Leo said, “I’ve arranged to have your vehicle taken to the Council Chambers where you may retrieve it, that we might speak in privacy.”
It was an order, politely stated. Tex would take our SUV and do exactly as Leo had said, but during that time it would be searched for information about us and our activities and scoured for bugs, and new GPS devices would be implanted in case the one in the SUV’s computer system was somehow disabled. All this because I refused to be bound to Leo, which would have allowed him access to my mind and guaranteed my loyalty. He had tried a forced binding once and it hadn’t worked out so well for either of us. Binding a two-souled skinwalker is harder than it looks.
Expressionless, Eli handed over the fob. Tex gave me a minuscule apologetic shrug, trotted to our vehicle, and drove away, too fast for conditions. The window went up and Leo’s limo followed more slowly, the tires silent on the asphalt, the movement of the vehicle almost undetectable.
“Update?” Eli asked.
Leo sighed, a totally unnecessary breath, and let his TV-bonhomie face fall into more normal, arrogant lines. “It has been a vexing evening.” He reached for a bottle of champagne I had only noticed as part of the background, in a silver bucket. He went through the process of opening the top, as if the steps soothed him. When the cork burst out with a soft pop, he poured the bubbly stuff into three glasses and passed us each one. Out of politeness, I sipped. I’m not fond of alcohol, except a good malty beer, but maybe Leo would talk fast if I seemed to go along. The bubbly wasn’t as good as Coke—not even as good as canned Coke—not that I’d ever say that. I’ve learned a few things in my time in NOLA, and keeping my mouth shut is one of them. Well, most of the time.
“You understand about bloodlines among Mithrans?” Leo asked. We nodded. “Some blood-family lines produce certain traits more strongly than other lines. The Damours line produced a greater and longer-lasting devoveo, leaving its scions permanently insane. The Shaddock line produces a trait for a shorter and simpler devoveo.”
“Grégoire’s sire’s ancestor produced dog-teeth fangs,” I said, cutting to the chase.
Leo’s left eyebrow quirked up above his glass. He looked amused. “Indeed. Your Alex has been industrious.”
“He isn’t my Alex.”
“You are Clan Yellowrock. Of course he is yours, along with Eli. And Edmund.”
And there was the big issue. The big change in my life. The biggest change ever. I had a family now and it had grown more complicated when the vamp Edmund Hartley moved in with us. And became my primo. That was unprecedented. A nonvamp with a vamp main servant—a butler of sorts. A butler, bodyguard, secretary, personal healer, financial advisor, upholder of my honor, personal fighter, and hairstylist. In vamp eyes it gave me more power than most vampires ever had. I still didn’t know who had come up with the idea, Ed or Leo. Not that it mattered. I’d been backed into the position. I hadn’t seen it coming fast enough to avoid it. And I didn’t know what it meant, how to stop it, or how to protect myself and the Youngers from its ramifications.
I put down my glass and met Leo’s eyes, those amazing black-on-black eyes that sparkled with power and intelligence and amusement. He was teasing me, but this I couldn’t let go. “I own no one. No one owns me. That includes you.”
“Of course, ma chérie.” But his eyes said, Yes you do. And I own you.
“I’m. Not. Yours.”
Leo breathed out a laugh, that silk velvet sound he used to charm and mesmerize. He inclined his head, a regal gesture that made him look kingly. “Your Alex will know only bits and pieces. The Capetian bloodline was descended from the first sire of the line, Hugh Capet, who gave rise to a Naturaleza line of blood drinkers with caninelike fangs, upper and lower. The unappealing trait bred out. The Valois line, from which Grégoire was sired, did not have the lower fangs. Nor did the bloodline that followed Valois, the House of Bourbon.” Even more silky, Leo finished, “Nor did the house that followed Bourbon, the House of Orléans.”
“Orléans?” I sat up. “Wait. The French kings were mostly vamps. And they ended with the House of Orléans? So . . . some of the EuroVamps we’re expecting think they own New Orleans.”
Leo nodded and sipped, unperturbed. “Events seem to suggest that we have a visiting Capet or Valois who is raising these revenants. He or she has put out a call and they are responding to that call. But our people have not been able to determine who they are or how they reached our shores. There have been no unaccounted chartered jets from Europe, no known Mithrans presenting papers for entry, nor are there sailing ships at the Port of New Orleans.”
“Sailing ships?” I asked.
“My eyes among the European Mithrans had suggested that they would prefer sailing.”
My eyes meant his spy, the woman referred to as Madam Spy, as if that were a title of importance. “When they can have a cruise ship?” I asked.
Leo pursed his lips at that, as if rethinking.
“Five-star chefs, power when there’s no wind, lots of hunky humans, twenty-four-hour entertainment, swimming pools, gambling. And a speedy crossing. Maybe the vamps own their own line. How much faith do you have in your Madam Spy?”
“Perhaps too much,” he murmured, and sipped his bubbly stuff. He pulled the cord from his hair, releasing it from the queue; the long black strands had curled in the damp air. “She has been unreliable at times.”
“Cruise ships come and go all the time from the port,” I said. “No one would notice a cruise ship. But a sailing ship full of vamps? That would have hit social media immediately.”
“Hmmm.” He sipped, thinking more. “Cruise ships. And with the updated intermodal terminal, they could also come upriver aboard a cargo ship and debark at night with no one the wiser.”
“There would be security. Electronic monitoring of the docks?” Eli said, his tone making his explanation a question, the way a minor soldier might suggest something obvious to a superior officer. Eli continued to impress and surprise me with his social skills. “There are easier ways to get in.”
“If they are in my city, they are few,” Leo said. “I would know if the entire grouping of European Mithrans had all come ashore ahead of the parley, as some sort of”—his hand made a little rolling motion—“preemptive attack.”
Eli looked interested. “How would you know?”
“I am master of this city.” At our blank looks, Leo said, “I am master of the land, of the Mithrans, and of the humans in it. A few Mithrans or Naturaleza might enter without my knowledge—Peregrinus’ groups, for instance—slowly over time, but not in the number that the Europeans wish to bring.”
“And how many is that currently?” I asked. Because the negotiations were stalled again, this time on that all-important final number.