Mercy Blade

CHAPTER 5 You Can’t Blame a Vamp-Killer for Trying

I wove my way through New Orleans city streets to vamp HQ, making a few stops on the way. I had a report to deliver and I had discovered that it was easier to give one in person than to write it out and have it messengered over. Vamps aren’t big on the Internet. They want things on vellum or parchment with fancy penmanship and flowery words. I was a modern girl. While my computer skills were only okay, my penmanship stank.

I motored up to the gate at the vamps’ official headquarters. For the first time I’d ever known it, the place was locked down. The wrought iron gate was shut, security lights lit up the grounds, and an armed guard walking a big brute of a mastiff was patrolling. The guard smelled like vamp and not blood-servant. Weird. The suckheads never did their own chores when there was a blood-servant around to do it for them.

There was no sign in front of the stone-faced, multistory building—never had been—but the arched windows, the long line of steps up to the door, and the façade were bright with security lights. I spotted new cameras on the eaves and, with Beast-sight, saw laser paths lacing the grounds. My old pal Bruiser had been a busy boy, installing and integrating the hardware I had proposed to upgrade the system. Bruiser was Leo’s prime blood-servant, head of security for the vamps in the city of New Orleans, but he’d been a much more laid-back guy until lately. When Leo had cleaned house by killing off his enemies, not all of them had been so easily dispatched.

I sat-walked my bike up to a new intercom with a camera and pushed the little red button. When a voice responded, I said into the speaker, “Jane Yellowrock, with a report.”

“Please remove the face mask and present proper picture identification.”

I stuck out my tongue, though I had it properly back in my mouth when I pulled off the helmet, but there was nothing I could do about the cheeky grin. Not sure what proper identification might mean to a vamp, from a zippered pocket I dug out my bike license for North Carolina, my Private Investigator ID for the same state, and my official rogue-vamp-hunting card with the cutesy slogan. It was always good for a laugh with the long-lived vamps. This one didn’t chuckle when I presented them to the camera, but the gate did swing open.

I was met at the bottom of the long steps by the vamp and the dog. The vamp was an old one, a master himself, one of Leo’s loyal scions, though I couldn’t remember his name, only that he had a Texas accent. Lot of Texans in my life tonight. I called him Tex, and he didn’t seem to mind. The dog growled at me, showing teeth, but I wasn’t impressed. I’d been growled at by bigger critters tonight. “Knock it off, doggie. Howdy, Tex. What’s kicking?”

The vamp lifted one side of his mouth in a half smile and pulled the dog to heel. The growling subsided. “Evening, Miz Yellowrock. New security protocols set up by the boss, including an air lock inside the front door in the foyer, with an armed guard.”

“I hope so. What good is a guard if he isn’t carrying?”

Tex let his smile widen. “Couldn’t agree more, ma’am. You’ll have to remove your weapons there, before being escorted inside to Mr. Pellissier.”

Though vamp citizenship was being considered in Congress, at the moment they were treated as aliens, and carrying a weapon beyond the foyer of a council house would merit the same punishment as taking a weapon into a foreign embassy or a federal courtroom. It was a good way to get jumped on and locked up. “He’s here tonight?”

Something shuttered behind Tex’s eyes. “Mr. Pellissier is here every night, ma’am.” He turned away, pulling the mastiff with him. “Take care, you hear?” There was a warning in his tone, not that I needed one. Leo had been worse than unpredictable for weeks. But every night in vamp HQ, and not in his clan home? That was strange.

I made my way up the long steps to the front door, cataloguing the security changes. The front door was opened by a blood-servant flunky with the dead eyes of a burned out soldier—until he recognized me. A huge, gap-toothed grin lit the face of a seriously big guy; tall, well-muscled and bald, he looked like an escapee from the World Wrestling Federation. I grinned in return. “Wrassler,” I said. I nicknamed almost everyone I met, and had never asked Wrassler his real name, though his had evolved down from WWF-Guy to WWF, to the current Wrassler. He seemed to like the latest moniker.

“If it isn’t little Janie. Come on in.”

I shook my head at the name and looked over the air lock. It took up a six-by-six-foot space inside the foyer, and it was much more than it appeared, constructed of bulletproof glass and reinforced titanium bars. It was seriously cool. “Where do you want the weapons?”

