by Faith Hunter
I checked in on the third, smallest bedroom. Neatly stacked against the narrow wall space, floor to ceiling, were suitcases belonging to Bruiser, Brian, and Brandon. The Onorios were bunking together in a space almost big enough for one small bed. It was . . . cozy. Right. Cozy. Claustrophobic. Cramped. I looked over the luggage and didn’t see weapons cases. That answered one question. The Onorios would not be fighting. They were to be judges and referees, not fighters. I wasn’t happy about some of our best fighters relegated to the sidelines, but the negotiations had been intense. Leo wouldn’t have given up them as fighters without good reason. Leo had arranged to remove three of Titus’s foremost fighters in return, and gained the home court advantage referees. But if I was injured I knew that Bruiser would kick the referee title to the four winds and protect me. Bruiser would hate himself if he reneged on a vow to act as observer and judge. Another reason to stay alive and healthy. I eased away and shut the door behind me.
The big back room had been set aside for the rest of the blood-servants’ bunk beds and this room was a madhouse, the location for most of the cursing, shouting, and thumps. They’d be sleeping in shifts and some of them would have to switch out bunks, but no one would have to sleep on the floor. Eli, Alex, Troll, and Wrassler were on the far end of the room. Derek and his security men were positioned near the door: Angel Tit, Chi-Chi, Tequila Sunrise, T. Sweaty Bollock, T. Jolly Green Giant, P. Shooter. Three of the Vodka boys. Deon, acting as chief cook and bottle washer for us all, had a curtained lower bunk for himself. Twelve male blood-servants, who were also the housekeeping crew and the medical team, would be sharing three sets of bunk beds, switching out cots to sleep in shifts. Pretty much, the long narrow room was wall-to-wall bunks. By day and night the air here would carry the roar of snores and the massed stink of sweat, bad breath, BO, and dirty clothes.
As satisfied as I could be with the current accommodations, I wove between people and down the stairs. The main room was perfect, but too full of people, most lounging on the sofas, cells or tablets in hand, checking the new Wi-Fi connection. It was too slow. Lots of complaints. I left through the back door, crossed the screened porch, where more people lounged on new outdoor furniture or in hammocks, and outside. The smell of were-creature hit me.
The werewolves were sleeping outside, under the house, on the sand or in hammocks, unless a major tide brought in high water, in which case they’d be sleeping on the third floor when it wasn’t in use for duels. The weres included Brute, the entire wolf pack camera team, and two grindylows.
Werewolves are ugly.
I stepped down the narrow stairs. They were older than the wider front stairs, and squeaked with each step. Yes. I can see how you might think so. Wolves and dogs.
Werewolves are not pack turned. Werewolves are loyal to Leo.
I slowed. And how do you know that?
Beast can smell stink of betrayal on weres. Beast does not smell stink of betrayal on wolves.
Would have been nice to know that, I thought, with a lot more snark than I planned.
Beast chuffed. Beast is still learning to use good nose from ugly dog. New stinks are hard to learn. Beast padded away from me, into the depths of my mind. No cops were here in any official capacity.
I moved away from the house and into the relative quiet of the dark. I found a wind- and storm-beaten tree to rest against and sat on the low limb, looking out over the ocean. I didn’t see U.S. Navy ships. Maybe Leo had found a way to keep them off the shore, though they had to know that warm bodies were here because the defensive hedges were not yet in place. The military had satellites and the ability to track heat signatures. In a few hours, here on this one island, would be the greatest accumulation of powerful Mithrans in the world. If the military had the ability to scan through a hedge of thorns thrown up by Lachish and the other witches, the possibility of a missile mishap existed, one that accidentally decimated an island and a house that had never appeared on maps . . . The opportunity was there. The military could track all the boats and the helos arriving and departing. Military satellites would see what civilians couldn’t. Would they take the chance that Leo would win and the peaceful status quo would be maintained? Or would Uncle Sam wipe us all out? I was becoming a paranoid conspiracy theorist.
