Broken Soul

CHAPTER 12 I Haven’t Slept with You Yet

Del opened a pink file on the table in front of her. “Since you told me about the raptor tattoos, I’ve been refreshing myself on the Mithran named Peregrinus, and will begin with his sire, Le Bâtard.

“Le Bâtard is a third-generation Mithran, making him powerful and dangerous. He is on the European Council of Mithrans, and while he verbally adheres to the Vampira Carta, it is rumored that he still practices the worst of slavery, buying children and drinking from them. Until recently, most of his scions were younger than fifteen when they were turned.”

I smelled the reaction of the people in the room. Le Bâtard already had enemies. Good.

Her voice pedantic, Adelaide continued. “Le Bâtard turned Peregrinus, Batildis, and our Grégoire, and while Grégoire walked away from his maker’s cruelty, Peregrinus did not. It is said that he emulates his sire and still serves him. Le Bâtard seldom leaves France. Peregrinus and his sister—sister in the Mithran manner, being the children of a common sire, but partners and lovers—travel often, and are accompanied by the Devil, their primo blood-servant, and a swordswoman who has never been defeated in Blood Challenge. Wherever they travel, they leave in their wake a swath of death and destruction, and always a number of missing children.” I frowned and so did lots of others at the table. “They have come to be known as Satan’s Three. They have, purportedly, been looking for magical items for years, all over the world,” Del said.

I looked up at that one as quick thoughts tumbled over in my mind. Now it all made sense. I had magical items in a bank vault, which Reach would have known. I had thought about moving in here, but maybe that wasn’t such a good way to protect my client. If I was here, then all the attacks would be here. If I was out there, then Satan’s Three would come to me first, thinking me the easier nut to crack.

Del said, “After recent events, it is no surprise that seekers of the magical would show up here, in the States.”

I said, “We believe that Peregrinus and his cronies are here in Louisiana now, without Leo’s leave. We also believe that it was the human blood-servant known as the Devil who kidnapped and tortured the world’s best researcher on vamps while two vamps, a male and a female, looked on. Reach disconnected before I was able to get a description of the torturer, except it might have been female and it had birds tattooed on its arms. Her arms. Whatever.” Electricity seemed to race through the room as the words penetrated and they realized the importance of it all.

“Our best guess is that while the Devil worked on Reach, he or she got everything in Reach’s databases. That means my file, Leo’s file, and probably the file on everyone here at HQ. Reach was nosy and I don’t doubt that he had the security protocols, which is why Aardvark was only in hard copy. We’ve changed passwords and set up the one protocol that Reach couldn’t have, but it may be a case of too little, too late. The Three want something that they think I have or that Leo has.”

I continued. “Next item is the brownouts. We’ve had people all over checking the HQ wiring and making replacements. It’s taking forever, because some of the wiring is decades old and not in use or hidden inside walls, which then have to be torn out and repaired. Frankly, we need all the wiring torn out and new wiring installed from top to bottom, but there’s not enough time between now and the Europeans’ arrival to do that, so we’re stuck with making jury-rigged repairs while looking for the causative factor for the events.

“The Otis repair people and the electrical wiring company people have been in and out. They’ll continue to be on the buddy system with our people. Let’s make sure the workers are always—and I mean always—with someone from security. You need to take a bathroom break, you call for backup. The workers need a break, you get someone to go in with them. Most of the repair people are related by blood-servant status, but any one of them could have hidden connections to one of the groups who hate nonhumans. No outsiders go alone at all, and if they have any kind of electronic devices on their person, they leave them in your hands when they go to restrooms. Understood?”

There were nods around the table, but I felt an itch between my shoulder blades. I had done deep background on all of these guys and gals. But it was very possible that I’d missed something. It only took one ticked-off human with a hand grenade or a pipe bomb.

“Del, our greatest concerns are rewiring security, food service, and emergency lighting, in that order.”

Del nodded and made a note to herself.

“Okay, folks. Let’s talk about the rainbow light-dragon. Leo called it a ‘Grand danger. L’esprit lumière. L’arcenciel.’” I stumbled over the French. “Anyone know what that is?” When no one volunteered, I said, “I’ll be finding out. Meeting adjourned.”

