“Alex!” Eli barked. Alex had been hacking again, and though his parole was over, all it would take was one mistake to make Homeland Security revoke it. They had the power to do anything.
“I’m safe. No worries, my brother,” he added in the New Orleans patois.
“Reach would know that,” I said, “so he’s using one just so we can track him?”
“Messing with us. Chances are he tossed it into a passing bus.”
“But you know he’s in Chicago?”
“With a ninety percent certainty,” Alex said, “partially based on the idea that he wants you to find him. As soon as I know more, I’ll be checking nearby security cameras for footage of him.”
Reach might want me to find him? Huh. “Keep us in the loop.”
Eli and I left via the front door, which he had recently repaired, using a false stained glass window to keep it from breaking every time someone tried to kill us. Which happened with depressing regularity. My partner beeped open the armored SUV provided for us by Leo for as long as I worked for him and we found our way into the traffic. New Orleans traffic was always bad, but this time of day it was usually stalled in a bumper-to-bumper crush in the French Quarter. Heck. Everywhere. According to the traffic updates on the SUV’s computer screen, today itwas less dreadful than usual, and we made it to the site of the upcoming Witch Conclave in good time, two hours before night fell.
The witches had rented out the Elms Mansion and Garden at St. Charles Avenue and Eighth Street for the weekend for the Witch Conclave. The house was a two-story home with period décor and filled with period pieces, from marble fireplaces, delicate antique parquet flooring, swags and draperies and tassels and vases and rugs and silver and priceless antique wooden furniture. It was elegant and a little froufrou, appropriate for a conclave that would house some two hundred witches and some of their human partners and spouses for a daylong meeting, most of the witches female. If a dictionary or the tourist department needed a photo to illustrate the phraseNew Orleans mansion, the Elms would have been perfect.
The biggest part of the security measures would be handled by the witches themselves, with wards, once they were all in place. Yellowrock Securities had been hired to oversee the off-site things, like parking and transportation, as well as the security of the house and grounds until the wards went up. The logistics of our part was beginning to look like a nightmare, which matched the nightmare of the second area of our responsibility. Or my responsibility. The part where I was responsible for Leo’s safety. As Enforcer, I held the well-being of his undead un-life in my hands. He’d be there to meet and greet, to give a speech, and to share a meal with the witches, probably to indicate to them that vamps were something more than fanged and taloned killing machines with a special hatred for witches. I wondered if they would fall for it. And if they would all sign papers swearing fealty to one another. That swearing was important to the future safety of the entire city when the Euro Vamps came. There was a lot riding on this conclave.
Which was why today’s meeting was so important. In every respect, the mundane security measures suggested by YS had been turned down. The house’s owners had nixed the installation of cameras for fear we would ruin the hand-carved wood and plaster-of-Paris moldings. Thedouble front doors were stained glass. Real stained glass, perfect for breaking with a grenade or a rocket launcher or a well-placed fist if the wards went down, and they had refused when we offered to replace the doors with five-inch-thick steel. Too trashy by far for the Elms.
A four-story building overlooked one side, with plenty of vantage sites for sharpshooters. The mansion’s windows were not bullet-resistant polycarbonate glass and the owners had refused to allow us to replace the window glass in the room where Leo would be delivering his speech—the Grand Ballroom, with its white Italian sandstone fireplace, European tile, Doric columns, Irish linen wall hangings, and, of course, the grand piano. And lots of windows. Traffic was permitted on every street around Elms Mansion, and the powers that be in NOLA had refused to shut down the side streets even if it meant better safety for the citizens. Stupid city ordinances. All it would take was one inciting incident and this would FUBAR all the way, dead citizens and a witch/vamp war.
We parked on a side street and knocked politely on the front door for our official visit. The previous discussions and tour had been all online, so the meet and greet and real-time walk-through were essential. The woman who answered was tall, middle-aged, graceful, and elegant. Instantly I felt like a knobby-kneed teenaged girl with broccoli in her teeth.Oh, crap.I had forgotten to brush my teeth. I kept my lips tight against them as I said, “Jane Yellowrock and my partner at Yellowrock Securities, Eli Younger, ma’am.” Eli handed her one of our business cards, gave a little half bow, which was a real classy maneuver. I’d never have thought of it.
I don’t know what I was expecting from the woman. Maybe a sneer? Maybe tilting back her head so she could look down her aquiline nose at me? Instead she accepted the card with a smile, stepped back in welcome, and said, “I am Amalie. May I call you Jane and Eli?”
Eli said, “We’d be honored, Miz Amalie.”
And he put his hand on the small of my back to push me inside. The door enclosed us in a wonder from another time. I had thought I’d been prepared for the interior fromthe online tour we had taken, but the place blew me away. I suddenly understood why the owners had said no to everything we suggested by way of security updates. The worddesecrationcame to mind, withsacrilegeanddefilementclose behind. It was so visually amazing that I hardly noted the scents of lemon oil, food, coffee, and fine cigars.
