Mercy Blade (9 page)

“Here,” he pointed to a glass-topped table with beveled edges, which looked like a weird place to stack weapons until I saw the black trays. Wrassler looked me over and laid out all six, a grin on his face that said he was making a joke.

“Cute.” I felt like I’d been dressing and undressing—weapon wise—all day, but I wasn’t about to argue with security precautions, especially as I had been suggesting these for weeks. Vamp-hunting was fun and paid well, but the gigs were hard to come by. Security was my bread and butter.

I pulled the Benelli M4 and placed it across one tray, the barrel longer than any of the black resin platters. Three handguns went in the next, still smelling recently fired. His nose twitched and I knew Wrassler caught the smell. When he raised his brows in question, I shrugged, hiding my grin. His eyes tracked over me, noting my bloody, fang-ripped clothes. He stuck a sausagelike finger into a jagged rip in the leather over my elbow. “Bet that hurt.”

I grunted. “Yeah. And I’ll be submitting a bill for the repair.” Into the third and fourth trays I placed five vamp-killers each, lined up neatly; the crosses filled the fifth, laying them so the chains didn’t knot; all but two of my stakes went into the sixth dish. I was hoping the sheer number of weapons would make him overlook the pair of silver hair sticks in my fighting bun as a fashion accessory. It wasn’t smart to be unarmed within fang range of a vamp, not when said vamp had tried to kill me already, and may have sent me to die tonight. When Wrassler didn’t notice the hair sticks I’d retained, staring at the array of weapons in bemusement, I tapped my cheek with a fingertip as if thinking, made an “aha” gesture, and held out the vial of holy water to him. “You’ll want to hold this one.”

He laughed and took the vial, setting it with the crosses, which seemed appropriate. “That’s my Janie.”

“You do know that name annoys me.”

“Yep. Assume the position, little girl.”

“Even worse.”

“I know.”

After a thorough but totally professional pat down, I followed Wrassler to the stairs and up one flight. I’d been on most floors of vamp HQ, but the doors were always shut, making it hard to orient myself as to purpose. Wrassler knocked at an interior room, meaning no exterior walls, no windows, not that there wasn’t a way out hidden behind a bookshelf or something.
“Entrez.”
Leo’s voice, speaking French.

Wrassler opened the door, keeping his body between the room and me. “The Rogue Hunter, Mr. Pellissier.”

“Weapons?”

“None, sir.”

A hint of humor entered Leo’s tone. “How many?”

“Filled up all six trays, sir.”

“Mmm. Hair sticks?”

Wrassler looked at me and I sighed, pulling the silver stakes/hair sticks out of my bun and setting them on the carpet at my feet. “No hair sticks, Leo,” I said. I didn’t want to get the big guy in trouble. Wrassler gave me a glare, to which I shrugged back with a “So sue me” expression. You can’t blame a vamp-killer for trying.

“You may enter.”

The guard closed the door behind me, and I faced Leo’s office. Tyler Sullivan, a whip-thin, pale-skinned black man with dark eyes and full, sexy lips, Leo’s second in command, stood barring my way. His eyes were empty and blank and cold, his posture military-parade rest, but with something cocky and cruel in his bearing. He looked me over head to foot and made a little twirly gesture with one finger. I turned around and when I was facing him again, he said softly, “Assume the position, Miss Yellowrock.”

“I just got a thorough pat down.”

“Assume the position, Miss Yellowrock.” His voice didn’t change inflection, didn’t insist, didn’t cajole or demand. But it
was
implacable. I assumed the position and was once again body searched, a lot harder and more forcefully than before. And a lot more personally.

When he was done he stepped back, shifting position from one foot to the other without proper body mechanics. Which he would likely not have done had I been a guy. Ticked off at where he had put his hands, I turned, stepped fast into his personal space. Slammed him back with a body shove. The instant he was off balance, I hooked his ankle with one of mine and jerked. And rode him down. Landed with a knee in his gut and fingers at his throat. He grunted before I shut off his air. Too late, his eyes widened with alarm.

