Lucas Vazquez de Allyon was dressed in a tuxedo, the cummerbund and one of those little handkerchiefs in the color of old blood. His black beard was the same pointy Vandyke style he’d worn in the small pen-and-inks of him in the history book. He looked like a modern-day version of the devil. Satan in Armani. Death’s Rival in a ten-thousand-dollar suit that caressed his body like living hands.
As he stepped closer, the power in the room ratcheted up, my skin feeling parched and prickly. Now I wished I had broken down and asked Leo to translate the text in the book for me. This guy wasn’t just a master vamp. He was something more, something other. Arrogance and condescension oozed from every pore—assuming that vamps had pores. It occurred to me that drinking all that skinwalker blood so long ago might have done something to him. I looked at Leo, wondering what my blood had done to him, and if the old master would be able to tell. If so, then he would know that Katie had sipped a little too. So much to know; no time to discover anything useful. Without raising my head, I scanned the room and located the air vents, making certain that I stood well away from any that might take my scent to my enemy.
I remembered that Sabina had spoken inside my head, telling me that my enemy would know me by my scent. And he would if I got close enough, if he hadn’t forgotten what skinwalkers smelled like. I surely would not be that lucky.
Leo and Sabina stood their ground, letting the conquistador cross the room to them, his footsteps oddly hushed in the suddenly silent room, his people fanning out behind him. They were all vamps, all vamped out, showing the three-inch fangs and long talons of the old, old, old vamp. As they all entered, the sense of power grew; I could feel it pressing against me, hot and electric. I knew that Leo’s legal team had stipulated a maximum of twelve vamps, the rest blood-slaves and the new Enforcer. Somebody had come prepared to make a point or start a blood-feud in earnest. Maybe both.
De Allyon met Leo and Sabina in the center of the huge room, the beery stink of blood-drunk vamps, dried herbs, funeral flowers, dissipation, and the scent of sickness whooshing ahead of them. Our visitors had brought sick vamps with them, but none of the others seemed to notice. I found it odd that the vamps couldn’t smell the only disease that could kill them. I touched my mouthpiece for the first time tonight and informed the crew, including Bruiser, that some of our guests were less than healthy.
“Acknowledged,” Bruiser said into his mouthpiece. “Can you tell numbers? Which ones?”
“Not without getting a lot closer than I want,” I said. Which brought up an image of a big dog sticking his snout into a vamp’s crotch. Then of me doing the same thing. Bet that would liven up the proceedings. I curled my bottom lip in and bit down slightly to keep from grinning. The level of tension Bruiser had reduced with his compliment earlier decreased another notch, and my shoulders relaxed. I took a few steps back from the group clustered around Leo. Studying. Planning. Waiting.
De Allyon got in the first sally. “We are Lucas Vazquez de Allyon, Master of the Cities of Atlanta, Sedona, Boston, and Seattle. We present our heir, Hellene de Romanova, our secondo heir, Adam Jonas, and our Enforcer, Jude Talley.” The royal “we” was a bit much, and de Allyon did it unconsciously, as if he considered himself the king of, well, of America. Which was a scary thought.
Point to de Allyon.
His heir and spare were an odd couple, Hellene looking like the bust off an ancient Greek coin, from the shape of her nose to the light brown braids woven around her head, while Adam’s ethnicity was indeterminate. He looked Mediterranean European, as though he had been swarthy skinned when he was turned.
Leo inclined his head to indicate he had heard and spoke his title. “Leonard Eugène Zacharie Pellissier, master of the territory of Southeastern United States, south of the Mason-Dixon Line, east of the Texas border at the Sabine River to the Atlantic, and south to the Gulf, with the exception of Florida and Atlanta.” He paused a bare moment, and added, “the largest single hunting territory in these United States.” De Allyon didn’t react and Leo went on. “My heir you have met and shackled. My acting secondo scion is Koun.” He gestured to the Celt.
“Acting secondo?” de Allyon asked. The room went quiet. Interrupting a vamp while he’s speaking is a gross offense. Leo didn’t react except to let a small smile touch his face.
“Grégoire is occupied elsewhere.” Meaning that unlike their guest, he’d not put all his eggs in one basket. De Allyon blinked slowly, realizing that if he had miscalculated, if Leo attacked and won, he could lose his entire crew tonight.
Leo’s smile widened and he went on. “And my dual Enforcers, George Dumas and Jane Yellowrock. Yellowrock who has been accused of murder, yet who first was attacked, unprovoked, in her hotel room.”
Point to Leo. And a line that worked toward my plan. Thank you, Leo.
Before de Allyon could respond to the claim, Sabina said, “I am Sabina Delgado y Aguilar, outclan, and emissary of the Outclan Council.” De Allyon’s reaction was even less intense than Leo’s, but his scent changed. In fact, the scents of all his people changed, growing tart as they calculated the meaning of a hurried response from the Europeans. No one had known the council was getting involved in this little war. Point to Sabina, and maybe to Leo. We would see.
“Lucas Vazquez de Allyon,” Sabina said, “you have broken truce. Twelve of your scions may stay. Choose which Mithrans you keep at your side, and which will go. If you refuse, then I will choose.”
De Allyon’s Enforcer, a big man with oiled black skin, a bald head, and weapons up the wazoo, stepped slightly to the side, as if he was getting ready to rumble if his master needed muscle. Bruiser shadowed his moves. I didn’t bother. I knew how powerful Sabina was, and if she said she was in charge, then she was totally in charge, and she had the metaphysical weapons to back up her claim.