“Here,” he pointed to a glass-topped table with beveled edges, which looked like a weird place to stack weapons until I saw the black trays. Wrassler looked me over and laid out all six, a grin on his face that said he was making a joke.

“Cute.” I felt like I’d been dressing and undressing—weapon wise—all day, but I wasn’t about to argue with security precautions, especially as I had been suggesting these for weeks. Vamp-hunting was fun and paid well, but the gigs were hard to come by. Security was my bread and butter.

I pulled the Benelli M4 and placed it across one tray, the barrel longer than any of the black resin platters. Three handguns went in the next, still smelling recently fired. His nose twitched and I knew Wrassler caught the smell. When he raised his brows in question, I shrugged, hiding my grin. His eyes tracked over me, noting my bloody, fang-ripped clothes. He stuck a sausagelike finger into a jagged rip in the leather over my elbow. “Bet that hurt.”

I grunted. “Yeah. And I’ll be submitting a bill for the repair.” Into the third and fourth trays I placed five vamp-killers each, lined up neatly; the crosses filled the fifth, laying them so the chains didn’t knot; all but two of my stakes went into the sixth dish. I was hoping the sheer number of weapons would make him overlook the pair of silver hair sticks in my fighting bun as a fashion accessory. It wasn’t smart to be unarmed within fang range of a vamp, not when said vamp had tried to kill me already, and may have sent me to die tonight. When Wrassler didn’t notice the hair sticks I’d retained, staring at the array of weapons in bemusement, I tapped my cheek with a fingertip as if thinking, made an “aha” gesture, and held out the vial of holy water to him. “You’ll want to hold this one.”

He laughed and took the vial, setting it with the crosses, which seemed appropriate. “That’s my Janie.”

“You do know that name annoys me.”

“Yep. Assume the position, little girl.”

“Even worse.”

“I know.”

After a thorough but totally professional pat down, I followed Wrassler to the stairs and up one flight. I’d been on most floors of vamp HQ, but the doors were always shut, making it hard to orient myself as to purpose. Wrassler knocked at an interior room, meaning no exterior walls, no windows, not that there wasn’t a way out hidden behind a bookshelf or something. “Entrez.” Leo’s voice, speaking French.

Wrassler opened the door, keeping his body between the room and me. “The Rogue Hunter, Mr. Pellissier.”

“Weapons?”

“None, sir.”

A hint of humor entered Leo’s tone. “How many?”

“Filled up all six trays, sir.”

“Mmm. Hair sticks?”

Wrassler looked at me and I sighed, pulling the silver stakes/hair sticks out of my bun and setting them on the carpet at my feet. “No hair sticks, Leo,” I said. I didn’t want to get the big guy in trouble. Wrassler gave me a glare, to which I shrugged back with a “So sue me” expression. You can’t blame a vamp-killer for trying.

“You may enter.”

The guard closed the door behind me, and I faced Leo’s office. Tyler Sullivan, a whip-thin, pale-skinned black man with dark eyes and full, sexy lips, Leo’s second in command, stood barring my way. His eyes were empty and blank and cold, his posture military-parade rest, but with something cocky and cruel in his bearing. He looked me over head to foot and made a little twirly gesture with one finger. I turned around and when I was facing him again, he said softly, “Assume the position, Miss Yellowrock.”

“I just got a thorough pat down.”

“Assume the position, Miss Yellowrock.” His voice didn’t change inflection, didn’t insist, didn’t cajole or demand. But it was implacable. I assumed the position and was once again body searched, a lot harder and more forcefully than before. And a lot more personally.

When he was done he stepped back, shifting position from one foot to the other without proper body mechanics. Which he would likely not have done had I been a guy. Ticked off at where he had put his hands, I turned, stepped fast into his personal space. Slammed him back with a body shove. The instant he was off balance, I hooked his ankle with one of mine and jerked. And rode him down. Landed with a knee in his gut and fingers at his throat. He grunted before I shut off his air. Too late, his eyes widened with alarm.