The cynical part of me said the government would dither and yammer and yada yada for days, at which point the Sangre Duello would be over, for better or worse. The really cynical part said they would blow us to kingdom come. It started to rain, an icy deluge that chilled me to my bones. “Great.”
* * *
• • •
I was back at my little limb, dancing shoes ground into the storm-wet sand, silk-clad butt resting on the wind-scoured bark, as the helo landed, its rotors chopping the night. These would be the last deliveries. The NOLA vamps were now all on Spitfire Island. Staff raced to unload luggage from the helicopter. A few raindrops splatted down for a moment, big splashy things that left star patterns in the sand.
I watched from the shadows as Leo stepped from the helicopter, a black shadow in the night, his hair flying in the rotor wash. He was dressed for travel in black jeans and a black sport coat with a white shirt, more casual than I ever remembered seeing him. He was walking to the house and the line of waiting blood-servants when he stopped. Swiveled his head in that unhuman way they have, his nostrils fluttering. And his eyes settled on me in the dark.
Abruptly, he changed course and came to me, stepping gracefully on the sand. He stood staring down at me, the scent of ink and papyrus and black pepper whirling on the prop wash, Leo’s scent. His power spun after it, spiky and intense, like flaming velvet. The wind shifted, carrying away the helo noise, enough to talk. “My Jane. You sit in the dark. Do you grieve when no death has yet occurred?”
“People I love will die in the next night or two. People you love.”
“War is always hard. Death is inevitable, even for Mithrans.”
“I love how you comfort me.”
Leo laughed, that wonderful laugh the powerful ones use, that sends shivers down your spine and makes magic dance on the air. “There is no comfort in war, my Jane. Nor in death. I would not attempt to comfort one who faces battle. There are only platitudes in words.”
Maybe I was still human enough to want platitudes? But I didn’t say it.
“The corset style suits you well,” he said.
I reached up and touched the décolletage of the scarlet corset-styled top, designed by Madame Melisende, Modiste du les Mithrans. The golden lace was made from silk thread, as soft as heaven. My breasts were hefted high, making it look like I had a lot more in the boob department than I did and my doubled gorgets were propped on mounded flesh. My black skirt was a fighting formal, designed for dancing and weapons and battle, but on first glance looked soft and feminine.
My combat boots, the red leathers, a brand-new undergarment, and the white, buttery-soft-as-pigskin moto-jacket fighting leathers were spread on the bunk, ready for the right moment to change. The leathers were backed with Dyneema fabric and hard plasticized armor between the layers. They were lined with silk and there were defensive anti-spells woven into the entire thing. Both sets of leathers were adjustable, so that if I shifted into half-form, they would shift with me, stretching where I expanded and contracting where I shrank. But I wasn’t wearing the leathers. Instead, I was dressed in sexy-formal garb, weapons chafing my exposed flesh.
The helo lifted away before I spoke, the artificial wind whipping the low branches and throwing sand. As it flew away, I heard the approach of the other helo. It was a staggered landing pattern, so the staff didn’t have to reassemble every few minutes, and it had been going on all evening. But Leo’s was supposed to be the last one. A surprise for us all? Someone unannounced? Someone to throw the entire Sangre Duello into total discord? Sure. Why not? Sometimes I thought Leo was more cat than I was. I deliberately didn’t ask about it. I
said, instead, “I like the white leathers. They’re different. But this will make a confusing impact.”
“True. And when you fight, you will be the only snowflake among us.”
Snowflake. He was baiting me. Again I didn’t reply.
“Though perhaps a well-knapped white-quartz blade might be a better analogy.”
The helo’s lights danced across the sand.
“I know why you are so sad, my Jane,” he said unexpectedly. “Fear rides a red horse, its coat the color of blood, the color of battle and of loss. Fear is the greatest enemy.”
I frowned as the new helo circled, the lights touching everywhere. “I can’t fight like everyone wants me to,” I said at last. “Falling into that Zen meditation that Eli talks about is hit-or-miss. And when I hit I just slice people up.” Like Callan. “And when I don’t fight in Zen, I lose bits of time.”
