Authors: Faith Hunter
I had fought a Naturaleza once, but the fight had been too fast, too violent for me
to pay attention to his body. That and the fact that he’d nearly killed me. I closed
my eyes and thought back to the kaleidoscopic images from the day. Thomas had drained
and killed several humans. When I killed him, he had been mostly naked, but I hadn’t
seen any ribs, stark through his flesh. No jutting collarbones. No chiseled jaw or
sharp cheekbones. Yeah. Vamps got flesh on their bones when they drank a lot of blood.
This vampire drank whatever and whoever he wanted. This vampire was why there were
so few of my kind left in the world. He had killed them. Killed them and drunk down
their blood.
Before, the fight against de Allyon had been a job. Now it was something far more.
This
thing
that threatened me and my charges needed to be killed. And that was what skinwalkers
did. We fought for our people.
Skinwalkers took vengeance on our enemies. I didn’t think that when God said vengeance
was his, he meant for skinwalkers to act in his behalf. But I was. I was going to
be the hand of God that took down Death’s Rival.
I turned another page and saw the last drawing, this one too tiny to see details.
I looked around the room but didn’t see what I was looking for. I had been in Arceneau’s
Clan Home and there was a library in the back, on the other side of the stairs. I
hadn’t been invited to roam, but I carried the book with me, back to where I had once
smelled books and the mold that clings to them. I opened the door to find the library
empty and looked around. Books lined the walls from floor to the twelve-foot-high
ceiling; comfortable reading chairs with low tables and ottomans were scattered around.
A gas fire crackled merrily in a small hearth. There was a large magnifying glass
on a bronze-hinged arm clamped to an antique desk, and I crossed the hardwood floor
to it, holding the book’s page beneath. It was a drawing of a priest holding a sword
in one hand, a cross in the other. He was running, his dark robe flying out behind
him. The cross was blazing like a torch. In the distance a black horse raced, a man
perched on its back. De Allyon outracing the Inquisition, maybe? It would explain
why the man had disappeared so often. I wandered back through the house, the book
in both gloved hands, one finger holding my place.
I was back in the dining room, surrounded by Leo’s priceless things and the stench
of smoke, when I realized the most important thing of all. Lucas Vazquez de Allyon
would know what I was the moment he saw me. The moment he smelled me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I’d Save the Last Bullet for Me
I sat on my bed surrounded by readouts, stacks of printed paper, and a pad, as well
as my laptop, with half a dozen tabs open online and twice that many files open. I
was studying several things at once: the Vampira Carta, the deep background histories
of Leo’s people and Derek’s Vodka and Tequila Boys. I was also looking for a way out
of the trouble I was in, the trouble Leo was in, and was searching for the traitor
we still had to have in Leo’s ranks. Though I couldn’t totally rule out
anyone
, I had narrowed it all down to two vamps—both longtime troublemakers:
Amitee Marchand and Fernand Marchand—and two Tequila Boys, both new men on Derek’s
team: Tequila Sunrise and Sneak Cheek. Both had been present at the raid on de Allyon’s
three-story building in Natchez, and both had significant financial troubles. Worse,
I didn’t know them well enough to make a judgment on their trustworthiness or lack
thereof. Just in case, I sent texts to Bruiser, warning him to either keep all four
away from the parley or keep eyes on them. I could deal with the problem people—alive
and undead—later, when other situations were handled, and concentrate for now on the
parley, and what I might do to fix things.
The day was mostly gone when I figured out what I could do.
Could
do. Maybe.
If
I could pull it off. I fell back on the bed and stared at the clean ceiling, thinking.
Working it through.
Crap
. This was gonna be a booger. Leo and Bruiser were dead set (pun intended) on a parley
with the murderer de Allyon and his scions, and I was going to be there, undercover,
so to speak.
I’d had little sleep in days. Little sleep, less rest. The parley was fast approaching.
Beast, normally so active in my mind, had been silent, watching, as tense and expectant
as I was. She knew we were about to face an enemy, and she chose now to put a paw
on my mind and force me into a deep sleep.
* * *
It was nearly sunset, two days before the new moon, and I was dressed for hunting,
not in pelt and claws, but wearing guns and blades and lots of silver. And, weirdly
enough, wearing makeup.
“So. Whadda you think?” Christie asked. She was popping gum, a black eyeliner pencil
in one hand and a large dusting brush in the other. Her clothes were opaque, thank
God, or the lights in my bathroom would have revealed far more than I wanted to see.
“She looks hot,” Deon said from the corner chair, his voice awed. “And scary as a
demon.” He crossed himself.
I didn’t react, except to turn, my reflection turning with me in the mirror. I was
wearing thirteen wood stakes and thirteen silver-tipped stakes in pouches and loops.
I wore armored leathers, butt-stomper combat boots, and I was carrying newly sharpened
blades—three heavily silvered vamp-killers and four throwing knives—and my vial of
holy water.
I carried the two red-gripped Walthers in Blackhawk vertical shoulder holsters, on
top of a skintight vest and T-shirt, the M4 on my back in its old harness, a short-sword-length
vamp-killer in one boot, and a nice little, dependable .38 revolver in the other.
