Black Arts

CHAPTER 10 Le Petit Chaton Avec Les Griffes

My orders came in the form of a call from Bruiser, which woke me from my nap. I flipped open my cell, shoved my hair back from my face, pulled it around, over my shoulder, and rolled into a sitting position on my bed. “Bruiser.”

Instead of his usually flirty hello, or his pleasant British-style greeting, he simply said, “Bring your weapons tonight. The master wants to spar.”

“Uhhh.”

“Nine p.m.”

“Spar?” I said, incredulous. But I was talking to the silent room. Bruiser had disconnected. I had never sparred with Leo before. Our only physical altercation was when Leo attacked me in the street one night when he was in the grieving process that vamps called the dolore. Basically, vamps just lived too long. Loss of a close loved one who had been with them for hundreds of years could make them lose it mentally, unless they had a Mercy Blade, the magical beings that helped vamps maintain mental and emotional control. At the time I killed his son, Leo didn’t have one, and he had nearly killed me. I closed the cell. “I don’t want to spar with Leo. Stake him, maybe. But not spar,” I said to my room.

I remembered the last time Leo had put his hands on me, and I shivered. He had forced a feeding. It wasn’t the only time I’d been attacked and fed upon by a vamp—most vamp-hunters have been bitten once or twice—I had even been healed from some bad vamp-fighting injuries by way of a vamp bite. But Leo’s bite was the only time the feeding had been done to bind me to a master vamp’s will. I thought about Leo’s apology. And about fighting him. My lips parted slowly and I chuffed. Forgiveness might be a lot easier if I had the MOC under the heel of my boot.

I checked the cell and saw that I had hours before I would have to fight the Master of the City of New Orleans. Time for a long stretch, time to get dressed, and plenty of time to plan. I crawled from bed and started stretching, the smells of something rich, meaty, and spicy coming under my bedroom door.

• • •

After a meal of BBQ ribs and salad, I pulled up the dossier on Jack Shoffru that Jodi had sent me. The file was dense with material: pdfs of scanned, handwritten notes from decades in the past, more recent reports from Interpol and the FBI, and still more recent reports from the Drug Enforcement Agency. The info was well structured, however, evidence of Jodi’s handwork and organizational skills. But the older, handwritten notes were the most interesting. It was historical documentation that Jack Shoffru had been contemporaries with Jean Lafitte, which meant he had been contemporaries with Leo. I sat slowly on my bed, making sure, cross-referencing dates, even downloading the file to my old laptop to see better on the bigger screen than the tablets.

I created a new file titled What-If, and typed in my notes, questions, and worries in bullet points. Mostly I had a lot of conjecture, and not a lot of facts. Okay—none. I had a lot of guesses. But they seemed to hint at a picture, or maybe several pictures, even if there was no mass to the smoke and mirrors at this point. I needed more facts.

Vamps’ lives went on for so long that the past was knotted and woven into the present in layers, sometimes in layers of blood. Like the blood diamond and the vamps and witches who had used it over the centuries. My breath caught. What if Molly’s kidnapper knew about the blood diamond? My what-ifs could be a lot of things and I shouldn’t be getting paranoid.

Too late. I had thought about the diamond and now it had me in its claws.

I checked the time and patted myself down to remove weapons. Even though I was licensed to carry in most of the Southern states, it sometimes wasn’t worth the hassle that could come from carrying them. Where I was going, weapons were a surefire way of getting attention from the po-po.

Weaponless, I grabbed my keys and left the house on Bitsa. There were eight or nine banks in the French Quarter/Central Business District area, and I’d picked the closest one for my banking needs and the safe-deposit boxes I rented. I didn’t think about them much, but . . . I had a fair number of evil toys in my possession. Well, in the bank vault, but it was pretty much the same thing. I parked and walked into the bank just before closing.

