“Not human language. Not until she loses her fur in two decades, when she may gain the ability to speak. Many of my young have done so, though it is rare among my kind. Do you accept the joining of Pea for the balance of your life, knowing that you will come to love her, and that she will kill you without remorse if you stray?”
“It sounds a little too much like a marriage ceremony with a death sentence at the end, but yeah. I do.” Pea chirped and raced around Rick’s shoulders, whistling delightedly.
“Your fate is not written in the stars. You will choose as you will, and your life and death will play out accordingly,” the grindy said. “Go now. Feed Pea as Kemnebi has taught you. And again, my thanks for the meat.”
Rick turned to go and I let him pass me, keeping an eye on the grindy as he left the cave. She ignored me, gathering her three remaining young close and snuggling down as if to take a nap. Out in the sunlight, Pea had leaped from Rick to the steer carcass and ripped off a piece of raw meat, eating it, moving like the three-way love child of a raccoon, a squirrel, and a cat. But green furred. I headed up the steep hill. “Come on, Magic-Boy, and bring your new pet. We have a helicopter to catch.” Rick caught up with me, Pea riding on his shoulder, a strip of raw meat in its hand as we climbed out of the gorge.
The grindy had said Rick’s future was his choice. The thought sat on my soul like a weight, pulling me down into my failure and loss. Grief was like dust and ashes in my mouth, despite my success in other areas. Evangelina was dead at my hand. Molly had withdrawn from me. Beast had withdrawn so far from me that I couldn’t even feel her. Big Evan was being Big Evan. And yet, despite all that, I had done everything I was supposed to do. I had done the job I was hired for. I had killed a murdering vamp preying on humans. I had killed a murdering witch. I had kept Grégoire safe. I had sent in my report. I had pleased my employer. And soon it would all be over. And it would be decision-making time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Double-Dead Bodies
My last night as head of security, the last night of my contract, was spent in the reserved hotel dining room with fifty-five vamps, double that number human blood-servants, and not nearly enough security personnel, watching the final results of the parley fiasco. Everyone was in formal wear, including me, and for once I was wearing the clothes Leo had sent without making a scene. I was wearing sparkling, loose black silk pants, a low-necked, black silk shirt, gold and silver embroidered vest, and a jacket designed especially for me by Leo’s pet designer, with pockets and straps for my weapons and com-gear.
My hair was up in complicated braids, and I’d had a massage, a facial, and a mani-pedi in the hotel’s spa courtesy of Leo, a way of saying thank you for a job well done, but not yet complete. With the new duds and the new do, I was wearing the gold and silver mesh collars Leo had given me, the chocolate diamonds and citrines sparkling in the lights, and silver stakes stuck out from my braids, catching the light like a deadly fan. I looked fabulous, and I knew it because of the way the vamps in the room kept looking at me. Like I was dessert and a silver blade—sweet and deadly. Leo stood at the dais, looking like sex-on-a-stick in his tux. I touched my mouthpiece, alerting my boys. “Ready.” If there was going to be a vamp-riot with throats torn and double-dead bodies, it would be now.
Leo said, “Grégoire, blood-master of Clan Arceneau, of the court of Charles the Wise, Fifth of his line, in the Valois Dynasty, have you reached a conclusion in the petition of Lincoln Shaddock, master of the Shaddock Blood Clan, for rights to claim Asheville, North Carolina, and surrounding territory as Master of the City? To be granted hunting land and cattle and the rights to rule as Blood Master of the City?”
Grégoire rose, looking delicate as a child in gold brocade formal wear. He even had gold brocade gloves over his burns and a gold beret to hide his burned hair. “Yes, my master. Lincoln Shaddock, turned by Charles Dufresnee after the Battle of Monocacy, currently sworn to Clan Dufresnee, and with his permission, petitioning the blood-master of the southeastern United States. Rise.”
Lincoln stood, looking grave—my lips twitched at the play on words—and elegant in all black. Beside him were his scions, Dacy in cloth of gold and Constantine in U.S. military dress blues, a lot of lettuce on his chest—awards he’d won in the service of his country. At Shaddock’s side was Amy Lynn Brown, the reason for this parley after sixty years. Their faces were drawn and worried. Worse were the expressions on his blood-servants’ faces. Everyone in the room had some stake in the outcome of the proceedings, and everyone in the room had seen the battle in front of the hotel. Lincoln at the scene, doing nothing. Unmoving as a statue while humans died and Leo and Grégoire and Big Evan and I fought his battles for him. None of that was good, and added in with the general Fubar’ed mess of Evil Evie, things were not looking positive for him. The only thing I could think that might save him, was that Leo himself had been spelled by the witch once, and that might make the chief fanghead cut him some slack.
