Mercy Blade (27 page)

I needed to stop this. I needed to get away. But Beast wanted more. Much more. Damn Ricky Bo. Why hadn’t he called? He could have called. ... And damn Beast for reminding me that big-cats don’t mate for life.

Bruiser’s hand moved against my back, along my spine with each slow belly ripple, each slow turn, and I could feel the pressure and heat and texture of it. I couldn’t pull away. “I want you,” he murmured. “I want you in my bed, under me. Moving like this. I want you with me forever.”

Rick had never said that. Rick had never said the
forever
word. Rick never said the
love
word. Inside, something in me broke, silent and wounded.
Only a month
, I thought back at the broken part.
We’ve been together only a month. And Bruiser’s had a century to perfect the art of seduction. To learn the moves to make and the words to say to get inside a girl’s pants. He’s looking for a place to
be
, searching for a new den to claim. Deserted and alone, just like me. But he’s a
blood-servant.
I can’t forget that. His allegiance is to Leo, even after Leo kicked him out.

The emptiness in his eyes called to me. Lost and lonely, it sank its teeth into me, hooked its claws into me, and claimed a small place inside my soul. And I let him lead me, knowing it was dangerous, knowing it was foolish, knowing this might be taking me where I didn’t want to go. And inside me, something else wept and raged.

The turns of the bolero were almost stately, but the position and movement of our bodies was sensual, sinuous, supple. And he never released my gaze, holding me, holding Beast, with his eyes as firmly as his hands.

The darkness grew, the moon below the horizon, the candles flickering as a slow wind rose. The steps pulled us together and away, only millimeters apart but it seemed so much farther until we met again in a clench that bespoke sexual, teasing, unsatisfied need. My back to his chest again, his hands moved to my abdomen, caressing, leaving aching need in the wake of his hands. As the song drew to a close, he turned me to face him and his hand lifted, cupped my jaw, sliding along my neck, shoulder, down my waist to my hip. He cupped my bottom and drew me closer. In, up against him. Against his hardness.

And the lights went on in the house behind us. “Jane?”

I jerked away. Breaking his hold on me. The heat between us throbbed once with need. Evangelina was home.
Crap
. And,
Thank God ...

“Back here,” I called. “Streak’s on the grill.” Shaking, I opened the cool pack and laid the last steak over the dying coals, pushed the last potato over so it would be heated evenly, and tossed the leftover salad. It was wilted but the night was dark. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.

“Jane,” Bruiser said, his voice close. I stiffened and the coals flared up again in front of me, the heat searing. I stepped back from it quickly. Into his arms. He closed them around me, trapping me. “This is not over, between us.” When I didn’t reply, he said, “Nod if you understand.”

I nodded and he stepped away just as Evangelina opened the door and walked out onto the porch; someone was behind her. It was Tyler. Tyler stopped on the porch, as if surprised, and the two men measured one another for a moment. “We only marinated three steaks,” Bruiser said. “We’ll need to get another from the fridge.”

“I’ve eaten,” Tyler said, his voice betraying no emotion.

“Well I haven’t,” Evangelina said. “I’m starved. Beer?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll get a bottle of wine. Beer or wine, red or white, Tyler?”

“Wine, please. Red.”

“I have a lovely Spanish Garnacha that will do nicely with steak,” she said as she whirled and returned to the house, leaving us three outside.

“I wondered if you came here,” Tyler said in his careful, noncommittal tone.

“Safe port in a storm.” Bruiser gave a negligent shrug. “Isn’t that what you called it? How are the negotiations going? Anything I can help with?”

“Negotiations?” I asked, not happy being compared to a safe body of water.

Beast is not safe
, she said to me, insulted.

To me, Bruiser said, “Tyler has taken over security measures at the council house and at Leo’s clan home. And all other of my duties, I would imagine.” Bruiser gave a slight smile, cool and collected. “I imagine security concerns have been pushed into the background with the police investigation and the arrival of the DipSec people.”

DipSec. Diplomatic Security. Got it.

“Not at all. I spoke with Leo only a half hour ago. He wants
you
to handle the witch negotiations, and to move ahead briskly. His words.” The tone was scornful, mocking, and though I didn’t know what was going on exactly, it was clear that there was bad blood between the two men. Grudgingly, Tyler added, “Katie is being cared for by Sabina in the protective custody of the clan home. She is well, though still in the devoveo of healing.” That sounded like Leo’s message too, though Tyler didn’t specify so.

