Skinwalker

CHAPTER 13 You may call upon me

I checked myself out in the closet mirror, halfway disgusted at the prospect of spending time at a vamp party when I could be tracking down the rogue, and halfway scared to death—and not only at the thought of being surrounded by vamps. My one little black dress was V-necked, thigh-length microfiber that could be scrunched into a travel pack and never show wrinkles. The dress had a built-in bra, was skintight across my chest, plunged enough to make a man look twice, and had narrow straps, and the skirt moved well for dancing. The skirt fabric was cut into various-sized squares that hung point down from the asymmetrical waist and fluttered around my legs. In three-inch heels, my legs looked like they went on forever. I did a little dance step and the squares flipped up higher here and there, showing more skin.

I adjusted the length of the chain until the gold nugget hung a half inch above the neckline, between my breasts. Put on earrings, the old-fashioned kind that held on with screws or little hinged bobs. I had my ears pierced when I was a teen and wore earrings like all the other girls. But the first time I shifted, after I was free and out on my own, my lobes came back healed. I tucked the panther tooth the twins had discovered into the specially made pouch in my undies—the one that usually held a collapsed stake.

I don’t own or travel with much makeup. I brushed on a bit of blusher, lined my eyes in black, and added a swish of mascara. Buffed my nails, all twenty of them. Put on three shades of red lipstick before I settled on one. I’d never be beautiful. But I was . . . interesting.

I wondered if any of the vamps would know what I was by my scent. And if I should wear a vamp-killer strapped to my thigh. Just in case. Reluctantly, I decided against a weapon, though I hid a small silver cross in a minuscule bag that also held keys, ID, one credit card, a twenty-dollar bill, and the lipstick. It went on a narrow strap over my head and a shoulder.

I almost left my hair down—it was a nearly four-foot-long veil that hung below the hem of the dress—but at the last minute, as headlights lit my front door, car engine idling, I braided it halfway and clipped a clasp in. I opened the door before he knocked.

Bruiser stood there, dressed in a classic tuxedo, a simple crimson cummerbund, his hair slicked back to reveal a widow’s peak and sexy little mole next to his hairline. “Wow,” I said before I could stop myself.

He chuckled, pleased, and looked me over, not hiding his perusal of my legs. “Wow yourself. You clean up nice for a vampire-hunting motorcycle mama.”

“Thanks,” I said, shutting and locking the door behind me. A chauffeur stood beside the open door of a black, slightly stretched Lincoln limo. It could hold six passengers on two bench seats, but there were only the two of us. A privacy partition was up between the driver and the back. Bruiser indicated I should slide in first, and he waited, watching my legs—Bruiser was a leg man, for sure. He slid in beside me and the door closed. The car pulled from the curb and into the night. The suspension was so good the car felt like it floated, and the leather seats were so soft they could have been glove leather, cradling me like a baby. A girl could get used to this.

“I’m guessing you aren’t wearing weapons,” Bruiser said dryly, still looking me over. “I was supposed to search you, but I see no place for stakes, knives, or guns.”

I couldn’t help it; I had to toy with him. It was something I had picked up from Beast—a desire to play with my prey. I slanted him a look from the corner of my eye and said, “I own vamp-killer sheaths I can strap to my inner thighs.”

“Yeah?” he said, his eyes on my legs and the little skirt. Bruiser was looking at me the way a woman liked a man to look at her. Appreciation without condescension or objectifying. It was nice. It had been a long time for me, and never by a man who looked so good in a tux, slender, lithe, and elegant. A mental image popped up, of Rick LaFleur in a tux, and nearly made me salivate. I pushed the vision away. “Are you wearing them now?” he asked.

I just smiled, figuring when we arrived I’d either have to lift my skirt or be frisked. And I wondered how I’d react to either.

Bruiser settled back and offered me champagne. I refused. With my metabolism, alcohol filtered out of my system quickly, but I was also unused to it and didn’t want to show up at the party sloshed. As we rode, Bruiser pointed out hotels and businesses that catered to vamps, and private homes of the rich and fangy. I nodded a lot and said little, keeping pace with landmarks and street signs as we headed out of the French Quarter, in case I needed to get back alone.

Bruiser asked what drew me to my line of work. I mumbled something about the security business leading to other things. He asked about my dress. I answered with where I bought it—Ross Dress for Less. He chuckled so I didn’t volunteer what it cost, which was twenty bucks on sale. I wanted to squirm. It was the kind of small talk I hated. Eventually I fired the same questions back to him, except the one about the dress, of course. “Where is this party?” I asked during an extended conversational lull.

“The Pellissier clan home. Its purpose is to welcome Leo’s two newest blood-family members into public life. It should be interesting for you.”