Wrassler led me to Grégoire’s boudoir. That was the only thing I could call it. Bedroom was too plain; suite was too businesslike; quarters was too military, though there were parts to all of those in the three small rooms. The woodwork at the ceiling was heavily carved, coated with gilt, and the walls had been painted in shades of blue that would complement the color of Grégoire’s eyes. I knew that because there was a life-sized painting of Grégoire just inside the door, his eyes matching his velvet clothes, gold lace at his wrists.

The entrance was wide with cabinets on either side of the door. I could smell steel and lemon oil, baby oil, lacquer or varnish—something to coat wood—and leather. The scents were different from the smells a gun cabinet would have held. These cabinets held swords. Metal weapons. Probably lots of different blades. My hands itched to open the doors and sniff through them. Wrassler led me on inside.

To the left of the door was a tiny room with one whole wall dedicated to wines, most with dusty labels. There was a narrow bar with crystal decanters and crystal glasses for decanting and drinking wine. The rest of the room was taken up by a delicate sofa, a tiny table, and two small chairs, all looking like something a French king might have used. And maybe had.

To the right was a closed door and I knew better than to open it uninvited, but I guessed it was a closet and dressing room. Grégoire was a dandy and his closet probably took up the biggest room in the boudoir suite.

Directly ahead was the bedroom, most of it blocked by Wrassler’s broad back. The room was like something out of a French castle. Silks and tapestries and rugs piled on top of rugs and art stacked several deep against the walls. In most of the artwork a female was front and center. Batildis. Batildis in velvets and silks and lace, posed in fields and libraries and fancy salons. And in others wearing nothing, posed on beds and horses and . . . with Grégoire.

This discussion was going to be harder than I had expected. He had been in love with Batildis. And if vamp emotions were anything to go on, he likely still was. Wrassler said something French that had my name in the middle, and Grégoire said something back. Wrassler nodded me to the chair by the bed and stepped out of the way, allowing me to see the rest of the room, which was filled with tables and chairs and knickknacks and art from centuries of living.

Grégoire, wearing a blue silk dressing gown, was on the huge wrought-iron bed. The frame was shaped with fleurs-de-lis at every angle, an ornate, exotic structure that made the iron look like lace. He was lying back against a stack of pillows, blue silk linens over him and beneath him. Curled up beside him, a happy smile on her face and a smear of blood on her throat, was Amy Lynn Brown, a new scion who had come from Asheville along with Adelaide Mooney. Amy was the kind of person who would disappear into a crowd in a heartbeat, nondescript, brown everything, and on the surface, mousy. But Amy was famous. Her blood brought scions back from the devoveo in record time. It was brilliant to have the injured vamps drink from her, and from the smile on her face she wasn’t averse to helping out in any way required.

Grégoire was vamped out from feeding but as Wrassler moved toward the doorway, his fangs clicked up into the roof of his mouth and his eyes bled back into the famous blue irises. His skin was pink from the blood he had taken and he licked his lips. “Thank you, Amy,” he said. “When I am more myself, I shall court you and shower you with gifts. You are a treasure to drink from, your blood like the finest wines of my home country.”

Amy blushed, bobbed her head, and skedaddled. Grégoire didn’t move, which was not a good thing; nor were the cold eyes he turned to me. His scent was flowery and soft, like the seashore and spring blossoms, but underneath it was a trace of frustration, like creosote in the sun. Grégoire looked like a fifteen-year-old human kid in the big bed, but the vamp had fought and debauched his way all through Europe for centuries. He was not a fanghead to take lightly or to treat as anything less than a dangerous predator.

“Um . . . are you still paralyzed?” I asked. Great. Fantastic greeting, Jane.

He let a silence build between us, as he scrutinized me, his face neither soft nor forgiving, his body unmoving and more dead than usual. “I can move my head,” he said at last, and I flinched at the words. He slid across the pillow, mussing his long blond hair against the blue silk. “I am able to move my left foot and toes,” he said, the covers wiggling in demonstration, but his gaze not wavering. “My left hand is also much improved.” His fingers wiggled. “And other bodily functions have returned in full. But I am still paralyzed, yes.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “I didn’t intend to hurt you so bad.”

“You were perhaps planning a love tap?”

“Ummm . . .”

