“Beats me. Talk to Gee.” I had rhymed it. The titter I had been fighting since the “vampire peeing” thought burbled perilously close to the surface before I slammed down on it hard. My sense of humor was gonna get me killed.
A knock sounded at the door. Bruiser stuck his head in and smiled when he saw me, not hiding the relief in his expression. He’d been half afraid that his boss would drink me dry. Had Tyler sent him running here? “I’ll be downstairs in the Situation Room,” he said. “Get your escort to bring you when you’re done here.”
I looked back at Leo. “You’ve got a pack of werewolves in the city. Their lawyers are attempting to freeze all the fangheads’ financial activities, bring murder chargers against you for killing the previous pack leader, and bring the vamps to their knees in the human courts. They still say they have proof. And no, I don’t know what.”
Leo nodded regally, despite his shock. His eyes traveled from me to the far corner of the room where the girl slept. “You may go.”
I bit my tongue and left. I hate it when they do that—dismiss me as if I’m the little scullery maid. But I didn’t complain. Another waste of breath. Bruiser closed the door behind me, a finger over his lips. To Wrassler, he said, “We’ll be downstairs. You may relieve John at the front entrance. His shift is over. I’ll call you when Miss Yellowrock is ready to leave.”
Wrassler gave an offhand salute and strode down the hallway, his shoulders taking up most of the space between walls. I hadn’t noticed it before, but walking abreast of the guy would be impossible here. “Good thing I don’t mind being the little woman and shuffling along behind.”
Bruiser looked at the guard and chuckled, reading my thoughts. “He was hired for his physique as much as his training. This way.” He didn’t speak again until we were in the elevator, headed for the basement, or maybe the subbasement. Or maybe a sub-subbasement. The elevator was in the back of the hallway, to the left of the entry, and it had no buttons. To get anywhere, Bruiser had to slide his ID card through and then punch a series of numbers on a keypad. He didn’t let me watch as he worked the device.
“What? No eye scanners, no palm print scanners?”
“They’re on order; they haven’t arrived,” he said, his mouth showing the tiniest bit of amusement.
“Leo was emotional tonight,” I said.
“Yes. I noticed.” The elevator began to move.
“Leo was never emotional until that thing masquerading as his son died. How long does the dolore last? I thought his grief would be over by now. Or at least a lot better. And I need to know about some guys, a werewolf named Roul Molyneux, and a nonhuman who used to be Leo’s Mercy Blade, Girrard DiMercy.”
Bruiser dropped his back to the wall and looked down at his hands, fingers interlaced and hanging limply in front of him. He breathed out, sounding gloomy. “I don’t know how much I can tell you.”
“I hope it’s enough to explain why Leo just offered me a hit.”
Bruiser raised his eyes to mine. “A hit?”
“A contract to kill Gee DiMercy.”
“Gee is still alive?” When I nodded, he asked tonelessly, “And Magnolia Sweets?”
“Dead. What’s going on, Bruiser?”
He smiled at the name. Bruiser was really George Dumas, a good-looking guy—not as pretty as Rick, but no one was—who stood six-four and had a great butt and a wonderful nose. That might sound weird, but I have a thing about noses, and Bruiser’s was dang-near perfect. His butt in a tuxedo or a pair of tight jeans won awards in my book too.
He sighed again. “You know about the previous vampire war in this city.”
“If you mean the one in the early nineteen hundreds, I know it happened. That’s it.”
The elevator door opened onto a sterile hallway smelling faintly of floor wax. The overhead lights were dimmed, but brightened as we stepped out. There were only three doors, all of them locked with keypads like the one in the elevator. Bruiser punched in some more numbers and opened one. Inside was a large room centered with an oval table and chairs, a modern bronze light fixture with a single large globe—almost as big around as the table—open side facing up, hanging over it. Closed laptops were placed in front of each chair and computers hummed softly at the back of the room. A huge monitor, maybe five feet across, hung from the ceiling, the screen black. There were papers at the foot of the oval table, and two chairs were pulled a little away, as if we were expected to sit. Bruiser claimed a chair and indicated one for me. I watched as he restrained himself from pulling out my chair like he would for a lady. Controlling my grin, I sat. He sat. I waited as he thought, smelling coffee and tea at the back of the room on a rolling beverage cart, and wishing for a strong cuppa.
“In the early nineteen hundreds, the mayor of New Orleans had been made aware of the”—he steepled his widespread fingers in front of his mouth, thumbs under this chin—“monsters in the midst of his populace.” As usual, when Bruiser talked of the past, his British accent grew stronger, more pronounced. I settled in for a story.