general laughter, but they all quieted and turned to me. I leaned down an inch or two and whispered in Alex’s ear. “Full background on her.”
“Soon as Bodat and I get the hardware in place to get online. We don’t even know if this cobbled-together system will work or not, yet.”
I wondered if Bambi wanted a job with the MOC, or even with Clan Yellowrock. Which was a very weird thought.
“I’m Jane Yellowrock.” I looked from man to man to woman. “We have a little over thirty-six hours to get this place ready for vamps and their humans. Vamps start arriving just after dusk night after next. That means all construction, plumbing, and electrical finished, electronics and security installed, painting, touch-ups, and punch list completed, all in thirty hours. That’ll give the next crew six hours to clean and stage it.”
“Lady, you got no idea what goes into a job like this.” The speaker stepped forward, and it was the young, good-looking man from the landing site. He had charisma and charm to balance his looks, and from the heads nodding around us, it was clear he was some kind of leader, official or otherwise. “You’re not familiar with the ins and outs of a construction site.” He gestured with a hand as if to show me that the house was a construction site. “Most women have no idea.” He gave me his best, most charming smile, one with condescension in it. He wanted me to know my place.
I felt Eli tense at my side, a meager increase in the tightness of his muscles. I studied the pretty boy, with his model-perfect teeth, his careful scruff, his clean, matching layers and plaid overshirt, and his citrusy cologne.
Citrusy . . . An electric shock shot through me.
Pretty Boy went on. “It’s physically and mentally demanding. Making impossible deadlines sounds great on TV shows, but reality is a different matter.” Condescension deep enough to drown in.
“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about,” I said. “You a foreman?”
“Yeah. Marco.” He pointed to his chest. “Madderson Construction. We’re in charge of the project.”
“Who’s your number two person?”
Pretty Boy pointed to a short, lean, graying, clean-shaven man with deep sunbaked wrinkles. Veins crawled over his lower arms beneath the cuffs of his rolled-up sleeves. This guy’s clothes were dusty, wrinkled, and sweat stained, though I had a feeling they had been clean when he started his workday. I walked close to Pretty Boy and breathed in his scent. Lemons . . .
“Alex,” I said softly, “what is Marco’s last name?”
“Agrios.”
A name I had heard recently, somewhere. It came to me. Agrios had run with the Zips, the local gang who had helped in the attack at the jewelry shop. A name that Andromeda was going to ask around about, ask her brother who ran with the Razors. And maybe she had. And maybe she had died because of that. The shock in my system intensified, fueled by anger.
“He smells like lemons,” I said.
“His background check was stellar,” Alex said. “Except . . .” The word held a tone of disgust and self-loathing. “Except that Agrios means Citrus. Titus was thumbing his nose at us. My Spanish is pretty sucky so I didn’t catch it.” Des Citrons had an inside man. And we hadn’t caught him. I wanted to hit something. I was pretty sure my Beast had risen inside me and that my eyes were glowing. A lot of thoughts raced through Marco’s eyes, his body tensed and his scent vacillated. Uncertainty, worry, and a flash of joy. We hadn’t said the words Des Citrons. We hadn’t said anything about the emperor. His scent stabilized, the smell of a man who was about to bluff.
“Derek,” I said.
“Yes, Enforcer,” Derek drawled. I looked his way to see that he was enjoying all this. I got the feeling that he’d had a run-in with Pretty Boy already. “Help our pessimistic friend pack and see he makes it back to shore. He’s fired.”
The smell of dismay and hostility filled the air. The workers might not like Marco, but they liked a woman coming in and taking over even less. Alex and Eli stepped out, shoulders back. An unspoken threat.
“For what cause?” Marco asked, his hands fisting. He stepped into my face. “You don’t have the authority to fire me, lady.”
