Rushing the clock, I strapped on the knife sheaths and silver-tipped stakes, and gathered three new handguns provided by Leo, which was one of the nicer aspects of being on vamp retainer—access to all the latest toys. Thanks to a big check signed by Ernestine, the financial secretary of the Louisiana Mithrans, I was fully accoutered with new .380s.
Muscle memory giving me speed, I sat on the couch in the sitting area, handguns on the low table, and checked them all, holstering the new weapons. The .380s offered less stopping power than my 9 mils, and significantly less than my Benelli M4 tactical 12-gauge shotgun, currently hidden in the closet, but were perfect for this job where the possibility of collateral damage was not acceptable, meaning accidentally shooting a tourist or bellboy. So I loaded varied kinds of ammo in the new magazines. The Walther PK380s, I loaded with standard rounds in the event of a human or blood-servant attack on the talks between vamps. One went under my arm, its twin at the small of my back. Matching guns. How cool is that? The semiautomatic handguns were lightweight, ambidextrous, with bloodred polymer grips, and reengineered so the safety block wouldn’t break off, a serious flaw of the first ones in the series.
Into my boot holster went a six-round Kahr P380, a small semiautomatic with a matte black finish. It was loaded with silver in case of vamp attack. I had strict orders not to tell the other security or the vamps at the chats about the silver ammo, and not to fire it unless “extreme measures are called for, in the event of unforeseen violence.” Leo’s words. I translated them to mean, “if the vamp-poop hit the fan,” because with vamps, violence was always foreseen.
I stood and checked myself in the long mirror. Of course, if the vamp-poop became airborne I wasn’t well prepared, not even with all the weapons on me. I wasn’t wearing my protective gear, my armored and silver-studded leathers. And I had yet to replace my sterling silver neck, throat, and décolletage collar that protected me from the most common vamp killing techniques. I had nothing defensive on me at all. I was logistical and overall security for the hotel, transportation, any protesters who decided to make a point and kill a vamp, and the talks themselves, so I wasn’t supposed to need my vamp-hunting gear. Yeah. Right.
I threw on the jacket, straightened my gold nugget necklace, and paused. I spun to the closet and stretched up on tiptoe. Spotted the wooden box in the far corner. Even though I knew it was there, it was hard to see, Molly’s spell sliding my eyes to the side, making my brain ignore it. My fetish necklaces were inside, and no human would ever notice the box unless they reached back and felt for something they didn’t see. Satisfied, I raced through the connecting doorway into the common area of the twins’ suite. They were waiting, dressed and armed to the teeth. Brian tossed me a tube of red lipstick, which I caught and smeared on as I passed a mirror. The shade matched the Walthers’ grip, which had made me laugh when I bought it.
“The princess is finally ready,” Brandon drawled, his Louisiana accent thicker than melted praline candy.
“It was worth the wait,” Brian said. Or maybe it was the other way around. Without seeing the tiny mole at Brandon’s hairline I can’t tell them apart, and when they work personal security for their blood-master, they dress alike. Exactly alike. So there’s no telling them apart at a distance. Clan Arceneau’s security blood-servants were gorgeous, and all gussied up in matching tuxedoes tonight.
“You boys look pretty,” I said, tucking the lipstick into a pocket. I put on the ear wire and one of the twins helped me attach the receiver unit beside the Walther holstered at my spine.
“I look pretty. The ugly brother,” Brian said, tugging on the holster, and telling me which twin was which, “looks acceptable as long as he leaves his hair combed over his imperfection.”
It was an old joke. I just wish they’d wear name tags. I flipped the switch on and dropped the coat, checking its drape in the long mirror at the door. In its reflection, I saw the TV, with two mug shots on it, bearded men, rough and angry. Not that the werewolves would look anything like that by now. If they shaved, they’d be hard to recognize. The mug shots became a shampoo ad. “Okay. What’s on the schedule tonight?” I asked as I followed Brian into the hallway.
He knocked on the door at the end of the hall, speaking over his shoulder to me. “The Noir Wine Room.”
I touched my mike to the command channel and said, “Update.”
Derek said, “The locals are still chanting out front. Apparently the Cocke County sheriff released your name at a press conference this evening. Our protestors think you were lying to protect the suckheads when you said no vamps attacked the couple in Hartford.”
“Mmmm,” I said. “Numbers?”
“Fourteen. I have a guy watching and taking video. We’ve ID’d most of them.”
“Okay. We’re moving according to schedule. The Noir Wine Room. Everyone in place?”