“I know you are not human, Jane, but I was not aware of your speed, nor your strength. They are secrets worth hiding, and will be of use when you face the Europeans. And my kin,” he finished, emphasizing the last three words.

“Yeah.” I took a breath. “About your fam—”

“Sadly, you will face them alone,” he interrupted, “if I am not well recovered. And even with your speed and trickery, you will not survive, not against Peregrinus and his Devil.” I wasn’t adept at reading Grégoire, but I thought I detected a bit of satisfaction in his tone at the thought of me dying. “It would have been better had you shared your secrets with Leo and with me, that you might be better trained and your gifts better utilized. You have kept a great weapon from us. Why?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Remorseful enough to share your blood that I might heal the faster?” I didn’t reply and Grégoire gave me a smile that contained stony gratification. “Sorrow is a wasted emotion when not supported with actions to repair the wrong. You did not answer my question. Why did you hide this when you know we face such a danger?”

I shrugged and sighed. “Would you believe me if I said I just discovered I could move so fast?” His expression said he wouldn’t. “It’s true. I was raised alone from the time I was five years old. I didn’t have teachers. I don’t know how to use all the abilities of my kind. I’m still learning. And while I knew I could move fast, I seem to be getting”—I lifted a shoulder—“faster.” Which sounded woefully inadequate. Because, even if I knew all that another skinwalker could teach me, I’d still be floundering with the abilities that my Beast gave me. Couldn’t share that. Nope.

“A singularity? You have never met another of your kind?”

I looked at the doorway. Wrassler had left us alone but the door was open. I stepped to the entry and closed the door. Grégoire’s eyes were narrowed when I turned back, and he held a long, slender knife in his left fingers. I figured knives were never far from the vamp’s hand, even a hand that only partly worked. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” I said, sounding cross. “But I don’t want this getting back to Leo.”

Grégoire’s pale blond eyebrows went up. “You think I would keep something from my master?”

“Only if it was necessary. And this is necessary.” I sat on one of the small chairs, one made when humans were Grégoire’s size, not my six feet in height. My knees rose high and I felt ridiculous, but the position made Grégoire pause, and he flipped the knife, holding it in such a way that he couldn’t throw it in a single move. But he didn’t put it away either. I smelled a fresh scent in the room, overriding the smell of vamp blood, slightly acrid, and I eyed the blade. Poison? That was ducky.

“Leo knows that Immanuel was killed and eaten by a black-magic user. The thing that posed as Leo’s son and heir for decades was a skinwalker, like me. But he had gone off the deep end.” At the confusion on Grégoire’s face, I said, “He’d gone crazy. When skinwalkers get old they lose mental stability and do what Immanuel did. They eat humans. Immanuel is the only other skinwalker I’ve seen in”—I shrugged, not knowing how to finish this—“in ever.”

“Leo knows this?”

“He knows some of it. He sent me the bones Immanuel collected. But he doesn’t know everything. Like how fast I am. Or how strong.” Or that I can now bend time. Yeah. Not that either.

Grégoire took a breath he didn’t need and blew it out in a sound that was all French, a pah of disgust. “Leo still grieves. Perhaps it is wise to let sleeping dogs lie, as you Americans say.” He shifted his head on the pillow and smiled. “I moved my right big toe. I can feel the sheets.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “Because I have to ask about your Mithran family.” Grégoire frowned, the expression looking hard and remote and wrong on his young face. I kept my eyes on the knife in his hand. I could shift and heal from most wounds, but a poisoned blade might have unexpected consequences. “Is there something here in the Council Chambers that Reach might have discovered? Something that Satan’s Three might want?”

Grégoire’s eyes shifted slightly before meeting mine. If I hadn’t been living with Mr. Minimalist in all things emotional, I might have missed it. I’d have to remember to thank Eli. “What does Leo have that they might want?” I whispered.

“Should I speak of my master’s secrets? Of the weapons that keep us safe?” he asked. “I have not forgotten that you once saved my life and my clan. For this, I will not kill you. I will think on what you seek to learn and the dark things hidden here.”

I frowned, but I’d heard that tone in vamps’ voices before. I was about to be kicked out. Before he could, I said, “Thank you for the box of papers.”