I didn’t bother to respond to his claim. I couldn’t put a human in restraints just because he smelled like lemons. But I could get him off the island and to a vamp who could drink the answers out of him. “Derek. He needs to be bled and read.” The words were oblique, telling Derek that Marco might be an enemy blood-servant, and more dangerous than a human.
Understanding filled Derek’s face. “My pleasure, Enforcer,” he said. Derek and two of his men descended on Pretty Boy, who had turned a lovely and satisfying shade of red. There followed a scuffle and some cussing and the vision of Derek and his security pals half carrying the man out the front door. The smell of antagonism from the construction workers had deepened. They looked twitchy, apprehensive at the loss of the pack leader and the rearrangement of their previous social order. I had picked the infiltrator out of the lineup and made my own impression all at once, and not a good one. Go, me. Finishing the house still hung in the balance. I could turn the crews to me, or I could ruin everything. I usually ruined things.
“That man stank of lemons. Anyone notice that?”
“So what?” a man asked. He was beer-bellied and wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt.
I said, “Lemme guess. He was new to the firm. Been with you for less than two months. He just walked in one day and took over, with the acceptance of the powers that be, and yet he knew next to nothing about construction. Am I right?”
The guy rubbed his scruffy chin and hunched his shoulders, thinking. “Okay. So?”
“The enemies of the Master of the City stink of lemons. Marco was a blood-servant. I don’t know how he wormed his way into Madderson Construction, but I’m guessing it was by coercion.”
The guy blinked as if he had missed something, and then cursed softly.
“Anyone else want to go home?” I asked.
No one responded.
“Fine. You”—I pointed to the number two man—“ever been a foreman on a construction site?”
“Most of my life,” he said, not watching the inelegant removal of Pretty Boy.
“Name?”
“Renny Coozer.”
“Renny, you’re now the official Madderson foreman for this project. I’ll personally handle any fallout from the owner.”
Renny nodded once. A man of few words. I liked that.
“I’ll continue what I came to say.” I scanned the men and women. They turned from the door and looked at Renny. Then at me. There were some unhappy expressions still, but there was also comprehension and a few of
the people looked delighted. Riding on top of the uneasy, unhappy stench there was something else. Respect, maybe?
Beast/Jane. We are alpha.
So far, I thought back. Let’s see if money will make that more than a passing fancy.
“I know I’m the newcomer here. And what I know about construction can be written on the head of a pin in longhand. But I know hard work. You’re already on overtime,” I said to the crews. “As of now, you’re on bonus time. You get this house finished in thirty hours, according to the plan Renny lays out, and you will each make ten percent of your yearly base salary. In cash. To be paid by the MOC.” The unhappy stench on the air cleared up fast, eyes tightened, smiles started, and I could see them each calculating how much money they stood to make. “You get to police each other,” I continued. “If word comes to Derek Lee that someone’s slacking and letting other people do their work, with the plan to cash in on the bonus anyway, that person will be shipped back to shore. I expect you to work hard, work steady, work together, and take breaks and sleep time as needed. I don’t intend anyone to crash and burn.
“I want the foremen of each crew to meet with Renny, Eli Younger, and Derek, when he gets back, to give them an idea of what needs to be done and in what order. This project, the approval of the MOC, as well as cash bonuses, are all on your shoulders.”
I turned to the side. “Mike. I’d like a tour of the house. Alex, come with. See what you need to get this place rigged for security and satellite cells or remote Internet or cameras or whatever it is needs doing.”
* * *
• • •
The house was in better shape than we feared and worse shape than we hoped. The pylons driven into the sand continued up through the house, which should have made the space feel cut up and small, but the poles had been wrapped in fancy woodwork and allowed an open floorplan. The first story was all party space, with a restaurant-quality white kitchen and brushed steel appliances that had clearly been updated in the last couple of years. Alex ran a hand along the white and gray countertops and said, “Carrara,” with reverence, so that had to mean they were top of the line. Interesting. Leo may not have been here, but his people had kept up the investment.