“New vamps?” My curiosity went up a couple of notches, and so did my interest. “New as in, ‘This is the first time they’ve been unchained from the basement’ ?”

Bruiser raised a brow, amused at my deliberate gaucherie, and I suddenly felt better about the conversational footing. “You would do well not to refer to them as ‘vamps,’ and Leo is not the kind of sire who keeps his scions chained. But yes, this is the first time they will move among humans in a social situation. You’ve had a chance to study the folder Katie gave you, with photos of the clan blood-masters?”

I nodded, and he produced a similar slim folder from the side pocket of the car and opened it to reveal three photographs. “The woman is Amitee Marchand,” he said of an exquisite woman, black haired and dark eyed, with skin like alabaster and a swan neck that looked like it belonged on a ballerina. “Her brother, Fernand.” He pointed at the photo of a dark-haired man. I could see the family resemblance, though the woman looked elegant and her brother just looked jaded. “Miss Marchand is the intended bride of Leo’s son, Immanuel,” he said, pointing at a digital photograph of a vamp.

The information and the vamp’s Christian name were arresting. I pushed myself into an angle on the seat so I could see the photos better. Leo’s son, whatever that meant, had short, ash blond hair and chiseled bone structure. His smile was infectious, even from a photo. “Not trying to be catty,” I said, “but son like his blood-son, and bride like Bride of Frankenstein?”

Bruiser chuckled. “Immanuel is Leo’s biological son, turned when he reached his majority some years ago.”

Which could have been years meaning decades or centuries. The young-looking man had little of Leo about him, except for the shape of his jaw and nose, and I never would have caught the resemblance. “I didn’t know vamps could breed at all,” I said, intrigued. “I figured sperm and eggs died when vamps were brought over.”

Bruiser had an agenda and didn’t reply to my nosy statement. “Immanuel met the bride in Europe and the marriage was arranged. And please don’t use phrases like “Bride of Frankenstein” at the party. I’d rather not have to duel over your insult.”

I wasn’t sure if he was serious or not, and I had a metal image of Bruiser with a fencing foil or pistols at twenty paces. “I’m just yanking your chain,” I said. “Arranged marriage?”

“Things are done differently in vampire families as old and influential as the Pellissiers. The Marchand family has served as blood-servants to Clan Rochefort, in the south of France, for two centuries. The joining of the two families creates business opportunities for Clan Pellissier and strengthens the blood and commercial connections that they currently share.”

“So, if the girl is part of Clan Rochefort, why didn’t they bring her over?” I asked, trying to gain as much information as I could while I had a willing source. And trying to ignore the fact that I was as fascinated as any vamp-fangirl.

“Leo wanted to bring both of the young people over himself, so that Immanuel and Amitee could share in a mind bond later, if they so wished. We’re nearly here.” He lowered the privacy partition and gave the driver instructions.

I’d have to ask about the mind-bond thing. Along with vamp reproduction. Ick.

Leo’s house stood on a bend of the Mississippi River, the water purling softly in the night. It was at the end of a well-paved but little-used road, no houses within sight. The house was built on high ground, the hillock rounded and smooth and clearly artificial, some twenty feet above sea level, higher than anything around it. Curling-limbed live oaks arched over the long drive, standing like sentinels on guard in the night.

The white-painted, two-story brick house was a mixed architectural style all its own, with dormers in the tall slate roof, and gables at each corner with turret rooms, or whatever they were called, on the third floor. Light poured through the windows, black shutters at each, two shutters hanging open at an angle, proving they were working devices, not just for show. Stained-glass windows were here and there, shades of crimson and scarlet and cerise pouring into the dark.

Porches wrapped around both stories, interrupted by the turret things. Lights hidden in the foliage threw a soft white glow on the outside walls while others lit the drive and walks. It was a house originally built in the nineteenth century, one that screamed it had been constructed by slave labor. Slave labor probably kept it looking nice even now, all painted and pristine, but by willing blood-slaves, not by humans bought and transported wearing chains.

Limos moved toward us and turned in behind us, headlights glimmering on the drive. An old man stood at the bottom of a staircase to gesture at the house, as if the guests couldn’t figure out where to go once they arrived. When we pulled to a stop, he opened the car door and said, “Good evening, ma’am, George. Mr. Pellissier is waiting for you and the young lady to arrive.”

There were probably a dozen steps to the front door. I flashed a lot of leg going up and could tell that Bruiser was enjoying every moment. At the top of the stairs, a woman in sensible shoes and tux skirt with apron offered us champagne, and this time I took a glass to have something to do with my hands. Which were clammy with apprehension.