I leaned in close and whispered, “You touch me like that again and I’ll rip out your throat.” I tightened my fingernails into the sides of his trachea and pulled up as the heel of my hand pressed down. “Do you understand? Blink twice for yes.” Tyler blinked twice, hard. I flowed to my feet and watched him rise. The takedown had been necessary, in a strictly dominance sense, but he wasn’t quite so cocky now. I’d embarrassed him in front of Leo and made an enemy. I’m good at that, though it’s not a talent I’m proud of. Tyler left through the door I’d come in, his face flaming.

Leo was standing in front of a fire, dressed in a white lawn shirt, one that would have tied at the throat with a fine ribbon, had the tie not been loose, exposing a swathe of his chest. The sleeves were rolled up, the hem tucked into loose black pants of some woven, nubby material, maybe raw silk. He was holding a teacup, the fire behind him, his eyes opaque in the shadows.

He’d watched the scuffle without a change of expression, and he wasn’t breathing, which meant he wasn’t scenting all the blood-scent markers on me. Still as a marble statue, he watched me. I glanced around once, fast. Leo’s personal business space—as opposed to his council business space, which might be anywhere in the building—was an office in name only. Every inch of wall space was hung with tapestries and heavy drapery and the tile floors were liberally covered with Oriental rugs in every shade. The room was chilly, with the AC blowing hard through overhead vents, working to compensate for the hickory wood fire. The older vamps liked fireplaces, the expensive ambience of their human youths, with no regard for global warming.

There was a lot of burled wood furniture, some painted with gilt designs, several wingback chairs around a small table set with the remains of high tea, a table desk so old it might have been hand carved for a Spanish royal in colonial times, with a laptop open on it, and a modern ergonomic desk chair. I just itched to open and explore the armoires that did double duty as cabinets. Nosy, that’s me, an occupational hazard even if I wasn’t naturally inquisitive.

There was also a chaise lounge in the back of the office, a fancy one with tufted gold velvet upholstery and a velvet throw covering a girl, her back to me, her pale hair tousled. She was obviously naked beneath the velvet. I flicked a look at Leo, holding a teacup, everything but his eyes still immobile, and looked back at the girl. She was breathing deeply and evenly, asleep. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” I said, making sure he heard the sarcasm.

Leo followed my eyes to the girl and smiled, unexpected gentleness on his face. “Not at all. She will sleep another hour or two.” He took a breath and looked back at me, his head tilted, puzzled at the scents he found on the air. “You have a report?”

“Yeah, I do. I nearly died tonight, thanks to you.” Leo set his cup on the green marble mantel and waited, breathing shallowly as he scent-searched me. “You sent me to negotiate with a persona non grata in your place. Remember that? And he brought a pack of werewolves. I nearly died.”

“Wolves?” His face underwent a change and my blood nearly stuttered to a stop. Leo Pellissier, Master of the City, was surprised. I smelled shock and anger boil through his blood and his pulse jumped once at his throat. He sniffed, hard, short breaths, and his nose curled. His fangs snapped down with a little click. “The Lupus Pack has returned,” he snarled. I nodded, careful to make no other sudden moves. “How many?”

“Fifteen left alive that I saw, and maybe seven dead at the scene.”

His brows rose but his fangs stayed down, two-inch bone-white weapons. And me without my stakes. “You are a capable fighter, Jane Yellowrock, but you are no match for a wolf pack. You were only supposed to meet and remove from my territory one Girrard DiMercy.”

“It might have been nice to know that. Next time give me a name and a species, how ’bout it? But it happens that Gee saved my butt from the wolves. Even killed his share. Saved. My. Butt.” I enunciated each word. “So you can deliver your own get-out-of-town message.” Leo’s eyes blazed at my insolence, but I pressed on, pushing the envelope, because it was what I did best, except kill things. “You want to tell me why he’s even still alive? Blood-servants don’t generally live for nearly a hundred years after their last sip of vamp blood.”

Leo’s face hardened. “No. I wish to tell you nothing.”

“That figures.” Usually it was dang near impossible to read vamps’ expressions, but Leo was giving things away willy-nilly. He didn’t like Gee; if the guy was on fire, Leo would let him burn to death rather than waste water peeing on him. If vamps peed. Now I was curious, but it wasn’t the time to ask. “You’re making this a lot harder than it has to be, Leo.”

“Girrard DiMercy is not welcome here.”

“He told me his story. The one about your daughter. He said you need him.”