Minutes later, I was standing in a private room, no security cameras, no bank attention, and three bank boxes sitting in front of me. It had been a little bit of a hassle getting them to let me open all three boxes, but when I told the teller that she’d have to open them back and forth so I could rearrange my valuables, she gave in.

I lined all the bank boxes in a row and opened the first one. It contained my personal stuff—passport, the paperwork that stood in lieu of a birth certificate, made out in the name of Jane Doe, the papers with my legal name change to Jane Yellowrock. My security business licenses and PI license. I closed that box and pulled the others to me.

In the one on the left I found two lead-lined acrylic boxes, called RadBoxes by the manufacturer, the kind used in hospitals for blood contaminated by radioactive meds. Inside was a clump of reddish iron about the size of the end of my thumb. The iron blob looked unchanged, and I closed the RadBox without touching it. In the other lead-lined box were pocket watches. Everything looked okay, but the black arts artifacts always made me feel slimy and the stink of old dead meat and spoiled blood clung to my fingers for hours after I touched them. This time, I didn’t touch. Who says a cat can’t learn new tricks? I closed up the box and pushed it to the side.

In the second safe-deposit box, there were two RadBoxes, but here things were a bit different. Resting on top of one yellow acrylic box top was the thing that should have been inside. It was a coyote earring, carved of bone, howling at the sky. It had come to me in a funky dream one night. Like, literally it had come to me. As in appeared on the pillow by my head. And it moved around sometimes, like now, crawling out of its box. I tucked it back inside. “Stay there,” I said to it, knowing it wouldn’t listen. I opened the final RadBox, aware that I had been putting it off till last.

Inside, in a black velvet jewelry bag, was the blood diamond. I opened the drawstring, eased the gem to the lip of the bag, and trapped the blood diamond in the cloth with the tips of my fingers, careful not to let it touch my skin. It looked like a pink diamond or a washed-out, pale ruby, about the size of my thumb from the last knuckle to the thumb tip, and it was faceted all over in large chunky facets. It was on a heavy gold chain, a thick casing holding the gem, the casing shaped of horns and claws. The gem was sparkling and dancing with lights, internal lights, not just reflected lights. I had a feeling that it would glow with its own light in a dark room, though I’d never tested that theory. The gem was beautiful and ugly and quite possibly the most powerful thing I had ever seen in my life—and that counted all the witches I knew put together. The blood diamond had been fed the deaths of hundreds of witch children for centuries, in fatal blood-magic ceremonies that featured human sacrifice. The diamond was an artifact worth killing over. It had belonged to the Damours. Now I had it, hidden away. It was safe, for now, but it occurred to me, staring at the awful thing, that I needed a will. If I died, someone responsible needed to have charge of it.

Yeah. Happy thoughts inspired by the gem of death and destruction.

I closed up the bag, stuck it back in the RadBox, and called the teller to help me put everything away properly. Satisfied that the Icons of the Dark were safe, but not emotionally content with that fact, I rode back home, weaving through rush-hour traffic, which in New Orleans was a whole ’nother kinda awful.

• • •

I left the house again at seven forty, Eli driving. He had insisted on coming with me when I told my assembled pals and houseguests about my evening’s plans. His exact words were “Leo’ll bust your butt. This I hafta see. I’m driving.” My roomies. So supportive.

In the SUV, I adjusted the stakes in my bun to keep from stabbing my scalp when they hit the vehicle roof and didn’t speak until HQ was in sight. “You did a good job on the door and windows.”

“I did a little construction for Uncle Sam.”

“Anything you can talk about?”

“Nope.”

“You keep secrets like a madam,” I said conversationally. “All tease and no share.”

Eli made a sound like choking and I let myself smile, knowing he saw it when he glanced at me from the corner of his eye. He recovered quickly. “Holy sh—crap, woman. But you got that all wrong. I am never a bottom. Totally a dommes.”

“Promises, promises,” I said. He made the spluttering sound again, but I went on. “Okay. You know the vamps will try to take our weapons away when we get to the door. Yours especially,” I added. “Security protocols that I put in place.”

