Broken Soul

CHAPTER 6 Carrying a Vamp Head

Hours later, I looked at myself in the mirror on the closet door. I was wearing one of the first outfits I had bought when I got to New Orleans, clothes purchased because it was too hot for my mountain wear, and because they were colorful and beautiful. Now I knew enough about clothing to recognize that they were made of inexpensive fabric, with inferior workmanship. I knew that the seams were sewn cheaply, the drape wasn’t quite right, and the skirt would likely last only a few washings before it lost its shape entirely. Dumb, stupid stuff to know, of no value in a world where my most important bit of knowledge should be how sharp the blade, how well it was balanced, and how true the sights on the gun. But I’d bought the clothes with my own money and with my own taste. I’d worn the outfit on the first night I’d gone dancing in New Orleans, my first week here.

The silk, calf-length, asymmetrical skirt was patchwork, a dainty, flared, delicate confection of tiny, two-by-four-inch patches of teal and purple, a skirt for an impoverished princess. The hem flipped when I danced and the elastic waist rode low on my hips if I wanted it to, or higher, on my waist. I’d put on a few pounds of muscle since I bought it, but most of that was in my shoulders and thighs and the skirt still looked good on me. Rad, as the salesgirl had said.

I wore the skirt low on my hips, paired with a peasant top with a drawstring neckline. The blouse was made of a paler fabric, ocean-teal shading to lavender. The amethyst-and-chatkalite necklace I’d bought with the outfit hung with my gold-nugget-and-puma-tooth necklace on its doubled gold chain, between my cleavage. And that was something else new. I had cleavage. Well, sorta. At least a valley, if not a crevasse, thanks to all those extra pounds, a very tiny percentage of which had landed as fat on my boobs. I slid my feet into a pair of purple sandals, with ankle straps for dancing.

I tugged the purple and teal skirt lower on my hip bones, pulling the peasant top lower on my breasts, the tie open with a skin-toned jog bra beneath. Sexy, but showing nothing. The skirt whispered around my calves with each step. I’d worn this on the first night I’d heard Rick LaFleur play the saxophone in the band at the Royal Mojo Blues Company. There had to be a reason I’d chosen to wear this outfit tonight. Was it because Rick was gone, but not totally gone, as in dead and buried? Was it because he had texted me several times since he disappeared with Paka, his new were-black-panther girlfriend, as if keeping in touch with me was important? Not that I had texted back. I wasn’t that stupid. Or was it something else?

I let my mind wander as I swished on a little bronzer to brighten my skin, drew on some lips in a vamp red, and mascaraed my lashes. I didn’t test the movement of my skirt in the mirror, not like I had that first night. That first night dancing, I’d worn a turban. But tonight, I French-braided my hair into three short sections, secured them together at the crown of my head, and let the rest of the hair fall in a straight sheen of midnight black to my hips. I was the same. And not the same. And Rick was gone. I’d stopped mourning, though sometimes it crept back in. Life sans boyfriend—any boyfriend—could be unexpectedly lonely. I smiled at myself in the mirror, scarlet lips and a dress that was sex on a stick. New beginnings often started with the broken bits and shattered pieces of the old. I was not the dumb girl I’d been a few months ago—that gal’s soul had been broken and put back together with bailing wire and duct tape. And life went on. How corny was that?

But just because I’d grown up a bit didn’t mean I’d grown stupid. I strapped on a thigh sheath with a vamp-killer and two stakes and stuck two more into my hair. I looked at myself in the mirror again and let the skirt fall slowly over the weapons. Yeah. I was still me. Maybe I was more me than ever.

The boys were talking when I opened my door, but the chatter stopped when I entered the main room and paused in the doorway. Alex nearly swallowed his tongue and managed, “Shhhh-oot,” instead of what he’d started to say.

Feeling uncertain again, I bunched my skirt with my hands and said, “Thanks.”

Eli’s brows rose with a restrained reaction of some kind, and he said, “Babe. You planning to rock the house tonight? Or George’s dreams?”

“She’s got a date with Bruiser?” the Kid asked his brother.

I looked down at my dress. “Yeah. I’m pretty astounded too. I’m totally out of his league. You know? He’s British. He was raised by a Lady, as in a capital L Lady. He dates vamps, some of whom are royalty. I mean, I was raised in a children’s home.”

“And you can hold your own anywhere with anyone, Janie,” Alex said, staunchly.

“Yeah, but I bet she can’t dance,” Eli said.

“I can, too,” I said, stung.