Bruiser inclined his head with a falsely pleasant air, but I could feel the satisfaction in him. He took the job as some kind of affirmation from Leo, and maybe it was. Tyler seemed unhappy about it. “Has Leo fed from you yet, or are you still second to me?”

Tyler almost snarled, “Your prime place is still secure.”

I had thought the men friends, or, if not pals, at least good coworkers, comfortable acquaintances. I was wrong. Tyler turned his cold stare to me and I recalled the body search that had ended with Tyler on the ground and his windpipe in my hands. Tyler was remembering it too, and he wasn’t someone who forgot a disgrace or a slight no matter how minor. His gaze dropped to my breasts and along my body, an insulting perusal, and back to my eyes, promising that a rematch would end differently. We understood one another perfectly, like two junkyard dogs understand one another without a bark or a snarl being exchanged. I had embarrassed him in front of Leo, so he wanted me dead. Simple as a dogfight. I laughed softly and said, “Get in line, Sugar. Get in line.” Rage, icy as a mountain stream seemed to roil from him. Beast hissed, close in my mind.

Tyler’s eyes sparkled with hate and a promise of retribution, but before he could act on it, Evangelina opened the door and stepped out, carrying a wine carafe and two glasses, a plate, utensils, and a happy, chatty attitude that shut down the malicious emotional tides. They swirled like undercurrents through the next hour of chitchat but never resurfaced, and Tyler left before ten, pleading a busy day working for Leo. It was a last jibe at Bruiser, who smiled and lifted his fifth—or was it his sixth?—bottle of beer in drunken good humor. As soon as Tyler’s car roared off, Bruiser excused himself and went up the stairs. Evangelina looked at me, perplexed. “Was it something I said?”

“No. They’re just being pissant men.” And with that I went to bed too, locking my bedroom door against a possible return of Bruiser’s amorous interest. I stood under the shower as the cold water sluiced off the sweat of the dance and my arousal, and I wished for icy mountain well water to stand under instead of the South’s tepid version. Feeling better, I pulled on shorts and a tee. Having guests was a pain, I thought, as I threw myself across my bed and closed my eyes. Maybe I should invest in some pj’s.

 

It was after two a.m. Saturday morning when I woke with a start, realizing that I had left the dishes for Evangelina. And then I heard the sound that had woken me.

And He Ripped off My Shirt

Something had scratched at the front door. I rolled, taking up a vamp-killer from the bedside table, shoved stakes into my hair, and palmed my nine mil as I slid my toes through a pair of flops. I moved through the house in darkness, drawing on Beast’s night vision to make my way. I heard a creak from the top of the stairs and, even though it was probable that no one could see me in the dark, I held up a hand. “Wait,” I whispered.

“My wards went off,” Evangelina whispered back. “Something got in through the delivery slot in the front door, where I left a passageway for mail.”

I had never paid attention to the mail delivery slot, the old metal painted to match the wood. I sidled that way, placing my feet carefully, and saw a flat envelope, the size I might use to send a birthday card. Placing my head against the wall where I could see out through a clear pane in the stained-glass window of the door, I saw a running form down the street. Beast woke with a start.
Hunt
!

“Don’t touch the envelope. I’ll be back.” I ripped open the door and raced up the middle of the well-lit street. There was no keeping to the shadows. No hiding. If the prey looked back and saw me, so what? I lost the flops and took to the sidewalk, my bare soles blistering. Three blocks later I had Jackson Square in my sights, the old cathedral lit up like Disneyland. I puffed to a stop. I had lost him. Or her. Some women run like men. Some Olympic runners. Some college runners. I bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard. The runner’s scent lost beneath New Orleans’s potent sensory brew.

I had hurt my bare feet, what might be a stone bruise on the left heel and a shallow cut on the ball of the right. Ignoring a covey of businessmen coming out of a bar, I scent-searched, mouth open, drawing air in over my tongue and the roof of my mouth and through my nose, the way cats do. Parsing the scents. But there were too many, new and familiar, strong like gasoline and exhaust and vomit and urine and weaker scents like rats, feral cats, and ... Leo Pellissier.