“I need nothing from the Mercy Blade,” Leo snarled.

I almost said, “He claimed he kept you sane,” but I kept my mouth shut on that one too. “His blood. He says you need his blood. Like Magnolia Sweets needed your blood.”

Leo closed his eyes and turned away but not before I saw the raw pain on his face. He gripped the marble of the mantel with both hands and bent his forehead to it. His fangs snicked back into place. Something about his scent changed, growing less peppery, more almond. The rolled sleeves of his white shirt revealed muscular forearms and the flames he faced outlined his body in reddish light, toned and hard, though slender. I wondered if he had fenced with Gee when the man lived in New Orleans. Still facing the fire, he said, “Did he give word of my sweet Magnolia?”

“Yeah.” There wasn’t any way to sugarcoat it. I sighed and rubbed my sore elbow. “She died. I’m sorry, Leo.”

“Kill him,” he whispered to the flames. “I will pay you to kill him.”

Shock raced through me again, a strange, discordant emotion, as if shock layered on shock, two beasts racing along my nerve endings, separate and distinct. “You want to hire me to kill a man? No.”

“He is not a man. He is not human. He took her from me, and he has never been punished.”

“He claims he didn’t steal her from you. He said”—I thought back and dredged up his exact words—“‘He’—meaning you—‘loved her to distraction, but she could not stay with him.’ Could not, Leo, not would not, not wanted to leave you, but ‘could not stay’ with you. Maybe you should reconsider killing this guy until you know more.”

“He has bewitched you, as he did my Maggie.”

“He tried. He failed.”

Leo raised his head from the mantel and looked at me. His eyes were dry, which was a relief. I hadn’t been sure if he was crying or not, and a teary-eyed Leo wasn’t something I felt capable of handling. Still, the raw anguish was hard to take. “She could not stay with me? What in this entire world would have been important enough to keep us apart? What would have been worth dying over?”

“Beats me. Talk to Gee.” I had rhymed it. The titter I had been fighting since the “vampire peeing” thought burbled perilously close to the surface before I slammed down on it hard. My sense of humor was gonna get me killed.

A knock sounded at the door. Bruiser stuck his head in and smiled when he saw me, not hiding the relief in his expression. He’d been half afraid that his boss would drink me dry. Had Tyler sent him running here? “I’ll be downstairs in the Situation Room,” he said. “Get your escort to bring you when you’re done here.”

I looked back at Leo. “You’ve got a pack of werewolves in the city. Their lawyers are attempting to freeze all the fangheads’ financial activities, bring murder chargers against you for killing the previous pack leader, and bring the vamps to their knees in the human courts. They still say they have proof. And no, I don’t know what.”

Leo nodded regally, despite his shock. His eyes traveled from me to the far corner of the room where the girl slept. “You may go.”

I bit my tongue and left. I hate it when they do that—dismiss me as if I’m the little scullery maid. But I didn’t complain. Another waste of breath. Bruiser closed the door behind me, a finger over his lips. To Wrassler, he said, “We’ll be downstairs. You may relieve John at the front entrance. His shift is over. I’ll call you when Miss Yellowrock is ready to leave.”

Wrassler gave an offhand salute and strode down the hallway, his shoulders taking up most of the space between walls. I hadn’t noticed it before, but walking abreast of the guy would be impossible here. “Good thing I don’t mind being the little woman and shuffling along behind.”

Bruiser looked at the guard and chuckled, reading my thoughts. “He was hired for his physique as much as his training. This way.” He didn’t speak again until we were in the elevator, headed for the basement, or maybe the subbasement. Or maybe a sub-subbasement. The elevator was in the back of the hallway, to the left of the entry, and it had no buttons. To get anywhere, Bruiser had to slide his ID card through and then punch a series of numbers on a keypad. He didn’t let me watch as he worked the device.

“What? No eye scanners, no palm print scanners?”

“They’re on order; they haven’t arrived,” he said, his mouth showing the tiniest bit of amusement.

“Leo was emotional tonight,” I said.

“Yes. I noticed.” The elevator began to move.

“Leo was never emotional until that thing masquerading as his son died. How long does the dolore last? I thought his grief would be over by now. Or at least a lot better. And I need to know about some guys, a werewolf named Roul Molyneux, and a nonhuman who used to be Leo’s Mercy Blade, Girrard DiMercy.”