A nine-mil was strapped against my spine under the vest and another was at my waist
in a belt holster, next to two CS canisters. Two flashbangs were on the other hip,
so I didn’t get the canister-style grenades mixed up with the colloidal silver ones.
My gold nugget necklace now also carried my emergency shifting tooth, the tooth of
the biggest
Puma concolor
I had ever seen. I had wired the tooth into a loop and now wore the nugget and tooth
on the double gold chain underneath the double vamp-collars that protected my throat
from vamp-teeth and talons. I was carrying a good twenty pounds of gear, enough to
clank when I walked. But I had spent the time adjusting everything to make sure that
I didn’t.
Christie handed me a tube and I slashed on crimson lipstick, the same shade as the
Walthers’ grips. My hair was in a queue so tight my scalp hurt, and my tiny derringer
was knotted into the bun, a last-ditch weapon. I figured if I got down to that one,
I’d save the last bullet for me.
I studied myself in the mirror, my coppery skin a rich hue against the black of my
clothes and my hair. My eyes were all wrong, and that might save my life. I was sporting
heavy eyeliner in an ancient Egyptian style, eye shadow in a storm-cloud gray, and—most
importantly—a brand-new pair of colored contact lenses. I now had eyes so dark they
looked vamp-black. They made me blink, but they weren’t completely uncomfortable.
I looked like a pureblooded
Tsalagiyi
, not like a skinwalker. Not at all. As long as I stayed far enough away from de Allyon
so that he couldn’t smell me, I should be safe.
Yeah. Right.
“Well?” The single word was laced with emotion and meaning—sarcasm, mockery. If Christie
had added, “You idiot,” to the question, her meaning would have been no clearer.
“I look like an Enforcer,” I said.
“Yes, you do.”
I turned to see Bruiser standing at my bedroom door and I almost did a double take.
I had seen the primo in a tux, in a business suit, in casual dress, in night camo,
and in jeans. I had also seen him soaking wet in my shower. But I had never seen him
wearing Enforcer garb. Not ever. My breath drew in over my tongue, and Beast peeked
out at the world through my eyes. I lowered my lashes, so he wouldn’t see my black
contact lenses, knowing he would think I was being coy or shy, rather than devious.
“Now,
that
is hot,” Christie said, crossing the room to him. “To-tal-ly hot. Sugar, if you want
to come work off some excess energy before the parley, I am your girl.” She ran her
hand from his collarbones, across his chest, and down his abs. He caught her wrists
before she could head farther south. I could hear Deon gulp from across the room,
and the pheromones of lust and excitement filled the air.
A slight smile lifted Bruiser’s mouth, but his eyes never left me. “Thank you, Christie.
But I am fine.”
And indeedy he was. Bruiser was wearing armored leather and weapons from top to toe,
formfitting, clearly handcrafted, matte black leather, four guns that I could see,
two knives, and the two short swords I had given him at his waist, the scabbards set
for a cross draw, or whatever they called it in sword fighting. His brown hair was
slicked back, the goop he’d used making it look nearly as dark as mine.
Bruiser crossed the room to me and stood behind me for a moment. Fast as a magician,
he slipped my silver and titanium throat protector around my neck. I hadn’t seen it
since that awful night in Leo’s lair when Katie had removed it from my neck and I
had discovered just how little protection it really was. Bruiser latched it, the metal
icy on my throat, his fingers hot. “I’m sorry,” he said. I nodded, the motion jerky.
He stood beside me, our reflections side by side in the mirror, his fingers still
touching my throat. “We are perfect together,” he said. And though I didn’t know if
he meant perfect as a fighting pair or as a couple, my Beast purred. Bruiser’s smile
widened. He took my hand and lifted it, curling my knuckles under. His lips pressed
into them, hotter than human, and that heat seemed to zing through me like lightning
on roofies. A memory of big-cat scent followed on the trail of the heat.
Rick . . .
Christie said, “Son of a bitch. I never guessed.”
Deon swatted her. “Language,” he hissed.
I never got the chance to ask her what she had never guessed because Bruiser turned
me in a dance step as elegant as anything from a Victorian ballroom and led the way
to the front door. Eli waited there, geared up in black-and-gray camo combat clothes,
night-vision gear on a strap around his neck, with crosses, silvered blades, and trank
guns in among his regular battle gear.
He looked us over, expressionless, taking in our enmeshed fingers and our lookalike
clothes. “Just so you know,” he deadpanned, “no way am I dressing up in leather. Not
now, not ever. Don’t ask.”
“Never crossed my mind,” Bruiser murmured. “My lady, your carriage awaits.” He opened
the door, I picked up my go-bag, and Eli pulled his headgear in place, crouched, and
took point. Alex followed.
