I didn’t react, except to turn, my reflection turning with me in the mirror. I was wearing thirteen wood stakes and thirteen silver-tipped stakes in pouches and loops. I wore armored leathers, butt-stomper combat boots, and I was carrying newly sharpened blades—three heavily silvered vamp-killers and four throwing knives—and my vial of holy water.
I carried the two red-gripped Walthers in Blackhawk vertical shoulder holsters, on top of a skintight vest and T-shirt, the M4 on my back in its old harness, a short-sword-length vamp-killer in one boot, and a nice little, dependable .38 revolver in the other. A nine-mil was strapped against my spine under the vest and another was at my waist in a belt holster, next to two CS canisters. Two flashbangs were on the other hip, so I didn’t get the canister-style grenades mixed up with the colloidal silver ones. My gold nugget necklace now also carried my emergency shifting tooth, the tooth of the biggest Puma concolor I had ever seen. I had wired the tooth into a loop and now wore the nugget and tooth on the double gold chain underneath the double vamp-collars that protected my throat from vamp-teeth and talons. I was carrying a good twenty pounds of gear, enough to clank when I walked. But I had spent the time adjusting everything to make sure that I didn’t.
Christie handed me a tube and I slashed on crimson lipstick, the same shade as the Walthers’ grips. My hair was in a queue so tight my scalp hurt, and my tiny derringer was knotted into the bun, a last-ditch weapon. I figured if I got down to that one, I’d save the last bullet for me.
I studied myself in the mirror, my coppery skin a rich hue against the black of my clothes and my hair. My eyes were all wrong, and that might save my life. I was sporting heavy eyeliner in an ancient Egyptian style, eye shadow in a storm-cloud gray, and—most importantly—a brand-new pair of colored contact lenses. I now had eyes so dark they looked vamp-black. They made me blink, but they weren’t completely uncomfortable. I looked like a pureblooded Tsalagiyi, not like a skinwalker. Not at all. As long as I stayed far enough away from de Allyon so that he couldn’t smell me, I should be safe. Yeah. Right.
“Well?” The single word was laced with emotion and meaning—sarcasm, mockery. If Christie had added, “You idiot,” to the question, her meaning would have been no clearer.
“I look like an Enforcer,” I said.
“Yes, you do.”
I turned to see Bruiser standing at my bedroom door and I almost did a double take. I had seen the primo in a tux, in a business suit, in casual dress, in night camo, and in jeans. I had also seen him soaking wet in my shower. But I had never seen him wearing Enforcer garb. Not ever. My breath drew in over my tongue, and Beast peeked out at the world through my eyes. I lowered my lashes, so he wouldn’t see my black contact lenses, knowing he would think I was being coy or shy, rather than devious.
“Now, that is hot,” Christie said, crossing the room to him. “To-tal-ly hot. Sugar, if you want to come work off some excess energy before the parley, I am your girl.” She ran her hand from his collarbones, across his chest, and down his abs. He caught her wrists before she could head farther south. I could hear Deon gulp from across the room, and the pheromones of lust and excitement filled the air.
A slight smile lifted Bruiser’s mouth, but his eyes never left me. “Thank you, Christie. But I am fine.”
And indeedy he was. Bruiser was wearing armored leather and weapons from top to toe, formfitting, clearly handcrafted, matte black leather, four guns that I could see, two knives, and the two short swords I had given him at his waist, the scabbards set for a cross draw, or whatever they called it in sword fighting. His brown hair was slicked back, the goop he’d used making it look nearly as dark as mine.
Bruiser crossed the room to me and stood behind me for a moment. Fast as a magician, he slipped my silver and titanium throat protector around my neck. I hadn’t seen it since that awful night in Leo’s lair when Katie had removed it from my neck and I had discovered just how little protection it really was. Bruiser latched it, the metal icy on my throat, his fingers hot. “I’m sorry,” he said. I nodded, the motion jerky.
He stood beside me, our reflections side by side in the mirror, his fingers still touching my throat. “We are perfect together,” he said. And though I didn’t know if he meant perfect as a fighting pair or as a couple, my Beast purred. Bruiser’s smile widened. He took my hand and lifted it, curling my knuckles under. His lips pressed into them, hotter than human, and that heat seemed to zing through me like lightning on roofies. A memory of big-cat scent followed on the trail of the heat. Rick . . .
Christie said, “Son of a bitch. I never guessed.”
Deon swatted her. “Language,” he hissed.
I never got the chance to ask her what she had never guessed because Bruiser turned me in a dance step as elegant as anything from a Victorian ballroom and led the way to the front door. Eli waited there, geared up in black-and-gray camo combat clothes, night-vision gear on a strap around his neck, with crosses, silvered blades, and trank guns in among his regular battle gear.
He looked us over, expressionless, taking in our enmeshed fingers and our lookalike clothes. “Just so you know,” he deadpanned, “no way am I dressing up in leather. Not now, not ever. Don’t ask.”