I had never been to a party as froufrou as this, and I already hated it—designer party clothes, party social manners, and party people milling around chatting. Give me a beer keg, a radio blasting country music, and a bunch of security experts discussing guns, edged weapons, and Har leys and I was fine. This was agony.

At the door I said to Bruiser, “You forgot to search me.”

“I’m saving that for later,” he said with a half grin. “Much later.”

Oh boy. I gulped the champagne. Bruiser chuckled and watched me look the place over.

Inside, the foyer was as big as the living room in the freebie house, floored in white marble, with a mosaic heraldic emblem in front of the door in black, white, gray, and maroon marble, depicting a griffin with drops of blood spraying from his claws, a battle-axe, shield, and banner. A real stone fountain splashed near the crest, beside tables loaded with fruit, cheese, and hot and cold meats: a whole salmon; a roasted piglet with an apple in its mouth; various fried meats; boudin in heaps instead of fried into balls, piled in a heated serving tray; sauces, crackers, and the overwhelming scents of spices and food and vamps. Lots of vamps.

Beast rose, seeing through my eyes, making me breathe deeper, faster, taking in the scents, the world a textured smorgasbord of fragrances, smells tangled as a tapestry, bright as a painting. I counted ten vamps standing in one group. Dozens in smaller groups. Crap. There had to be fifty of them, all well fed and moving human slow. All wearing designer gowns and tuxedos, any one of which cost more than everything I owned. Beast went all twitchy. So did I.

Bruiser stood to my side, watching me watch them. I knew I was giving away all sorts of things about me. And I couldn’t stop. I had never been in a room with so many vamps—sane or not—or so much money. I focused on the house and the scents I could parse. Vamp scent of old parchment, dried herbs, subtle perfumes, traces of fresh blood from recent feedings. And an underlying reek of entitlement. I didn’t smell the rogue. And no one instantly turned to me, pointed, and shouted, “Skinwalker!” I felt a faint disappointment even as relief washed over me.

There were two sets of stairs, one on each side of the huge foyer, curving up and around to a small space at the top, like a stage, with another hallway extending back. Rooms opened up to either side. On the ground floor, the foyer stepped down to a formal reception room beneath the upper floor, with furniture done in shades of charcoal, gray, and soft whites. It wasn’t bland, however; touches of color were everywhere from the paintings lining the walls to the pillows on the couches. Rugs in every shade were scattered all over the marble floors, their placement looking haphazard, but they had to be carefully positioned, didn’t they? Or did vamps not fall?

I had a mental image of Leo’s feet flying up in front of him as he landed in a thumping tumble, fanging his lip. Beast’s soft laugh escaped me, breathless. Bruiser raised his brows in puzzlement. I didn’t enlighten him. We moved on inside. Maybe ten feet from the front door.

As we passed a group of vamps in formal wear, one black-clad blond woman turned and sniffed the air in my wake. Faster than I could follow, all the others followed suit. Eyes began bleeding black. Fangs snapped down. I stopped. Whipped around to confront them, my back to the wall. Beast rose in my eyes. For a single moment we faced each other. Me wearing heels. No weapons. Crap. My heart rate sped up. Beast poured speed into me, her pelt rising and rippling beneath my skin, her claws flexing in my fingertips. The vamps each took a single measured tread toward me. Spreading out. Ringing me. Crap, crap, crap!

Bruiser stepped to my side. Placed a proprietary hand on my spine. “The rogue hunter,” he said. At his touch and the words, they stopped. I stopped. Beast went still, but so close to the surface I could feel her killing claws burning in my fingertips as if I were already shifting.

As if the vamps shared a single thought, their fangs snapped back in place. The pheromones of alarm in the air reduced. I remembered how to breathe but it hurt, as if my lungs had dried out and lost elasticity. I forced my clawed hands to relax. The blonde looked me up and down, slowly, as if committing me to memory. Cataloguing me. The way a cattle baron might remember and catalogue his herd. “Dominique,” she said, her voice heavily laced with French. “Acting head of Clan Arceneau. You may call upon me.” Moving human slow, she turned her back. The others followed suit.

“Crap,” I whispered. “You may call upon me?” Was that a command? Like hell I’d call on her. Bruiser took my arm, pointed to the food, and murmured, “I’ll be right back; try not to get killed.”

“Good idea,” I said, breathless, trying to shake off the fear and adrenaline. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He stepped away, gliding almost as smoothly as a vamp. Music started up and I spotted a trio of human musicians with stringed instruments in the corner beneath a huge portrait of a king in robes and crown, slender hunting dogs at his feet. The musicians were playing something classical and vaguely whiny. Not good dance music. I wanted to giggle at the thought. A hysterical, terrified giggle.

