“So we have the vamps, the Holy Roman Church, and the witches all after the same thing.”
Edmund was definitely laughing now; his eyes were even twinkling. “The coven has been studying it for three nights, attempting different tests and spells to identify the magical signature—these are the words of Elodie and Gilbert, Mithrans who would speak to me, not my own. The wreath has been resistant to everything, even to being used as a power source for a spell of healing, the most simple and beneficial of all spells. While clearly powerful, the wreath is not assisting and is resistant to anyone spending its stored power.”
“And they called it a wreath?”
Edmund paused, his lips pursing slightly as he thought back. “I called it so. They did not object or suggest another name or title.”
“Go on.”
“The Mithrans want the wreath back, but the witches are in place before dusk and remain in place until after dawn. They are safe from attack by use of a spell that I have never seen or heard of before—what they call an electric dog collar. If anyone touches the faint circle that encloses them, they are instantly zapped with a strong force, sufficient to set a Mithran attacker ablaze, or stop a human heart. Or to send a wood beam catapulting across the square,” he added drily. “A human tried that one and received a broken arm for his troubles.”
I laughed then and took a seat on the small chair inside the room, the gun hanging down between my knees.
“Neither the Mithrans nor their humans can get to the witches,” Edmund said. There is evidence that the love match between the witch Shauna and her husband, Gabriel Doucette, is under strain.”
“No kidding. Okay. You say that the coven has been studying the thing for three nights. What happens at dawn?”
“The Mithrans pop away, as you might say, to their lairs, safely away from the sun, and the witches drop their dog collar spell, pick up the wreath, and walk away.”
“Go wake up the boys, will you? And be prepared for Eli to try to kill you. He’ll be unhappy to have slept past four a.m.”
“I’ll toss a bucket of water on him from a safe distance. That often works for mad dogs.”
Before he could move for the door, I heard a pop of sound and focused on the open gallery door. A form stood there, silhouetted in the faint gray light, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. It was Gabriel Doucette, heir of Clan Doucette, husband of Shauna Landry, the witch who had stolen the wreath. And a vamp.
I was glad I was still holding my weapon, because it was instantly settled on Gabriel’s pretty face. Gabe wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier when I met him the last time, and time and marriage hadn’t made him any smarter. He vamped-out—eyes, fangs, talons, the whole nine yards. Before I could squeeze the trigger and fill him full of silver-lead rounds, Edmund had my visitor’s head in his claws and his body bent back over one knee, exposing Gabriel’s belly and throat. It was clearly a position of forced submission.
“What do you want with my master?” Edmund asked, his power spiking so high it sizzled along my skin like the flare of sparklers, if the burning could be frozen into icicles taught to dance.
Gabriel made a sound like, “Gurk igh ugh eee.”
Edmund eased his hold and said, “Speak the full truth or die,” which was not what I’d come to do, but sounded pretty effective.
“I got to speak to the Enforcer before dawn.”
“You’re speaking to her,” I said.
Gabe’s eyeballs rolled around in his head until he could see me. “I have a . . . a petition for Enforcer of de Master of de City of New Orleans.” Which was formal talk, taken directly from the Vampira Carta. The local suckheads had been studying, it seemed.
“Let him go, Edmund. But if he gets riled, you can take back up where you were.” I frowned at the meek-looking vampire. “You were going to hurt him, right?”
“Yes, my master, his death, for entering your presence uninvited.”
Yeah. That seemed a little strong to me, but I wasn’t going to argue, not with Eli and the Kid still spelled asleep while flying vamps invaded. There might be others wanting to enter. I did glare at the use of “my master,” a title I was not going to accept.