Just like that. In a vanishing act worthy of Las Vegas.
I shook my head.
Nothing made sense. And I hadn’t gotten a good look at them. Dang it.
CHAPTER 2
The Nose Doesn’t Lie
The cop in the car rushed out and over to the spot of the vanishing act, his gun in a two-hand grip at his side. He turned and saw me in the shadows, a weapon in each hand, and his service weapon tracked to me. I raised both hands and shouted, “I’m putting the weapons on the ground.”
“Down!” he yelled back, his weapon now centered on me. “Get on the ground. Get down!”
I bent and placed the weapons at my feet. Stepped back, both hands returning high in the air. I put both behind my head and laced my fingers, kneeling, then lying flat on the wet concrete, spread-eagled, my cheek on the wet sidewalk. The rain beat down on me. The cop sped over and dropped a knee into the small of my back. I grunted. That was gonna leave a bruise. He dragged my arms down and behind me and cuffed me while I struggled to breathe.
Eli called from the shadows, “That’s Jane Yellowrock, y’all.” The other cop whirled, his weapon trained on the sound of my partner’s voice. “I’m unarmed and alone,” Eli continued. “Coming out of the shadows hands raised.Don’t shoot. Sloan Rosen is putting a call through to you on your cells about us.”
Eli, still bare-chested, hands in the air, moved slowly out of the dark. He was barefoot again.Coward. I heard a cell vibrate, but the cop ignored the call. A moment later, he ignored his radio. So much for calling the woo-woo department for backup.
“Who are you? ID. What are you doing out here? Who were the women?” The cops talked over each other, the smell of anger and a thin thread of fear in their sweat, though both were as soaked as we were, the rain washing away scents and the tingle of magic.
Eli didn’t answer, just knelt near me and let the cops cuff him too. And then, because we had no ID and chose not to talk, we were shoved into separate units and driven to NOPD Eighth District on Royal Street. Our attorney was waiting for us there, which had to be Alex, doing his intel thing. I hoped he wasn’t still outside under an umbrella.
Brandon Robere was a lawyer, a graduate of Tulane Law, LLM, back in 1946, although he still looked like a man in his mid-thirties, a very self-assured man, currently oozing charisma, a confidence that was almost aggressive, and the kind of sensual magnetism that promised imaginative sexual escapades and the ability to handle anything or anyone. An alpha male at his finest.
The Onorio was lean, narrow-waisted, broad-shouldered, and former military, and was distinguishable from his identical twin by the small mole at his temple. It was the middle of the night, prime time for vamp business, and Brandon was dressed in a charcoal suit and tie, with lace-up Italian leather shoes that probably cost more than any pair in my closet. Brandon strode across the open space to us, and I watched as every female eye and most of the male eyes followed his passage.
Onorios were rare among vampire hierarchy, far above blood-slaves and blood-servants. They outranked secundos and primos. The couldn’t be blood-bound. They couldn’t be compelled. They needed vampire blood only occasionally. They lived for centuries. They had a magic that hadn’t been explained to me yet, but was clearly charismatic andcompulsive. And maybe sexual. And probably a lot of other things. The fact that Leo Pellissier—the Master of the City of New Orleans and most of the Southeast U.S., and my boss—had three Onorios in his organization gave him power among the world’s vamps that I had yet to figure out.
From the front of the building, more help came. Moving with purpose in an unswerving line that took him direct to me was my sweetie pie. Not that I would ever call George Dumas, “Bruiser,” that. Not in a million years. We were still figuring out what kind of relationship we had, andsweetie piedid not begin to describe the man. Like Brandon, Bruiser was Onorio, another of New Orleans’s three. And he exuded power the way a billionaire politician did, wearing a suit and tie and his professional smile, his brown eyes finding me instantly.
Everyone in New Orleans recognized the former primo of the Master of the City, and the tension in the building changed and tightened, scenting of the kind of adrenaline that was hyperattentive and uneasy. Suddenly, for the cops, something wasn’t going according to protocol and the big room fell almost silent.
George Dumas took the wordsself-assuredto new depths. I felt my face warm at the sight at him. His mouth fought a grin as he took me in, in my wet PJs, barefoot, dirty from being on the sidewalk, scuffed from being picked up from said sidewalk by my bound arms, and not wearing a bra. My hair had come loose from its braid at some point and hung, kinked from the wet, down the middle of my back and over my face. I stood as straight as I could at the sight of my rescuers, and lifted my head. It’s hard to look badass in your jammies, with your arms bound behind you, but I’d give it a go.
No one tried to stop him as Bruiser reached our small grouping and leaned in toward me. He pushed back my hair, exposing my cheek. It had been ground into the concrete when I was cuffed. The abrasion stung, but I’d had lots worse.
Unfortunately Bruiser was old school, the kind of gentleman born and bred in England over a century ago, andhe didn’t like seeing me abused. It set off his manly protective instincts and I smelled his anger. Which was just so cute.
Before Bruiser could say anything embarrassing, Brandon addressed me loudly, saying, “Enforcer.” The single word had two effects. It brought Bruiser back to himself and his position, and reminded him that I had a rep to uphold. It also alerted everyone within hearing whom they had in custody. Bruiser’s hand fell away, and he buried whatever he was feeling beneath the professional élan he wore so well.
The cop who had brought me in mouthed the wordEnforcer, suddenly realizing that he had possibly miscalculated.
Brandon glanced at Eli and said, “Mr. Younger.”
Eli nodded, his gaze hooded, his body far too still for my liking. This was the way he stood when he was getting ready to put a hurting on someone who had been overly rough with him. And I smelled blood. His. The cop transporting him had hurt him. I frowned, looking for the injury, seeing nothing, but the nose doesn’t lie. Eli was hurt.
Brandon said, “Are you injured, Mr. Younger?” Onorios had excellent noses too, far better than humans.
“Nothing a Band-Aid won’t fix.”
“And did this injury take place after you were in custody?”
Eli nodded once. Very slightly. Eli was ticked off.
Brandon asked me, “Have they charged you with something? Read you your rights?”
“No, on the charges. Yes, on the rights.”
