“Ramondo Pitri,” Derek said, changing the subject of the interrogation, pulling the cross away. A layer of skin clung to it, crinkled with heat.
“The Enforcer,” the vamp shouted. “Pitri was my master’s Enforcer.” As if the admission had released a dam, he took a gasping breath, his ribs shivering oddly as they expanded, not a human breath at all, ribs moving snakelike. He kept speaking, the words gushing. “He was sent to reconnoiter and research Pellissier’s Enforcer, in preparation to initiate a legal blood-challenge to her as laid out in the Vampira Carta.”
I blinked. Stepped into the room. Leo’s scions turned as one to me, staring, still as death, still as vamps. A laugh wanted to titter up in my throat. I’d killed Ramondo Pitri. I’d killed a man and started a vamp war.
“Ramondo was trying to discover information,” he continued, “to find out why Jane Yellowrock was so special.”
“Shut up, Kleto. Shut up!” the other vamp whimpered. That gave us one name and one nickname, Kleto and Corpse. We were making progress.
Kleto ignored him. “He wanted to learn how Leo’s Enforcer made her way up the ranks so quickly, before he challenged the stranger to draw first blood.”
Katie stepped toward me, her blond hair falling forward in a wave that swished like silk as it moved. Her interest pricked my predatory and territorial instincts; I almost reached for a blade but stopped myself before I could complete the move, which would have been taken as the gravest insult. A smile answered my abortive attempt, and it was like being studied by a hungry predator, daring me to try and take her down. It all happened inside of three heartbeats, banging against my ribs.
And the caged bird kept singing, as if having something he could say were a lifeline. “He was supposed to issue a Blood Challenge to Yellowrock according to the Carta, but he was worried that she was some kind of supernat, a were or something, so he went to her hotel room.”
“A blood-challenge, Enforcer to Enforcer, for first blood,” Katie said, her eyes holding me, unblinking, black and bloody, “is one acceptable first step to one master issuing a Blood Challenge to another—mortal combat for his position.”
“But Leo’s Enforcer killed him. Without provocation.”
I didn’t think shooting an armed man in my hotel room, one carrying multiple weapons, including the gun he had drawn—the gun with an illegal suppressor—was exactly without provocation, but I kept my mouth shut. Or Katie stared me down, which was not something I was willing to consider. Once again, flying by the seat of my pants and without enough info to do my job had caused problems—this time, big problems—and had resulted in a ticked-off, vamped-out vampire holding me within her sights. I could feel her compulsion wrap around me like electric razor wire, cutting and burning.
She took a breath, and I forced myself not to take one with her. Katie tilted her head to the side, that snakelike movement they do when they forget to act human. “You killed an Enforcer before he could issue challenge to you. This is not allowed under our law. You are permitted to take a life only in self-defense, official challenge, or mortal combat. As an Enforcer without a blood-bond, you are a danger to us all.”
“Leo got a copy of the police reports. It was good enough for him.”
Her shoulders lifted and her fingers opened out, claws dropping down and spreading. Her fangs clicked down, not instinct, but a carefully controlled action, something she did with purpose, a control only the very old ones, and very powerful ones, have. “Leo is not here,” she said. “He has been taken by an enemy. For now, perhaps forever, I am master.” Which made little lizards rush up and down my spine on cold, sticky feet. “This war appears to be, technically, legally, your fault. Now the rival Mithran may do anything he wants.”
“Not Jane’s fault,” a voice croaked behind me.
I whirled and caught the naked man before he hit the floor. “Bruiser,” I whispered.
His skin felt colder than a cadaver’s. He was sweat-slicked and ashy and he stank like a three-day-old grave. But he took a breath and I felt his heart against my chest, beating like a wounded kitten’s, fast and weak. Not concerned about what I was giving away by a show of strength, I lifted him up and over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry, steadying his bare lower back and his thighs, his arms dangling over my shoulder; Bruiser was too big to cart any other way without dragging his feet or banging his head on the floor. I carried him back down the twisty hallway into the office and set him down gently on the leather sofa, found a throw, and wrapped it around him. It was teal cashmere with aqua silk tassels and fringe, the soft textures sharp as nails on my fingers, the colors overbright, almost harsh. Shock. I was in shock.
The priestess was nowhere in sight, but Katie knelt at his side and stroked his temples, her claws scraping his skin. She focused on him as if she could read his state of being through his skin. And maybe she could. What did I know? “George,” she murmured. “You will live. And still mostly human. Do not despair. Do not despair.”
Mostly human? What did that mean?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Your Security Sucks
The heir of the Master of the City—and most of the Southeastern United States—looked up from Bruiser’s face, her eyes gathering up my consciousness like a spider weaving a silk grave for its dinner. My mind struggled in her grip, kicking. “You claimed the position of Enforcer. Leo did not refute you. Yet you did not drink from him? And he permitted this?”
My mouth went dry. When I didn’t reply, she went on. “An Enforcer must be bound by the Master of the City, bound body and soul by blood and . . . Pourtant, vous n’avez pas fait l’amour.”
I had an idea what she had said, and, no way, José, but I settled for a succinct “Uhhhh.”