“You may not have to fight at all. Nor might I. But if fight you must, then fight as you dance,” he said, his eyes piercing through the dark, his hair already curling in the wet air, “and as your cat hunts. You have balance and muscle memory and claws and teeth. You have deep perception of how an enemy moves and breathes, in the same way you sense how a dance partner moves and breathes, and what steps he may make next. I have seen you take in an opponent and gauge his or her frailties and weaknesses and strengths in the space between heartbeats. You have timing and stealth and joy in movement. All these things are yours by training and nature, my Dark Queen. Incorporate what you can, but do not try to change now. Fight your way. No European will expect such a thing.” He held out a hand. “Come. Let us greet the last arrival.”
“If it’s a suckhead, I hope he can bunk with you. We’re out of room.”
“I fully expect at least one of them to lair with me.”
Hmmm. My mind cataloged the missing vamps as I put my hand into his and let him lead me to the line of waiting staff. The helo finally landed. And Katie stepped onto the sand.
I watched as she leaped from the helo and threw herself into Leo’s arms and our hands were pulled apart. I turned and looked out over the water, to see bow and stern lights juddering up and down the waves. It was the first small boat ferrying the Europeans’ food sources ashore. Blood-servants. Humanish people who had been drinking on the oldest vamps still undead, who had been around long enough to have seen more than one century roll around. Blood-meals who wanted my people dead. People I might have to kill in order to stay alive long enough to see this blood duel through. I turned away from the helo and the beach and moved across the storm-wet sand to the house.
At the bottom of the steps I spotted Molly, Ailis, and Lachish. They were putting the final touches on the circle that surrounded the house, the new fire pit, and the traps built in here and there, the circles dug by hand with small shovels for the hedge of thorns 3.0. Their laughter was ripped by the wind, sending tatters of sound along the shore. The three witches had prepared other defenses on the island, things they hadn’t told me about for two reasons—because they weren’t sure how well they would work over salt water, and because Molly was afraid I’d depend on something that was iffy at best. They had three or four dependable defensive workings ready; the others were less reliable. They had one offensive working at their disposal, but using it went against everything they stood for. They’d use it only as a means of last resort, and again, they weren’t talking to me about it. My job was hardwired and Wi-Fi security, fighting, killing, not witchy stuff.
But . . . there were things I hadn’t told Molly. Things like the fact that I might have a brother. Things like Cym had been in New Orleans. But then I hadn’t expected to have to tell her things until we were face-to-face over a nice cup of tea in her kitchen after all this was over. Molly wasn’t supposed to be here. I stepped down to her and Moll raised a hand, offering me a smile. It withered when I didn’t smile back. She frowned and demanded, “What?”
“Couple things. First, I’m afraid that Bancym M’lareil may be on the island, or may make her way here.”
Molly might have paled slightly. Cym and Jack Shoffru had access to a lot of black magic and they had tried to control Molly’s death magic. Cym had kidnapped Molly. Hurt Molly. Hurt her horribly. “Son of a witch on a switch,” she swore. “When were you going to tell me that?”
“Ummm. Never? You weren’t supposed to be here.”
Molly’s eyes flashed with fire and I almost turned tail and ran as she stalked up to me. Beast, her attention captured by the predatory posture, stared out at her. Molly is predator.
Yeah. And scary.
“You were protecting me?”
“Pretty much.” I shrugged uncomfortably. “With you both on the island, you will be one of her prime targets. All she has to do is control your death magics, point them at Leo, and poof, Titus has everything he wants. Or take out Leo and Titus and then she and Dominique would be in charge.”
Molly reached up and gripped my chin, turning my face down to hers. Softly, she said, “You helped me learn to control my magic. If Cym comes near me, I’ll drain her.”
“But you don’t have your familiar with you.” Meaning that her control would be less than optimal.
Beast took over and spoke through my mouth. “Beast will be Molly’s familiar if Molly-predator needs cat. Beast is best big-cat.”
Molly stared into my/our eyes. “Fine. But don’t keep things from me, big-cat. Understand?”