Grégoire didn’t reply. “If you will not feed me, you are dismissed. And tell the next blood-servant to enter.” Grégoire turned his head, but he didn’t let go of the knife he still held. I stood and left the boudoir, leaving the door open for Katie, who looked me over with cool disdain as she entered. Or rather, she looked me over the way she might something icky she found on the bottom of her shoe.

My attempts to see Leo were thwarted by Derek himself, standing in front of Leo’s door. “Per the MOC. You can come back at dusk,” the former marine said. “Not before.” And from the look on his face, Derek was ready and willing to enforce the edict: it wasn’t worth fighting for. So I headed out.

It was two hours after dawn when I finally made it back to my house, and in through the door on the back porch. The front was still sealed off with crime scene tape, and if I’d been someone not connected to the household of the Blood Master of the City, I’d be in a hotel. I needed to sleep, but my body was too wired, and my mind was too busy making lists of things I needed to do. Eli headed upstairs to repack his gobag and then to crash for an hour or two. Even Uncle Sam’s finest needed to sleep sometime.

I was brewing a pot of tea when my cell rang with a familiar local number and I answered it with the name of my business, just in case it wasn’t who I thought it might be. “Yellowrock Securities.”

“Jodi here.”

I smiled into the cell. “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah, well, if you’d keep people from leaving bombs on your doorstep, you might get some social time.”

“Ouch. Did you catch that?”

“I got dragged into the paperwork, liaison, and media side of things. Thanks in great part to the general knowledge at NOPD that I know you.”

Jodi was the head of the woo-woo department, working to solve new and cold paranormal cases. She had been given the promotion as a way to punish her for knowing the wrong people, supernatural people, but it hadn’t worked out quite the way her superiors expected. Instead of sitting forever in her basement cubicle, Jodi had been thrust into cases with the vamps and the three-initial law enforcement departments. The ATF, the DEA, the FBI, and the longer acronym, PsyLED, to name a few. Jodi was making waves in state and national law enforcement and rubbing elbows with the rich and fangy. She now had media power, enough that her superiors’ intent to ruin her career had backfired. She was fast-tracking up toward a glass ceiling that the family of known witches had never made before, or at least not in Louisiana law enforcement.

“So what did they discover about my bomber?” I asked, hoping she’d share things most victims didn’t have access to.

“He’s had a long-running career. Like well over thirty years. His fingerprints were found through Interpol, on another bomb in Russia.”

“Yeah, about that timeline. I may have an enemy or three in town. Some who were alive four hundred years ago,” I said. “They go by the names of Peregrinus, Batildis, and the Devil. The vamps call them Satan’s Three.”

Jodi cursed softly under her breath.

“My feelings exactly. They have to be really bad to get such cute nicknames among vamps. Do some checking on them, would you? The vamps are children of a vamp named François Le Bâtard. You may have something in your files that I don’t. I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours. Ummm. Totally in a platonic way,” I said.

“That rings a bell somewhere. Later.” Jodi disconnected.

I ended the call on my end and took the metal box of ancient papers gifted to me by Grégoire to the kitchen table, and started a good strong black tea. When I had it steeping, I opened the box.

The scent of age wafted up from the papers, to mix with the bouquet of George’s flowers. Pollen and catnip blended with the scents of old inks, old heavy-cloth paper, old flax paper, old vellum, and older papyrus, each in fancy manila folders, probably made of acid-free paper to protect the contents. I lifted out the topmost file and opened it, without touching the pages within. The writing on the loose pages inside was an ancient script with lots of flourishes and sweeps, like most vamp calligraphy, but more spidery and uncertain. I thought it might be Latin. Or an archaic version of one the Romance Languages. Spanish? Italian?

I heard a soft knock at the side door and knew it was Bruiser. Just knew. I set down the file. Swiveled in my seat and stared at the side door, into the shadows there. I walked to the door, my slippered feet silent on the wood floors.

I placed a hand on the door, not sure I wanted to open it. Not sure why I wouldn’t open it—except fear. Am not afraid, Beast thought, rising up in my mind. Want. Want mate. I opened the door, letting in the heated morning light, and looked up into Bruiser’s brown eyes, studying him. He studied me back, his expression both calm and captivating, a warm snare of possibility. Beast, and something else, something of myself, moved deep within me, questing. Want this one, Beast thought at me. Strong, good mate. She sent claws into my mind, just pinpricks, for now, and I held her back.

