electronic devices clutched to his chest.
It was only then that I realized I hadn’t fired a single shot. I started laughing.
This wasn’t something that we could cover up. Sirens sounded in the distance, closing fast. Neighbors, or maybe Esmee, had called 911. To avoid questions, I took my unfired gun upstairs and secured it. In minutes the house was surrounded by cops. Esmee trotted out to them, a big smile on her face. She had taken the time to smooth her hair and put on lipstick, and she looked the perfect hostess in her bright floral scarf and her pearls. Bruiser, still in his dress slacks with an unbuttoned shirt, the tails billowing out behind him, followed her, his cell phone to his ear. He looked like a fashion shoot from
Only in the South.
An ambulance pulled up, the EMTs treating Wrassler’s wound and the wounded bad guy before leaving with the injured man and two cops riding shotgun. More cops arrived—more than half the cops in the county and the town gathering, with plenty of plainclothed guys all trying to be the big dog. Alex and I were the only ones who hadn’t fired a shot. To prove that assertion, neither of us had any GSR on us. The others of our group were herded into different parts of the house and questioned, the cops relentless and suspicious. Alex and I sat on the couch, Alex intent on his electronic searches, shaking from time to time, his body odor sour with hormones, fresh panic, and old fear.
At one point, however, the OIC—officer in charge of the shooting scene—made a call. Then, newly elected Adams County sheriff Sylvia Turpin, who was the many-times great-granddaughter of the county’s first sheriff, drove up in her marked car. Turpin took her job very seriously, especially when she discovered that Leo Pellissier’s primo was on-site. Seemed that Leo had contributed a hefty sum to her election campaign. After that discovery, Turpin made a series of phone calls, several of the plainclothes cops took calls, and things began to move along.
Within half an hour, the state crime lab had arrived, bringing a medical examiner, and we were free to go, though not free to leave town. I wondered who had called in the big guns. Remembering the cell phone at his ear, I was guessing Bruiser. As the MOC’s primo and point man, he might be the most powerful human—part human—in the South, governors and senators included, and when he called in favors, things would naturally go his way. A New Orleans blood-servant pulled up in an SUV and consulted with Bruiser, the cops, and the petite, pretty, redheaded little sheriff. While the powers-that-be conferred, the rest of us retired to the dining room.
The unflappable chef had laid out a feast. Or I’d thought him unflappable until I heard him telling the cops he’d hidden under a small table in the butler’s pantry during the shooting. And then he’d changed his pants. It was his vehicle out back. He had been grocery-shopping when we arrived, which was why I hadn’t seen the SUV.
We gathered for snacks in the dining room, which had a carved mahogany table and chairs, and a wall-long hand-carved and painted china cabinet. The room would seat twenty easily, and the chandelier over our heads was the real thing—twenty-four-karat gilt and hundreds of lead crystals. The snack, thrown together in minutes, was brie, fresh fruit, sliced homemade rye bread, and ten pounds of rare roast beef with sandwich makings dished up in cut-crystal bowls. There was also red beans and rice and barbecued Andouille sausage. Finger-licking, to-die-for sausage. The fighters were starving, adrenaline breakdown needing fuel. I hadn’t been involved in the fighting, but with my skinwalker metabolism, I was always hungry. Which likely had something to do with the little clinch in the hallway. But still . . .
I ate two sandwiches, mostly meat and brie, remembering Bruiser’s hands on me, his mouth on me, while the guys discussed what we had to do.
“We can’t stay here and wait until nightfall when our full backup arrives,” Wrassler said.
“We can’t storm the three-story building without them,” Eli said. “It would be stupid.”
“We’re down to two healthy shooters,” Bruiser said.
“Three,” I said through a mouthful of food. “What am I? Chopped liver?”
“A woman,” he said.
My eyes went cold and narrow. The table went silent, all the eyes on me. Bruiser stopped, a sandwich halfway to his mouth. He held it there, his mouth open, thinking. He turned his eyes to me, his head not moving. I didn’t smile. He blinked once, took a bite, and chewed, still thinking, letting his eyes roam the room and out into the hallway where we had recently had that very unsatisfying clinch. When he swallowed, he said, “Four shooters, one injured. Forgive the automatic, ingrained stupidities of an old man.”
Alex snickered into the silence. I finished chewing my bite and swallowed. “Don’t let it happen again.” Eli looked at Bruiser, at me, and to the hallway, his eyes considering. I reached for an apple and bit down, the crunch seeming to break the tension.
“So we have four shooters and they’re down seven. And they won’t be expecting us,” Wrassler said.
“It’s daylight. The fangheads will be asleep, right?” Alex said.
“Fiction. They can stay awake if they have to, and they can stand a little sunlight, especially the old ones.” Wrassler emptied a Coke down his throat and popped the top on another. “From the intel—”
“What intel?” I asked.
“One of Leo’s blood-servants is related to one of Hieronymus’ servants. He asked some questions and provided us some answers. We’ve got maybe ten old ones in there, plus their blood-meals. No way we can take them.”
“Most Mithrans travel with two blood-servants apiece,” Bruiser said, “so if they hold true, then we would be facing ten masters and the remainder of their servants, thirteen humans.”
Alex asked, “Do we have access to a helicopter?” Every head in the room turned to him. He spun the laptop around so we could see a schematic of the roof of the three-story building the vamps had taken over. There was a large, new air-conditioning unit and plenty of room for a helo to land, providing the structure could handle it, or for soldiers to drop down if not. And the AC vent was a specific weakness to the entire building.
Bruiser started to smile.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I Disliked Her on Sight
The helo would be in position over the building in thirty minutes. We were parked down the street, geared up, watching the place from the back. Grégoire was not going to be happy when he saw the damage incurred on his new limo in the shoot-out. My official cell vibrated in my pocket. Ricky Bo LaFleur’s picture appeared on the front. My heart did a little flutter. I opened the cell and said, “Hi.” There must have been something odd about my tone, because all the men looked at me at once. I turned my back to them and heard Rick say, “Where—you?” There was a horrible roar in the background and he was breaking up.
“In Natchez. Where are you?”
“In a helicopter wi . . . razy former marines.”
I put it together fast. “You and Derek are on the way
“Yeah . . . mi. . . . and once this little problem . . . we can take off . . . play.” The call clicked off. I wiped my mouth, hoping I was smearing off the goofy smile. I turned back around. “We have official government backup from the Psychometry Law Enforcement Division of Homeland Security.”
Bruiser nodded. “I wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull it off.”
“
“Yes.” His eyes met mine. “As primo.”
“Ah,” I said, my heart plummeting. That was that. So much for the hot and heavy clinch in the hall. His duty to Leo came first, and keeping us on the right side of the law was a big part of that. Not that I could complain. Ricky Bo was coming and my big-cat was happy.
“Masks,” Eli said.
I pulled the mask over my face. Eli had found them for sale at a gun shop in New Orleans and identified them as “Israeli M-15 military models with Nato filters.” Whatever. I just wanted mine to keep me alive. I settled the