There had been layers upon layers of reasons for Leo’s decisions and actions relating to this parley. And none of them involved me. My lips turned up slightly, self-mocking.
Adelaide looked at me, the question in her eyes. I tilted my head in a shrug. The debate and discussion had gone on behind closed doors for two nights, as judgment was reached. If someone knew the findings, it certainly wasn’t me.
Hope and dread filled Lincoln’s face, and he was breathing occasionally with tension, oddly human on the undead, as Grégoire said, “Lincoln Shaddock is hereby given provisional permission to begin three new clans.” The room exploded in applause and a number of cheers. Dacy closed her eyes and seemed to be saying a prayer. Constantine barked for order and the place quieted. “Said clans are to be headed by his heir, his secundo scion, and one other of his choice. The Mithrans will be taken from among the remaining young rogues in his scion lair, assuming they come out of the devoveo within the guaranteed five years. As the human blood-servant Sarah did not die from the attack, and has been turned successfully, none will be staked or declared rogue.” There were more cheers, cut off quickly, and followed by a brittle, breathless silence.
“The position as Master of the City is to be denied Lincoln Shaddock at this time. In no less than one decade, Leonard Eugène Zacharie Pellissier, turned by, and heir of, Amaury Pellissier, his human uncle and Mithran father, blood-master of the southeastern United States, possessor of all territories and keeper of the hunting license of every Mithran below the Mason-Dixon Line, from the eastern border of Texas at the Sabine River, east to the Atlantic and south to the Gulf, with the exception of Florida and Atlanta, will send another envoy to reconsider Lincoln Shaddock’s blood-master status hopes. Until then, and for the duration, there will be the customary and agreed upon exchange of blood-servants and scions.” Grégoire turned and bowed to Shaddock, then bowed, much lower, to Leo. “This parley is concluded. My thanks to all who provided for us, kept us safe, and so well entertained in the city of Asheville.”
And that was that. I nodded to Adelaide, who clearly wanted to speak to me, but my job took me elsewhere. I busted my tail keeping the idiot vamps and the celebrating blood-servants safe the rest of the night. Drunk and rowdy but safe. No one died. No one got turned. No celebrating vamp met the sun by accident or intent. Everyone ate and drank and partied and I learned that even staid old vamps can act the fool on a dance floor.
I fell into my bed after dawn, knowing that by sundown, when Leo and Grégoire headed back to Louisiana, I was done.
I slept until sunset, showered, dressed, called the bellhop and the valet, and was ready to check out by nine p.m.—regular checkout time for vamps. And I still didn’t know what I was going to do next, except return Fang, pick up Bitsa, and sleep for a few days. Dressed in jeans, jacket, and a minimum of weapons, I followed my stuff down the elevator and to the front desk. I was standing in the checkout line when I smelled the blood-servant scent, close by, familiar, deadly. The blood-servant was sworn to the same maker as the blood-servant who had attacked me in my suite. The guy I had killed.
Casually, I swiveled on the heel of my well-oiled Lucchese boot, and looked out over the hotel lobby. No one caught my eye. No one stood out. Where was he? Derek and Wrassler exited the elevator and I caught Derek’s eye. I held up a hand as if gesturing hello, but swiveled my index finger, an order to be sharp and look around. Instantly, his demeanor changed, the alert stance of the soldier taking over. Wrassler caught on fast, his gaze finding me; he stopped near the fireplace while Derek swiveled back toward the elevators, ostensibly looking at something on his phone, but one hand having pulled a weapon.
I opened my lips, scenting as I scanned. Finally I saw her, standing near the fireplace. The petite woman must have just entered. I pointed Derek to her and slid out of line, one hand on my Walther at my spine. Wrassler was closest. He smiled and said something to the woman, a really bad pickup line, by the anger in her shoulders. She was tiny, but wiry, and I picked out two bulges on her—a gun at her back and maybe a blade at her hip. The elevator door opened. Leo and Grégoire stepped around the corner, Grégoire’s arms and hands still swathed in bandages from the burning he’d taken. The twins were behind them.
Everything happened fastfastfast.
The girl took a half dozen steps away from Wrassler, pulling a handgun. Derek leaped in front of Leo. I screamed to the twins. Wrassler pulled his gun and jumped at the girl with a bellow. I raced in, Beast-fast. Draw. Un-safety. No time to aim. Seeing the room as a slow-moving video. Hearing the first shot. From the side. My hand and gun were one unit. Firing. One. Two. Three. Chest shots, midcenter on the girl. Racing in. Seeing Derek fall, blood on his throat. She was still standing. Wearing a Kevlar vest. I squeezed off a single shot, midcenter forehead. Carefully placed. No collateral damage. The girl went down.
More shots sounded. The three burst rat-a-tat of a submachine gun. Leo diving. Grégoire diving. Something stinging my arm.