“What do you want?” I asked Bruiser, curious, not sure I wanted to know what he might say. “What do you really want?”

“You.”

I felt my flush, felt my heart race, out of control. Knew he could sense those things now that he was Onorio.

“Eventually,” he added. “When you’re ready.”

Beast sank her claws deeper, kneading my heart this time, a measured, pricking, painful pad . . . pad . . . pad. She purred deep inside me, peering through my eyes. I could see the golden reflection of her in his.

He didn’t comment on my eyes, on the proof that I wasn’t human. But then, he had been a blood-servant and primo of a master vamp for decades. He hadn’t been truly human for a long while, so proof of my lack of humanity might not bother him at all. I took a breath that hurt as my ribs moved, recently healed flesh tingling, that sharp pain blending with Beast’s claws, pressing in on me. I remembered the feel of the scale of the light-dragon, and the magic that it left prickling on my flesh. “You keep saying that.”

“Yes. I do.” He gave a small smile. Stepped inside the door without my asking him in, and closed the door behind himself. The kitchen was shadowed and still. Intimate. Slowly, Bruiser lifted his right hand and cupped my face, his flesh warmer than human. Fevered. I tilted my head into his palm, not sure. Not sure of anything. So very not sure.

Am not afraid, Beast thought. Want. Want this one. Want mate. She pushed back at me, fighting my control. My breath quickened as I/we stared into Bruiser’s eyes.

He tilted my head back, his gaze holding me. Odd, that angle up to see a taller man. Brown eyes with yellow streaks in them, pale amber, brightened by Beast’s glow, heated, like banked fires. He stepped closer. His mouth came down to mine. A bare brush of lips. The heated taste of Onorio, as if he might burn me. His breath a warm wisp. Another graze of lips. Slow. My eyes closed. The tension I hadn’t noted fell away. His lips sealed over mine. And I sighed into his mouth. Liquid warmth, like melting chocolate and heavy cream, swirled and merged deep inside me, spreading through me and out, to slide along my skin, a sweet burning.

Want, Beast thought. Want this. This mate. I breathed in, and Bruiser’s scent was searing and honeyed, like caramelized sugar, scorching in the pan. Want, she purred, the sensation like velvet sliding through me, shredding the endings of nerves in my palms and breasts and puddling between my thighs.

But you wanted Rick. And he failed us, I thought at Beast. The old hurt rose up, and I saw again his face, suffused with desire and magic as he walked away from us and toward Paka.

I no longer wanted Rick. I didn’t. But the pain was still raw.

Mine. Now! Beast thought. But I was caught between two needs, protection and desire.

Bruiser’s hand soothed my cheek, down along my neck, and cupped my head, tilting my face farther upward. His other arm slipped around me, drawing me close. Moving slowly, as if I might leap away, like a wild animal, caught delicately in his hands. His body like a furnace, like an oaken fire in the midst of winter, melded to mine.

This not Rick. This is mate. Beast struggled, wanting free. Pain raced along my nerves and through my fingertips as her claws threatened to pierce my flesh.

I raised my hands and placed my palms on his upper arms, feeling the corded muscle hidden beneath the inhumanly warm flesh. I tightened my fingers over his arms, careful of the pain in my fingertips. Not pulling him closer. But not pushing him away either. His lips brushed warmth through me and I closed my eyes, scenting, tasting, feeling, knowing. Heat spread out from the center of me, bright and painful and needing.

Jane wants. Jane wants mate. Jane is foolish kit not to take. Stupid, Beast hissed.

His arms tightened, pulling me closer. One hand slid low and cupped me in, toward the center of him. His tongue brushed against my teeth and my breath hitched, feeling-seeing-tasting the thought of Bruiser and me in my bed. Beast swiped claws of desire through me. Heat billowed up from the center of me to throb, low in my belly. Electric pulses thrummed through me, burning with need. And yet I held back, seeing, hearing all those unanswered questions between us. All that depth of the unknown. I didn’t want to take a man to my bed again without honesty between us. Yet, my arm slid up, one hand cupping his head, the other riding low, one thumb on the edge of the waistband of his slacks.

