“Here,” he pointed to a glass-topped table with beveled edges, which looked like a weird place to stack weapons until I saw the black trays. Wrassler looked me over and laid out all six, a grin on his face that said he was making a joke.
“Cute.” I felt like I’d been dressing and undressing—weapon wise—all day, but I wasn’t about to argue with security precautions, especially as I had been suggesting these for weeks. Vamp-hunting was fun and paid well, but the gigs were hard to come by. Security was my bread and butter.
I pulled the Benelli M4 and placed it across one tray, the barrel longer than any of the black resin platters. Three handguns went in the next, still smelling recently fired. His nose twitched and I knew Wrassler caught the smell. When he raised his brows in question, I shrugged, hiding my grin. His eyes tracked over me, noting my bloody, fang-ripped clothes. He stuck a sausagelike finger into a jagged rip in the leather over my elbow. “Bet that hurt.”
I grunted. “Yeah. And I’ll be submitting a bill for the repair.” Into the third and fourth trays I placed five vamp-killers each, lined up neatly; the crosses filled the fifth, laying them so the chains didn’t knot; all but two of my stakes went into the sixth dish. I was hoping the sheer number of weapons would make him overlook the pair of silver hair sticks in my fighting bun as a fashion accessory. It wasn’t smart to be unarmed within fang range of a vamp, not when said vamp had tried to kill me already, and may have sent me to die tonight. When Wrassler didn’t notice the hair sticks I’d retained, staring at the array of weapons in bemusement, I tapped my cheek with a fingertip as if thinking, made an “aha” gesture, and held out the vial of holy water to him. “You’ll want to hold this one.”
He laughed and took the vial, setting it with the crosses, which seemed appropriate. “That’s my Janie.”
“You do know that name annoys me.”
“Yep. Assume the position, little girl.”
“Even worse.”
“I know.”
After a thorough but totally professional pat down, I followed Wrassler to the stairs and up one flight. I’d been on most floors of vamp HQ, but the doors were always shut, making it hard to orient myself as to purpose. Wrassler knocked at an interior room, meaning no exterior walls, no windows, not that there wasn’t a way out hidden behind a bookshelf or something. “Entrez.” Leo’s voice, speaking French.
Wrassler opened the door, keeping his body between the room and me. “The Rogue Hunter, Mr. Pellissier.”
“Weapons?”
“None, sir.”
A hint of humor entered Leo’s tone. “How many?”
“Filled up all six trays, sir.”
“Mmm. Hair sticks?”
Wrassler looked at me and I sighed, pulling the silver stakes/hair sticks out of my bun and setting them on the carpet at my feet. “No hair sticks, Leo,” I said. I didn’t want to get the big guy in trouble. Wrassler gave me a glare, to which I shrugged back with a “So sue me” expression. You can’t blame a vamp-killer for trying.
“You may enter.”
The guard closed the door behind me, and I faced Leo’s office. Tyler Sullivan, a whip-thin, pale-skinned black man with dark eyes and full, sexy lips, Leo’s second in command, stood barring my way. His eyes were empty and blank and cold, his posture military-parade rest, but with something cocky and cruel in his bearing. He looked me over head to foot and made a little twirly gesture with one finger. I turned around and when I was facing him again, he said softly, “Assume the position, Miss Yellowrock.”
“I just got a thorough pat down.”
“Assume the position, Miss Yellowrock.” His voice didn’t change inflection, didn’t insist, didn’t cajole or demand. But it was implacable. I assumed the position and was once again body searched, a lot harder and more forcefully than before. And a lot more personally.
When he was done he stepped back, shifting position from one foot to the other without proper body mechanics. Which he would likely not have done had I been a guy. Ticked off at where he had put his hands, I turned, stepped fast into his personal space. Slammed him back with a body shove. The instant he was off balance, I hooked his ankle with one of mine and jerked. And rode him down. Landed with a knee in his gut and fingers at his throat. He grunted before I shut off his air. Too late, his eyes widened with alarm.
I leaned in close and whispered, “You touch me like that again and I’ll rip out your throat.” I tightened my fingernails into the sides of his trachea and pulled up as the heel of my hand pressed down. “Do you understand? Blink twice for yes.” Tyler blinked twice, hard. I flowed to my feet and watched him rise. The takedown had been necessary, in a strictly dominance sense, but he wasn’t quite so cocky now. I’d embarrassed him in front of Leo and made an enemy. I’m good at that, though it’s not a talent I’m proud of. Tyler left through the door I’d come in, his face flaming.
Leo was standing in front of a fire, dressed in a white lawn shirt, one that would have tied at the throat with a fine ribbon, had the tie not been loose, exposing a swathe of his chest. The sleeves were rolled up, the hem tucked into loose black pants of some woven, nubby material, maybe raw silk. He was holding a teacup, the fire behind him, his eyes opaque in the shadows.