Bruiser dropped his back to the wall and looked down at his hands, fingers interlaced and hanging limply in front of him. He breathed out, sounding gloomy. “I don’t know how much I can tell you.”

“I hope it’s enough to explain why Leo just offered me a hit.”

Bruiser raised his eyes to mine. “A hit?”

“A contract to kill Gee DiMercy.”

“Gee is still alive?” When I nodded, he asked tonelessly, “And Magnolia Sweets?”

“Dead. What’s going on, Bruiser?”

He smiled at the name. Bruiser was really George Dumas, a good-looking guy—not as pretty as Rick, but no one was—who stood six-four and had a great butt and a wonderful nose. That might sound weird, but I have a thing about noses, and Bruiser’s was dang-near perfect. His butt in a tuxedo or a pair of tight jeans won awards in my book too.

He sighed again. “You know about the previous vampire war in this city.”

“If you mean the one in the early nineteen hundreds, I know it happened. That’s it.”

The elevator door opened onto a sterile hallway smelling faintly of floor wax. The overhead lights were dimmed, but brightened as we stepped out. There were only three doors, all of them locked with keypads like the one in the elevator. Bruiser punched in some more numbers and opened one. Inside was a large room centered with an oval table and chairs, a modern bronze light fixture with a single large globe—almost as big around as the table—open side facing up, hanging over it. Closed laptops were placed in front of each chair and computers hummed softly at the back of the room. A huge monitor, maybe five feet across, hung from the ceiling, the screen black. There were papers at the foot of the oval table, and two chairs were pulled a little away, as if we were expected to sit. Bruiser claimed a chair and indicated one for me. I watched as he restrained himself from pulling out my chair like he would for a lady. Controlling my grin, I sat. He sat. I waited as he thought, smelling coffee and tea at the back of the room on a rolling beverage cart, and wishing for a strong cuppa.

“In the early nineteen hundreds, the mayor of New Orleans had been made aware of the”—he steepled his widespread fingers in front of his mouth, thumbs under this chin—“monsters in the midst of his populace.” As usual, when Bruiser talked of the past, his British accent grew stronger, more pronounced. I settled in for a story.

“When the vampires split into two aggressive factions and went to war, he might have stayed out of it, had not the human body count risen so precipitously.” Bruiser studied me over his fingertips. “The human servants did what they could to make the bodies disappear, but it was impossible to hide them all. The mayor charged his assistant, Roland Iveries, to bring an end to the carnage in Storyville and the French Quarter.” Behind his fingers, Bruiser’s lips twisted in a broken expression, empty and a bit lost.

During my previous hunt, I had learned about Storyville, a district of the city set aside by Sidney Story from 1897 to 1917 for legalized prostitution, houses of ill repute, saloons, gambling hells, honky-tonks, music halls, and similar places catering to the baser side of human desires. The vamp who had done my employment interview had owned one of the whore-houses and still did. Katie’s Ladies had operated outside of Storyville during the vamp war, in the house where I currently lived, and was still operating in the house that backed up to mine in the French Quarter. I didn’t know what the cops thought about the house of prostitution, but since it was run by a vamp and catered to vamps, maybe it fell under a “don’t ask, don’t tell” edict.

“Following a particularly vicious clash in late 1914, where several blood-slaves were killed under the eyes of a reporter of the time, Iveries called the clan masters together, the most powerful Mithrans in a thousand square miles. He volunteered to act as ambassador to parley a peace agreement between the factions. His boss, the mayor, had an important port city to run; the deaths were drawing unwanted naval attention. An angry admiral, I believe.

“It’s my guess that Iveries coveted the immortality the Mithrans could offer, and was hoping he could trade a service to them worthy of being admitted into their number via blood-rite.” Bruiser dropped his hands, meeting my eyes. “Back then, there had been no mention of the decade of madness experienced by new converts.”

“Converts?” I asked, mild derision in my tone. “New rogues.”

Bruiser flipped his fingers to the side in a hand shrug, not disagreeing. “Before the last war, my mother was the main draw in Katie’s Ladies.”

I blinked; quickly schooled my face to hide my surprise. “I thought your mother was gentry in England.”