At that thought, Beast paused. Bruiser would know the I/we of Beast, she murmured.

As if he sensed both my need and my pliant uncertainty, Bruiser’s lips curled up and he chuckled into my mouth, his laughter a rumble of delight, a vibration that met and merged with Beast’s laughing purr. Settled low in me, throbbing.

Bruiser would take the I/we of Beast as mate. Want this. Like hunting, slow stalk and wait in sun for perfect prey.

Bruiser pulled away, ending the kiss slowly, his lips clinging and withdrawing all at once. I opened my eyes to see his, watching me. So close. The heat of his kiss made my knees weak. I wanted more. I wanted. And he knew it. His eyes shifted to my mouth, his own still holding that half smile.

Beast pulled back. Mate. Mate the I/we of Beast. Mate all of what we are.

Yes. That, I thought. I licked my lips and said the first thing that popped into my head. “Do you read Latin?” And then blushed like a schoolgirl. Idiot. Stupid. I am so stupid!

Bruiser laughed, the vibrations rushing up through my chest, pressed against his. “You are a never-ending source of delight,” he said. He kissed my forehead as if I were a favored child, released me, and walked away, taking with him that extraordinary warmth. Leaving me feeling abnormally chilled in the May-warm house.

Not knowing what else to do, not sure what had just happened, I crossed my arms over my chest, thinking, Holy crap on crackers with cheese, and followed him into the kitchen.

“I assume you are talking about the papers Grégoire gave to you,” he said, stopping in front of the box in question. “Make me some coffee and I’ll see if I can help.”

It wasn’t what I wanted, not at all, but it also seemed like a fair trade, and perhaps a chance to ask of the former primo what I had asked of Grégoire. I used the semi-new coffee machine to brew Bruiser a perfect cup of golden roast and poured myself a mug of vanilla-flavored tea, with hazelnut creamer and a half teaspoon of sugar, keeping my hands busy so I didn’t have to look at Bruiser as I served him. Keeping my head down, thinking. Feeling his lips on mine again. It had been a chaste kiss. Not much tongue. No grinding body to body. The warmth cached within me flared at the thought and I swallowed a soft gasp. Drank the hot tea to cover my reaction. And burned my tongue, which served me right.

Bruiser sat at the table and took a smaller pasteboard box from inside the metal one. Within it were several pairs of white gloves, and I figured they were intended to keep finger oil off the papers. He put on a pair, though they were tight and the fingers too short for his long, slender hands. Beautiful hands, with well-shaped knuckles and long phalanges. Hands I wanted to touch. I gripped the mug tighter.

Handling the papers carefully, he scanned the pages I had left open. “Italian,” he said, musingly, “like all of the Romance languages, has roots in Latin, but Italian is closest to the ancient tongue. Its poetic and literary origins became more standardized in the twelfth century, and this was written much later than that. It’s dated the tenth of July, in the year of our Lord, 1593.”

I knew a lot of that, but the professorial tone relaxed me, as it was undoubtedly intended to. I slid his coffee cup closer to him and Bruiser picked it up, sipped, eyes on the paper. “This is a letter, signed Pope Clement VIII.” He raised his brows and looked at me over the lip of the cup. “This should be in the archives of the Vatican. In a museum somewhere. And Grégoire just gave it to you?” Bruiser smiled, shaking his head. “You do have an effect on people, Jane Yellowrock.”

Bruiser started reading aloud, in English, translating from the letter as he went. It wasn’t a smooth and effortless translation, but it was way better than me trying to key the letters and words into an online translation site. I took a chair across from him and watched his mouth as he read, half listening to the minutiae of church politics that had nothing to do with witches. Until he read, “‘As to the workers of the magickal, my dear Paulinus, they are a hindrance to the church, and much as the Christ killers . . .’” He glanced up at me. “He’s talking about the Jews. The Roman Church declared them Christ killers so they could take their property under religious law, even though the Romans themselves actually killed him.”

I nodded. I knew that.

“‘. . . and the Mohammedan troubles, the magickal must be sought out with a firm and thorough hand. Our dealings with them must be meticulous to reduce their numbers comprehensively and quickly.’”

“That’s horrible,” I said. “That sounds like genocide.”