“The I/we of Jane and Beast understand.”
Molly’s expression went accusing, fingers tightening on my chin painfully. “Don’t think I didn’t notice what you did there. Promise me you will not keep things from me. Promise me.”
I blew out a breath. “I promise. Beast promises.”
“Good enough. What else?”
“I might have a brother who’s nearly as old as me, a skinwalker. He works for PsyLED.”
Moll’s mouth opened and closed. “Well,” she said at last. “That sounds like a good story for when we’re winding down from this crazy party. If I wasn’t preggo, I might even have to send Big Evan off with the kids and open a bottle of wine.” She squinted slightly at me. “You and this brother okay?”
“I think so. Or we’re getting that way.”
“Good. I want to meet him.” Moll went back to work.
My chin hurt where she had pinched it. “Yeah. Moll’s scary.”
I climbed to the porch. Alex was crouched there with his camera gear and Eli’s night combat gear, cataloging each blood-servant on the ferryboat and taking stills with the low-light and infrared cameras. Behind him was a camera man—camera werewolf—with a shoulder-mounted camera. It was Scout, a werewolf I hadn’t gotten to know yet, with a green grindy on his shoulder. She snarled at me, looking stressed out with so many humans—potential victims of werewolf rage—around.
Scout focused in on the sight of the beach and through his earbud, I could hear Champ talking, giving the color or the overview or whatever you called it, in his pristine British accent. The leader of the werewolves was in a closet we had set aside for the production room/security room, and it was pretty much wall-to-wall screens from every wall-mounted and shoulder-mounted camera on the island. There wasn’t enough bandwidth to allow all of us comms equipment, but the island was so small we could likely hear a good scream from end to end.
Every flaw, every flub, every wound and death, every single thing that happened for the next two nights, would be filmed and sent out live in the pay-per-view agreed upon between Leo and the werewolves and Titus. Lot of money riding on the pay-per-view, the gambling, and maybe documentaries after.
I blinked the salt and grit out of my eyes and walked through the house, feeling tiredness in every muscle of my body, an ache in my middle that called for antacids. Bandit and Rocky were in the kitchen tasting things and making suggestions to Deon. Ro and Brenda, Katie’s retinue, were bent over a sch
ematic of security equipment, offering suggestions. The stink of vamp and werewolves and sex and blood and adrenaline were all mixed together in a gagworthy stench. The house and the spit of land were too small for us all.
Only hours until midnight. Our side could have used some sleep.
* * *
• • •
I don’t know what Titus or his retinue were expecting when they came ashore and walked toward the steps leading to the house. Applause? Bowing and scraping? Tugging on our forelocks?—which meant pulling the hair at the front of our heads. Surely he had expected fighting armor. What he saw as he approached was Eli and me standing at parade rest, not wearing leathers, but fully weaponed up with dual longswords, things that go bang, and two vials of holy water each. At my waist, I was wearing my sheathed Mughal Empire, watered-steel dagger, my gift from Bruiser. We looked like a walking advert for overlapping time periods. A take-no-prisoners duo from multiple eras, me in a nineteenth-century-style corset top and formal skirt, but wearing weapons, Eli in jeans and a muscle shirt, with even more weapons. With bare feet. Eli and I also had our battle faces on. A bizarre unwelcoming committee of two. We’d been standing in place for nearly an hour in the moonlight, as the EVs kept us waiting. Playing games already.
The extended waiting period was being filmed by Scooter in the rushes and sea oats of a sand dune. It was a terribly boring job. So far.
Titus was a small man by today’s standards, not quite five feet, seven inches tall in his dress shoes and black tux. He was clean shaven, his eyes a teddy-bear brown, deceptively nonthreatening, and his hair was worn in a modern style, not the old-fashioned one in the portraits I had seen.
His power swept before him. It hit me, a burst of icy intensity, shattering across my flesh in a shotgun blast of energy that charred and froze at the same time. It would have brought me to my knees had I not been expecting it. In Beast-sight, it flashed on the foundation of the hedge of thorns in the sand.