Keeping my back to a wall when possible, and my eyes on the vamp groups, I raided the meat table, adding a wedge of cheese and a strawberry just for kicks, and tried to figure out what to do next. What did one do to celebrate not being eaten? Maybe I could go up to all the vamps present and ask if they knew any rogues. A single adrenaline-laced giggle burbled up, like a terrified heeee, and the waiter behind the meat tray looked at me oddly. I stuffed a hunk of piglet in my mouth and said around it, “Low blood sugar,” to explain the laughter. He set an icing-covered pastry on my plate by way of reply.

Still shaky, I took myself and my overloaded plate on a house tour. Unlike the homes I visited on my Garden District excursion, here I was an invited guest. I figured that meant I could roam where I wanted. It might not help me kill a rogue vamp, but it might help with future searches and vamp contracts to know how the fanged and moneyed lived.

To the right of the reception area was a restaurant-sized kitchen. Inside there were two chefs in white hats and at least a dozen waiters coming and going. The pantry and linen rooms were behind the kitchen with a hallway leading to the backyard and a five-car garage not visible from the front. It was full of fancy cars: the limo that brought us here; an old, boxy Mercedes; a 1950-something Chevy, fully restored; an old Ford from the early days of the automobile—maybe a Model T? I didn’t know my old cars. But Leo had a Porsche Boxster in old-blood maroon, which made me smile. It was the Porsche that finally made me relax. That and the protein. I had never tasted pig this good.

Behind the foyer was a short hallway and a locked door, the room seeming to take up a lot of space. Leo’s personal quarters? Several fresh human blood scents wafted under the sill and Beast’s hackles rose at the smell, but there was no fear mixed in the blood. Curious, I stood in a shadow and watched for a while.

Shortly, two vamps, a man and a woman, left the room, reeking of fresh blood and sex. They didn’t lock the door or catch my scent, didn’t turn my way. I stepped up, caught the door before it closed, and peeked in. It was a suite with a huge bed, couches, chaise lounges, a studio-sized TV screen, and several humans in various stages of undress. Two were cuddled up with a female vamp who was feeding from them, one at a time. I got it. This was the blood bar. Where vamps came for hors d’oeuvres. And now I knew what to call the donors. Blood-junkies. Yuck.

I let the door close without making a scene because none of the humans was chained, showed signs of physical abuse—if I didn’t count multiple fang marks—or looked drugged. Well, drugged beyond the blood bliss they experienced when fed upon by a suitably mature vamp. I moved on. Fast. Back to the reception room and a fresh plate of piglet and salmon. This time I added a cracker and three grapes and meandered on.

A female vamp, walking alone, slowed when she scented me. She smiled, an attempt at humanness, intended to disarm. It worked. I stopped, curious. Waiting. When I didn’t speak, she leaned in, too close, way inside my personal space. I tensed, but her fangs stayed back, out of sight, and she didn’t try to bite me. She only sniffed my neck. So I didn’t react. Much.

She stepped back and tilted her head. “I am Bettina, blood-master of Clan Rousseau.” I nodded, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. Cat got my tongue. The titter tried to rise yet again. Rousseau was a beautiful woman, with mixed-race heritage, mostly African and European. “They tell me that the rogue hunter is here tonight, as a guest of Pellissier. Are you she?”

When I nodded, she walked around me, a dance step, like a cat walks, one foot carefully placed at a time. She breathed in as she moved. Taking my scent. “You smell so . . . good. Will you call me when this . . . unpleasantness . . . is over?” She stopped in front of me, looking up into my eyes. “I wish to know you better.”

There was something in her eyes that said the “know you better” part was in the biblical sense. Lucky me. I swallowed. A smile started in her eyes. And they landed on my throat.

“Bettina. Pellissier wishes to speak with you.”

We both turned to the small, rotund human at her side. I had no idea how long he had stood there, but the look on his face said it had been long enough. “Please visit,” she said, extending a card that hadn’t been in her hand a moment past. And she followed the man away.

“Okaaaay,” I murmured to the walls. “Next time I’ll wear a whole bottle of perfume.”

To the left of the foyer and food was a bar, three waiters serving real liquor, wine, and beer, not blood. I took a second glass of champagne and continued my tour. Behind the bar, a short hallway led to a music room with some stringed instruments and a grand piano. Probably priceless. I wondered who played, and figured it might be Leo. He looked like the type. As the thought entered my mind, a half dozen vamps walked in the room and a male vamp sat at the piano. He began to play, pounding the keys in something martial, the notes rising to the ceiling and spilling out into the hallway, deliberately overpowering the strings in the reception room. The other vamps laughed at the sophomoric prank and one ran to peek around the corner at the human musicians. I guess they thought it was funny. I left.