“It was exactly like genocide. Religion as a political entity is always horrible,” Bruiser said, his tone final.

“But—” I stopped. My religion wasn’t supposed to be horrible. It was supposed to be based on love and generosity and forgiveness. But history had always suggested otherwise. And my other spirituality, the Cherokee, had a bloody and violent historical aspect that made the old pope’s comments seem conventional. How was I supposed to look at the mores of history and compare them to today’s violence and judgment? Current events suggested that humanity was no better today than it had ever been, that we had learned nothing. And my own job description suggested just the same. Vampire hunter. Vampire killer. My throat clogged on the implications, I said, “Go on.”

“That’s all. The rest of the pages in this folder appear to be from the same era and written by the same hand. Politics. Purchases of land. Taking of property and holdings from the people ‘disappeared’ by the Church.”

He shifted through the papers, pausing to read here and there. I refreshed his coffee, feeling disturbed for lots of reasons. He closed the file and stood, returning it to the box, his fingers moving through the pages and files. He reached deeper in and pulled out a very old book. “Ah, this is what you’ve been hoping for, I think. Treatise of the Magikal.” Bruiser opened the book and paged through the front; looked at me from under his eyebrows. “Shall we take this to the other room?”

“Yeah. Okay.” I started him a fresh cup and followed him to the living room. Overhead, I heard stirring, as Alex got up for the day and went to the bathroom. Soon he would bring me info on Satan’s Three, and my quiet time would be over. And I’d go back to being what I was and doing what I did. Bruiser sat on the couch, and after a moment, I curled up on the other end.

“This book is from the seventeen hundreds, printed in Germany. My familiarity with the tongue is limited, so I’ll read, translate, and then summarize it for you.”

“How do you know all this stuff? Languages and all. I mean, I know you’re old, but—” I stopped myself. “I mean you’re not old old, but you’re . . . just . . .”

“Old?” he asked, that same warm laughter in his tone. I shrugged uncomfortably, and he asked, “How old are you, Jane?”

I jerked my eyes from my tea mug to his face. Chills snaked along my limbs, any remaining warmth from our kiss chased away by the question.

“Are you as old as I? I was born in nineteen hundred and three.” His eyes were crinkled slightly as he watched me struggle with the question. “Until we emigrated to the colonies, I had a classical education, learning Latin, Greek, French, mathematics, philosophy, and history. Once I entered Leo’s household, I was tutored by a variety of Mithrans in numerous subjects. I like languages, their histories and mutability, the cultures they reference and revive from the ashes of time.”

“I don’t know,” I blurted. A weight lifted from my shoulders when he didn’t react. “Found in the woods when I was twelvish. No memories. Raised by wolves. All that nonsense. It made the papers.”

Mate to know all of I/we, Beast thought at me.

Bruiser raised his eyebrows politely, asking silently for more. For no reason I understood, I answered. “I was about five on the Trail of Tears.”

“The nunahi-duna-dlo-hilu-i,” Bruiser said softly, his voice holding no nuance at all.

Shock that he pronounced it perfectly went through me and my heart rate sped. “Yes.”

“The trail lasted from 1831 to 1838, and involved many tribes in the eastern part of the States. The Cherokees were the last tribe moved. Forcefully. Brutally. So you might have been born anytime from eighteen thirty to eighteen thirty-three.”

He didn’t look like he was about to freak out so I nodded once, a jerk of my head.

“You’re robbing the cradle, then,” he said. Humor filled his face. “You’re a cougar.”

Laughter burbled out of me, part of it relieved nerves, the other part surprise at the play on words. “I’m not that kind of cougar,” I said, my tone lofty. Unthinking, I added, “I haven’t slept with you yet.” A hot blush followed the shock through me like lightning when I heard that last word come out of my mouth.

“No. Not yet,” he agreed, but his words were no longer smooth, or amused. He sounded something else, something heated and waiting. Bruiser returned his eyes to the old book and started reading, his eyes going back and forth across the page.

I managed to keep my breath from whooshing out with relief, but my skin felt hot and prickly. Beast purred inside of me, oddly satisfied. Upstairs, Alex started a shower and thumped around in the bathroom.