“Prove it,” Eli said. “Music.” I heard a faint click, and something African-inspired with drums and a low-pitched wind instrument and bells started playing. “No.” The music changed to a Latin beat, horns and drums, hot, with a deep basso rhythm to it. Eli stood and held out his hand. “Yeah. That one, bro. Prove it, babe.”

“How’s that gonna make me feel better about a date with Bruiser?”

“Trust me.”

When I didn’t take his hand, Eli grabbed mine and whirled me into a rough dance I couldn’t even begin to name. It had a six-beat dance pattern that cued as tri-ple step, tri-ple step, step, step, like a boogie-woogie, but the moves were all Latin, hips and shoulders and butt all acting independently of one another but managing to work. Somehow. Eli whirled me under his arm, out, and back in, with a snapping motion that would have put a lesser woman into a body cast. And suddenly I grinned.

“What is this?” I asked.

“The locals called it ‘ha’ dzuuy,’ which I think was translated as ‘hard rain’ in Mayan or some other dead language.” He wasn’t even breathing hard as he twirled me through a complicated set of moves that involved a lot of hip rotation, then slammed me into his side like a side of beef against a rock wall. “My unit was stationed in Mexico for a bit during a war between drug lords. We partied with the locals in our downtime.

“Try this.” His feet continued the same pattern while his hips performed a sinuous, snaky move that could have come directly from my belly-dancing classes, all come-hither and keep-away at once. I followed the step and added a slight dip-and-bounce at the end, rolling my body back up to start the move all over again. Eli looked like I could have knocked him over with a feather—minimalist style—a twitch of lips that signified surprise.

The music ended midnote and I heard knocking on the front door. My date was here.

Oh crap. My date. But my nerves had dissipated somewhere in the dance, and I winked at the Kid as I swung out of Eli’s arms and to the foyer, my feet and hips still moving as I tossed a tiny bag over my shoulder and opened the door on the late-day, May air.

Bruiser’s scent swept in, smelling of citrus, gun oil, and male, riding along with the New Orleans’ air—spring sunshine, heated concrete, and the wet of the Mississippi. It all mixed with the inside scents of flowers and catnip. Though I couldn’t see the weapons, I knew he was wearing them. Bruiser always went armed. He was wearing casual clothes, dark brown slacks and a starched white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a jacket hanging by a finger over his shoulder. Bruiser had great arms, muscular and tanned.

“Jane,” he said. Just my name. And something lightened inside of me.

“Bruiser,” I said back, and I smiled at him as Beast raised up and padded closer to the front of my mind, peering out through my eyes. Mine, she purred. Without looking over my shoulder, I said, “My gobag’s in the foyer. See you at vamp HQ at nine sharp.”

Eli said, “Roger that. Twenty-one hundred.”

At the curb, a limo idled, the back door open in invitation. I knew this limo. I’d been in it before, more than once, the first time on my back on the floor with Bruiser on top of me. Not sex, but it had been close. I felt a faint flush, and to hide it, I turned and locked my front door behind me. Breathing deeply until the lock clicked and I had myself under control.

Bruiser touched my shoulder and guided me into the limo, then sat across from me, studying me. I felt awkward and foolish and I didn’t know why. Bruiser said, “I always liked that outfit. I see the blood came out.”

“Oh. Right.” The first night I’d worn the dress, I’d killed a young rogue vamp. Not the smartest clothes to wear while vamp hunting. I’d gotten the vamp’s blood all over me and a lot of my own as well. Leo and Bruiser had been in my house when I arrived, carrying a vamp head and cradling a badly mauled arm. Which Leo had healed while Bruiser looked on. My arm, not the vamp head. She was dead. I looked down at the dress. “Yeah. Somebody at Katie’s got the blood out. Eventually.”

Bruiser shook his head, amusement clear despite the darkness caused by the vamp-worthy tinted windows. “You do know how to make an impression, Jane Yellowrock. And that is one of my favorite dresses.”

“You’re wearing a tie,” I said, frowning. “Should I have worn something fancier? One of Madame Melisende’s things?” The ancient blood-servant made my work clothes for formal vamp occasions.

“No,” he said, his tone with an edge I didn’t understand. Before I could figure it out he added, “You look lovely, perfect for Arnaud’s.”

“You got last-minute reservations at Arnaud’s?” I couldn’t keep the astonishment out of my voice. Even I knew that Arnaud’s was always booked weeks in advance.