Eli grunted, lowered the SUV window at the gate to vamp HQ, and said to the little camera, “Eli Younger and Jane Yellowrock to see Leo Pellissier.” The gate opened and the window rose. “Despite you not wearing a leather bikini, cuffs, and a dog collar, this is gonna be fun,” Eli murmured.

I just grinned. “Someday I’ll tell you about the mud wrestling.” This time he swallowed down the choking sound.

We parked in the front of HQ, the only vehicle parked there tonight, and walked together up the stairs. Just as we reached the top, Eli asked, “So, what does sparring mean to a vamp?”

“No idea,” I said sourly. “But I don’t think I’ll enjoy it.”

Eli huffed a laugh as the air lock doors opened. “Sure you will. Just let your eyes do that weird gold glow. You fight better when that happens.”

Deep inside, Beast chuffed and flicked her ears. Fun, she thought at me.

“Besides, I have an idea or two that might help.”

“No backstabbing. And I mean literal backstabbing,” I said. Eli just looked thoughtful.

Four security types met us inside the air lock, two pairs of twins, all male, all with military-length haircuts, and all dressed in black pants and white shirts. “Ms. Yellowrock, Mr. Younger,” one said. “Your weapons, please.”

“You can have the guns, but the stakes and knives stay with us,” I said. “I’ve been invited to spar with Leo and have a feeling I’ll need my claws. Blades,” I corrected quickly.

“One moment,” one said. He murmured into his mouthpiece, listened, and then looked at me. “Mr. Dumas says that will be acceptable, but he insists that you each be accompanied by two security. You’ll have to wait while backup arrives.”

“Fine by me,” I said. Four security for two guests? Someone was taking my suggestions to extremes. However, Eli and I together could probably take down an entire squad, so maybe not. I unbuckled my holsters and started placing my handguns in the black lacquered trays. Beside me, Eli did the same, but with far greater reluctance. Eli liked his weapons. “All of them, Eli,” I said. “Next we get frisked.”

Eli shook his head at that and said to the security, “Get fresh and die.”

The security guy who had been doing the talking said, “Former SEAL here. I’ll wipe the floor with you, army boy.”

Eli grinned, showing his teeth. “You can try.”

“Men,” I muttered. And not in a nice way.

• • •

We were led through vamp headquarters until we reached the elevator. I had never been entirely comfortable with the elevator, knowing that it went to parts of the building that were inaccessible by stairs. Which seemed unsafe in case of fire, unless the vamps had escape tunnels. Which they did. But I hadn’t been shown where they all were either. I figured I’d have to become Leo’s Enforcer for real for that to happen, and I wasn’t that interested. All six of us crowded into the cramped area, the smell of blood and humans and steroids filling the airless space as the doors swished closed. Some humans were using gym candy. I wondered briefly what effect anabolic steroids had on vamps who drank the blood of servants who were using, then let the thought flutter away. I had more important things to worry about. The leader twin swiped his card and the elevator moved.

We were let out on a floor I didn’t recognize, though I did recognize the same make and model of security cameras that Bruiser, Eli, and I had installed on all the other floors. Too much to ask that I’d get paid for the design down here too. Dang vamps.

The hallway was carpeted. We passed what looked like storage rooms and locker rooms, one for men and one for women. We passed a lounge with couches and a small kitchen, smelling of old pizza and tacos.

The reek of vamp and blood and aggression swirled on the air currents, pushed by the ventilation system. Beast peered out through my eyes and purred, Fun. A small smile pulled on my lips, and her delight peered through my eyes. A sideways glance by one guard let me know that my eyes were glowing gold. Beast sent a shot of adrenaline through me. Fun, she thought again. Like finding new territory filled with big prey.

Down, girl, I thought at her.