“Impoverished gentry, in Somerset, before we immigrated here. Far more impoverished after my father’s untimely death. Men—vampires—paid twenty dollars to spend an hour with her, a lot of money at that time. She accepted only a very few gentlemen callers.” Bruiser’s muscles went taut, his mouth hard, tight with history. “It was said that her blood tasted of lilacs and roses.” I thought of Gee, the floral scent of his skin, the peculiar metallic scent of his blood.

“What’s the difference between a place like Katie’s and vamps picking up donor meals in bars? Neither one offers a traditional blood-servant relationship.”

“True, but with vampire madams, the girls and boys are vetted according to age, general health, drug dependency, willingness, and a comprehensive understanding of a vampire’s deeper needs. While not a blood-servant bonding, it offers more than a one-night stand with a sick, stoned, drunken child.”

“Okay.” I filed that away for later consideration. “Go on with the history lesson.”

“The factions were loathe to gather in one place, even under a flag of truce. The werewolves had picked sides, and the balance of power had shifted precariously. The mayor’s henchman made certain that my Lady Mother, the Lady Beatrice, would be on hand to assist with the negotiations.” His voice went toneless, as if the memories were suddenly so weighted that they stole any music from his soul when he said, “Iveries hired a werewolf to kidnap my sister Jacqueline. He raped her, and Iveries sent back the soiled sheets.”

I couldn’t hide my reaction. Bruiser curled in a shoulder as if to say, Yeah. That’s what I felt about it, and went on with his tale. “My mother agreed to do whatever Iveries wanted to get Jacqueline back alive—if no longer unharmed. He required her to issue the invitations to a diplomatic parley, and because she would be there, five of the Mithran clan masters agreed to attend. With the balance of power attending, the other clan leaders fell quickly into line.

“The werewolves had been acting as strong-arm security for both sides in the war, and agreed to follow whatever outcome arose from the meeting. The previous Master of the City was not as vehement as Leo in his detestation of the two-natured. The wolves assumed that no matter who won, they would remain welcome.

“At most such human assemblies of the time, wine or champagne was offered. For Mithrans, there was blood. And sex. My mother served as willing donor for both.”

I had already schooled myself not to react, but I felt my small flinch. Bruiser gave me a smile, more tired grief than anything else.

“She brought me to the meeting and hid me in the next room. I was to listen and peer through pinholes in the wall, and if one of them mentioned where Jacqueline was being held, I was charged to bring my sister home. And to let my Lady Mother know that her daughter was liberated.”

I kept my reactions still this time, but I wanted to kick something. I watched his body language, listening to his breathing, calling on Beast’s senses as well as my own. I was sure he didn’t tell this story often. Maybe never. It wasn’t lighthearted conversation. I swallowed down my reaction to the barren expression in his eyes. He wouldn’t have appreciated sympathy.

“I knew what my mother was. I understood how she earned the coin that kept us fed and provided the education that would later keep us both out of the gutter. But I had never ... seen her work. She took them all on, men and women equally, giving of her blood and her body until she was bruised and nearly bloodless, whiter than the linen on their tables, white except where she was stained with her own lifeblood. And Iveries watched and laughed as his ‘gift’ to the vampires was consumed.”

His lips twisted hard, too fast for me to read the expression shuttered within. My own eyes were emotionless, my face carefully blank.

“They thanked Iveries for the gift. They all knew what he had done to secure my Lady Mother’s willing participation. But not one of them mentioned, or cared, or perhaps even knew, where Jacqueline was being held or if she would be freed.” Bruiser laced his hands on the table, his body language protective, controlled.

“Midway through, a vampire and woman came into the hidey-hole where my Lady Mother had left me. Before I could scream, the vampire clamped a hand over my mouth and set his teeth at my throat. It was Leo.” Bruiser studied his hands as if he’d never seen them.

“Leo was one of my mother’s lovers, her favorite. He was already powerful, old enough to be a clan master, though he was second in his clan, scion to his own uncle and blood-master, the Master of the City, Amaury Pellissier, in the next room.

“Leo and the woman with him had been working to bring an end to the vampire war, and had followed a werewolf, hoping to discover where Jacqueline was being kept. He discovered she was hidden in Saint Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square. He couldn’t enter a place with so many religious icons, so he gave me a gun and sent me with the woman to find her.”