I leaned in close and whispered, “You touch me like that again and I’ll rip out your throat.” I tightened my fingernails into the sides of his trachea and pulled up as the heel of my hand pressed down. “Do you understand? Blink twice for yes.” Tyler blinked twice, hard. I flowed to my feet and watched him rise. The takedown had been necessary, in a strictly dominance sense, but he wasn’t quite so cocky now. I’d embarrassed him in front of Leo and made an enemy. I’m good at that, though it’s not a talent I’m proud of. Tyler left through the door I’d come in, his face flaming.

Leo was standing in front of a fire, dressed in a white lawn shirt, one that would have tied at the throat with a fine ribbon, had the tie not been loose, exposing a swathe of his chest. The sleeves were rolled up, the hem tucked into loose black pants of some woven, nubby material, maybe raw silk. He was holding a teacup, the fire behind him, his eyes opaque in the shadows.

He’d watched the scuffle without a change of expression, and he wasn’t breathing, which meant he wasn’t scenting all the blood-scent markers on me. Still as a marble statue, he watched me. I glanced around once, fast. Leo’s personal business space—as opposed to his council business space, which might be anywhere in the building—was an office in name only. Every inch of wall space was hung with tapestries and heavy drapery and the tile floors were liberally covered with Oriental rugs in every shade. The room was chilly, with the AC blowing hard through overhead vents, working to compensate for the hickory wood fire. The older vamps liked fireplaces, the expensive ambience of their human youths, with no regard for global warming.

There was a lot of burled wood furniture, some painted with gilt designs, several wingback chairs around a small table set with the remains of high tea, a table desk so old it might have been hand carved for a Spanish royal in colonial times, with a laptop open on it, and a modern ergonomic desk chair. I just itched to open and explore the armoires that did double duty as cabinets. Nosy, that’s me, an occupational hazard even if I wasn’t naturally inquisitive.

There was also a chaise lounge in the back of the office, a fancy one with tufted gold velvet upholstery and a velvet throw covering a girl, her back to me, her pale hair tousled. She was obviously naked beneath the velvet. I flicked a look at Leo, holding a teacup, everything but his eyes still immobile, and looked back at the girl. She was breathing deeply and evenly, asleep. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” I said, making sure he heard the sarcasm.

Leo followed my eyes to the girl and smiled, unexpected gentleness on his face. “Not at all. She will sleep another hour or two.” He took a breath and looked back at me, his head tilted, puzzled at the scents he found on the air. “You have a report?”

“Yeah, I do. I nearly died tonight, thanks to you.” Leo set his cup on the green marble mantel and waited, breathing shallowly as he scent-searched me. “You sent me to negotiate with a persona non grata in your place. Remember that? And he brought a pack of werewolves. I nearly died.”

“Wolves?” His face underwent a change and my blood nearly stuttered to a stop. Leo Pellissier, Master of the City, was surprised. I smelled shock and anger boil through his blood and his pulse jumped once at his throat. He sniffed, hard, short breaths, and his nose curled. His fangs snapped down with a little click. “The Lupus Pack has returned,” he snarled. I nodded, careful to make no other sudden moves. “How many?”

“Fifteen left alive that I saw, and maybe seven dead at the scene.”

His brows rose but his fangs stayed down, two-inch bone-white weapons. And me without my stakes. “You are a capable fighter, Jane Yellowrock, but you are no match for a wolf pack. You were only supposed to meet and remove from my territory one Girrard DiMercy.”

“It might have been nice to know that. Next time give me a name and a species, how ’bout it? But it happens that Gee saved my butt from the wolves. Even killed his share. Saved. My. Butt.” I enunciated each word. “So you can deliver your own get-out-of-town message.” Leo’s eyes blazed at my insolence, but I pressed on, pushing the envelope, because it was what I did best, except kill things. “You want to tell me why he’s even still alive? Blood-servants don’t generally live for nearly a hundred years after their last sip of vamp blood.”

Leo’s face hardened. “No. I wish to tell you nothing.”

“That figures.” Usually it was dang near impossible to read vamps’ expressions, but Leo was giving things away willy-nilly. He didn’t like Gee; if the guy was on fire, Leo would let him burn to death rather than waste water peeing on him. If vamps peed. Now I was curious, but it wasn’t the time to ask. “You’re making this a lot harder than it has to be, Leo.”

“Girrard DiMercy is not welcome here.”

“He told me his story. The one about your daughter. He said you need him.”

“I need nothing from the Mercy Blade,” Leo snarled.