The guard opened a door and the stink of sweat and blood and testosterone whiffed out at me. The room we entered was sized for a basketball court, one with various lines on it that allowed it to become tennis, multiple wrestling rings, and areas for martial arts mats to be placed. Tonight the martial arts pads were down. I had halfway been hoping Leo had something else in mind when he said spar, like verbal sparring, where my snark ability would come in handy. No such luck.

All along the white-painted concrete walls, there was also stadium seating, styled with padded benches with metal backs. They were full. On the center mat, two vamps were sparring, their movements so fast I could barely follow. Beast leaned into the forefront of my brain and studied the speed and flexibility of the two. It was like watching a dance, a dance with a loud drum solo sound track—slapslapslap, oof, thudthudthud, a rare sucking breath of pain, a rarer moment of stillness, and then more attacks, blocks, kicks, spins. I was so not gonna like this.

“We don’t have a hot tub hidden away at the house somewhere, do we?” Eli murmured. I sighed, knowing the question was rhetorical. “I have a feeling you’re gonna be one bruised babe tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” I mean really. What else could I say?

The match ended with a quick feint-punch-block move that sent one opponent flying off the mat and into the wall with a crack that I could feel through the floor and that left a bloody smear on the white-painted concrete blocks.

“That hadda hurt,” Eli said. His tone was far too jovial and I slanted my eyes at him to see a huge happy grin in place. Before I could respond, a loud clap sounded and my attention was pulled to the center of the court.

Leo stood in the very middle of the padded center mat, dressed in loose black gi pants in a style I’d never seen before, with flaps that folded over the sides and ties that were stuck inside the waistband. His feet were bare, toes gripping the mat, his chest was bare, and his arms were out to the sides. He turned in a slow circle so the assembled could see him clearly. His skin was pale olive white after centuries out of the sun, his ribs standing out starkly. Scars showed evidence of piercings and slashes, and over his left ribs, beneath his arm, a huge scar traced the flesh like a spider’s web, as if his ribs had been caved in by a massive mallet or a grenade or—

I felt Eli tense beside me. “That killed him,” he murmured. His hand reached up as if to touch his collarbone and the scar there. He stopped and let his hand drop slowly. Leo had been a warrior for all of his life, fighting sorties, night battles, attacking out of the darkness, a demon from hell, a soldier’s worst nightmare. And he had the scars to prove it. How bad did a wound have to be to leave a scar on a vamp?

Leo completed his circle. “Well done,” he called out, his voice a sharp quick echo on the walls. “And now I call my Enforcer.” I jerked, thinking he meant me, but he went on. “My Onorio, you may join me. We shall see what you are now.” Which sounded like a threat in so many ways.

Bruiser stepped into the front, from where he had been standing behind a small group of people. He was wearing a gi, top and bottom, but he untied the black belt at his waist and dropped it, then shrugged out of his top as he stepped onto the mat. He topped Leo by several inches and maybe thirty pounds, all muscle, his skin darker than I remembered it, tanned. He was fit and brawny next to Leo’s more slender body, but in a master, appearance is always misleading. I willed Bruiser to glance my way, but it would have been stupid to look away from an opponent, and Bruiser was never stupid.

Overhead, recorded music began, a violin playing something low and sweet, with a gypsy feel. The strings curling with emotion and defeat and love lost. Painful music. The two on the mat bowed to each other. And Leo attacked. One heartbeat he was standing. When the heartbeat ended, Bruiser was on the mat, his face bleeding. “Get up,” Leo said, bouncing on his toes.

Eli yanked me back, a hand on my upper arm. “No,” he murmured, his lips at my ear. “I think this is for a purpose. A demonstration.”

“He means to kill him.”

“No. I don’t think so. It isn’t the way warriors think. A reprimand, maybe. Something. Not an excuse to kill. Not in front of witnesses.”

Of course. That all made sense. I took a calming breath and stopped pulling away, but settled my hands onto my knife hilts. Feeling the rigidity of my delts, Eli kept his hand on me, holding me still.

