Wrassler didn’t answer her question. “Mr. Pellissier’s Enforcer and I will be there in a few minutes. Touch nothing. Do nothing. Understand?”
“Yes.” She sobbed and gulped. “Like on those crime shows. Evidence and all.” Jocelyn sobbed again. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“We don’t know. But you are Sonya’s primo.” Which told me who they were, and left me feeling gut-socked. I had never heard of the two. As the Enforcer and head of security, I should know every vamp and primo in the city. And clearly I didn’t. “Take all the others,” Wrassler said, “and leave the suite. Go to the bar. We’ll be there in five minutes.” He closed the cell. “Come with me,” he said, starting back down the hallway, looking around.
“Eli’s getting his gear,” I said, mind-reading.
Wrassler pulled a mic out of his shirt collar and tapped it active. “Bring my SUV around, one driver, one shooter.” He tapped the mic off and began removing the coms apparatus as he led the way. Without me having to ask, he said, “Sonya is a new scion, released into the world only two weeks ago. If there’s ash or grit, then that makes two killed in just days.”
“Any history on vamps turning to ash?” I asked, remembering that Reach was supposed to be researching that.
“Nothing that Reach has bothered to tell us,” Wrassler rumbled, anger in his tone. He pushed the way out of the back of the building and rushed into the waiting car—a typical vamp-mobile, armored body, heavily tinted windows, and armament in the side panels of the doors. The lead vehicle rumbled off as I hopped into Eli’s SUV and belted in, gearing up as best I could as he tore out the gates after Wrassler.
In minutes, we pulled up in front of a narrow three-story building just off Bourbon Street. There was no sign, no neon, no nothing to identify the place, just three shuttered windows, long and narrow, and a tall wood door bound with rusted metal, a large ornate lock, and a door handle. On the second story above was a wrought-iron balcony with columns shaped like leaves and flowers, and some kind of supporting iron filigree along the roof. Four long, narrow doors and windows, closed and shuttered, lined up with the ones on the ground floor. The third floor was similarly arranged, but the windows and doors were out of sight from the angle on the street as we pulled up, which I knew Eli didn’t like.
“I’ll scout around,” he said, parking and taking off into the shadows.
Much more slowly, Eli’s extra go-bag slung over my shoulder, I followed Wrassler and his shooter, a security guy I knew served Clan Pellissier but couldn’t name. For now he was P. Shooter, which made me smile. P. Shooter wore jeans and a sweater, and had enough guns on him to take out a street gang. I tucked my braid into my T-shirts to dangle down my back, out of the way. Unholstered a nine-mil and readied it for firing.
Wrassler knocked and a tiny access panel in the door opened and shut instantly. Stupid. They needed cameras. All an invader would need to do was stick a gun in the panel when it was opened and fire. The door opened and a well-rounded, buxom woman fell into Wrassler’s arms, breathing as if she’d run a marathon. I could smell her fear-stink sweat.
“Update, Jocelyn,” Wrassler said, edging her inside. P. Shooter and I followed and closed up behind us, looking up the narrow, curving stairway to make sure no one stood at the top. P. Shooter moved into the room, already quartering it.
“They’re all in the bar,” Jocelyn said, “and I had drinks and food brought out.” She shuddered a breath that shook her to her toes—which were bare and painted and adorned with rings and anklets. Pretty feet. Thick, beautiful arms, skin the color of walnut, but soft and oiled to a sheen, large breasts, and no bra. Long flowing clothes—a washed silk salwar chemise in purples. “No one has been in or out of the house—so far as I can tell—since we closed up for the dawn. And I kept everyone out of Sonya’s room.”
I moved to the front windows and saw that they were locked and secure. P. Shooter looked at me and gestured to the back of the ground floor. I nodded and he left to check it out. I paused and sniffed, smelling fear and alcohol and blood and perfume. Humans and two, maybe three vamps. We moved into the main room, which was rectangular, the walls painted a pale mint color with darker green trim, the floor shrimp-toned tile, and the coffered ceilings twelve feet tall. Leather sofas were in one area with a merrily burning gas fire in the corner. The bar ran along the windowless right-side wall for twelve feet or so, and was stocked with enough liquor to satisfy a platoon of soldiers on leave for a month. Across from it was a library with books and shelves and an architectural-style desk. A long table with upholstered chairs marked the dining area. The back of the building smelled of cooking and a bathroom and old plumbing. P. Shooter disappeared into the rooms there.