In a standard security detail, we had four vehicles, Derek’s men driving SUVs before
us and after, his cadre of men geared up for battle, one I hoped to avoid. Wrassler
drove the limo, Vodka Hi-Fi was in charge of the SUV in front. Angel Tit, redeemed
and forgiven, drove the point vehicle, with Eli and Tequila Sneak Cheek in the back:
Eli was keeping a eye on Sneak Cheek for any signs he was our mole. If he was, I wouldn’t
want to be him if Eli went all Ranger on his butt. Chi-Chi and Sunrise were in an
SUV directly behind the limo. The SUVs were full of Leo’s best fighters, all decked
out in evening wear. Kabisa and Karimu—sworn to Grégoire and Clan Arceneau, and looking
like Egyptian monuments—were in identical designer sheaths that sparkled with crystals
sewn into the cloth and blades strapped to their thighs. Koun and Hildebert wore tuxedos,
Koun’s Celtic blue tattoos stark on his pale skin, his sword at his waist. Sabina,
the priestess, rode with them. I was surprised to see Lorraine and Cieran, who had
been part of an uprising against Leo only a few months past, but maybe they volunteered
to make points with the boss.
Ronald, the Texan, heir to and sworn to Bouvier’s coleaders, was in jeans and boots,
with six-shooters at his hips. Alejandro and Estavan, both of Spanish origin wore
swords. Five others I didn’t know. Until tonight, I had been included in the decisions
for choosing the vamps who would be present in difficult parleys, but I had left the
plans to Bruiser and the details to Eli and Derek. I had other things to concentrate
on. Like staying alive.
Derek and the rest of his men were waiting for Alex to tell them where to search for
Katie. They were decked out for armed search and rescue and soon they would be waiting
near Leo’s helo, and two armored Humvees ready to fly—or drive fast—as soon as we
got coordinates for Katie.
Leo, Grégoire, Bruiser, Eli, and I rode in tense silence. Leo had something up his
sleeve, something I had not been informed about. If I had been preparing security
on this gig, that would have made me a tad antsy. Okay, it would have made me mad.
But I was not security. I was an Enforcer. Except, not really. I had shifted enough
and Beast had loosened—maybe broken—Leo’s binding on my soul, just in time to actually
need some good vamp power. Go, me. My timing sucked.
Bruiser had suggested I’d be safer if I was bound more tightly to Leo. I figured I’d
rather be in danger, thank you very much.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Leo said softly, “The Nunnery.”
“Ah. Of course.” The Nunnery was a converted warehouse in the Warehouse District of
New Orleans, and was owned by the Council of Mithrans. It was used by the clans for
soirees and events, and for self-help workshops on the top ten ways to seduce a human
for dinner, for all I knew. It also had a steel-barred cage in the basement suitable
for holding werewolves through the full moon, or a rogue vamp until it could be dealt
with. I’d seen the cage once, when I was trying to help Rick deal with his first full
moon. That seemed like ages ago now.
“Are you sufficiently prepared?” Leo asked.
I wanted to screech, “No!” like Beast, but I kept it in. “I’m good,” I lied. “I’m
okay.”
Bruiser had sent me instructions on the parley and my part in the two-hour meeting.
Vamps in parley used a form of parliamentary procedure similar to Robert’s Rules of
Order, and Bruiser had sent me the words I was supposed to say when discussion turned
to the accusation of murder and the trial. I had memorized the phrases that would
keep de Allyon and his scions busy for as long as it took Leo’s people to locate and
rescue Katie, but that rescue was no way guaranteed, even with Reach and Alex both
working on invading every cell phone carried by the enemy and tracking every GPS,
call, and text made on the units in the last two days. Yet, even if everything went
off without a hitch, nothing about tonight was guaranteed. I might be forced into
a trial. Katie might not be found, not in only two short hours.
So I had come up with my own plan in the hours of my study of the Vampira Carta, a
plan that was sure to tick off everyone but would give us adequate time to rescue
Katie. Like maybe all the hours until dawn. I didn’t have to do it. I could just stand
in my place and keep my mouth shut and hope for the best. I could take the easy way
out. But I wouldn’t.
“Everyone, don’t forget to turn off your cells or leave them in the limo. That decreases
any chance the Kid will waste valuable time tracking the wrong signals.”
Alex snorted, as if such a mistake was impossible. It probably was.
We pulled down the narrow roadway between perhaps a half dozen vehicles and up to
the building. The Nunnery was an old-brick, Spanish-style warehouse with wrought-iron
curlicues protecting the blown-glass windows, the lights inside wavering through like
water. There were porches on each of its three floors, and the grounds were planted
with semitropical flowers and shrubs. Heavy limbs of live oaks wound sinuously across
the ground.
The car pulled to a stop and Eli murmured into his mic to Derek, who was not on the
premises but was waiting to initiate the hunt for Katie. It felt seriously weird to
have only limited access to the security channels, but I didn’t want to be distracted
by com chatter, so I had elected to wear only the general channel in my earbud. I
shook out my arms and rotated my head on my neck. I was tense—not healthy around vamps.
Wrassler opened the limo door and Eli was out like a flash, listening to security
babble, moving fast through the night. A moment later, Wrassler assisted Leo and Grégoire
out. George followed, and I was last, feeling totally off my game. Bruiser leaned
in close and placed his lips at my ear, murmured, “This time, don’t play nice.”