Bruiser rolled to his feet. Before he was fully upright, Leo attacked again, spinning, pulling Bruiser’s arm with him. I heard the shoulder come out of joint with a sliding pop.

Anger boiled up through me. Eli’s fingers dug into the soft tissue of my arm, holding me in place.

Using the out-of-joint arm, Leo forced Bruiser to his knees. Bruiser went, with a grunt of pain. Leo let go the arm and kicked out, catching Bruiser with the ball of his instep, midabdomen, and spinning him. Up. Into the air. Leo’s fist caught Bruiser’s face as he whirled. Blood sprayed high. Splattered over Leo’s chest. Bruiser fell and lay still on the mat. The room filled with the scent of blood, strange blood with a salty, sweet undertang. Bruiser’s Onorio blood. I had smelled blood similar to it on the only two other Onorios I knew of—Grégoire’s primos, both in Atlanta with their master.

“First blood,” Leo said calmly. “Match to me.” He looked around the room. “Someone take care of him.”

Adelaide slipped from the small group of people Bruiser had been standing with and pointed at two others. Together, the three lifted Bruiser and carried him out a door in the rear. Eli’s fingers held me still, but a low growl sounded in my throat.

Leo turned to us and looked us over, taking in the assortment of blades and stakes. A slow smile spread over his face, looking pleased and almost . . . hungry. My insides tightened and my lips parted, breath coming fast. I felt the chilled damp of panic bud along my spine, the icy fear melding with the heat of anger in my blood. The door closed behind Bruiser. My heart skipped a beat and then pounded hard. I clenched my hands on the hilts of two vamp-killers.

“My other Enforcer,” Leo nearly purred, “is here as part of the entertainment tonight.”

He held out a hand to me, almost as if he was asking me to dance, his black eyes focusing on me intently. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream and attack. I wanted to pull a gun and fill him full of silver bullets—which was probably why I’d been forced to leave them at the door.

Instead I dropped my hand and relaxed my palms, walked toward him across the basketball floor, Eli at my side. We stopped at the edge of the mat and I pointed down at my feet.

“You may remove your boots,” Leo said, managing to sound very French, agreeable, and dictatorial all at once. Around the mats the spectators started talking, low whispers filling the space.

I started to toe the Luccheses off, but Eli was suddenly kneeling at my feet, one hand on my ankle. I stopped midmove and Eli flashed that strange smile up at me. I realized it was his battle smile. Eli liked combat. He’d missed fighting, missed pitting himself against an enemy, missed the adrenaline rush. “One of those other things I mentioned? Is this. Come on, Cinderella,” he said, his voice dropping to a register lower. “Off with the glass slippers so you can claw the bastard.”

I laughed. It was totally inappropriate, but I laughed. The people in the stands stopped talking, all at once. I could tell that they turned to us, as one, but I kept my gaze down, at Eli.

The boots and the socks came off together, hooked in his thumbs. From the boot sheaths, Eli removed the knives, one at a time, holding them so the light glinted off the silver plating and steel edges before setting them on the floor. Silver was for one purpose only. To kill vamps. He was making sure the people watching knew who I was and what I did. Pressure built in the room, hot and prickly as barbed wire left in a desert sun. Eli spun on one knee and spoke to Leo. “Weapons?” he demanded.

Leo studied us thoughtfully, me standing, Eli at my feet. Leo’s theatrical smile drifted away, leaving him looking curious and . . . interested. “Are you acting as Jane’s second?”

“Does she need one?”

Second? Oh, crap. A second was what one had in a duel. A pal to make sure the rules were followed and to take the injured fighter home to die if necessary.

“Perhaps,” Leo said. “Bare hands.” Around us, the room went more silent, the final sounds of voices dying away, the small breaths and shuffles and cloth-on-flesh of movement ending.

“Rules?” Eli asked, his voice ringing in the silent room.

