The weapons harnesses were problematic, having to be strapped on separately, yet align themselves to give me freedom of movement. I wore two matching, scarlet-gripped Walther PK380s; the one under my arm was loaded with nonstandard, hollow-point ammo; the one at the small of my back was the Walther’s twin, loaded with silver for vamp and were-animal—just in case. The semiautomatic handguns were lightweight, ambidextrous, with bloodred polymer grips, and reengineered so the safety block wouldn’t break off. I had practiced with them enough that I knew how they fired, how likely they were to jam in rapid-fire situations, and how they reacted to various kinds of ammo. I’m not a shooter, not a sniper, not into techno-porn. But I liked guns, and if I’d had all mine on me last night, I’d have finished the goon without effort. Or at least without dying. Into my boot holster went a six-round Kahr P380, a small semiautomatic with a matte black finish. It was loaded with standard ammo. Under my right arm, low on my chest, I wore my H&K nine-millimeter, loaded with nonsilver hollow-point rounds that would explode on impact. If I missed a center-mass kill shot, I’d maim an attacker, even a vamp. I inspected the weapon. I hadn’t cleaned it, which was stupid, but I’d only emptied one clip, so the guilt wasn’t particularly intense. Extra clips went onto my belt, under the velvet jacket.
My shotgun, a Benelli M4 Super 90, was slung over my back, belted on top of my jacket, the grip within easy reach over my shoulder. It was loaded for vamp with hand-packed silver-fléchette rounds that would work on human antagonists too. I carried one silver cross in my belt, hidden under my jacket, and stakes, secured in loops at my jeans-clad thighs. My braided hair was twisted around my head in a crown that would be hard to grab. Hip-length hair was a handle in a fight, and I had been advised to cut it long ago. It was the only suggestion by all of my senseis that I had ever ignored. I shoved silver stakes into the crown and stepped from the sleeping quarters just as a stranger placed a two-pound steak on the small table.
He froze when he saw me. He was wearing the white shirt and black pants of the company Leo used for his part-timers, the patches on his shirt naming him Chris, the new first mate. Lovely. Now I had a flyboy pilot who might be an enemy and a first mate who might be his partner. I didn’t think Leo was trying to kill me anymore, but one never knew. He swallowed before he asked, “M-M-Miss Yellowrock?”
I slid in front of the steak and dropped the napkin across my lap, picked up the knife and fork, and closed my eyes. The prayer lasted half a heartbeat. I wasn’t leaving my eyes closed for any reason. I cut into the steak and chewed, and then broke my own rule with a groan and a gourmand’s closed eyes. Holy crap, it was good. Three bites later I looked up and remembered the first mate had spoken. Around a mouthful of steak I said, “Hi, Chris. I’m Jane. Good steak. I may have to marry you.”
He swallowed and turned back to the kitchen, but I heard him murmur, “It’d be like sleeping with a scorpion.” Which I thought was very funny, and almost told him so, but he was bringing me tea, and the steak was so good that I wanted to be nice. I ate the whole thing, plus the sautéed mushrooms and grilled zucchini he set on the side. Delicious. Ten minutes after I finished the meal, I was on my way, without ever seeing Flyboy Dan.
*
It was still an hour before sunset when I got to the clan home of the Master of the City of Seattle. The house—okay, it was a mansion, but my standards had changed the longer I worked in close proximity to vamps—now I called it a house and didn’t feel like an impostor when the driver pulled up out front. The clan home was a hundred years old, three stories, brick, stucco, and wood on an acre of land, lakefront. It had heavily landscaped grounds and a circular drive off Lake Washington Boulevard, and all the houses near it were mansions too. I had no idea about property values, but I was guessing two mil easy. I gathered my things and stopped, dragging my eyes back to the Seattle Clan Home. Something wasn’t— The lack jumped out at me. No security, no armed blood-servants patrolling. Not even a gardener on the grounds. The place looked deserted. My shoulders tightened as I got out, slung the blood-collecting bag over one shoulder, and closed the door. “You’re waiting, right?” I said to the taxi driver.
“You’re not a hit man, right?”
“Right. Just a bodyguard, applying for a job.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“I’ll wait unless I hear gunfire. Then I’m outta here.”
“Fair enough. Thanks for the phone,” I said, tucking it in my pocket. He had brought me a new one—no bells or whistles, but at least in one piece and functioning—on the orders of Leo. Having learned my lesson, I had another in my back pocket.
I spun on a heel and walked to the front door. It was a double door, wavery panes of leaded glass in the doors and side lights. One door hung open.
A Walther was in my hand in an instant, the Benelli sliding from the back sheath. From inside, I smelled a familiar sickly-sweet scent, heard raspy breathing and an irregular moaning. Using a toe, I pushed open the door.
The foyer looked immaculate, twelve-foot-tall ceilings, walls a pale cream, wainscoting a muted beige, and the millwork at ceiling and floor in a yellow the color of twenty-four-karat gold in candlelight. I slid inside and to my left into the formal room. Hardwood floors, Oriental rugs, marble fireplace surrounded by massive millwork. Cloth upholstery on couches and chairs, which was weird. Vamps liked leather; the feel of skin against theirs appealed to their predatory instincts. But I saw no leather anywhere. And even more odd, the shutters were open. Sunlight poured into the front room.
I moved on to the left, into the music room/library. A baby grand piano stood in the middle of the room, and couches and bookshelves lined the walls. The lower floor of the house was set up in a circular pattern for formal entertaining. I kept on circling to my left, into the breakfast room that looked out over the water and toward the Seattle cityscape, through the kitchen—lots of copper and brass, even on the walls and ceiling—and into the dining room, which had a table that would seat twelve. I hadn’t seen anyone. No security cameras. Nothing. The sickly smells were all coming from upstairs.