“Being done as we fly,” Eli said.
I added, “They have DNA from... maybe all of us.” My cell buzzed with a text and I said, “Molly.” It was a reply to the thread where I asked her about breaking DNA spells. She had texted, and I read aloud, “Piece of cake. Antigenetic spells were some of the first defensive workings ever made. I can put together a couple dozen in a couple hours.”
Bruiser nodded, turning his unfocused gaze out to the sun, rising over the flat wet world in a wash of gold and pinks.
***
It was after dawn when we reached home and I was exhausted. I needed to stuff myself on food, needed to sleep, but the house was full and noisy when we entered, and I had a feeling sleep wasn’t going to be mine today, not here. Before the door even closed I spun on a heel, leaving Eli inside, and jogged back to the limo. “Bunk at your place?”
Bruiser opened the door, his eyes warm. “My bed is far more comfortable than a bunk.”
I fell inside and the door closed. “True,” I said. “But right now I’d take the floor if the place was quiet.”
Bruiser’s lips turned up in a smile I didn’t see often. “I don’t think we’ve ever done it on the floor— Well, nearly.” He tapped the limo floor with his toe. “Nearly. On this floor.” A low-key thrill ran through me, but before I could reply he pressed the limo intercom and said, “I have an order to be picked up at Stanley Restaurant on St. Ann Street.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver said. “Shall I go in and pick it up, sir?”
“Yes, please.”
“The Stanley?” I perked up.
That odd, heated look was still on Bruiser’s face, his eyes a warm brown like melting milk chocolate. “Yes.”
I breathed out,“Breaux Bridge Benedict?”
He nodded.
“Ohhh. Oh my. Creole breakfast potatoes?”
He nodded again and said, “Pecan-smoked bacon and eggs Stanley. A carafe of coffee for me and a carafe of tea for you. And pancakes with vanilla ice cream and all three side options.”
I closed my eyes, my mouth watering. And then, eyes still closed, my lips turned up. “You knew I was coming to your place, didn’t you?”
“I had very,veryhigh hopes.”
The sound I made was helpless and laughing all at one. “We really should do it on the floor. At least once. Or twice.”
Bruiser’s arms slid around me and he pulled me to him across the seat.
***
We reached the restaurant before anything could progress to the floor, and then Bruiser’s apartment before anything could progress to the floor, and then, because I was beyond starving, we ate before anything could progress to the floor of the apartment. And then... I fell asleep.
Later, I felt Bruiser crawl in beside me and pull me close, spooning. The stubble of his beard was rough on my shoulder, and his chest was Onorio-hot against my back. His body smelled of Onorio, his new, spicy scent that I was still getting used to, and the faint, familiar citrus of his cologne. His breath smelled of pancakes and bacon.Bacon... Sleep took me again.
When I woke next, it wasn’t to be dragged to the floor, but to far more delightful pursuits on the mattress. Bruiser was right. His bed was much more comfortable than a bunk. Afterward, I panted against his shoulder, “We’re still... doing it... on the limo... floor someday.”
Gasping, he said, “God yes... Someday. Soon... When I can feel my feet again.”
***
An hour after nightfall, I walked out of my bedroom dressed in worn jeans tucked into old green Lucchese boots, and a men’s tailored white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I was wearing multiple leather armbands, each pressed with various logos: the company logo, Have Stakes—Will Travel, Yellowrock Securities, and my name. The one with my name was inset with tiny pieces of turquoise. I also wore my sterling-over-titanium gorget and my gold nugget necklace on its doubled gold chains.
Most important, every piece of my weaponry was visible, strapped outside my shirt and atop my jeans and in my boots, from the two matching-scarlet-gripped Walther PK .380s beneath each shoulder and the H&K nine-mils on each thigh rig, to the multiple vamp-killers in sheaths at my belt and on my thighs, to the stakes in multiple tiny sheaths and in my bun. The Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun rode in its spine rig, collapsible stock extended and sticking up behind the nape of my neck as protection from rear vamp attack. All of them in the brand spanking new Kydex holsters and the new weapons rigs.
Everyone in the living room stopped dead when I walked in, heels clomping. I let them look. And I grinned slowly, showing teeth. Kit-Kit spat at me, her hair standing out in fear. She spun and raced into the butler’s pantry, to safety.
The .380s were loaded with standard ammo. The nine-mils were loaded with silver. The Benelli was loaded with six rounds, each round hand-packed silver fléchettes, loaded for vamp. Half of the stakes were solid sterling silver. Half were wood. If a vamp was working with the witches, I was ready to take him down.