Through a connecting doorway, I found an empty, two- storied library filled with books, leather furniture, and a first-class sound system playing a soft salsa, which is not the way a salsa is meant to be listened to. I shut the door to the music room, impressed when the pounding piano was muted out. Really good soundproofing in the house: You could kill someone and not have to worry about the screams. I hunted around until I found the sound system controls in a recessed console and upped the volume. Alone, I ate piglet and salmon while my feet danced and I studied the titles on the walls. Some were in English, some were French, Spanish, and maybe Latin. And there were a few that looked Greek. Leo can read Greek?

Inside a glass case were twenty-four fired-clay, metal, and carved-wood tablets on display stands, clearly ancient and valuable. I couldn’t resist looking over their security and waved at the high-tech minicameras focused on them. Pretty good, if the cameras were monitored. When the door opened a scant twelve seconds later, and Bruiser entered, I patted myself on the back. “Not bad,” I said, toasting him with my glass. Which was nearly empty.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he said with an amused smile, as he stole away the glass and the empty plate. “Mr. Pellissier wants to see you.”

“Yeah?” I took the dishes back and set them on the console. “Do you salsa?”

“Not in years,” he said.

“It’s been a while for me too,” I said, turning and taking his hands, ignoring Beast’s amusement at the double enten dre. I placed one of his hands on my hip and kept the other, tapped my foot, and moved into a fast forward step, forcing him into a back step. To give him credit, he followed my lead. And then he took over. Firmly. Salsa is a three-step-pause-three-step dance—a reinvention of the mambo from the original rumba, and it moves.

Bruiser took me into a side step, dropped his arm down, up into a J, leading me into two simple turns, and instantly into a double turn as we found our rhythm. After that, things got sweaty. The man could dance. It was half seduction, half contest, as if he offered me his bed while testing my footing, my reflexes, and my ability to respond to his vamp-enhanced speed all at once. Our gazes locked, his brown eyes holding mine as I followed his lead. Seduction pheromones, his and mine, filled the air. I wanted to run my fingers through his dark hair and maybe touch the little mole. With my tongue.

The music swelled. Fast. Fast, fast, fast, Beast in control of my reflexes, which told Bruiser all kinds of things about me. I didn’t care. The volume rose, dropped, went from fast-paced to slow. I missed a step, only because I was unfamiliar with his lead, not because I didn’t know the move. Bruiser’s eyes held mine as his hand slid along my side, over my hip. He took my waist and jerked me close at the finale, a tango move I hadn’t tried since class.

The music fell silent. We stood in perfect position, chest to chest, breathing hard. A single clap followed in the stillness. Another. Bruiser broke contact, stepping back faster than the dance. My hands were left empty, in the air. I turned to the doorway.

Leo stood there. The door closed behind him. His eyes were on Bruiser. Something crackled in the air between them. Challenge. Anger. Beast growled. Both vamp and man turned to me. Feeling Beast just beneath my skin, pelt moving in anticipation, I laughed, the sound cruel, a bit wild. “Bruiser is good. Are you better?” I/we challenged the predator.

Emotion thrummed through the room: anger, disputation, confrontation, alpha pheromones. The smell of violence baited. For a moment I thought that whatever was between the two males would boil over, but Leo broke, taking a single breath, and the scents evolved from censure, to startlement, to curiosity, to . . . eagerness as his eyes studied me. An anticipation as strong as Beast’s rose on the air. All Leo’s. From Bruiser, I felt a trace of sentiment, perhaps disappointment, but overshadowed by his master’s impatience.

The next track started, a mellow, sex-laden rumba. The rumba is a slower, more formal dance than the salsa, and Leo moved to me, his body already in the dance, his feet in the slow-quick-quick-quick steps of the dance. He took my hands and placed one on his shoulder, starting with an eighth turn of the box step. When the music rose, he pursued it into a quarter-turn box, faster, and then a series of turns and dips, drawing me closer with each measure until only a hint of space separated us. He led me into a difficult cucaracha step, not one I had practiced except with my instructor, but Leo’s lead was flawless, beating Raul hands down, his body balanced so perfectly it was poetry to follow. We finished the set with a fast, twisting pretzel of a turn and a dip, my body bent back over his thigh, his body over mine, his eyes bearing down into mine in a classic predator-prey posture.

Beast reared up hard, fast, shoving him back. Growling. The sound was lost in the applause. Gazes fastened to one another, we stared, breath heaving. I was vaguely aware of vamps in the doorway, clapping. Cheering. And then Leo vamped out.