“No one dies . . . again.” Polite laughter sounded from the stands, but hushed, as if they weren’t quite certain why they laughed. I breathed deep, smelling vamp and human and fresh blood, my heartbeat speeding, but steady now. Deep inside, Beast prowled, back and forth, as if caged and waiting. Everyone knew that Leo intended to do to me what he’d done to Bruiser. This was a demonstration of power and control. And of who was in charge. He didn’t want to kill me, but he did want to hurt me. I could turn and walk away. Or I could do what I wanted to.

From behind us, others entered the room and walked along the walls to the stands. As they moved, I reached down and unstrapped my thigh sheath. Handed the vamp-killer to Eli. He didn’t draw the weapon, but he made sure everyone could see the length of the blade before he put it beside the others on the floor.

Eli extended his knee. It looked like an offering. Confused, I took in his face and he glanced to his knee, lifted his eyebrows. He looked urgent. Only a beat too late, I placed my right bare foot on his thigh and he rolled up my jeans leg, moving slowly, exposing my golden Cherokee skin. He unstrapped the sheath there.

Moving as if he did this every day, Eli rolled down my jeans and indicated my other foot with the barest of gestures. I placed my foot on the floor and lifted the other. Eli rolled up the left jeans leg, uncovering the weapon hidden there. Another knife. He unstrapped it as well and placed it beside the others.

“Wrists,” Eli requested.

I held out my hands, palms up, and Eli rolled up my sleeves, removing the blade sheaths. These were small knives, throwing knives, well balanced. He pulled one, the silver plating only on the center of the flat blade, the steel edge so sharp it would draw blood before one could see it touch the skin. He leaned out and placed the knives to the side.

“Stakes,” he requested, his hand extended. I lifted my arms and pulled the first two out of my hair. These were the new ones, custom-made of ash wood, fourteen inches long, wicked sharp on one end, rounded and buttonlike on the other, a shape that fit snugly into the palm of my hand. He took them and I lifted my arms again.

Overhead, I heard a faint click and the first strains of guitar music floated into the room. I hadn’t noticed when the gypsy violin stopped. A moment later I identified the new music. Joe Bonamassa, playing “Living in a Dust Bowl,” a live version, all hot electric guitar, blues, and sex. I drew up the last of my weapons, the sterling silver stakes with steel tips, holding them high for just a moment, letting them catch the light.

And I smiled. Beast padded closer, pawpawpaw.

Eli looked up from my feet and murmured, “Let it out. Let it go. Don’t think, just move.”

I laughed, the sound deep and cool and . . . ready. I lowered the stakes to him, and he took them with a soft click of metal on metal.

I felt the padded mat beneath my feet as I walked toward Leo. I matched my body to the beat, measured by the percussionist, famously shaking a plastic bottle partially filled with rocks. The music and the lyrics were primal and intense. And Leo watched me, standing with his shoulders rolled forward, his hands open and empty. Blood dried across his skin. Bruiser’s blood. Dangerous, this being. Deadly.

Yet as Leo took a breath, the movement of his ribs looked oddly angelic—fallen angel–style. His hair was loose, curling around his face like strands of black silk. His sclera was white, centered with human-black but wide, dilated pupils. But he didn’t exhale.

There would be no tells with this one. No hitches of breath for a being who didn’t need to breathe. No change in tension for a being who didn’t depend on a heartbeat to move.

From deep, deep inside, Beast padded. Settling into my blood and flesh and bones. And I realized that she was tugging with the silver leash that tied her to Leo. I felt him shift his weight, only a hair, onto his back foot. Beast was sharing her binding with me.

Letting me use it.

And Leo watched me move in sync with the slightly offbeat blues guitar. Again, I started laughing, a purr of delight. Bonamassa was singing the line “lifting me up.” My hips moved in a little figure eight. Enticing.

Leo struck, kicking vamp-fast.

But I wasn’t there anymore. I was three feet to the side. And Leo had a claw mark on his chest, centered over the spiderweb of scars. Bright blood welled to the surface, long, thin, deep gores. Beast claw streaks. I clenched my fist and felt her claws press into my palms.