“I have a standing reservation,” he said, nonchalant, like an astronaut might say, “I’ve been to space,” or a world traveler, “I’ve been to Paris numerous times,” or—

He interrupted my thoughts with, “I may no longer be primo, but my prominence in all things Mithran hasn’t diminished.”

“But Arnaud’s.” I looked down at my dress, knowing for certain that I needed to have worn a little black dress. I actually had a little black dress now. I lifted the skirt and fingered the silk fabric. Cheap. I’d paid less than a hundred dollars for it.

“Jane. Stop. You look fine. Better than fine. You’ll turn heads everywhere you go.”

“Next time tell me where we’re going,” I said flatly. And then felt my face burn because that made the assumption that there would be a next time and— “Crap. Bruiser. I eat at diners and fast food joints and drink beer. My dates and I talk about guns and the newest horror or action flick. I wear jeans and boots and no makeup. I do not go to Arnaud’s on dates. I won’t know what to order and have no idea which fork or spoon to use.” I met his eyes. “This is not me.”

Bruiser laughed.

He had a really great laugh, not mocking or sarcastic or bored or pitying. He just laughed, as if I’d shared something funny with him. “We’ll do that next time. One week from today, I promise. However, this evening, we are eating at Arnaud’s. And I’ve already spoken with the chef to prepare us a combination plate of meats and fish, with sides, so you can try a bit of everything on that part of the menu.” He leaned in, and his scent roiled over me, soothing. “This isn’t to make you feel inferior, Jane. You are not inferior to anyone. This is to show you a bit of the New Orleans I know, a part you may not have visited before.”

“Right. It’s Arnaud’s.”

“And the food is delicious. And the table is ready.” The limo pulled to a stop. The back door opened and Bruiser stepped out into the sunset, holding his hand back for mine.

“Crap,” I muttered. But I took his hand and let him support me out of the limo. Like I needed it. I could kick his butt. With one hand tied behind me. And then I realized I’d said that aloud when Bruiser laughed again.

“Maybe on our second date, I’ll tie you up,” he said, “and see what you can do to me.”

And that shut me up.

Our table—heavy white linen tablecloth, heavy silverware, heavy crystal wineglasses—was in the back, in a secluded corner, beneath a small potted palm of some kind. The gumbo was delivered while the wine was being poured, something light and smooth that melted in my mouth and matched perfectly with the gumbo appetizer. Bruiser talked about the people he’d known in his life as we ate the soup, and I listened, following his choices as to silverware, which made it much easier. Especially when the salads arrived, all lettuce-y and stuff. It wasn’t bad, for green leaves. And as he talked, I finally began to feel less tongue-tied and started to relax.

And Bruiser had known some amazing people. Mae West, for crying out loud. He had dated Mae West. He had taken target practice with Roy Rogers and Dale Evans at their Double R Bar Ranch in the Mojave Desert. He’d squired (yeah, that was what he said—squired) a teenaged Elizabeth Taylor to several parties, keeping her virtue safe from the aging roués who wanted to sleep with her. I wasn’t sure what a roué was, but it sounded nasty. He name-dropped with abandon, and I learned that Leo had a house in Malibu and shared one with the primo of California’s MOC in Holmby Hills in L.A. Bruiser hadn’t wasted the years he’d been granted as primo, with access to the blood that kept him young. He’d lived it, and I felt both like a kid at her grandpa’s knee listening to stories, and like a seductive woman that men—this man, anyway—couldn’t keep his eyes off of.

For the meal, we were served tiny portions of the speckled trout, prepared two ways: trout meunière and trout amandine, followed by sea bass from the Gulf, caught today, served two ways: filleted and sautéed, topped with fresh Louisiana crabmeat, and grilled fillet topped with fresh tomatoes, basil, extra-virgin olive oil, garlic, and kalamata olives. To die for. I think I said that aloud, maybe for the first time in my whole life. We had three pompano dishes: the pompano Duarte, which was sautéed fillet topped with Gulf shrimp and tomatoes, seasoned with garlic, fresh herbs, and crushed chili peppers; the pompano David—grilled, skin-on fillet brushed with extra-virgin olive oil, lemon, garlic, and fresh herbs—and pompano en croute. And baby pompano fillets and scallop mousse baked in flaky puff pastry, served on a bed of green peppercorn cream sauce. On a separate plate were the veggies, which were wild mushrooms, asparagus, some kind of soufflé, and potatoes, all with their own sauces. I didn’t eat much in the way of plants, but these were enough to make me think about going vegetarian. The portions were tiny but I was stuffed even before the meats arrived.