His eyes bled crimson, pupils widening to vampy black. His fangs snapped down. And he growled back at Beast. The crowd in the doorway fell silent, that scary vamp-silence that always presaged violence. Bruiser pushed between us, took Leo’s hand, and mine, and led us forward, hands raised like actors on a stage. Weirdly, totally unexpectedly, Leo and I broke gazes, allowing Bruiser the upper hand. He bent forward, pulling us into a deep bow.

“Mithrans, I present Leo Pellissier and his . . . human . . . dance partner, Jane Yellowrock.” The pauses at “human” were infinitesimal, but present. The applause started again, uncertain, then growing stronger, more assured, as they believed the growls had been part of a performance. Smiling impeccably, Bruiser led us to the doorway and the accolades of the vamps.

I slipped away from my host shortly thereafter and made a quick round of the second story, searching for and not finding a staircase to the attic or third story. Not once did I scent rogue. I did catch a hint of the woman the rogue and Rick were sleeping with, and later, one of the underlying taints the rogue carried in his blood, but they were lost in the press of guests.

I knew Leo wanted to talk to me, but after the dance and the way he looked at me, like I was a tasty treat, I wanted to avoid that. Totally. So I kept a wary eye as I hunted through the house, turning down a hallway or slipping into an empty room when I spotted him, smelled him, or heard his voice. He wasn’t stalking me, exactly, but a frustrated reek pervaded his scent, and I figured I was part of it. But I was able to keep away, and Beast was having a good time helping.

When a bell sounded over the house intercom and sound system, I figured it was time for the presentation of the guests. Curious, I hid behind a marble statue on a matching marble stand over the foyer and watched. Leo stood with his back to the front door, facing the crowd, who gathered vamp fast or drugged-blood-junkie slow, and smiled at them all, the genial host.

“I thank you all for gathering,” he said, a slight accent on the word “gathering,”“in Clan Pellissier for this celebration. Our clans may no longer expand as they once did, held to lower numbers by Vampira Carta, U.S. law, and social convention. So when a new Mithran is added to us, it is a blessing. And when two are given over to us to fulfill a contract of marriage and clan binding, it is a significant event.” He flashed a brilliant smile, all human-looking teeth. “Tonight I present to my honored guests my future daughter-in-law and her brother, Amitee and Fernand Marchand, and the bride’s future husband”—he paused, drawing it out, as if in expectation of some huge event—“my son and scion and heir, Immanuel Pellissier.”

There was startled silence; then the crowd reacted, half in exultation, half in buzzing, whispered dismay. It took me a moment to realize why. Until now, Leo hadn’t named a clan heir. Clearly some of the vamps in the place didn’t like his choice. Despite myself, I took note of who wasn’t pleased and wasn’t afraid to demonstrate it. The most obviously ticked off was a swarthy-skinned vamp I thought might be Rafael Torrez, heir to Clan Mearkanis—blood-master once Ming was declared true-dead. A number of other vamps were looking his way to gauge his reaction.

Violence and dominance pheromones swirled in the room and Leo looked up, his genial smile still in place. But when he spoke, there was a steel edge to his voice that hadn’t been there an instant gone, though he didn’t look Torrez’ way. “And as my guests, partaking in the hospitality of my house, I trust you will abide by all conventions and protocols in welcoming new Mithrans and my clan heir.”

It took a moment, but Torrez visibly controlled himself and plastered a false smile on his face. He pushed to the front of the crowd, where he took Amitee’s hand and kissed it, murmuring something I missed. With the kiss, the entire room seemed to relax, and I figured that whatever was afoot in vamp politics, like whatever Leo had going on in the human population of the hood, was going to take a backseat to the celebration.

I got a look at the new vamps. They weren’t uncontrolled, ready to vamp out and drain the humans; they looked elegant, sophisticated, and rich. So I avoided them like the plague. But I did get a good look at Leo’s son, who appeared genial, urbane, and approachable. However, when I got close, he turned fast, eyes going vampy, sniffing and searching the crowd, so I ducked my head and slipped away. No point in spoiling the engagement if he came on to the little nonhuman in the room for a quick snack. I haunted the back hallways instead.

Near four, after avoiding Leo and Bruiser in a cat and mouse game of “hunt the girl,” I slipped outside and called Bluebird Cab. Rinaldo, off from his third-shift job on Sunday night, picked me up half an hour later, full of startled questions now that his regular passenger had come up in the world. I said something about an invitation I hadn’t realized would be so vampy, and how happy I was to get out of there—all true—then sat silent in the backseat, holding myself separate from Beast and her demands. And for once, I didn’t beg for a trip through a fast-food joint.