I whirled, seeing only a blur as he attacked. Threw up my left arm, catching both of his. Knocking them high. Ducked under. Stabbed up with the vamp-killer, a clean, swift stroke. The blade passed through his clothing and scored his side. He grunted with surprise. I pivoted on my right foot, smelling his blood, cold and potent on the night air.

Belated adrenaline thudded through me. Beast roared up through my subconscious. Lending me strength, speed. Damping my pain.

Lamplight caught Leo’s face, gleamed on his fangs. Two inches of killing ivory. He brought up a hand, stabbing claws at my side. I slid left, avoiding injury, my body a fluid motion, making a C shape. The knife whipped toward his abdomen.

Leo bent forward. Throwing his midsection back. Avoiding the blade, shimmering silver in the night. My knee came up as I slid past, spinning. Slammed into his face.
A sucker move and he fell for it.

Bone and cartilage crunched against my knee. A fang nicked me as I pivoted away. Blood splattered over me, thick and viscous, stinging where it touched me. He whipped around, eyes catching the light, pupils inhumanly wide, vamped out, black in scarlet sclera.

Head back, he screamed. And I smelled the blood that was on his clothes. Old and dried, fresh and still damp. Katie’s blood. A lot of Katie’s blood.

Then he was gone. I whirled around, seeing and discounting the businessmen, standing mouths agape, like so much stupid prey. Seeing the cop standing at the corner, trying to draw his gun. Fumbling. I spun again and leaped over a gate into a narrow, cobblestone passageway between buildings. It stank of kerosene and fertilizer. I raced along it, slipping on moss growing between the stones, pain shooting up from both feet. I slid through huge-leafed banana plants and marijuana plants growing in pots in the tiny garden in back. And out a wider passageway, bounding over the gate, one palm on top, supporting the leap. Within minutes I was racing down the street in front of the house, which was lit inside and out. And I smelled Leo. He had been nearby when I raced from the front door. He had been watching the house, watching me. Or watching Bruiser. And, full of crazy-Katie’s blood, the half-nutso predator had followed the moving target. Which might have been the letter deliveryman, had I not gotten in the way.
Crap
.

Breath heaving, I sucked warm, moist air, bent over, the H&K still in one fist. I had never taken the safety off, which was a good thing, or I might have loosed a shot during the run. In my other hand was the vamp-killer, the silver plating stinking slightly from contact with vamp blood.

Leo had fed from or fought Katie again. Whatever had happened between them tonight, it had pushed him over the edge. Again. I tracked his scent to the house across the street. It had a convenient, low, brick wall, where someone could sit in the shadows, loitering undetected. Leo wasn’t the only one who had used it to keep an eye on the house.

I didn’t have a key to my side gate, so I limped to the front door and knocked, feeling the house wards buzz against me, recognizing me. My skin glistened with sweat and blood had trailed down my side, soaking my clothes, and down my leg, to puddle on the ground. The door opened. Bruiser stood there wearing sweatpants riding low on his hips and a lose tank with huge armholes. His arms were bare, revealing well-cut musculature, which would have been a nice sight, if I hadn’t been hurting. He was scowling, which wasn’t so nice. But the envelope was still in front of the door, untouched as well as I could see.

“You’re bleeding,” he spat.

I limped in the door and closed it behind me. “Get something to wash away the blood outside. Turn off the lights. A cop saw me fighting and I’m too recognizable. I’d rather not answer questions.”

Evangelina, her eyes wide, was standing at the kitchen doorway holding a serving platter with mugs; I smelled hot tea, raw sugar, and real cream. “Son of a witch on a stick.” She set the tray onto the bottom step that led to the second floor, asking, “What got you?”

“Leo,” I said. Bruiser swore foully and raced to the front door. “Don’t worry. I didn’t stake him.”

“I’ll get my first-aid kit,” Evangelina said. A witch who traveled with her own first-aid kit struck me as hilarious. I couldn’t help the laughter that escaped, hysterical and wild, as adrenaline broke down into toxins and flooded my system with the biological equivalent of poison. She checked her wards, asking, “Vampire blood?”

I looked down at myself and saw the blood. There was an awful lot of it. “Some. I think most of it’s mine,” I managed, huffing between guffaws that seemed to be getting worse.