The Grand Foyer was big enough to drive a car into, with marbled and burled wooden antiques and carved wooden moldings everywhere. Directly ahead was the extravagant, curving Grand Staircase, hand-carved wooden railing, and champagne-toned carpet up the steps.
“The staff at the Elms is delighted to be hosting the conclave and will do everything possible to see to the comfort and safety of our guests,” Amalie said. From the corner of my eye, I caught her giving Eli and his fighting leathers a once-over, her eyes lingering on his backside in the taut hide. She might be in her fifties, but she wasn’t dead yet. She said, “May I give you both a tour?”
“Why, we’d be delighted, Miz Amalie,” Eli said, his voice taking on a familiar, upscale, New Orleans accent. I lifted my eyebrows at him in surprise. He ignored me and gifted Amalie with a polished, friendly smile. One showing teeth. He never gavemethat smile. “It’s truly a beautiful place,” he said as Amalie led us from room to room, describing the house’s grandeur.
I let them pull a little ahead, and managed not to gawk too badly. Growing up in a children’s home had done nothing to prepare me for this opulence of grace and old money. Every room was titled, Grand This or Grand Whatever, or was named after a king. And it looked like it. And every room’s name was capitalized, like the NOLA palace it was.Holy crap.But I said nothing as Amalie and Eli discussed each room, how the tables would be set up, where waitstaff would enter and depart, and which doors would be used for guest entrance and egress. I just watched them, the armored and leather-clad man and the woman in the unwrinkled linen pantsuit and dainty heels. They seemed to get along famously, while I was the duck out of water and knew it.
When we finally reached the Grand Ballroom, whichwas fifty-eight freaking feet long, Eli put his hands to his hips and studied the space. He said, “We at Yellowrock Securities understand why you would not want the windows replaced or cameras installed, Miz Amalie. But may I suggest cameras on blocks, unsecured, and resting atop the display cases along the walls?” He pointed to two locations that provided good coverage of the room. “And maybe in the Chaperone’s Alcove?” He indicated an oval seating area where chaperones had waited while their charges danced and courted in a bygone era. The alcove opened to the stairway area and to the kitchen/public toilets area. I had looked over the floor plan and it was a nightmare from a security standpoint. “We could brace them in place with blocks instead of screws and stretchers, keeping the integrity of the pieces protected. And perhaps beneath there.” He pointed to cover the office and the kitchen. “And then station a few smaller cameras at the back and side entrances.” Eli gave her a winning smile and finished with “All without damaging any woodwork, of course.”
“Hmmm,” Amalie said. “What about wiring? Electricity?”
“We can manage with battery-powered cameras for a few hours. All we’d need would be a secure, portable Wi-Fi console set up in a separate room. Perhaps on the second floor, somewhere discreet?”
I wanted to sock him in the biceps. Just for being so unexpectedly capable in the rarefied atmosphere. And then it occurred to me that he’d been in the army long enough to have stood security for embedded newspeople, traveling political types, maybe even diplomats.Huh. Eli had unexplored skills and abilities, and not just for making things blow up and go bang.
Looking from my partner to the area we’d be guarding, I was glad Leo had wanted to build a new clan home instead of trying to buy this place or some other old, fancy one. As the online tour and photos suggested, the Elms was remarkable, but impossible to totally secure for vamps. “Jane? What do you think?” Eli asked me, and gave me a look that said he knew I’d been woolgathering.
I tilted my head to our guide and drew on all the memories of the single etiquette class at the home. It was every bit of the meager manners at my disposal, but for once I didn’t sound tongue-tied or snarly or bored or overwhelmed. Even if I was all four. “Miz Amalie, I think your home is stunning. From a security standpoint it’s a challenge, but doable. We’ll need names of your staff for background checks, and whatever catering company will be providing tables, linens, and food. Waitstaff. Your own security. Anything and anyone who comes from off-site.”
“We’ll be handling everything on-site, Jane,” she said, “according to the contract drawn up by the New Orleans coven. The Elms Mansion and Gardens is a full-service venue with the capability to provide everything from flowers and sound system, to tables and linens, to catering and drinks, to cleanup, for as many as eight hundred people. The four hundred guests expected this weekend will be no challenge to our staff at all. I’ll send you the final list of our people, but please know that most have been with us for years and have proven completely trustworthy.” I nodded at her statement. Alex still needed to finish the background checks. “Do you also need to see the wine list and menus for the meals?” Amalie asked.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “We’ll be talking to Lachish, and with you, between now and the weekend. My partners will need to get in to set up and test the security system. I’ll leave it to Eli and you to find a mutually agreeable time.”
Miz Amalie passed Eli a business card, a fancy one made of paper so heavy you could have used it to shingle a roof, and we made our way outside, down the walk, to the curb. There was something about old money and deep-rooted refinement, elegance, and pure style that left me knowing I was outclassed in every area.
***