Bruiser released a faint sigh. “We found the little room in the bowels of the church. We fought and I killed the werewolves watching my sister. We brought her to safety, but it was too late. At some point in the parley between vampire factions, my mother must have given up hope of survival. She imbibed a large amount of medical colloidal silver—with brandy, to hide the flavor of the vampire toxin. Before they realized what she had done, she had poisoned most of the blood-masters in the city.” Bruiser smiled, a cold, hard flex of lips with no humor in it.

“When they realized what she had done, they strapped her down to the table where they had come to speak peace, and set her afire. Alive. And when she screamed out the name of Iveries as her cohort, though he was not, they strapped him down with her. The fire spread, and the resultant conflagration burned more than a city block of Storyville’s best houses. It was the beginning of the end of the district set aside for legalized prostitution,” he said wryly, “and the end of the vampire war of the nineteen hundreds.”

I had sat through his recital, awful as it was, but I had no idea why he was telling me all this. So I said, “Um. I’m sorry. That’s awful—”

Bruiser held up a hand, stopping me, and said, “My mother’s sacrifice put an end to the violence. The heirs took over, reinstituting the Vampire Council, which the previous clan masters had disbanded. Now that Leo was clan master, he sent Gee DiMercy away for having earlier attempted to give the mercy stroke to his daughter. And the werewolves who were complicit in the war and guilty of the rape of my sister were punished in accordance with were-law. The remaining wolves were exiled.” He smiled sadly. “They swore vengeance on me and mine for the death of Henri Molyneux.”

Henri was Roul’s grandfather. Okay. Now it was starting to make sense. That was the problem with vamps. They lived centuries, and everything that happened today had roots in things that happened decades, centuries, or even millennia before. “Your sister. Was she bitten?”

“By the werewolf who raped her? Yes, but she survived, unturned. I never learned how.”

I thought about Gee’s comment that he had kept me from getting the werewolf “taint.” Had Gee helped Bruiser’s sister avoid the taint? “And the woman who helped you free her?”

“Magnolia Sweets.”

Leo’s prime blood-servant of the time. “And Leo and you killed Henri?”

“A small cadre of wolves had bitten a number of women, hoping to turn them so they might have mates. The penalty for attempting to turn a human is death, as stated by were-law, but there was no one to perform that justice in the United States. We carried out the penalty prescribed by were-law on the offenders, four wolves,” he said. “Henri, as alpha, was guilty by default.”

Which meant that on the surface the new MOC had punished the weres guilty of biting humans. But the reality of that justice was wrapped up in vengeance for the attack on Jacqueline. Gotcha. Vamp politics were often bloody.

“There were some deaths from wolf attacks in and around the city before Leo exiled the weres, and all the women they attempted to turn died. My sister lived into her mid-eighties, and died with her sons and daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren at her side.” Bruiser made a little tossing motion again, indicating an inconsequential addition. “A very few wolves remained, causing trouble, and refused to abandon their hunting territories until the next full moon, but they were handled.”

“So that’s why Leo is willing to open diplomatic discussions with the African weres and not the werewolves.”

“The most current reason. There are older ones.”

There always are. “And Gee?”

“Gee left. And Magnolia Sweets went with him. Her abandonment and betrayal was more than Leo could bear. He was truly inconsolable with her loss. He appointed me his first blood-servant, though I was only twelve at the time, untrained, and not suitable for Leo’s other needs.”

I interpreted “other needs” to be sexual in nature. “And now Gee and wolves both come home at a time when the vamps are in disarray following another war and coup attempt, and the appearance of were-kind on the world stage. The timing is significant.”

“Not a war,” he said. “Not a coup. A war goes on a long time, between recognized opponents. A coup d’état means a change of leadership, usually by violence, which didn’t happen. It was a ... corporate reorganization.” He seemed happy with the phrase, but most corporate reorganizations don’t leave a lot of heads lying around or blood splattered walls. “And with predators, timing is always significant.”

“And the hit Leo asked me to make?”

“You may rest assured that he will not ask such a thing of you again.” Bruiser met my gaze and gave a small smile. “There are others who will assist him in such endeavors.”

