Dark Queen (Jane Yellowrock #12)

“Before we make nice-nice, there’s one question you didn’t fully answer, Phil. How did you get into the basement at Mithran Council Chambers?”

His mouth tightened and his wolf eyes glowed with irritation. “A vampire woman led us and the werecats to the basement. The werewolf was roaming free, there by choice. Cats are liars, disloyal by nature, and so was the female vampire. I now assume Prism arranged for us to be there in the hope that it might appear we had allied against Pellissier. We have not,” he said distinctly. “Fortunately, the MOC accepted our bellies as proof we were not involved with the cats. We have signed loyalty agreements and discussed a potential business contract to be negotiated by Leo Pellissier’s primo and Onorio attorney.” He tilted his head, his long ringlets shifting like hound ears. “And other agreements granting us the right to broadcast the Sangre Duello. Clearly Pellissier did not fully believe us when we yielded to him, hence this armed standoff, like something from an American cowboy movie.” He shrugged again. “I would not have believed us either.”

Phillip huffed out a breath, sounding like a large playful dog, and said, “And this meeting, while difficult under the circumstances, is still necessary. We met with the Louisiana Gaming Control Board this morning and we have broadcast and distribution agreements signed, notarized, and filed.” Phillip managed to look smug as he said that last part. “Pellissier will do well by a financial agreement with us, and we gain a safety net from a rogue pack by this arrangement.”

“The female vampire who led you to the basement. Did you know her? Did you know her position among the vampires?”

“No. She reeked of fruit. Blond, glacial personality. Beautiful.”

Vamp games. Hated ’em.

And then it hit me. “Leo thought the other werewolf pack would wait to attack and follow you here. Attack all of us here at once. Where his armed people would be prepared to protect you.”

Phillip shrugged slightly. “Or he thought we had lied and that all of the werewolves in New Orleans would attack you here, and that you would kill us all at once, freeing him to negotiate another deal should we prove disloyal.” Phillip stared at me, a wolf’s predator gaze. “I gave him my belly. I am loyal.”

I stepped back, slowly went through the proper procedures to safe my weapons, and tucked the extra rounds into my sports bra. Makeup Wolf was watching and said, “Oh, honey, do you have one of those new tactical women’s sleeveless holster shirts?” At my blank look he said, “I have one in black mesh lace. It is to die for. Of course it’s with Queen Bitch, lost in the belly of a plane somewhere in Hawaii. My QB got to go to Hawaii without me. I am so jealous.”

“Queen Bitch? Hawaii?”

He fluttered his hands and explained, “Queen Bitch is my wardrobe and my stage name.” He stuck out his hand for a shake. The hand wasn’t hairy, which meant he had been body-waxed since his last shift. Just . . . ouch. His nails were painted in a sparkly black that matched his hair.

I took his hand, which crushed mine in a manly competition, and I had to pull on Beast’s strength to avoid bruising.

“Love the hair,” he said, beaming. “It’s so eighties Cher.”

I thought it was a compliment. Maybe. And that also, he might be telling me he was a . . . drag queen?

New Orleans had had drag queens openly onstage for decades before the rest of the nation even knew what the flamboyant stage performers and cross-dressers were. I had never been around a real honest-to-goodness drag queen; not even Deon, Katie’s chef, claimed to be a drag queen, just a queen, and there was clearly a difference. Gender pronouns for drag queens could be fluid, and I suddenly didn’t want to insult. “Okay. How do I address you, pronoun-wise?”

“When I’m properly dressed, you will call me QB, which I totally am. And the proper pronouns would be she and her.” He gave me a girly hand flap with the crushing paw. “When I’m in a suit, I’m he and him. Since we’re all besties now, you can call me Ziggy, my puppy name.”

They had given Leo their bellies. Therefore they were puppies to Leo and to us as well. Crap. Puppies.

Derek cursed softly under his breath. Ziggy batted his eyes at Leo’s other Enforcer. “And you must be Derek. Honey, you are gorgeous. I’ve always had a thing for the lean, mean military man.” Derek glared but shut his mouth.

Phillip asked, “Do you know where Jax’s wolves are?”

I said shortly, “Jax is under PsyLED control. I have no idea about the others. Why was I attacked by Jax?”

“There’s not one simple reason, but rather a plethora of them. Jax’s sire died in New Orleans some months ago, in a bar called, I believe, Booger’s.” His tone went faintly disgusted at the name. “It’s said he died of a blade at the hands of a woman called Jane Yellowrock. As a young wolf, he watched Leo and George Dumas”—his dark eyes flashed Bruiser’s way—“hunt down and kill a wolf who had bitten a human. He hates bloodsuckers, but that hatred exploded when he heard that Leo Pellissier might have a werewolf chained in his basement. He came for vengeance, and because he cannot control his wolf even in human form. And he is a very, very powerful wolf.”

I had a feeling Phillip had left something out, but I went with what I had so far. “I killed a lot of wolves back then. They were led by a bitch in heat and the entire pack was violently psychotic. Leo hunted down and killed a lot of wolves back before the U.S. had grindylows to keep the peace.” No one shifted stance or changed scent, so my blunt statements weren’t a surprise.

“PsyLED has Jax,” I repeated. “He’s out of the picture. How many more are going to attack me?”

“Jax will not be in custody for long, unless they keep him drugged or full of silver. He doesn’t have the emotional control to be an alpha, but he has . . . skills. He’ll be back on the streets in less than twenty-four hours.”

“You seem pretty sure of that,” I said as Bruiser pulled his cell and started texting, probably texting Rick or Soul about the danger of the ginger werewolf in custody.

“I am,” Phillip said distinctly, his magic sharp as broken stone on the air. “My drivers left the cars and went hunting. Bighorn will find this misbegotten pack and teach them obedience.”

I almost said, Newspaper to the snout, but I managed to hold it in. “This is Pellissier’s city. If you need assistance, just ask.”

Phillip tilted his head, a doggy gesture. “I would be honored if the white wolf would join us in this quest.”

“I’ll have someone ask him. I don’t tell him what to do. No one does. Would the other pack join with the EuroVamps?”

Phillip hesitated. “Possibly. I haven’t had time to address that possibility. Scout, Bear, go help track. Make sure the grindy is with you all.”

“Yes, sir,” both wolves said. They grabbed their gear and left the room.

I gestured to the conference table. “For now, we have contracts to discuss and security measures to consider.”

Wrassler brought in more chairs. We sat around the table, Ziggy taking the chair beside me so we could “girl talk,” though I think he wanted to be there so he could magic me down if the need arose. His presumption should have ticked me off, but it didn’t, which was probably a big indication of his considerable magic.

We all introduced ourselves, with proper names, but Ziggy filled me in on the puppy names. There was Boomer, Scooter, Champ, and the two who had left to hunt, Scout and the hairy one, Bear. The drivers were Bandit and Rocky. Phillip—Champ for obvious reasons—ignored Ziggy’s not-so-sotto-voce intros. Ziggy was the only openly gay wolf or drag queen in the group, but I guessed there would be others.