I almost said, “He claimed he kept you sane,” but I kept my mouth shut on that one too. “His blood. He says you need his blood. Like Magnolia Sweets needed
your
blood.”

Leo closed his eyes and turned away but not before I saw the raw pain on his face. He gripped the marble of the mantel with both hands and bent his forehead to it. His fangs snicked back into place. Something about his scent changed, growing less peppery, more almond. The rolled sleeves of his white shirt revealed muscular forearms and the flames he faced outlined his body in reddish light, toned and hard, though slender. I wondered if he had fenced with Gee when the man lived in New Orleans. Still facing the fire, he said, “Did he give word of my sweet Magnolia?”

“Yeah.” There wasn’t any way to sugarcoat it. I sighed and rubbed my sore elbow. “She died. I’m sorry, Leo.”

“Kill him,” he whispered to the flames. “I will pay you to kill him.”

Shock raced through me again, a strange, discordant emotion, as if shock layered on shock, two beasts racing along my nerve endings, separate and distinct. “You want to hire me to kill a man? No.”

“He is not a man. He is not human. He took her from me, and he has never been punished.”

“He claims he didn’t steal her from you. He said”—I thought back and dredged up his exact words—“‘He’—meaning you—‘loved her to distraction, but she could not stay with him.’ Could not, Leo, not would not, not wanted to leave you, but ‘could not stay’ with you. Maybe you should reconsider killing this guy until you know more.”

“He has bewitched you, as he did my Maggie.”

“He tried. He failed.”

Leo raised his head from the mantel and looked at me. His eyes were dry, which was a relief. I hadn’t been sure if he was crying or not, and a teary-eyed Leo wasn’t something I felt capable of handling. Still, the raw anguish was hard to take. “She could not stay with me? What in this entire world would have been important enough to keep us apart? What would have been worth dying over?”

“Beats me. Talk to Gee.” I had rhymed it. The titter I had been fighting since the “vampire peeing” thought burbled perilously close to the surface before I slammed down on it hard. My sense of humor was gonna get me killed.

A knock sounded at the door. Bruiser stuck his head in and smiled when he saw me, not hiding the relief in his expression. He’d been half afraid that his boss would drink me dry. Had Tyler sent him running here? “I’ll be downstairs in the Situation Room,” he said. “Get your escort to bring you when you’re done here.”

I looked back at Leo. “You’ve got a pack of werewolves in the city. Their lawyers are attempting to freeze all the fangheads’ financial activities, bring murder chargers against you for killing the previous pack leader, and bring the vamps to their knees in the human courts. They still say they have proof. And no, I don’t know what.”

Leo nodded regally, despite his shock. His eyes traveled from me to the far corner of the room where the girl slept. “You may go.”

I bit my tongue and left. I hate it when they do that—dismiss me as if I’m the little scullery maid. But I didn’t complain. Another waste of breath. Bruiser closed the door behind me, a finger over his lips. To Wrassler, he said, “We’ll be downstairs. You may relieve John at the front entrance. His shift is over. I’ll call you when Miss Yellowrock is ready to leave.”

Wrassler gave an offhand salute and strode down the hallway, his shoulders taking up most of the space between walls. I hadn’t noticed it before, but walking abreast of the guy would be impossible here. “Good thing I don’t mind being the little woman and shuffling along behind.”

Bruiser looked at the guard and chuckled, reading my thoughts. “He was hired for his physique as much as his training. This way.” He didn’t speak again until we were in the elevator, headed for the basement, or maybe the subbasement. Or maybe a sub-subbasement. The elevator was in the back of the hallway, to the left of the entry, and it had no buttons. To get anywhere, Bruiser had to slide his ID card through and then punch a series of numbers on a keypad. He didn’t let me watch as he worked the device.

“What? No eye scanners, no palm print scanners?”

“They’re on order; they haven’t arrived,” he said, his mouth showing the tiniest bit of amusement.

“Leo was emotional tonight,” I said.

“Yes. I noticed.” The elevator began to move.

“Leo was never emotional until that thing masquerading as his son died. How long does the
dolore
last? I thought his grief would be over by now. Or at least a lot better. And I need to know about some guys, a werewolf named Roul Molyneux, and a nonhuman who used to be Leo’s Mercy Blade, Girrard DiMercy.”