Crap. My hands had shifted.

“First blood,” Leo said, “to my Enforcer.”

I raised my left and made a tiny come hither gesture as Joe sang the words “tearing me down.” I didn’t look at my hand, but I saw the golden pelt that covered my arms halfway to my elbow, and the human-shaped hands with bigger knuckles, longer fingers, and the extruded Beast claws.

My toes spread and gripped the padded mat, better footing than a human foot. But I didn’t look down. I took a short step to the right and flitted my fingers again. This time it was a come-and-get-it gesture. And I grinned, showing my blunt human teeth.

Leo took a breath. Time slowed, viscous as Bruiser’s drying blood. The silver chain deep inside quivered in warning. Leo’s muscles rippled, his fists striking, feet shoving, body twisting, torquing power into the move.

I didn’t block. I shifted back a step, his fists passing so close I felt the air cut my skin at the jaw and brush across my chest. The music ground deep, the offbeat percussion giving my hips a swivel as I stepped into Leo’s move and let his momentum carry him back across my leg, his balance failing. I caught his arm and rolled him over my thigh, swung him around, back to his feet. I danced to the side, landing strikes as I moved, at kidney, spleen, and circling around to his front, pounded the soft tissue between his ribs, and lower down at the soft spot just slightly above the navel. Kill targets had he been human, and had this duel been with blades. The significance of the placement wasn’t lost on Leo, who grunted with surprise, and what might have been delight.

Instead of dying, Leo laughed and his eyes bled scarlet. But his fangs stayed up, locked away. Vamps can’t laugh and vamp out at the same time. It wasn’t possible. But Leo . . . was doing it.

We danced around each other, feet out of sync with the music, but somehow in sync with each other, as I led him by the silver chain of the binding. “Come on, Leo,” I murmured. “Dance with me.”

“Dance of blood and death,” he murmured back. And he kicked, so fast I didn’t see him move. The blow landed, hard, knocking out my breath. I dropped and rolled and sucked in air that ached. As I was coming up, Leo kicked again. I ducked and bent my body inside the kick, against his thigh, shoulder to his groin. And I hit his knee with a well-placed elbow. It snapped. A crippling strike had he been human. He toppled. Over me. I rolled out, landing two more blows on his torso. Found my feet.

Leo was standing. And he was laughing. “Come, my Enforcer. Is that all le petit chaton avec les griffes has for me today?”

The next few seconds were fastfastfast. Slashing-punching-stabbing moves. Too close to kick, too fast to grapple. My heart beat hard, the air in my lungs like bellows beneath the music. I tasted blood and knew my lips were split. Saw the blood shoot from Leo’s nose to splatter on the wall fifteen feet away, the blood spurting across my pelt as I backhanded him on the backstroke.

I heard a bone in his hand break as he misjudged and caught my shoulder instead of soft tissue. Distantly, I felt the punch that nearly dislocated my jaw and spun me away from him. With one hand, I worked my jaw, spitting the blood to the side. He was a vamp. He watched my blood fly. And I struck. The move was all Beast, torquing and lifting, kicking and hitting. The impacts lifted Leo off his feet. He landed off the mat. Flat. And lay there.

I walked over and looked down at him. Not close enough for him to grab an ankle, but close enough that I could see his purely human eyes and the pain in his face. My breath and the raw voice of Bonamassa were the only sounds in the room. I jutted my chin at his busted nose. “That’s for Bruiser’s beating. The rest of it was for my forced feeding, you bastard. Your apology be damned.”

Overhead, Bonamassa sang, “living in a dust bowl,” and the guitar wailed its plaintive notes. I walked away. A new Bonamassa started to play. It was “One of These Days,” a slower-paced song, but grinding and hot. All I needed was to be wearing a red dress to make it all perfect. I laughed softly, the sound hidden beneath the guitar licks. Over my shoulder I said, “Meet you in your office, Leo. We need to chat.”