There were violent undercurrents in the vamp social fabric, riptides of political unrest, problems I hadn’t known existed. It was the kind of thing that cop Jodi Richoux would want me to tell her, and that I was prohibited from sharing on pain of that slow and grisly death, as spelled out in my contract. And . . . I had created friction between Bruiser and his boss. I was still beating myself up about both problems when I went to sleep near dawn, without shifting, yet again.

Monday in New Orleans is laid-back. Not as relaxed as Fridays, but close, though without the dedicated party expectation of the day before the weekend. I elected to stroll, but with purpose, revisiting all the places I had been and places Beast had shown an interest in.

Wearing my light cargo pants, a tank top, and flip-flops, I tied two crosses around my waist and stuffed a stake in my undies and two in my hair, just in case, though I didn’t really think I’d be out long enough to lose the protection of daylight. I added sunglasses. Dressed like a local, I strolled, sniffed, and window-shopped.

I don’t wear much jewelry, as a hurried shift will leave it broken in the dust, along with torn and mangled clothes, but when I spotted a silver and stone ring and a nugget-style necklace in the window of a narrow storefront, I couldn’t help myself. I went inside and when I came out, I was wearing the set, along with the gold chain and nugget I seldom took off. The new necklace was made of Baltic amber, warm, yellow, fifty-million-year-old tree resin that brought out the amber of my eyes. The nuggets were as big as pecans and looked really good with the gold nugget. The silver setting of the ring was styled like cat’s claws holding the stone. It was destiny. The set looked really classy against my burnt orange T-shirt, and though I remembered girls from my youth saying I shouldn’t mix gold and silver, they weren’t here to tease me.

Back on the streets, I strolled, but I wasn’t rambling for the ambiance, I was hunting the rogue, tracing the path Beast had taken on her first tracking expedition. My nose is better than most humans for reasons I’m not entirely certain about, but I put it down to the number of years I spent in cat form. I had thought the memories of that time and my early life were gone, never to be recovered, but since Aggie and Leo had brought some back, in startling, three-dimensional, five-sense clarity, perhaps there were others, deeply buried. Really deeply buried.

Three blocks from the river, I spotted Antoine down the block from the hole-in-the-wall eatery Rick had taken me to. The Cajun was wearing a T-shirt, baggy shorts, rope sandals, and dreadlocks in a thick ponytail knotted at his nape with rope. The hair threw me off for a moment, as it had been hidden under his big white chef’s hat before. He didn’t see me, so I stepped into a recessed door and watched. He was in a hurry, heading away from the river.

Antoine took a direct route, striding hard and fast. A man with purpose. So I followed. Hands in pockets, I ambled up the street, around corners, keeping back, lazy and innocent but moving Beast fast when no one was looking, shadowing him in the tourist crowd. He ducked into a side door of the Royal Mojo Blues Company. “Well, well, well,” I murmured to myself. Did I follow? Not sure, and content to just watch, I sat at the tiny table of an outdoor café, ordered beignets—French donuts—and a hot chai despite the heat, studying the RMBC, lazing and calling it work. Nothing much was happening, but I liked the mélange of scents on the wind.

I wasn’t far from the kill zone where the rogue had taken down the cops. That could be coincidence—the Quarter was small, after all—and Beast had noted a lot of vamp activity, but I didn’t know what to make of Antoine’s destination. While I people watched, I sweated and rested in the slow, heated breeze, eating three beignets, which left a dusting of powdered sugar on my shirt. Three more people entered the RMBC, two men and a woman in a long skirt and lots of dangling jewelry. Unlike Antoine, all went in through the front door, though the restaurant wasn’t open, a CLOSED sign in the front window. I was getting interested. I caught the eye of the waiter and held up a ten, which I left on the table for the bill and a comfortable tip.

Antoine had entered at the side, near the outdoor seating, so I hopped the gate and followed through that door, which swung on silent hinges. Not breaking and entering exactly, but trespassing for sure. Inside, the heat, which I had somehow forgotten as I sat and sipped tea, was shut out, the air colder than the inside of a refrigerator. Chill bumps rose on my arms as I stood in the blackness and let my eyes adjust.

The restaurant and dance hall smelled of old smoke, old beer, cleansers, a mixture of human and vamp scents, urine and sweat, fried grease, fish, beef, spices and peppers, and minty toothpaste, the scent dissipating as I waited. I followed the faint prickle of power on the air, Antoine’s power, familiar from the way it made my fingers tingle, as if the pads itched.