Others. He meant assassins. Was Bruiser talking about himself? Once, not long ago, he had suggested that he took care of that kind of problem for Leo.

“Let’s turn our attention to security concerns for the party,” Bruiser said.

There were always vamp parties. They lived for them. Well, parties, sex, and blood. And conspiracy. And power plays. “Fine. It’s what I get paid for.”

“The two were-cat envoys have been in the city for two weeks now, living in the Soniat Hotel, engaged in clandestine discussions with Leo and the Vampire Council.”

“Two weeks,” I said softly. The vamps knew Rick by sight; the were-cats would not. Rick was a handsome guy and would fit in anywhere undercover. Certainty settled in the pit of my stomach. It all fit.

“The worldwide announcement was well handled by the were-cats. It was a wise move, getting the Mithrans on their side, from the beginning. There will be parties on the same night at every major Mithran holding in the U.S., the most prestigious in New York City, to be attended by the New York Council of Mithrans and Raymond Micheika himself. Louisiana’s party will be the second largest in the nation,” Bruiser said, “the official meet and greet between the were-cat envoys and the Louisiana Mithrans, and will take place here, in our ballroom.”

“And the wolves?”

“Are not invited.” He hesitated. I swiveled my head to him, brows raised. “The wolves and the cats do not treat together. They are mutual enemies, just as in the wild.”

“Okeydokey. And what else. You never have just one bad thing to tell me.”

“The press will be present,” Bruiser said, letting a resigned breath out.

My pulse shot up. “The press?” I said. If nothing else proved to me that Leo was still crazy, this did.

Bruiser ignored my tone. “All of the networks will be outside and can be handled by NOPD, but we will have local cable inside. They have agreed to three cameras and camera-men, two reporters—one for color and one for interviews—one producer, and a makeup specialist. We have limited them to three grips, for a total of ten.”

“You are out of your mind,” I said. Bruiser raised his brows in that supercilious, infuriating manner he had to have learned from Leo. Or maybe from his Lady Mother. “If you let the press in here, and all hell breaks loose, Leo will be crucified. And you can’t tell me that weres and vamps are best buddies and so there’s no chance for problems.”

“Crucified?” Laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes.

“This is monumental stupidity. The press?” I hissed the word.

“The press. I suggest that you acclimate to the concept. Mithrans the world over are now using the press for information dissemination and propaganda. So are the weres. What is it you youngsters say?” he asked, his tone mildly mocking. “Oh, yes.” He snapped his fingers in a got it, manner. “Deal with it. Leo has decided to bring the press into his inner sanctum. And you are in charge of overseeing my efforts to keep him safe.”

I caught it. I understood. Bruiser had been in charge of Leo’s safety for over ninety years. Now Leo was asking me, the outsider, to look over his shoulder. A big bash, with the weres and the press and the potential for disaster, it would have been Bruiser’s chance to shine, and here I was, the new supernat du jour, looking over his shoulder. And then it hit me. If the were-poop did hit the fan, it would be my fault, not Bruiser’s. I was so freaking stupid. I should have figured all this out before now. I bet Bruiser himself had suggested I help out.

He swiveled his chair and indicated the papers on the table before us. “Security for the visiting envoy, his female assistant, and for the out-clan visitors who will be staying here at the council house during the negotiations.”

I had a lot of thinking to do but now was not the time. I took a slow breath to calm down, order my thoughts, and then took us to safer conversational ground. “Tell me about the envoys. What exactly is an assistant and what does she do?” An assistant would be the easier mark for an undercover operative. Ergo, the assistant was Rick’s target.

Bruiser shook his head. “I don’t know if she’s secretary, lover, spy, or slave. The African weres have seldom been to this continent and, according to Leo, the U.S. wolves operate differently from the were-cats. The big-cats have civilization. A well-refined society. Wolves have only pack.”

“Big-cat.” The word buzzed at the edges of my consciousness like a bee at a window. I caught myself, holding my reactions under firm control. “Are all weres predators?”

“So far as I know.”

“Hmmm. No were-bovines, were-gazelles, were-gerbils, or were-swans?”

Bruiser shook his head. I didn’t know what it might mean, but it had to mean something. After all, they were called the Cursed of Artemis, and that goddess had been a huntress herself.