Long minutes later Bruiser said, “The magical beings have existed for thousands of years. There are numerous kinds, and they appear to be divided along racial, ethnic, and familial lines, though that is thought to be due to travel restrictions and inbreeding in prehistoric tribal times, not an actual genetic or racial difference that denotes ability or power levels. The writer seems to be saying that all witches are equal. But not really.”

“Helpful. Not.”

“Mmmm. The persecution of the magical began after the fall of Atlantis”—his eyebrows went up together—“in the year 5,000 BC, following a great worldwide flood. That makes it seven thousand years ago. A flood that killed off The People of the Straight Ways.”

“Say that again.”

Bruiser looked up at me. “The People of the Straight Ways?”

“Yeah. That could tie back with the l’arcenciel—the light-dragon that bit Leo and Gee. Back with stuff I heard when I was working south of Chauvin, hunting that escaped prisoner.” Bruiser inclined his head. “I was told that they built lots of the ancient canals found in Louisiana, Mississippi, Florida, New England, and all over the world. Do you know about them?”

“L’arcenciel, or the arcenciel. The L is the article.” I gave a nod of understanding, and he went on. “I’ve come across the term once or twice, but not with any particular emphasis or related to any flood. Or related to the flood.” He closed the book and pulled off the white gloves. “You look tired. When did you last sleep?”

I thought about that for a while and sipped my cold tea. “I don’t remember when I last slept for a whole night. I’ve been on vamp hours. And then my house was targeted by a bomb maker. And then I got cut up by a master swordsman.”

“And broke his neck.”

“Yeah. That too. So I don’t know.” I added, by way of ambush, “What do Satan’s Three want with Leo? And me?”

With a faint smile, he said, “You’ll have to ask Leo that.” Bruiser held up the book and asked, “May I take this with me? I’ll read and summarize it for you as I go and send it to you via e-mail. The contents don’t sound as if they need immediate attention.”

So much for verbal surprise attacks. I flipped my hand in a modified shrug. “Sure. If you find anything out about the iron spike of Golgotha or any of the other magical items, let me know.”

Bruiser took my mug and carried both empties back to the kitchen. I watched as he washed the cup and mug. I had watched Eli and Alex doing that for months, but this felt different. Weirdly domestic. Bruiser placed the cleaned stoneware upside down on a dish towel to drain and placed the book and gloves by the side door before returning to me. He bent over my chair and placed his head near mine, the heat of his skin a furnace on my cheek. Breathing into my ear, he whispered the words, “I should not suggest this to you, but—” He placed a kiss on my ear, and shivers thundered through me. I pulled in a breath that smelled of him, Bruiser. My hands tightened on the edge of the couch cushion.

His lips moved on my ear as he said, “All magical items that interest the Mithrans go back to the Sons of Darkness, one of whom disappeared here, in New Orleans, long ago.” My confusion must have shown on my face because Bruiser said, “The makers of all vampire-kind, the sons of Judas Iscariot.” With no warning at all, he bent, slid his arms under my knees and around my back, and picked me up.

My heart did a major stutter stop-and-go and I gasped. He carried me through the foyer and pushed open my bedroom door. My bed was unmade. My room was a disaster. This was not the way I wanted this to play out. “Bruiser. What—?”He dropped me on my bed. I bounced. I’m pretty sure I squealed.

Bruiser turned on a heel and left me there, amid the twisted, unwashed sheets and squished pillows. “Get some sleep.” He shut my door.

“Wh— Get some sleep? No fair!” I shouted through the door.

I heard him chuckle as he let himself out the kitchen side door.

“So totally not fair.” I punched my pillow. Not that I had indicated to him that I’d welcome any romantic overtures. Well, except for the kiss at the door. And maybe a hot make-out session in my shower once. And on a limo floor. But then there had been Rick, who had torn a raw, painful wound inside me. Maybe that was what Bruiser had been waiting for? For me to heal?

Jane is silly kit, Beast murmured at me.

I pulled off my clothes, dropped them on the floor, and smoothed the covers over me. Even with the sounds of hammers and skill saws in the background, where the house next to Katie’s was being renovated, I was asleep in an instant. But his words hung in my mind, part spoken in Bruiser’s voice, part from a fragmented memory. A Son of Darkness disappeared here.