Between food deliveries—I couldn’t quite call them courses—Bruiser drew me out on my life in the children’s home, and how I started into the security business, though he’d done a deep background on me before I was ever hired to work with the New Orleans’ vamps. He sounded interested, as in interested, and it made me feel too warm, and all weird. He asked me about my weapons training and about my life in Asheville, before I’d come to work here. He made me feel important and . . . admirable, maybe. Which was a totally weird feeling.

There were two veal dishes, three filet mignon dishes, and sweetbreads, which were bull balls and I passed on them. Bruiser ate my portion with what looked like delight. The wines changed with every part of the meal. With my skinwalker metabolism, I could drink most humans under the table, but even I was feeling a little woozy by the time the meal ended. And full. And totally decadent. The food at Arnaud’s was pricey. I snuck a peek at the menu when I went to the ladies’ room, and figured that we could feed a whole house full of unwanted children at Bethel Nondenominational Christian Children’s Home for a week for what we spent on one self-indulgent meal.

“Okay,” I said afterward, as we weaved through the immaculate tables and the hoity-toity diners, Bruiser’s hand warm on my spine through the thin blouse. “Next date, one week from now, in the Clover Grill, my treat.” I grinned with delight. I loved getting what I wanted. “Followed by . . . dancing.”

Bruiser leaned in and spoke next to my ear. “Only in the aisles, not on the tables.” Which let me know he’d really been there. There was a sign printed somewhere in the diner proclaiming that. I smiled slowly as I got into the limo. I can do this, I thought. I really can do this. Not that I knew what this was. Yet.

We had talked through the sunset and into the dark of night. It was nearly nine when we braked in back of HQ, under the porte cochere, and alighted from the limo. That’s what you did from a limo, though I’d never say the word aloud. Alight. I had a mental eye roll at the thought.

Eli met us there and handed me my bag of weapons, one hand holding Bruiser back. I left the men there, but my hearing was better than human, and I heard Eli say, “You hurt her and I’ll skin you alive and feed your carcass to the wild boars in the swamps. You copy?”

“I do. And I’ll break your arm if you ever accost me again. Civilized discourse is acceptable. Your hand upon my person is not.”

“Be nice, boys,” I called over my shoulder. “Be nice or I’ll beat both your butts.” Yeah. That’ll show them. I changed clothes in the ladies’ locker room, donning my second-best fighting leathers over Lycra undies—full-length leggings and a long-sleeved tight tee over the jogging bra. I now had two sets of black leathers, but this pair had already been repaired a time or two. Both sets were augmented by a thin layer of sterling silver–plated titanium chain mail, with hard plastic at the outer elbows and knees, the kind developed and worn by the Taiwanese military. Star Wars stuff. Bullet resistant all over. Fire resistant. The titanium chain-mail choker, I’d only recently discovered, was called a gorget. Who knew? This was my old fighting gear, soiled with blood and sweat and the smell of victory. The new gear was even better. And pretty, though I’d never say so aloud.

I slid into low combat boots with steel toes and rubber soles and a slit for a backup weapon in each boot shaft. Eli had packed no knives, so I assumed we were going for hand-to-hand fighting tonight, but I slid the stakes and blades I had worn under my skirt into my fighting clothes. I wasn’t stupid.

My hair was braided by a blood-servant who plaited it like a horse’s tail, into a club and then back up and into a bun bigger than my fist. I admired myself in the mirror over the sinks. I looked . . . yeah. Spiffy. Deadly, but spiffy.

I walked into the gym, which was, as usual, set for sparring practice. The scents were overwhelming for a moment—vamp, blood, humans. Sex. With vamps it was always blood and sex together. The big room had basketball goals and indentions intended to hold poles for a tennis net. Not that I’d ever seen them in use. It was weapons and fighting all the way in fanghead-land. As always, spectators lined the bleacher-style seating along one wall. Others clustered at the door on the far side, one I’d never been through. I made a mental note to check security there. The usual. However, one thing was new.

Weapons practice had never before included Grégoire or Girrard DiMercy. It had also never included swords. Two guys were in a sword ring fighting. Each man had two swords, and they were both bleeding through the padded white suits they were wearing. The smell of vamp blood and Gee’s blood mingled in a magical miasma that half of me thought tasty and the other half thought a little terrifying.

Beast leaned forward into my eyes. Long claws, steel and silver. Good claws. Want long claws.

“No way am I using a sword,” I muttered to her under my breath. It took years to master a sword. But Gee DiMercy and my Beast had other ideas and they didn’t mesh with my own.