I followed the power signature through the club as easily as a scent, leading me to the back. I could still smell Bliss’ blood, and an aromatic whiff of vamp blood, from the aborted staking, and another witch scent, a spicy and tantalizing perfume buried beneath the power signature. The scent perfectly fit the woman in the long skirt and jewelry.

A door opened. The muted sound of a car engine passed, placing it at the front of the building. “Marceline? Anna? Y’all here yet?” It was the Joe. Rick. Which was just one coincidence too many. Or was it? Beast woke and rumbled quietly in my mind. I breathed in, sorting scents as well as I could in this form. Several vamps, including Leo, scores of humans, cigarette smoke. But no particular scent jumped up and screamed logic to me. Rick was getting closer. I had a feeling that if I just stayed put and asked what was going on, I’d be hustled off, so I looked for a hiding place. Nothing. No closets, no cupboards. I peered into the dark overhead. The ceiling was about fifteen feet above me, painted black, along with the exposed ductwork, wires, and fixtures. Beast liked the big duct, and I got an image of a huge tree limb on which to lie in wait for unwary prey. I could probably make the top of the duct if I jumped from the bar.

Beast fast, I raced from the shadows and leaped to the bar top. Crouched on the balls of both feet and the knuckles of one hand. Scanned the room. And spotted a small ledge behind the bar. I gauged the distance, jumped, and caught the ledge with one hand. Swung toward the mirror. Why do all bars go for mirrors? So unhappy drunks can watch themselves cry? So drinkers on the prowl can look for likely sex partners? My fingers slipped and Beast swatted me mentally. My toe touched the mirror and I pushed off, using the swing to get my other hand on the ledge and lever my body up, the new ring cutting into my palm and finger.

The ledge was eighteen inches wide, painted white to reflect tiny lights, which were off. Dust bunnies swirled around me, some big enough to be dust hippos. Beast sent an image of a rabbit the size of a small car. Good eating. I grinned and swiveled into a comfortable seat shadowed by, instead of on top of, the duct. From my vantage, I could see almost everything: tables, a curtained area behind the band’s stage, a long rack of individual keys behind a sign over the cash register. And Rick, walking into the room. The remembered stink of old cigar clung to him, and I wrinkled my nose. Fresh cigar smell is one thing. Old cigar is another thing entirely.

“In here,” Antoine said, emerging from the back. Not from the hallway to the restrooms, but from the far corner, an opening I had missed in the dark of night and not visible from the shadows of the side door or over the bar. “Ricky-bo,” he said as the men shook hands.

The front door opened again; Rick turned. A woman entered, a shawl around her head and shoulders despite the heat. The two exchanged a look as she folded the shawl. Her scent reached me and I tensed. It was the woman who slept with the rogue vamp. Surprisingly, she looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Had I passed her on the street? Not at Sunday church service, surely, not with her understated elegance. This woman would have stood out—blond, elegant, blue eyes and peaches-and-cream skin, silk and linen and delicate shoes, probably Italian. Big diamonds and gold at her ears and on her ring finger, along with a wedding band. Married. To Rick? Surprising jealously zinged through me. On its heels came the certainty that she was married to someone else, not Rick. The jealousy faded, but not my discomfort that it had emerged in the first place. Rick was too devious for my tastes. Too sly. Too . . . something. Which was why Beast liked him. All these thoughts in the time it took me to take a breath.

“Anna,” Antoine said, his Cajun accent thickening as the power he wore like a second skin gathered and tightened about him. “Good, you come. To back.” Antoine locked the front door and skirted through the shadows to lock the side door. The three disappeared into the gloom down a short hallway. A door opened. Voices filtered out. The door closed. The place was well built—hurricane proof—and soundproofed. I couldn’t make out anything.

I considered jumping down and eavesdropping, but from the way the sounds had echoed when they entered the room, there might be no exit from the back. I didn’t want to be caught trespassing, listening at the door. I dropped down, landing lightly on the bar along with a scattering of dust bunnies, which I swept to the floor on my way to the keys. Silently I thanked the nice person who had carefully labeled each, and I made off with one of three for the side door. I hoped no one would notice it was gone.

It was only after I was out on the street, the stolen key in my pocket, that I considered the possible presence of cameras in the restaurant. Cameras that could have seen me leap to the ledge. Not a totally human move. I dismissed the worry that followed. The meeting in the Royal Mojo Blues Company was secret. Unlikely that cameras would be active to catch the attendees arriving or leaving. I was pretty sure I was safe.

I was halfway home when I remembered where I had seen Anna. In the Times-Picayune. Anna was the mayor’s wife. Now, that was an interesting situation. Rick and the mayor and the rogue all with the same woman. How in heck did she stand the rogue’s stink?