The car pulled to a stop at the apex of a circular drive and Bruiser lowered the privacy window an inch. "I'll take care of us from here, Simon." The driver, silhouetted by the outside lights through the darkly tinted, bulletproof glass, gave a small two-finger salute. Bruiser helped me out into the muggy air, his hand on mine firm. I used the moment to smooth my hair, retucking the ends of several braids and checking the position of the weapons in them. The wrestling-match-slash-almost-sex on the floor hadn't dislodged anything. He shut the door, placed my hand in the crook of his arm, and started up the walk to the door. He leaned in, placed his lips at my ear, murmuring, "Play nice."
I adjusted my little purse on its extra-long strap and let one corner of my mouth curl up. "I'd like to keep my skin intact and my blood in my veins. I promise not to do anything really stupid."
"I promise to do nothing stupid," he corrected, a glint in his eye.
"Bully for you." He chuckled as we took five steps up to the massive front door, and I added, "Good English and grammar are easy for old geezers." He harrumphed, adjusted his jacket, and squeezed my arm. Glancing down, I was happy to see that neither his tux nor my dress was overly wrinkled, despite the tussle on the floor.
I also spotted long, narrow, horizontal windows below the entry porch, running along the length of the building, behind low shrubbery--windows dark but clean. Each had bars over it. This building was one of a very few in this part of the world with a basement or root cellar. Or maybe coal cellar. Maybe dungeon. With the high water table, most such depressions filled in with water and contributed to black mold. If the space was well kept and dry, then it was likely witch-spelled to keep out water.
Witches and vamps. Working together. It wasn't supposed to happen. The two species were supposed to hate each other. My nosy instincts went into overdrive. Why did a huge warehouse need a basement? Had it once been a holding cell for contraband? Or far worse, imported slaves?
Inside the door, cold, dry air flooded from overhead vents. And the smell of vamp hit me like a closed fist. Son of a sea lion, there must be hundreds of them here. I closed down around myself fast, erecting barriers in my mind, barriers that Molly was helping me to strengthen, using meditation techniques. It was working, but not as well as she wanted. The vamp stink was potent, aggressive, as if they had been fighting among themselves, and it made my hackles rise. Beast peeled back her lips and showed me her teeth, hissing softly; I held her off with a mental command. Beast didn't like walking onto another predator's territory. She also didn't like it when I barricaded her off, so she sat back, allowing me the alpha position. For now.
Bruiser paused and removed two white envelopes from his jacket pocket, handing them to a security type, a tuxedoed guy with an ear wire and a tiny mouthpiece, a significant bulge beneath one arm. But he wasn't muscled and burly; he was slight, black, and had very hard, very cold eyes. He studied, memorized, categorized, and set me aside as unimportant. I could have been insulted, but being discounted might keep me safe. "George Dumas and guest," Security Dude said, checking off the name on a clipboard.
George nodded and said, "Jane Yellowrock, Rogue Hunter." I saw the man's eyes flick my way, and I was pretty sure I was being recategorized from date to dangerous. I sighed. I'd have security watching me all evening.
"Armed?" SD asked.
"She was," Bruiser drawled, giving the impression that he had declawed me himself. Which he had, actually. I frowned. SD glanced back at me and nodded as if amused at the little lady. I narrowed my eyes at Bruiser and moved inside, into a reception line.
CHAPTER 8
I am not prey!
I studied our hostess, Bettina, Blood Master of Clan Rousseau. Rousseau was a beautiful woman of mixed race heritage, mostly African and European, and I had learned early on that she had entered this country as a slave. Perhaps through this warehouse, where she now was hostess. It seemed the kind of ironic situation that would appeal to a vamp.
Vamp lore said that Bettina had pleased her master, who had later turned her, freed her, and made her his second in command. When he died in 1915--crap. Wasn't that the year Bruiser mentioned being the last vamp war?--Bettina had moved into his position of power. Of course, I'd heard other stories too, but I hadn't found anything in the woo-woo files to verify any of them.
Bettina stood five-four or five-five in heels, had more curves and cleavage than a Playboy bunny, and oozed seduction. She had tried it on me once, asking me to her bed. I was so not going there. Clan Rousseau's blood-master took Bruiser's hand as if to shake, but pulled him close. "George," she said, pressing her cheek to his, her accent exquisite even in the single word.
"Lovely lady," he murmured, pressing his cheeks to both of hers in a manner that seemed Old World and LA current at the same time.
Bettina turned to me. "Our brave hunter," she said.