I looked at the car on the screens and back and forth between the two males. I had no trouble believing that Bruiser was a luxury car nut, but Wrassler was a surprise. He struck me as more of a sports car kinda guy, or maybe a muscle car from the sixties, basketball and beer, baseball and hot dogs.
Outside, the two humans walked through the storm, up the stairs, and into the airlock with its laminated “bulletproof” polycarbonate glass. They passed through the entrance’s X-ray device, which was part of the security upgrades I had instituted since I came to work for the MOC. The glass had been replaced several times in the months I had been here. “Bulletproof glass” didn’t always offer the protection one might think. The emissaries stopped and, on the X-rays, I got a good look at the weapons they carried—plenty—and at the men themselves. Beside me, Bruiser talked with Raisin, the oldest human living at HQ, on the in-house coms system.
Bruiser muttered two names to her, with a vaguely Spanish accent. “Macario and Gualterio. I’d have expected minions, not the big guns.”
They were both short by today’s standards, at five-six and five-eight. Both had dark hair and deeply olive skin. Both were dressed in black wool suits that dropped to gorgeous shoes—Italian leather buffed to a shine. They were also armed to the teeth with blades and sidearms, though no one would know that by looking at them. Their clothing was so perfectly tailored that not a bulge showed. Once I had a good look, I stepped into the shadows so they couldn’t see me in the bright foyer lights.
“They’re both over two hundred years old,” Raisin said over the speaker, her voice scratchy. “The message is, we are here and our masters are more powerful than yours. They have kept us young for centuries. They always were pretty boys, with excellent manners and lovely penmanship.”
“Excellent fighters,” Del said. Del was arguably the most influential human in New Orleans, and last I knew she was in Atlanta. Leo must have called her back to deal with the current problems. Today, even in the cold air, she wore a sleeveless dress in an odd shade of black, one with a red tint that became redder when the light hit it just right. Like blood-soaked cloth. She wore a sword at her side. Del was one of Leo’s people that these blood-servants would have to kill if they wanted a chance at Leo and his fiefdom. The others were the Enforcers: Derek and me. Ducky.
Dacy Mooney, her mother and the heir to the Asheville clan, stood just behind her. I hadn’t seen Dacy since she healed Edmund of silver poisoning. “I’ve watched video of them taking apart other swordsmen,” Dacy said to her daughter. “You’re better.”
“Open the doors,” Del instructed Derek, her voice quiet. Derek, an earbud in his ear and a mouthpiece hanging below his chin, relayed the message.
When the two visitors stepped inside and the doors to the airlock had closed behind them, the one on the right said, “Macario and Gualterio Cardona, primo and secundo servants of the blood to Louis le Jeune, Capetian King of the Franks, turned by Eleanor of Aquitaine during their marriage . . .”
I tuned out the titles and bloodline mumbo-jumbo and then grinned, lips wide over my fangs, thinking of what they would do when they got a good look at me in half-form. Wondering what they might do if I told them their speechifying was boring claptrap. Between fear and insult, they’d skewer me before I could enjoy the show. Inside me, Beast snorted. Less than five humans against more than five humans. Jane/Beast, Bruiser-mate, and blood-drinkers of Leo. Good hunters, more than five. We win.
Probably, I acknowledged, taking in the Cardonas’ scents: blood and sweet peppers and rich cream. Watching the way they moved and shifted or stood completely still, as when Del began to respond. “Adelaide Mooney, primo blood-servant to Leo Pellissier . . .” I zoned out on her words and watched the men, letting some of Beast shine through, knowing that my eyes were taking on a golden glow. It attracted the attention of the unwelcome visitors, and my grin widened as they focused on me in the shadows with laserlike intensity. Taking in my casual clothing and my apparent lack of weapons. Like theirs, mine were mostly out of sight. But my eyes, my fangs, and my pelt scared them. Beast purred inside, enjoying the change in their scents. Beast and I chuffed in amusement, showing more fang.
They flinched the tiniest bit but it wasn’t because of me. I zoned back into Del’s intro, replaying it in my memory, looking for what had spooked them even more than I had.
She had been talking about Leo’s territory in terms of states, which I knew, but had added, “. . . over four hundred thousand square miles of territory under his personal domain, with more swearing fealty to him.” Ah. The emissaries of the EVs had forgotten that the U.S. took up a lot of map space, nearly three times as much as the original fifteen countries of the European Union. Which meant that Leo, under his personal control, had way more hunting territory than any single EV monarch had and maybe more than Titus the emperor had. Go Del. It was a lawyer’s zinger and I wanted to applaud. Didn’t. But wanted to.
Del finished with, “No parley time has been decided upon by our negotiators. No parley location has been decided upon. No parley numbers have been decided upon. Yet you are here. Is this a declaration of war?”
Macario and Gualterio both reacted to that too, showing surprise, even if it was only by their scent patterns. One of them said, “We are here to finalize the negotiations, not create an incident. We wish peace between us and between our masters.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire, I thought as their scents again changed. They were here to cause trouble at the very least. To start the war they denied at the very worst.
“What further accommodations do your masters require, beyond that already agreed upon or in negotiation?” Del asked.
“Information only,” the one on the left said.
Del inclined her head, waiting.
Leftie said, “Our master wishes to know how many Onorios Leo Pellissier has in New Orleans. How many Enforcers? And how many outclan priestesses?”
“And if we disclose this information, will we be provided with the same information from among the full delegation of European Mithrans, now in U.S. waters, aboard the ship hidden beneath an obfuscation working? The ship from which you disembarked only hours past?”
The speaker hesitated a fraction of second before saying, “Of course.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.